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The American evangelist Billy Graham held several revival meetings – so-called crusades – in West Germany in the 1950s and 1960s. Many thousands of Germans came to hear him. This article explores the reasons for Graham’s success in the Federal Republic in the context of a transatlantic religious and cultural history. Graham’s campaigns were embedded in the discourse of rechristianization and secularization after the end of the Second World War. Leading Protestant bishops such as Otto Dibelius and Hanns Lilje supported him. Furthermore, Graham’s campaigns played an important role in the West German culture of the Cold War as political stagings of the Free World consensus. In addition, the orchestration of the crusades reconciled religion and consumerism. Billy Graham’s crusades are a prism through which to explore important modernization processes in German Protestantism in the first two decades of the Federal Republic.
Since the late 1950s, nutrition experts have debated whether foods enriched with micronutrients such as protein could alleviate world hunger. Industrial production of such ›wonder foods‹ began in the 1960s, making the food industry an actor in international food aid. Following a brief review of the history of scientific nutrition research, the article analyzes the first boom of fortified foods between the 1950s and the 1970s. With particular reference to the NGO CARE and the Institute of Nutrition of Central America and Panama (INCAP) with its product Incaparina, it shows how the conflict-ridden cooperation between humanitarian actors, governments, business and science developed. In addition to looking at contemporary debates about prices, quality controls and marketing strategies, consumer perspectives must be considered in order to understand the success or failure of new products. After a temporary slump in euphoria from the 1970s onwards, ›wonder foods‹ have experienced a revival since the 1990s – mainly because the networks between governments, nutrition experts, international organizations and the food industry were further cultivated and greater consideration was given to the needs of consumers.
Seit den späten 1950er-Jahren diskutierten ErnährungsexpertInnen, ob mit Mikronährstoffen wie Protein angereicherte Nahrungsmittel den Hunger auf der Welt lindern könnten. Die industrielle Produktion solcher »Wonder Foods« begann in den 1960er-Jahren. Damit wurde die Lebensmittelindustrie zu einem Akteur in der internationalen Nahrungsmittelhilfe. Nach einem kurzen Rückblick auf die Geschichte wissenschaftlicher Ernährungsforschung analysiert der Aufsatz den ersten Boom angereicherter Nahrungsmittel zwischen den 1950er- und den 1970er-Jahren. Am Beispiel der NGO CARE und des zentralamerikanischen Ernährungsinstituts INCAP mit seinem Produkt »Incaparina« wird gezeigt, wie sich die konfliktreiche Kooperation zwischen humanitären Akteuren, Regierungen, Wirtschaft und Wissenschaft entwickelte. Neben dem Blick auf zeitgenössische Debatten über Preise, Qualitätskontrollen und Marketingstrategien müssen insbesondere KonsumentInnenperspektiven einbezogen werden, um Erfolg oder Scheitern neuer Produkte zu verstehen. Nach einem temporären Einbruch der Euphorie ab den 1970er-Jahren erlebten »Wonder Foods« seit den 1990er-Jahren ein Revival – vor allem deshalb, weil die Netzwerke zwischen Regierungen, ErnährungsexpertInnen, internationalen Organisationen und Lebensmittelindustrie weiter gepflegt wurden und die Bedürfnisse von KonsumentInnen mehr Berücksichtigung fanden.
What is the link between consumer society, fear of a nuclear war, design, modernity and utopia? According to the curators David Crowley and Jane Pavitt, the answer can be summarized in one concept: the Cold War. ‘Cold War Modern’ is an exhibit intending to show how the two postwar superpowers, the US and the USSR, engaged in aggressive contests in art, architecture and design in order to ‘demonstrate a superior vision of modernity’.
Timothy S. Brown highlights in his article that the year „1968” must be conceived as a cipher for the political and social change in the second half of the 20th century. He inquires the generational connection and the transnational entanglement of the “Global Sixties”. Despite the numerous research in the course of the 50th anniversary of “1968” remains the subject fruitful: Brown points out the potential of interdisciplinary studies, which give more weight to the cultural aspects of “1968” and the new kinds of the political, focus on the analysis of reactions of the states and their elites as well as on the changes in gender relations and in general on the long-term effects of this “epoch-making” year.
The blossoming of military history in Germany offers the chance to set new agendas beyond conventional narratives. The notion of a distinct authoritarian Prusso-German militarism, set against political modernity and civil society, has long served as the master narrative of modern German military history. But this narrative no longer holds any promise. It fails to situate the German experience within a common European and transatlantic military political realm and war culture; it ignores the centrality of technocratic reasoning and industrialized warfare for any understanding of the German military; it offers too overblown and simplistic a portrayal of societal militarization; and it downplays militarist multiplicities and the transformations of the early 20th century. This narrative has the additional disadvantage of cutting off the history of the military and war after 1945 from what came previously.
Few of Hannah Arendt’s declarations have had as enduringly a controversial legacy as the one she gave in her famous 1964 West German television conversation with Günter Gaus, proclaiming uncompromised loyalty to her first language – German – despite Hitler. The statement was misconstrued as a privileging of the language of the perpetrators and expressing a bias against Eastern European Jews. In conversation with the recent ›Taytsh turn‹ (Saul Zaritt) in Yiddish Studies, this article focuses instead on two Yiddish newspaper articles published by Arendt in 1942 and 1944 and explores what I call a ›Taytsh move‹ in Arendtʼs language politics. Taytsh, an alternative name for the Yiddish language meaning, literally, German, foregrounds (Jewish) cultures’ inherent translational mode and interconnectivity with the world that makes and sustains these cultures. Arendt reactivated the inherent unbordered nature of languages – with an awareness of the dangers of monolingualism; for the sake of overcoming reductive constructions of Jewishness and modern identity; against the atomizing forces of fascism.
I first came across Harlan Lane’s work towards the end of my PhD, which I was undertaking at University College London, UK. My dissertation was on the construction of ›difference‹ in the British Empire, particularly the differences ascribed to race and gender. Using nineteenth-century medical missionaries as a way in, I had started to think about differences evoked by health, disability, and the body. In particular, I noted the way in which missionaries used the language of disability as a discourse of racialisation. The African and Indian colonial subjects they encountered were described throughout missionary literature as ›deaf to the Word‹, ›blind to the light‹ and ›too lame‹ to walk alone. I have two d/Deaf cousins, one of whom is the sign language sociolinguist Nick Palfreyman, and around about this time Nick had started to familiarise me with some of the issues surrounding Deaf politics. Becoming interested and wanting to know more, I began to learn British Sign Language (BSL) and contemplate the connections between the historical work I was doing and contemporary struggles of Deaf politics and disability politics (I was particularly interested in DPAC – Disabled People Against Cuts – given the contemporary climate of austerity in the UK). As I did so I became acquainted with the work of Harlan Lane. Here, although acutely aware of my own positionality as a white, British, hearing woman, I have taken up the challenge set by the editors of this special issue to re-read his work twelve years on from my initial encounter with it, using the insights into postcolonial study I have gained through my historical work.
After a seven-year period of military dictatorship and following the reestablishment of parliamentary democracy in 1974, historical studies have been a continuously developing field in Greece. Similarly as in Spain and Portugal at much the same time, archives became accessible for academic historians. The general public’s expectations about the establishment of historical ‘truth’ concerning the recent past were pressing.1 It is against this backdrop that we propose to review the changing conditions of historical research and especially the challenges involved in gaining access to primary sources, in particular those related to ‘national matters’. We will try to show the ways in which the particularities of the Greek case have to do with the history of civil rights in the country in the twentieth century, both during the interwar years and – more dramatically – during the Cold War period.
Gendered critiques by historians and feminist international relations scholars have been animating international history for a good thirty years by complicating the supposedly binary relationships between states and societies, private and public, and local and international that traditionally structured the discipline. In this essay we would like to ask what a sensitivity to gender might add to international histories that are shifting their focus away from intergovernmental relations towards a reassessment of internationalisms in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries through studies of transnational social movements, international organizations and norms, or practices of global governance. We are especially interested in how gender might contribute to a major emerging theme of international history today: the history of internationalism and international organizations as a struggle between competing or converging universalisms – ‘imperial and anticolonial, “Eastern” and “Western”, old and new’ – that sought to speak in the name of all humanity, rather than as the triumph of an international order imposed by the “West” on the rest.
This article examines the rise of aeromobile sprawl, which is defined here as aviation’s socio-environmental impact on people, places, and things, in Canada during the 1970s. It links aeromobile sprawl largely to state-led airport development and the effect that upgrading, expanding, and building new airports had on communities and landscapes. Accordingly, it shows that while aeromobile sprawl was to some extent an outcome of postwar developments not limited to aviation, the Canadian government and its partners also contributed to sprawl by endorsing various policies and strategies that shifted over the period in question. At the same time, these actions did not go unnoticed. Public critiques of aeromobile sprawl emerged as people increasingly objected to larger and busier airports operating near populated and non-industrial areas. This article demonstrates that debates in Canada about airport development and the rapid growth of aviation revealed sharply diverging views about how to best accommodate the mobility requirements of mass air travel within the country’s natural and built environments in the 1970s.
In spite of the prevailing myth, neither the political self-conception of West Berlin that emerged soon after the war nor the city’s international image were mere by-products of the Cold War. They resulted, rather, from a binational campaign that was based on strategic considerations. Returned Social Democratic émigrés, sympathetic American officials, and certain journalists convinced the German and the American public of West Berlin’s heroic defence of democratic ideals with remarkable speed and success. They could rely on both tangible and intangible resources for their campaign of erecting an ›Outpost of Freedom‹ in what was left of the former Reichshauptstadt. While the heady Weimar days of pre-war Berlin provided countless images that appeared to authenticate this new narrative, the transatlantic network was also able to draw on considerable financial resources and media outlets to promote it. This article seeks to outline the historical actors behind the project and the narratives on which they drew.
Milton Friedman hung up the phone in disgruntlement. The most influential economist of the postwar era had just called three different banks, one in Chicago and then two in New York, in order to initiate a financial transaction. He wanted to sell short $300,000 in pound sterling. Short selling is a technique for speculating on falling prices. Initially, speculators can only speculate on rising prices: they buy something and hope that it gains value, so that they can sell it at a profit. If the price for this asset goes down instead, the speculator incurs a loss when he resells it. So in order to profit from falling prices, speculators need to sell first and buy later – which is indeed possible if what is sold now is in fact only to be delivered a few weeks later. If the speculator is right and prices fall in the interim, he can buy cheap just before delivery is due and thus profit from having already sold what, at the time, he had not yet owned.
Modeled after the Soviet propaganda magazine SSSR na stroike (›USSR in Construction‹, published 1930–1941, 1949), the Japanese overseas propaganda photo magazine FRONT (1942–1945) provided visual propaganda for the so-called ›Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere‹, a concept that was proclaimed in 1940 and served to disguise Japan’s quest for hegemony in Asia. Employing the aesthetics of Russian Constructivism and Socialist Realism of SSSR na stroike, FRONT created a visual aesthetic that could be termed Japanese Co-Prosperity Realism. Its dynamic and modernistic design was a transculturally inspired practice by Japanese photographers, graphic designers, journalists and producers of visual media, some of whom had been left-wing intellectuals or had lived and worked in the Soviet Union. In a comparative perspective, this paper carves out the political, cultural and gendered semantics of the (in)visibility of power, political religion and ethnic diversity that such aesthetics entailed. It explores some of the shifting backgrounds against which photographic techniques were enacted, from their avant-garde beginnings to their application in authoritarian regimes.
In 1967, an exhibition opened in East Berlin that proposed, through an overload of images, to unite the histories of the Soviet Union and the GDR, and to confront international photography exhibitions produced in the United States and West Germany. More than the design principles and methods of this show, entitled Vom Glück des Menschen or On the Happiness of People, directly connect it with Edward Steichen’s The Family of Man exhibition, first presented at MoMA in New York in 1953. Its original title was in fact The Socialist Family of Man, and its designers addressed Steichen’s show directly with a scathing critique that echoes the critical discourse in general around The Family of Man. Ultimately, and despite the acknowledged relationship of the exhibition to its Western model, Vom Glück des Menschen also departed from it, crafting a narrative through photographs specifically designed for a socialist society under construction.
A Cold War Museum for Berlin
(2009)
The Cold War is ancient history to young people now. They have no idea of the underlying issues that fueled the Cold War or how it evolved and affected people’s lives. Current college and university students (aged 18-26) were between zero and six years old when the Berlin Wall came down, which is to say they did not live during the Cold War and have no direct understanding of what it was. It really is history to them, seemingly as distant as World War II or maybe even the French Revolution. The Cold War world, of mutually assured destruction, communism vs. capitalism, and Berlin on the front line divided by a wall, has been replaced by fears of terrorism, global warming, and financial crisis.
What is striking about recent research on residential care is not only its national bias and its tendency to neglect regional variations in ‘texture’, but also its preoccupation with contemporary issues and its lack of historical context. The notion of contingency, that is, the idea that things might have evolved differently, often seems to be missing. Moreover, most of the literature appears to be one-dimensional, downplaying the diversity, complexity and ambiguity of real developments. It often lacks an awareness of the power of precedents in shaping society’s attitudes to residential care and the practical responses to this problem. This is particularly important because, as this article tries to demonstrate, the present situation of residential care reflects the cumulative impact of traditions and cultural norms, of past decisions and commitments.
How will Russia’s war of aggression in Ukraine end? What kinds of political scenarios could stop the suffering and bring stability to the region? Of all the different future scenarios none is particularly encouraging. In particular, the prospect of a ›Finlandized‹ Ukraine has met with near universal rejection. Yet, ever since Russia’s illegal annexation of the Crimea, ›Finlandization‹ of Ukraine has been discussed as a potential solution.
Three processes provided a dynamic of violence that involved the whole continent of Europe in varying degrees. First, “total war” meant the escalation of violence applied to the entire population of enemy states. Second, “totalitarian” ideologies drew on the experience of war and sought to annihilate their own projected antagonists. Third, the tension between territory, peoples, and nation-states was resolved through ethnic violence. The worst episodes of violence, especially the Holocaust, combined all three processes. Democratic states were affected by the same violence but to a much lesser extent, due to inbuilt restraints. Determining whether this dynamic of violence was distinctively European or one dimension of a wider modernity means rethinking European history in a global historical context.
My main argument here is that the story seen from the perspective of the influential year of 1962 reveals a very different historical context, with a different set of actors and a different trajectory and causalities regarding the human rights breakthrough, from those stories focusing on Western agency in the 1940s and the 1970s. It repositions the history of human rights in significant ways and makes apartheid and racial discrimination more crucial to the human rights story than has hitherto been acknowledged. It is also important to emphasize that the positions and arguments presented by countries from the Global South in these UN debates were richly nuanced. These nuances are important if we are to fully appreciate the dynamics during these years. Tanzania differed significantly from, for instance, Senegal in the way it envisaged the scope and applicability of international human rights law and investigatory measures. Tanzania wanted a sole focus on Southern Africa and not beyond; Senegal had a wider perspective. This should remind us that when we are imagining Africa as a historical-political space, we need to allow for diversity, individual histories and agency, aspects that cannot be adequately captured by labels such as ›The Third World‹, ›Global South‹ or indeed even ›Africa‹.
This article reassesses the emergence of human rights advocacy in 1970s West Germany from the perspective of memory politics. Focusing on the campaigns against political violence in South America, the article first traces the boom and bust of antifascist activism against the Chilean junta in the early 1970s. It then analyzes the displacement of abstract antifascist discourses by a more humanitarian human rights talk closely intertwined with concrete references to National Socialist crimes. Taking the perspective of grassroots advocates, this article explores how and why activists referenced the crimes of Nazism to defend human rights in the present. Finally, the article moves beyond the claim that human rights politics were minimalistic and even anti-antifascist, by showing how some human rights activists continued to think of themselves as antifascists. They infused antifascism with entirely new meanings by recovering the 20 July 1944 assassination attempt against Hitler as an acceptable example of anti-government violence.