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Music played an important role as a political medium for the anti-apartheid movement, particularly in the 1980s. Drawing on sources from the UK and South Africa, the article investigates the controversy surrounding Paul Simon’s album Graceland (1986) against the backdrop of the cultural boycott against South Africa. The aim of the boycott was to isolate the apartheid regime in the field of culture, but from the middle of the 1980s, the opposition within South Africa increasingly regarded it as an obstacle. The African National Congress (ANC) pursued a modification of the boycott against the resistance of the British Anti-Apartheid Movement (AAM). The controversy over Graceland only served to compound the confusion: opinions differed as to whether Simon had really breached the cultural boycott by collaborating with South African musicians, and on how this could potentially be sanctioned (in either sense of the word). The incident shows that the attempt to control transnational cultural currents through political institutions in times of increased mediatisation was ultimately doomed to failure.
`Contemporary history' is inherently relevant to, indeed an integral part of, political and social processes in the present. Yet, despite a high level of politicisation of historical debates, the issue of `objectivity' or `value neutrality' cannot be addressed solely in terms of the views of the individual historian, or the wider functions fulfilled by a particular historical interpretation. Attention needs to be shifted to the conceptualisation and `emplotment' of a historical narrative within a given theoretical paradigm. Professional history entails not (merely) the imposition of creative stories, as post-modernists would have it, nor (only) the digging up of ever more `facts' about the past, as on the empiricist view. Rather, it is a puzzle-solving discipline requiring appropriate conceptual tools for the investigation of specific, theoretically constructed, questions. This article reviews recent developments in German contemporary history in the light of this framework.
Like any political, economic, or social happening, the building of architecture can be understood as an historical event. But unlike those other, particularly discrete, types of events, an architectural “event” takes on a concrete form that not only preserves the moment of its beginning but also registers, to a palpable extent, further developments within its context - a process that can be understood as the development of scars upon the architectural surface. It is no coincidence, then, that Reinhart Koselleck used an architectural metaphor to describe the layering of "geschichtliche Zeiten" (historical times) that emerge between "Vergangenheit" and "Zukunft" (past and future), "Erfahrung" and "Erwartung" (experience and expectation): „Wer sich im Alltag von geschichtlicher Zeit eine Anschauung zu machen sucht, der mag auf die Runzeln eines alten Menschen achten oder auf Narben, in denen ein vergangenes Lebensschicksal gegenwärtig ist. Oder er wird sich das Nebeneinander von Trümmern und Neubauten in Erinnerung rufen, und er wird auf den augenfälligen Stilwandel blicken, der einer räumlichen Häuserflucht ihre zeitliche Tiefendimension verleiht, oder er wird auf das Neben-, Unter- und Übereinander unterschiedlicher modernisierter Verkehrsmittel schauen [...].“
Research on the commons, and its historical enclosure, has largely restricted itself to rural areas and the frontier. This article examines the declining access to Rio de Janeiro’s urban commons, its streets and its squares. Into the nineteenth century, residents perceived Rio’s streets as remnants of nature, left intact to give access to the built environment. The streets served as a diverse human habitat, a place for community, play, work, and commerce. With the arrival of the automobile, Rio’s public spaces began to be transformed into spaces set aside largely for movement. The automotive class, which in Brazil remained a tiny minority, captured most of the streets’ spaces for driving and its squares and sidewalks for parking, in a sense closing the street off to many of its former functions. In fact, automotive movement justified – and its violence enforced – the elimination of street behaviors which the elite had been decrying unsuccessfully for decades. Compared to the developed world, the pace of automobilization in Rio was slow, but it had a profound impact from as early as the second decade of the century.
Beyond Nostalgia and the Prison of English. Positioning Japan in a Global History of Emotions
(2021)
This article interrogates the history of emotions at a pivotal moment in its growth as a discipline. It does so by bringing into conversation the ways in which scholars in Japan have approached ›nostalgia‹ (and emotions more broadly) as an object of study with concepts, theories, and methods prioritised by a predominantly Eurocentric field. It argues that Anglocentric notions of nostalgia as conceptual frameworks often neglect the particularisms that underlie the way that the Japanese language communicates and operationalizes cultural norms and codes of feeling. It also examines the aisthetic work of musicologist Tsugami Eisuke to help understand historical and psychological distinctions between ›nostalgia‹ and Japanese ideas of temporal ›longing‹, working towards a global history of emotions that meaningfully embraces multilateral and multi-lingual interaction. This article thus argues for a more nuanced way of discussing nostalgia cross-culturally, transcending dominant approaches in the field which are often grounded in a specifically Euro-Western experience but claim universal reach.
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.
Caricature can be defined as an art engagé which aims to transmit a social or political message. In order to achieve this goal, the satirical picture triggers an emotional reaction in the audience and guides it through a cathartic coming-of-awareness process. The feelings evoked by caricature must not necessarily be expressed through laughter; but they are a joyful or indignant shock reaction to gazing at something absurd. William A. Coupe, following Schiller, therefore defines the nature of caricature as the outcome of a dialectical struggle between the ideal and the real: ‘This conflict of ideal and real may, however, be seen and expressed in two different ways, in an emotional and serious or in a humorous and jesting fashion.’
In 1892, the year the American writer Pearl S. Buck was born, the US Congress renewed the Chinese Exclusion Act, initially passed in 1882, for another ten years. It sought to prevent all laborers of Chinese ethnicity from entering or reentering the US, with breaches punishable by law. Three months after her birth, Buck moved with her missionary parents to China and spent most of her life until her early forties there. During the global Cold War, Buck, already a Nobel Laureate (1938), sharply criticized US foreign policy and its racism, the ignorance of American diplomats about China, and the arrogant belief in solving conflicts in Asia through military means in her book Friend to Friend (1958). While there is little doubt about Buck’s official US nationality, her cultural belonging of choice – which decisively shaped her lifelong literary writing, in particular the novel The Good Earth (1931) that earned her the Nobel Prize – is inherently multivalent. In The Good Earth, Buck depicts the lives of Chinese peasants and their loyalty to the earth that nurtures humanity and provides all that lives on it with nutrition. In the following pages, I will discuss Buck’s bicultural biography and several aspects of this extremely popular and influential novel and, rather than viewing it as a piece of classic American literature, I will propose re-reading it as a work in the Chinese tradition of literary realism and in the context of the emerging trend of rural realism in the early twentieth century. The purpose of my re-reading of The Good Earth is to highlight less apparent global connections in the tradition of rural nostalgia and to complicate the paradigm of national literature and national history. Indeed, the earth, ruralism, nutrition, and food, as the novel describes, constitute the very foundation of human existence across borders, political camps, language barriers, and cultural differences from antiquity to the present day.
The supposedly commercial products of the culture industry are increasingly facing sales difficulties because growing numbers of self-assertive consumers are downloading products at will, thus no longer following the given rules of the market. Not only multinational record companies, but also representatives of ‘high’ culture are adamant in their criticism of the current ‘culture for free’ tendency. The latter can hardly be characterized as profit-oriented – nor would they describe themselves that way – but they contend that bootleg copies are a threat to their livelihood, and that the culture of piracy paves the way for harebrained mass products. The discussion encompasses copyright laws and the ways consumers are appropriating cultural products as well as the question whether or not these tendencies will fundamentally change the production of culture. Such debates are charged with cultural criticism, but in essence of economic nature. In addition, the cultural sector is faced with the accusation of waning societal relevance. In the arts and features sections of newspapers and magazines, journalists and essayists bemoan that pop culture is no longer ‘the voice and mirror of political and social change, like twenty or thirty years ago’. Although popular culture may have evolved from its original return and distribution strategies as well as its constitutive (at least for some) connection to youth and protest movements, a medially conveyed, market-driven culture that is accessible to a wide audience remains a characteristic feature of modern societies and their self-perceptions.
Klaus Nathaus and C. Clayton Childress convincingly argue that cultural and symbolic objects are produced before they are consumed and that therefore cultural historians should take a closer look at the social and economic conditions of cultural production. Instead of taking it for granted that mass reception inversely indicates the existence of a demand already ‘being there’, historians should dig into the production processes influenced (among others) by individual taste, material interest, and arbitrary decisions – or, as Nathaus, Childress and the often cited Richard A. Peterson would call it – contingency. While most of Nathaus and Childress’s examples stem from the field of music, I will in my response apply the cultural production concept to a non-musical field, namely documentary photography in the first half of the twentieth century. Further, I will raise some questions that still seem to be unanswered. Given that the causal relation between production and consumption by and large equals the chicken and egg problem, what sense does it make to shift attention from reception to production – especially when dealing with modifications of objects, commodities, or genres rather than inventions in the sense of ‘there was nothing like this before’? I will suggest to extend the concept beyond the study of ‘classical’ cultural objects – like novels or records – and to include commodities like food, clothes, or cars. Finally, I will raise the question of how to apply the production of culture perspective to socialist economies after 1945, which to my knowledge has not been tried yet.
In France, the culture of secrecy continues to dominate access policies. The acceptance of or resistance to this culture by various social actors, including government officials, civil servants such as archivists, historians, independent scholars, and journalists, partly explains the historical tension between advocates of a more restrictive or liberal policy of access to government records deemed ‘sensitive’. Unlike the American case with its long-established right to access, in France, access to information is just starting to be considered a citizen’s right. Initial reactions to the first version of my book (1994) sparked a rather violent debate. In the controversy, most of the archivists and some influential historians either denied or justified the difficulty of accessing so-called ‘sensitive archives’. Indeed, thanks to the ‘invisibility’ of this question until then, a book dedicated to the ‘Vichy Syndrome’, which had been published some years before, did not even mention this problem as evidence of France’s difficulties in facing the past.
The study of organized sound is the business of musicology – yet this routine observation carries a wealth of complexities, especially in the context of interdisciplinary discourse. Although musicology’s pluridisciplinary foundations offer open access to such disciplines as history, literary studies, mathematics, or sociology, the field’s intradisciplinary discourses and methodologies have shaped musicology in ways that turn most interdisciplinary exchange into a challenge. The scholarly exploration of sound in the twentieth century presents a case in point. Meaningful research on, for example, the music of the contemporary avant-garde composer Kaija Saariaho demands highly sophisticated technical skills in the spheres of the analysis, aesthetics, and technologies of music. While one could imagine interdisciplinary research on Saariaho involving, for example, the humanities or social sciences – perhaps with respect to, say, cultural politics in the late twentieth century – the specialist areas of music research usually remain disciplinarily hermetic. My current work on music in the USA during World War II offers striking examples of the need for, yet problems of, squaring interdisciplinary engagement with intradisciplinarities. The following remarks will address some of those disciplinary intersections.
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.
A radical process of standardization of tourist destinations around the globe, particularly in urban contexts, has been described by numerous scholars during the last decades. Indeed, the reinvention of many cities as tourist destinations has made evident ‘an odd paradox: whereas the appeal of tourism is the opportunity to see something different, cities that are remade to attract tourists seem more and more alike’. In such a context, both scholars and practitioners point to abstract elements such as images, identities, flairs, and experiences, as the main elements defining destinations’ profiles. The American historian Catherine Cocks argued that the attribution of a ‘personality’ to the city was a key aspect in the transformation of American cities into tourist destinations. Urban personalities made the city easily available, readable and intelligible, transformed it into a salable commodity, and offered a compelling reason to visit it and to come back. Similarly, contemporary European cities can be seen as bearers of specific local urban identities that remain relatively fixed even when information, stereotypes and attributes may prove to be inaccurate or simply false. Wolfgang Kaschuba has in this sense described the production of urban identities as a cultural technique that is predominantly performed in certain societal spaces such as literature, tourism, mass media, pop culture, and history marketing. This article focuses on one of such spaces, tourism, and explores how tourist communication transforms Berlin into a distinct and unique destination. It asks how the city is enacted by tourism as a singular and bounded entity, to which multiple orderings of identity are attributed.
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‹.
Marketization is a broad term with a wide range of meanings. It encompasses measures of deregulation and privatization as well as the perceived increase of an ›economic‹ logic in social relationships. For historical purposes, the term should not be narrowly defined, and nor should the concept of marketization be used in an ahistorical manner detached from contemporary usage. However, there are two questions which the historical analysis of marketization needs to address. First, what is the conceptual understanding of the market mechanism to which the term marketization is linked? Second, what is the relationship between marketization and economic theory?
It is said that William Brennan, the great US Supreme Court Justice, liked to greet his incoming law clerks with a bracingly simple definition of constitutional doctrine: five votes. ›You can’t do anything around here‹, Brennan would say, wiggling the fingers of his hand, ›without five votes.‹1 While memorable, Brennan’s definition was not entirely original. Seventy-five years before Brennan’s elevation to the high court, the jurist Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. famously wrote: ›The life of the law has not been logic; it has been experience [...]. The law […] cannot be dealt with as if it contained only the axioms and corollaries of a book of mathematics.‹2 Some years later, Holmes returned to this idea, writing: ›The prophecies of what the courts will do in fact, and nothing more pretentious, are what I mean by the law.‹3 Statements such as Brennan’s and Holmes’ found elaboration in the American jurisprudential movement known as ›legal realism‹. One of its most influential and articulate exponents was the law professor Karl Llewellyn (1893–1962). Trained at Yale Law School, and on the faculty of Columbia, Llewellyn had a foot in the two institutions most prominently associated with the realist movement.
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.
By discontinuing their war against Israel in the late 1970s, the surrounding Arab states made room for the resumption of a different, new/old war, which first erupted prior to the Arab-Israeli interstate war: the civil war between the Jewish-Zionist settler society and Palestinian Arabs, a war over Palestine. The Arab-Israeli conflict is not one, but rather two conflicts, both of which are complexly and inextricably linked in a number of ways. Zionist Jews in Palestine (or the pre-1948 Jewish autonomy in the country) and later the state of Israel have been a permanent party to these conflicts. In contrast, the "Arabs" – or the Palestinians and the Arab states surrounding Palestine – have been changing parties to the overall conflict and its many different wars.
Rethinking the boundaries of Europe is an earnest exercise that calls for critical reconsideration of our existing spatio-temporal constructions. First of all, it should be established that this kind of an exercise does not only necessitate a re-mapping of the cartographical space within which “Europe” is placed, but more so a re-thinking of the intellectual space within which history is situated.
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.
The centennial of the outbreak of World War I in the summer of 1914 has already produced a wave of new books, exhibitions, documentaries, films, articles, websites, and research projects on the war and will continue to do so over the course of the next years, at least until the centenary of the armistice in 2018. One might witness this rising tide with mixed feelings: the arbitrariness of anniversaries and the ambivalent suggestive power of round numbers are a topic which merits reflection in and of its own. But the First World War has continued to be of lasting and even growing interest for historians over the past decades independently of anniversaries. Jay Winter and Antoine Prost have noted that the number of volumes that were catalogued in the British Library under the rubric of ›The World War, 1914 to 1918‹ quadrupled between 1980 and 2001, and Roger Chickering gathered further evidence for the ›enduring charm of the Great War‹ in 2011. At the same time, these last decades have witnessed a number of methodological shifts and changes within the historical profession, which also affected the study of the First World War. The centennial might therefore be a good opportunity for taking stock of the current state of affairs in World War I studies and for pondering their possible future directions. This is why our journal has decided to contribute to the rising tide of World War I publications with a roundtable discussion.
Guerrilla Mothers and Distant Doubles: West German Feminists Look at China and Vietnam, 1968–1982
(2015)
Communist China and Vietnam looked like the future to many West German feminists in the years after 1968. This article reconstructs a lost history of influence, identification and emulation, tracing some of the ways that Chinese and Vietnamese communism inspired and attracted West German feminists from the late 1960s to the early 1980s. Beginning in a spirit of socialist universalism, West German feminists drew on reports of the experience of East Asian women who they felt lived in the ›liberated zones‹ of post-revolutionary society. Like the French radicals who declared that ›Vietnam is in our factories‹, West German feminists created a global framework for their activism. Looking east, they borrowed or adopted models of consciousness-raising and direct action from China and Vietnam. This article tracks the arc of exchange, from the enthusiasm of the late 1960s and 1970s to the West German feminist disenchantment with both East Asian communism and the global South by the early 1980s.
›1948‹ is a key concept in Israeli identity discourse. A signifier of the violent clashes that took place at the end of the British Mandate in Palestine (between the fall of 1947 and the spring of 1949), it encompasses both the foundation of a democratic Jewish nation-state and the destruction of numerous Palestinian communities during the Israeli ›War of Independence‹ and thereafter. The Nakba, the Palestinian catastrophe, could not be overlooked by Israel’s ›generation of 1948‹ and those that succeeded it: it was present in the deserted fields and houses now occupied by Israelis, in the names of the streams, hills and roads Israelis now visited during military drills or school field trips, and in the frequent encounters with Arab ›infiltrators‹ who sought to return to their abandoned homes and lands.1 The mass expulsion and the killings of Arab civilians by Jewish forces were regularly discussed and debated by Israeli politicians, intellectuals, journalists and artists in the ensuing decades.2 Yet with few exceptions, Israeli historians and politicians have seemingly effortlessly merged these atrocities with a commonly accepted ›narrative‹ by, for example, attributing them to rogue, marginal, right-wing militias; depicting cases of expulsion as sporadic and spontaneous events; or justifying them as ad hoc measures taken against the initiators of the violence during the war.
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Questions about the performance of democratic governance, about trust in democratic institutions and their representatives, about the system’s inherent ability to self-correct and to respond to unforeseen situations are now once again being raised with particular urgency. ›Which copes better with the virus – totalitarian states or democracies?‹ was the question a reporting team from the weekly newspaper DIE ZEIT wanted to answer at the beginning of 2021, investigating the strategies and practices of pandemic control in Germany and China, the USA and Iran. The answer certainly depends on how one weights different indicators and which time horizon one chooses for consideration. It also depends on the value one wishes to place on democratic procedures, especially in the face of acute decision-making pressure. Quite apart from the Covid pandemic, democratic systems, even those of the ›West‹ with a long tradition, are increasingly undergoing a crisis of legitimacy, are exposed to hostility, are disparaged or even violently opposed. Against this backdrop, the Gerda Henkel Foundation announced a ›Funding Programme Democracy‹ in 2019, and various Berlin research institutions opened the Cluster of Excellence ›Contestations of the Liberal Script‹ in 2020.
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In 2020/21 it was first and foremost the Covid pandemic that many experienced as a major turning point; now the Russian war of aggression against Ukraine since 24 February 2022 has added a whole new set of events of existential significance, whose medium- and long-term consequences we can only partly foresee. The title of a book published in the spring of 2022, Der 11. September 2001 – (k)eine Zeitenwende? (11 September 2001 – A Historical Turning Point?), has come to sound like something from a bygone age. The question ›Is this the beginning of a new era?‹ is now posed under altered circumstances, and a ›historical turning point‹ and the ›end of globalisation‹ are proclaimed in equally adamant fashion. An academic – in the best sense of the word – conference on ›New Eras and Epochal Change‹ in April 2022 acquired an unanticipated immediacy. The organising team wrote: ›We have been outrun and perhaps even rendered irrelevant by events.‹ But humanities scholarship also entails a certain scepticism towards hasty diagnoses of the times and proclamations of turning points, as scholars including the Indian-born political scientist Parag Khanna have underscored: ›We should avoid grandiloquent proclamations that seek to encapsulate our times. Such characterisations can only capture the moment that has just passed and are guaranteed to quickly be outdated.‹ Of course even such a ›guarantee‹ that any statements can only be provisional may seem questionable when there are ›unmistakable symptoms of upheaval, of profound rupture‹, as the historian Jörn Leonhard has emphasised. With reference to Reinhart Koselleck, he underscores the fundamentally close link between ›rupture and repetition‹, between the ›singularity of history‹ and its ›recurrence‹.
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The Russian war of aggression against Ukraine, now in its second year, has many historical connections and implications – including some which may not immediately spring to mind. The German War Graves Commission estimates that the human remains of more than 800 Wehrmacht soldiers have been uncovered so far over the course of this war, some of them surfacing as new trenches were being dug. Helmets and boots have also been found. Historian Reinhart Koselleck’s (1923–2006) metaphor of Zeitschichten, or temporal layers, acquires here a different meaning and a very concrete materiality. (Koselleck had himself served as a soldier in Ukraine.) In her acceptance speech for the Leipzig Book Award for European Understanding in April 2023, the Russian author Maria Stepanova, who currently lives in Berlin, said: ›Are we condemned to keep reliving the twentieth century with its prisons, concentration camps and propaganda machines, its trench warfare and area bombardments? What can we do when the fabric of language, its texture, suddenly becomes transparent, revealing all the hidden layers of latent and overt violence percolating to the surface?‹
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Having for a long time been an area of research mainly reserved for specialists in international relations and political scientists, the international organizations (IOs) that first emerged in the twentieth century’s pre-World War II decades have also attracted renewed interest of historians for the past several years. This development has its place in a movement of ‘globalization’ within the discipline, evident in both themes and practice. The nation, the region, and the village remain pertinent units for study, but the historian interested in global history approaches them in relation to other spaces, reflecting renewed attention to connections and forms of circulation traditionally neglected in specialized studies. As will be argued below, in their role as observation posts, the IOs and international associations here comprise an especially productive area of research, in effect opening access to work on complexly intermeshing ‘circulatory regimes’.
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.
Laughing at the Dictator. Franco and Franco’s Spain in the Spanish Blockbuster „Mortadelo y Filemón“
(2004)
The Spanish motion picture “La Gran Aventura de Mortadelo y Filemón” (2003) is not a historical film, no matter what definition of ‘historical film’ one might use. Instead, “Mortadelo y Filemón” (M&F) is the cinematic adaptation of the most successful Spanish comic book series ever published2 its significance to Spanish popular culture reflected by the spectacular box office records achieved by its cinematic counterpart. Moreover, and in contrast to the things we usually understand as ‘historical film’ - as well to the conventions of cinematic realism -, M&F is a cartoon-like histrionic comedy like no other; characters get smashed to the ground by a falling piano, only to later be “inflated” back to life, much in the style of the Warner Brothers’ „Loony Toons.“
The paper explores representations of economic reform in Czechoslovakia immediately before and after the fall of the centrally planned economy in 1989/90. By what means was the concept of rapid economic transition towards a liberal market setting mediated into the academic and the public sphere? How did it achieve wide public consent? In the first part, the paper analyzes the Czechoslovak academic discussion about perestroika in the late 1980s, where a rapid liberal transition was cast by a distinct group of younger scholars as the only possible way of reforming the socialist economy. Their training was based above all on Paul A. Samuelson’s canonical textbook Economics, which presented this discipline almost as a natural science with universal standards. Immediately after 1989/90, when some of these scholars assumed executive positions within the new Czechoslovak government, what were at first purely economic ways of reasoning merged with certain images of the national past, creating a mixture of liberal economic knowledge and national exceptionalism.
The newly emerging historical scholarship on the era ›after the boom‹, on the marketization of societies in the wake of the neoliberal political reforms, deregulation, and privatization starting in the 1970s, has emphasized this threshold as an epochal break that was driven by large-scale structural shifts in the global economy, in social relations, and in cultural identities. This new accentuation of the economic and social transformation has, for good reason, eclipsed older historical traditions that focused on events, discourses, specific interests, and individual actors. The marketization of social relations is thus often considered to be the result of processes beyond the reach and scope of purposeful actors that promoted specific societal changes. While this historical focus is quite right in denying independent causal status to specific agents and the self-aggrandizement of vain leaders and their intellectual entourage, it tends to obscure the historical genesis of ideas and concepts that later became critical components of political leadership, and the specific constellations of interests, knowledge and actors that did prefigure and originally promote the marketization of economic and political institutions.