Journal articles on the topic 'Army reunion'

In April 1204, a Western crusading army on its way to the Holy Land attacked and occupied the Eastern Roman capital of Constantinople in the notorious debacle of the Fourth Crusade. Pope Innocent III had adamantly forbidden the detour but lost control over the army. After the siege was successful, he seems to have wanted at least to use the conquest to effect a forced reunion of the churches East and West. In this frame of mind Innocent later explained to Theodore Laskaris, Emperor of Nicaea, who had complained that an army commissioned to aid the Holy Land had instead turned their crusading swords against fellow Christians, that the conquest was the result of inscrutable divine providence of just judgment. Greek insubordination to Rome was an evil, as he explained, that met the evil of the crusaders’ greed and deception (Registrum, ed. Hageneder, vol. 11, 63). Innocent was not allowed to remain complacent, however; for when the reunion failed to happen and even citizens and soldiers began moving from Jerusalem to the conquered Eastern Roman capital, the pope again reproached the aggressors.

ABSTRACTThe 16S rRNA methyltransferase ArmA is a worldwide emerging determinant that confers high-level resistance to most clinically relevant aminoglycosides. We report here the identification and characterization of a multidrug-resistantSalmonella entericasubspecies I.4,12:i:− isolate recovered from chicken meat sampled in a supermarket on February 2009 in La Reunion, a French island in the Indian Ocean. Susceptibility testing showed an unusually high-level resistance to gentamicin, as well as to ampicillin, expanded-spectrum cephalosporins and amoxicillin-clavulanate. Molecular analysis of the 16S rRNA methyltransferases revealed presence of thearmAgene, together withblaTEM-1,blaCMY-2, andblaCTX-M-3. All of these genes could be transferreden blocthrough conjugation intoEscherichia coliat a frequency of 10−5CFU/donor. Replicon typing and S1 pulsed-field gel electrophoresis revealed that thearmAgene was borne on an ∼150-kb broad-host-range IncP plasmid, pB1010. To elucidate howarmAhad integrated in pB1010, a PCR mapping strategy was developed for Tn1548, the genetic platform forarmA.The gene was embedded in a Tn1548-like structure, albeit with a deletion of the macrolide resistance genes, and an IS26was inserted within themelgene. To our knowledge, this is the first report of ArmA methyltransferase in food, showing a novel route of transmission for this resistance determinant. Further surveillance in food-borne bacteria will be crucial to determine the role of food in the spread of 16S rRNA methyltransferase genes worldwide.

For thirty years after Franklin Pierce's death, the ex-president's reputation remained low in the estimation of historians and the public. Most saw Pierce and his successor James Buchanan as primary culprits in the sectional discord leading to the Civil War. Between 1900 and 1915, however, Pierce's reputation improved, with the sectional healing represented by Blue-Gray reunions on former battlefields like Gettysburg and the election of only the second Democratic president since the war, Woodrow Wilson. This process of healing was particularly difficult in Pierce's home state of New Hampshire. In a classic case of contested memory, the Grand Army of the Republic repeatedly stymied Democratic attempts to raise a statue to the state's only president and criticized Pierce as a traitor and Confederate sympathizer. The Democrats, however, took over the New Hampshire governor's chair in 1913, and the legislature voted to honor Pierce with a statue. In that small early twentieth-century window, Franklin Pierce became a beneficiary of hard-earned sectional reconciliation.

resumo Como se inscrevem, no longo percurso autoral de Armando Freitas Filho, os três volumes que se seguem à reunião revista dos treze livros que marcaram seus cinquenta anos de poesia (Raro mar, Lar, e Dever)? O artigo investiga como, ao redor e várias versões da cena da escrita, o poeta arma suas tensões características, entre a ordem e a desordem, o corpo e a palavra, o número e o nome.

Durante el siglo XIV comienzan a producirse en la corona de Castilla una serie de cambios y transformaciones profundas en sus estructuras organizativas que conducen a un incremento de los recursos fiscales, logísticos y militares disponibles. Este proceso, contemporáneo a otros territorios peninsulares y europeos, llevó a un aumento de las capacidades de reunión y sostenimiento de fuerzas militares en el tiempo y el espacio, a un cambio en la organización y conducción de la guerra, cuyas dimensiones espaciotemporales crecen, y en definitiva a un proceso evolutivo a largo plazo que conducirá a lo largo de la baja Edad Media a la aparición del ejército permanente como instrumento de poder del naciente estado moderno.AbstractA series of important changes and transformations in the organizational structure of the Crown of Castile took place during the fourteenth century and led to an increase in financial, logistical and military resources. This process which ocurred at the same time in other Iberian and European territories produced an increase in the capability to garner and maintain military forces through time and space. As well, it gave way to a change in the organization and the process of war, whose dimensions grew in every sense. In the end, the changes resulted in a long-term evolutionary process during the late Middle Ages that concluded in the rise of a permanent army as an instrument of power in the nascent modern state.

Objetivo: Identificar efectos perjudiciales causados por la estabilización de la columna vertebral en la víctima de trauma y situaciones de trauma sin indicación para estabilización de la columna vertebral en el prehospitalario.Método: Se trata de una revisión integrativa de literatura orientada por las cuestiones de investigación: ¿Existe evidencia científica de efectos perjudiciales en las víctimas de trauma, causados por la estabilización de la columna vertebral en el cuidado prehospitalario? y ¿Existen situaciones de trauma sin indicación para estabilización de la columna vertebral?Resultados: Se realizó una investigación booleana en las bases electrónicas Cochrane Library y Pubmed ya través del motor EBSCOhost en las bases de datos CINAHL Plus, MEDLINE, MedicLatina, SPORTDiscus, PsycBras, PsycBOOKS, Psychología y Behavioral Sciences Collection, Academic Search Complete. Se obtuvieron doce artículos y tras la aplicación de los criterios de inclusión y exclusión constituyen la muestra cinco artículos.Conclusiones: Se describen efectos perjudiciales de la estabilización de la columna vertebral en la víctima de trauma relacionados con la gestión de la vía aérea, dolor, malestar y lesiones por presión.Las situaciones de trauma penetrante con circulación inestable y víctimas con lesiones por arma de fuego en la cabeza no carecen de estabilización de la columna vertebral.Se han reunido recomendaciones de apoyo a la decisión prehospitalaria en cuanto a la estabilización de la columna vertebral.Es crucial para la mejora del cuidado prehospitalario, integrar un enfoque individualizado de la víctima que se refiera a su estado clínico y al mecanismo de lesión. Goal: To identify harmful effects caused by the stabilization of the vertebral column in a trauma victim and in trauma situations without indication for stabilization of the spine in the prehospital.Method: It was perform an integrative literature review guided by research questions: is there a scientific evidence of harmful effects on trauma victims caused by spinal stabilization in prehospital care? and are there situations of trauma with no indication for stabilization of the spine?Results: We have performed a Boolean search in the electronic bases Cochrane Library and Pubmed and through the EBSCOhost engine in the databases CINAHL Plus, MEDLINE, MedicLatina, SPORTDiscus, PsycARTICLES, PsycBOOKS, Psychology and Behavioral Sciences Collection, Academic Search Complete. Twelve articles were obtained and after applying the inclusion and exclusion criteria, the sample was five articles.Conclusions: Harmful effects of spinal stabilization on the victim of trauma related to airway management, pain, discomfort and pressure injuries are described.Situations of penetrating trauma with unstable circulation and victims with gunshot injuries to the head do not require stabilization of the spine.Recommendations to support the prehospital decision regarding stabilization of the spine were collected.It is crucial for the improvement of prehospital care to integrate an individualized approach of the victim that refers to its clinical state and mechanism of injury. Objetivo: Identificar efeitos prejudiciais causados pela estabilização da coluna vertebral na vítima de trauma e situações de trauma sem indicação para estabilização da coluna vertebral no pré-hospitalar.Método: Trata-se de uma revisão integrativa de literatura norteada pelas questões de pesquisa: existe evidência científica de efeitos prejudiciais nas vítimas de trauma, causados pela estabilização da coluna vertebral no cuidado pré-hospitalar? e existem situações de trauma sem indicação para estabilização da coluna vertebral?Resultados: Foi realizada pesquisa booleana nas bases eletrónicas Cochrane Library e Pubmed e através do motor EBSCOhost nas bases de dados CINAHL Plus, MEDLINE, MedicLatina, SPORTDiscus, PsycARTICLES, PsycBOOKS, Psychology and Behavioral Sciences Collection, Academic Search Complete. Obtiveram-se doze artigos e após aplicação dos critérios de inclusão e exclusão constitui a amostra cinco artigos.Conclusões: Estão descritos efeitos prejudiciais da estabilização da coluna vertebral na vítima de trauma relacionados com a gestão da via aérea, dor, desconforto e lesões por pressão.Situações de trauma penetrante com circulação instável e vítimas com lesões por arma de fogo na cabeça não carecem de estabilização da coluna vertebral.Foram reunidas recomendações de apoio à decisão pré-hospitalar quanto à estabilização da coluna vertebral.É crucial para a melhoria do cuidado pré-hospitalar, integrar uma abordagem individualizada da vítima que se refira ao seu estado clínico e ao mecanismo de lesão.

El dossier que presentamos en este número tuvo su origen en dos coloquios dedicados a las indagaciones multidisciplinarias en las prácticas de investigación en artes y ciencias sociales. En uno nos centramos en el teatro, la performatividad y el abandono; el otro, lo dedicamos a las heterotopías. Más allá de los temas específicos, nos interesaba interrogar las prácticas de investigación en campos diversos y los diálogos que se podían establecer entre ellas. Buscábamos propiciar un ejercicio colectivo de reflexión a partir de múltiples experiencias y atisbar los lenguajes en uso, las técnicas de investigación, las estrategias analíticas, los modos de interrogación, las imaginaciones involucradas y los puntos donde las rutas conceptuales o prácticas divergían.El diálogo nos condujo a un desafío de límites entre campos formalmente separados, el cual generó tensiones, desfases y discordancias. Una de las más sobresalientes tiene que ver con la “división ocupacional entre el artista y el académico” (Jackson, 177-178): ¿cómo se inscriben las artes escénicas en el espacio formal, disciplinario y disciplinado de la vida académica? Porque nuestros sujetos/objetos de conocimiento, nuestras preguntas de investigación y nuestras “metodologías” parecían converger en estrategias de trabajo, lenguajes, formas de pensar, modos de aproximación e interrogación que, de manera colateral, nos conectan con los estudios del performance y, por consiguiente, nos enfrentan a una cuestión que rebasa con mucho las prácticas de investigación.Por eso propusimos este conjunto de reflexiones a una revista dedicada a las artes escénicas y la performatividad que, además, dedica buena parte de su espacio al mundo del performance. El performance pensado como acción/actuación/actualización, puesta en acto y escenificación de normas y órdenes, subversión y atravesamiento de límites; reproducción y diferencia que alude, al mismo tiempo, a la irrepetibilidad del acontecimiento y a su pertenencia a una estructura que le otorga significación dentro del marco contextual del aquí-y-ahora, es decir, al reconocimiento de que nuestras vidas están estructuradas de acuerdo con modos de conducta repetidos y socialmente sancionados. Todo lo cual sugiere una lucha por el control de una economía simbólica.Los trabajos reunidos aquí tienen en común ese punto de partida. No se puede pensar el performance como un género artístico o como el dominio estricto de una disciplina estética en sí misma, sino como una pluralidad de expresiones. De la misma forma, los referentes de nuestras contribuciones son diversos y heterogéneos: desde prácticas corporales cotidianas como los usos indumentarios hasta la extrema codificación del cuerpo en la danza o el deporte, pasando por experiencias autodenominadas como teatrales, escenificaciones paratópicas y rituales colectivos del duelo. Lo que permite la interlocución entre experiencias y ejercicios tan dispares es su anclaje en lo que Allan Kaprow ha denominado el “arte como vida”, es decir, el arte que mezcla los géneros o los evita: “el principal diálogo de los hacedores del arte como vida no se lleva a cabo con el arte, sino con todo lo demás”.Si bien la confusión de categorías ha ampliado la gama de lo que cuenta como práctica artística, lo que nos interesa de esta experiencia en tanto teatro, imagen y etnografía es una conversación interdisciplinaria que vulnera los límites entre modalidades y borra las fronteras entre los medios, los géneros o las tradiciones culturales. Porque la discusión nos conduce a la toma de conciencia de la “índole contingente, resbalosa y decididamente contextual de la formación de conocimiento” (Jackson, 10). Refrenda la idea de Feyerabend de que no existe una sola fuente del saber, ni una única manera legítima de transmitirlo. El desafío principal de nuestras prácticas epistemológicas consiste en mantenerse como marca de frontera entre campos del saber y desestabilizar la idea de que existe una forma única —estandarizada, universal, normativa— de producir conocimiento.En alguna medida, las perspectivas multidisciplinarias o transdisciplinarias contienen un elemento mítico que anuncia una mutua comprensión o la integración de los lenguajes y los modos de intervenir sobre ciertas realidades o fenómenos. Nuestra postura fue sospechar de ese horizonte, pero creer en el mito. Los coloquios fueron, en ese sentido, ejercicios rituales para mitologías en ciernes.Nuestro interés común surge de una experiencia singular, pero compartida, de extrañamiento. Por un lado, una de las colaboradoras (Hortensia Moreno) investigó durante largo tiempo prácticas corporales de boxeadoras y se adentró en un mundo repleto de imágenes, rituales, límites y creencias. Por otro, Rodrigo Parrini se encontró con una compañía de teatro en una ciudad de la frontera sur de México —lugar poco acostumbrado al arte de la capital— y comenzó una interrogación sobre las relaciones entre sus propias prácticas etnográficas y las prácticas teatrales que realizaba ese grupo de artistas. ¿Se puede interrogar al boxeo desde la semiótica y el feminismo?, ¿es factible ver en ese deporte un mundo particular y en las mujeres que lo practican sujetos singulares?; ¿podríamos pensar una etnografía que se realiza a través del teatro?, ¿o un teatro que rebasa la escena y se aproxima a los mundos de vida y a las teatralidades que ahí se producen? El extrañamiento del que hablamos surge de ese encuentro fortuito, pero también intencionado, con otros lenguajes y otras estéticas. Extrañarse es el principio de la interrogación, se lea esa actitud como inicio de algo o como un imperativo intelectual.En el teatro o en el boxeo se escuchan muchas voces. Son mundos llenos de sonidos, incluso en los intervalos de silencio que cobijan. Esas voces, que se desplazan con quien las ha escuchado ya no como un mundo sonoro sino como una interioridad bullente, abren diálogos, suscitan asociaciones, crean argumentos. Los artículos que hemos reunido en este número forman parte de ese espacio colmado de referencias e imágenes. En algún sentido, es tanto un mundo de voces como una interioridad parlante. Esa convergencia razonada de la que hablamos antes es también una subjetividad comprometida. Si bien podríamos abordar el arte como una institución o la etnografía como una metodología, preferimos ubicarnos en una posición de perturbación serena en la que los desencuentros produzcan sentidos que no hemos avizorado. Si bien ninguno de los textos que hemos reunido propone rupturas definitivas, todos, a su manera, registran desacomodos importantes: del cuerpo con el sentido, del arte con la conciencia, del deseo con el lenguaje, de la muerte con sus rituales.Al parecer, las formas de vida en el mundo actual experimentan una crisis profunda en lo que Paolo Virno llama sus sustratos de piedra. Crisis que Peter Sloterdijk denomina simplemente “modernidad”, pero que nosotros evitamos nombrar ante la urgencia de una descripción pormenorizada. ¿Son los elaborados rituales mortuorios que realizan los habitantes de una localidad de Guerrero suficientes para resolver colectivamente la desaparición sistemática de personas que ocurre en ese estado mexicano?, ¿cómo ritualizar la muerte de aquellas personas cuyo destino se desconoce y cuyos cuerpos no han sido encontrados? El texto de Anne Johnson se adentra en esas preguntas, mediante su propio involucramiento en las prácticas rituales y una inquietud política afligida por la violencia creciente. El abigarramiento de las imágenes y objetos que se utilizan para recordar a un muerto o para conmemorarlo se contrapone al vacío de la desaparición; la presencia atiborrada, a la ausencia angustiosa. En ese deslinde entre la fuerza socializante de los rituales y la dispersión de la violencia, la pregunta antropológica por el dolor se aproxima a las interrogaciones estéticas: “¿cómo es que, en nuestro contacto con las obras, con las imágenes, se encuentra ya proyectada una relación con el dolor?”, se pregunta Georges Didi-Huberman (48).De la misma forma, en otros escenarios, la pregunta autoetnográfica sobre la producción del género como efecto de los usos del vestir se responde solamente en la experiencia del propio cuerpo. Acá lo que está en juego ya no es solamente el espectáculo de la presentación de sí ante un público en un proscenio, sino sobre todo la preparación del espectáculo: el trabajo de vestuario, maquillaje, accesorios, peinado; y de manera concomitante, el ensayo de gestos, poses, manierismos, tonos de voz, actitudes, van produciendo un cuerpo que se reconoce a un tiempo como mismidad y alteridad. El trabajo de Alba Pons explora formas de acceso al saber que podríamos caracterizar como un aprendizaje “en el cuerpo”, como formas de re-conocimiento del saber que reside en el cuerpo y no rebasa la esfera de lo común y lo ordinario. Y a la vez, recupera la capacidad reflexiva de las personas en situaciones donde se re-escenifican hábitos, costumbres, rituales, modales o códigos de interacción que determinan prácticas sociales vividas como “naturales”, “normales” o “normativas”.De una forma distinta, y con otros materiales, Antoine Rodríguez interroga las prácticas de un artista y performer queer mexicano que elabora escenas de violencia y de deseo utilizando su cuerpo como escenario, objeto, cuadro o desecho. Las performances de Lechedevirgen Trimegisto son rituales privados que el artista exhibe como ejecuciones públicas que no alcanzan a consumarse. Por eso, en sus prácticas está en juego la capacidad de interpelación política de algunas formas de arte, pero también un modo de elaboración del lenguaje y los afectos transidos por la violencia. Tenemos la impresión que sus trabajos no son pasajes al acto que desplieguen la violencia, pero tampoco simbolizaciones que la desplacen; son más bien un juego en el filo de lo que surge como deseo y lo que perturba como violencia. ¿No es el estigma una marca visible pero también oculta? A Lechedevirgen lo estigmatizan su deseo, su fenotipo, sus prácticas artísticas, dice Rodríguez, y a la vez él transforma su cuerpo en un arma, en un manifiesto de intensidades eróticas y políticas que no propone un discurso cerrado o coherente, sino que saca chispas, incluso con su piel y sus órganos, y suscita nuevas opacidades y brillos inéditos que muestran la intimidad, pero también la ocultan.El testimonio que escribieron Patricio Villarreal y los integrantes de Teatro Ojo, a partir de un laboratorio que realizaron en unos de los coloquios que mencionamos antes, explora un síntoma que se manifestó de forma inesperada en la vida social de México. Didi-Huberman lee un síntoma como “la fisura en los signos, la pizca de sinsentido y de no saber de dónde un conocimiento puede extraer su momento decisivo” (24). Una de sus piezas —México mi amor. Nunca mires atrás abordaba el sismo que acaeció en la capital del país en septiembre de 1985 y que dejó profundas huellas y heridas en sus habitantes. Desde una azotea del Centro Cultural de España en México, ubicado a unos metros del Templo Mayor y la Catedral Metropolitana, el colectivo teatral fue trazando un mapa visual de los distintos puntos donde habían intervenido con sus piezas. Por las ventanas podíamos ver la ciudad y sus edificios emblemáticos. Pero, por otra parte, el edificio de ese centro cultural estaba construido sobre un calmecac, antigua escuela para nobles mexicas, cuyos rastros se habían convertido en un museo de sitio subterráneo. Desde arriba se podía observar el pasado cercano y el futuro de la ciudad; abajo un pasado remoto. Teatro Ojo jugó con las temporalidades heterogéneas que se traslapaban en ese edificio.Unos meses después del laboratorio, el mismo día que se conmemoraban los 32 años del sismo de 1985, otro fuerte terremoto sacudió la ciudad y sus alrededores, mató a varios cientos de personas y dañó miles de edificios. Una fisura social atravesó la urbe; un sinsentido organizado por una coincidencia funesta desordenó las explicaciones y las narrativas sobre los terremotos; emergió un no-saber del que los habitantes de la ciudad podían extraer un momento decisivo de destrucción y pregunta. En torno a ese síntoma, en el que se repite todo como si nunca hubiese sucedido o no dejara de ocurrir, Villarreal y Teatro Ojo elaboran un texto que intenta registrar otros temblores, como los proyectos sismográficos que Aby Warburg imaginó entre las guerras mundiales desde algún sanatorio de Europa o el temblor que afectaba a Derrida en sus últimos años de vida. Sacudidas de la historia, del cuerpo o de los subsuelos.

FERREIRA, Roquinaldo Amaral. Cross-cultural exchange in the Atlantic World: Angola and Brazil during the Era of the Slave Trade. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012. 262 p. Fabiana Schleumer Universidade Federal de São Paulo (UNIFESP/Guarulhos) “A África e a formação do Mundo Atlântico”[1], obra primordial para a expansão e o fortalecimento dos estudos sobre o Mundo Atlântico no Brasil, trouxe novas e importantes indagações. Abordou os aspectos cotidianos da vida dos africanos na África e nas sociedades coloniais do Atlântico, enfocando a cultura, a religião e as relações de trabalho. Posteriormente, Diáspora negra no Brasil, livro organizado pela historiadora Linda Heywood, prossegue as discussões sobre a África Central e suas relações com o Brasil[2]. Desde então, o campo dos estudos sobre o Mundo Atlântico tem crescido de modo significativo entre os pesquisadores brasileiros. O livro Cross-cultural exchange in the Atlantic World: Angola and Brazil during the Era of the Slave Trade (2012), de Roquinaldo Amaral Ferreira, historiador brasileiro, Vasco da Gama Chair na Brown University e diretor associado do Center for the Study of Slavery and Justice, na mesma instituição, se alinha a esse debate: dialoga com a História e com a Historiografia do Mundo Atlântico, com especial atenção às relações entre Angola e Brasil. É imperioso destacar a respeitável contribuição do autor para a temática. Na forma de artigos[3] e capítulos de livros[4], Ferreira tem participado de modo marcante no processo de reescrita da História de Angola e suas conexões atlânticas[5]. Em “Atlantic microhistories”, o autor faz uso de informações biográficas para a reconstrução das microdinâmicas sociais, culturais e comerciais existentes em Angola no século XVIII e início do século XIX[6]. Erigido sobre sólidos postulados historiográficos, o livro de Ferreira representa um avanço significativo no processo de reescrita da História de Angola e do Brasil, pois se distancia da visão factual, política e econômica, isto é, da concepção macro-histórica, presente na historiografia angolana. O autor procura, com base na micro-história, desvendar o cotidiano e as tensões de Angola na era do tráfico de escravos e o uso de fontes históricas existentes nos arquivos e nas bibliotecas de Angola conferem singularidade ao seu trabalho. Fartamente documentado, o autor não se detém em exaustivos debates historiográficos, mas se concentra na exploração de conjuntos documentais variados: cartas, ofícios, petições, certidões, requerimentos, relatos de missionários e processos inquisitoriais, permitindo que os elementos desse corpus dialoguem entre si. Cross-cultural exchange in the Atlantic World está dividido em seis capítulos, distribuídos em 262 páginas, e faz parte da série African Studies, da Cambridge University Press. Cada capítulo apresenta ao leitor um personagem histórico a partir do qual o autor tece considerações sobre as relações entre Angola e Brasil. O livro divide-se em duas seções. A primeira abrange os três primeiros capítulos e tem como foco o estudo do tráfico itinerante feito por sertanejos e tumbeiros. Já a segunda, dos capítulos quatro a seis, atém-se às questões de caráter religioso, cultural e político. No primeiro capítulo, “An expedition to the Kingdom of Holo”, o personagem principal é Francisco Roque Souto, homem branco, que durante 22 anos serviu na Bahia como capitão de mar e desempenhou um papel importante na economia de Luanda. Assim como outros “homens de mar em fora”, Francisco controlou o tráfico com os sertões e alcançou uma posição de destaque. Sua história é o ponto de partida para a compreensão do papel dos sertanejos e suas funções no tráfico itinerante angolano. Em “Can vassals be enslaved?”, o autor mantém o foco nas questões relacionadas ao tráfico sertanejo no interior de Angola, porém, detém-se no estudo dos africanos vassalos, que viviam em territórios onde o Soba era aliado dos portugueses. Além disso, discute os perigos do tráfico itinerante, bem como suas relações com os mercadores costeiros de Luanda e Benguela. Os tumbeiros e o impacto de suas estratégias de ação ganham destaque ao longo do texto. No terceiro capítulo, “Tribunal de Mucanos”, Ferreira relata a história dos escravos Jorge Inácio e Francisca, discutindo os frágeis limites entre a escravidão e a liberdade. O Tribunal dos Mucanos foi um espaço para o apelo à liberdade e à solução dos problemas cotidianos, fundamental para cativos e nascidos livres, tendo representado a possibilidade de mudança na condição de escravização, incorporando às suas funções, a partir de sua expansão no século XIX, o caráter punitivo. Em “Slavery and society”, Ferreira apresenta e discute a escravidão em Luanda e suas implicações. O censo de 1781 apontava que 52.329 indivíduos eram escravos, ou seja, metade da população. Para cada homem branco civil havia aproximadamente três escravos em condições de porte de arma. Luanda era uma cidade miscigenada, por onde perambulavam pedreiros, carpinteiros, caixeiros, alfaiates, costureiras e ferreiros, indivíduos e classes sociais que poderiam ser encontrados no espaço social das tabernas, locais de reunião de pessoas de diferentes níveis culturais. Ao mesmo tempo, o “lazer” era um espaço de inclusão e não diferenciação. As habitações permanentes configuravam-se como mecanismos de controle social, cabendo às populações locais morar em lugares afastados da região central. A expulsão dos sujeitos dos espaços centrais também fica demonstrada no tráfico com o Brasil, pois para cá foram enviados condenados por crimes como feitiçaria. Já no quinto capítulo, “Religion and culture”, Ferreira analisa, com cuidado e rigor, a história de Mariana: mulher negra, livre, viúva, nascida em Luanda, fluente em português e quimbundo, acusada pela Inquisição portuguesa de bruxaria. Segundo o autor, ela teria se envolvido afetivamente com Fernando Martins do Amaral, um soldado carioca, enviado a Luanda como degredado, por ter cometido um assassinato no Rio de Janeiro. Mariana foi acusada pela Inquisição portuguesa, entre outras coisas, de ter erigido um santuário para o demônio, e pode ser considerada uma “ganga”, isto é, uma autoridade religiosa digna de poder e respeito em Luanda e Benguela. Durante, no mínimo, dez anos ela presidiu cerimônias religiosas, cerimônias estas que, de acordo com o autor, contestavam a ordem colonial. Tais cerimônias representam um exemplo das características do meio urbano em Luanda, onde a religião atravessou diversos estratos sociais, mantendo próximos não só os escravos e os negros fujões, mas também os distintos membros da elite local da época. No capítulo final, “Echos of Brazil”, Ferreira destaca as relações existentes entre Angola e Brasil, afirmando que não eram apenas de questões comerciais e culturais, pois os acontecimentos se revestem de uma dimensão política, e cita o processo de Independência do Brasil, em 1822, como um de seus pilares, um elo entre Benguela e Rio de Janeiro. Por fim, no epílogo, “Rebalancing Atlantic History”, o autor faz uma síntese dos debates e mudanças que, nos últimos vinte anos, têm norteado os estudos sobre o Mundo Atlântico e seus desdobramentos. Nesse contexto, merecem destaque os trabalhos desenvolvidos por Toby Green, James Sidbury e Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra. Ferreira conclui o livro defendendo que, por meio da metodologia da micro-história e do conceito de Mundo Atlântico, é possível compreender e analisar a História de Angola e do Brasil para além das dimensões estanques que predominaram em suas respectivas historiografias. Em suma, mostra-se urgente a tradução de Cross-cultural exchange in the Atlantic World. Precioso tanto na forma como no conteúdo, o livro de Ferreira constitui uma inovação nos estudos sobre o Mundo Atlântico, abordando novas questões, apontando caminhos e instigando reflexões. Sobre a autora Fabiana Schleumer é professora adjunta de História da África na Universidade Federal de São Paulo (UNIFESP). Possui bacharelado(1995), licenciatura (1997), mestrado(1999) e doutorado(2005) em História Social pela Universidade de São Paulo (USP). Lidera o Grupo de Pesquisa "Trânsitos: dialogos culturais em África e na Diáspora" UNIFESP/CNPq. Coordena o GT Regional (São Paulo) de História da África da ANPUH (2014-2016). Resenha recebida em 29 de janeiro de 2016. Aprovado em 17 de junho de 2016. [1] THORNTON, John. A África e os africanos na formação do mundo atlântico: 1400-1800. Rio de Janeiro: Elsevier, 2004. [2] HEYWOOD, Linda (Org.). Diáspora negra no Brasil. São Paulo: Contexto, 2008. [3] Vale destacar: FERREIRA, Roquinaldo. Biografia como história social: o clã Ferreira Gomes e os mundos da escravização no Atlântico Sul. Vária História, Belo Horizonte, v. 29, n. 51, p. 679-695, 2013. [4] Vale destacar: FERREIRA, Roquinaldo. Slavery and the social and cultural landscapes of Luanda. In: CAÑIZERAS-Esguerra, Jorge; CHILD, Matt D.; SIDBURY, James. The black urban Atlantic in the age of the slave trade. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013. p. 185-206. [5] Sobre a necessidade de reescrever a História de Angola, ver: HENRIQUES, Isabel de Castro. Presenças angolanas: os documentos escritos portugueses. In: Seminário Internacional sobre História de Angola, 2.; 1997, Luanda. Actas... Luanda: [s.n], 1997. [6] FERREIRA, Roquinaldo. Atlantic microhistories: mobility, personal ties and slaving in the black Atlantic World (Angola and Brazil). In: NARO, Nancy; SANSI, Roger; TREECE, David. Cultures of the Lusophone Atlantic. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007. p. 99-128.

Abstract In northern Uganda, more than 50,000 people were recruited by the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) between the late 1980s and 2004, mostly by force. Around half of those taken were children (under 18 years old). A large number were never seen by their families again, but more than 20,000 returned through aid-financed reception centres. Endeavours were made to reunite them with their relatives, who were mostly living in insecure displacement camps. Relatively few were subsequently visited, even after the fighting ended in 2006. Thousands of vulnerable children were largely left to their own devices. This article draws on research carried out in 2004–06 and from 2012 to 2018, and compares findings with other publications on reintegration in the region. It argues that implementing best-practice guidelines for relocating displaced children with their immediate relatives had negative consequences. The majority of children who passed through a reception centre are now settled as young adults on ancestral land, where they are commonly abused because of their LRA past. With few exceptions, it is only those who spent a long period with the LRA and who are not living on ancestral land who have managed to avoid such experiences.

Bobet, Leah. Above. New York: Arthur A. Levine Books-Scholastic, 2012. PrintThis Young Adult urban fantasy novel takes place in present-day Toronto, Canada. The main character is Matthew, a teenager growing up in an underground, secret community known as Safe. This community was founded by Matthew’s guardian, Atticus, for disabled outcasts and people with abnormalities. For example, Atticus has claws for hands, and Matthew has scales. In this underground community, Matthew is Teller, which means that he collects and remembers the stories of different individuals living in Safe. Matthew is in love with the traumatized girl Ariel, who can shape-shift into a bee and has wings. Ariel came to the Safe as a teenager, and lived in the city before then, but she is slow to trust others, including Matthew, and runs away frequently.Safe is threatened by an exile, known as Corner, who works with an army of shadows. Eventually, Corner invades Safe by following Ariel home after one of the times she ran away. This causes the community to disperse Above, which is actually downtown Toronto. Once there, with the help of Ariel, Matthew has to reunite his community, and reclaim Safe. In order to do this, Matthew must discover the history of Corner, and its connection to Safe. He learns that there are two sides to every story, and not everything is black and white. Good people can make mistakes, and love and relationships are complex and defining elements of what it means to be human.Above has important messages about themes of “good” and “evil” and the gray areas in between. By blurring the lines between fantasy, magic, and medicine, these themes are easy to bridge into the real world. The focus on outcasts and disabled people gives the book a unique perspective, and the setting takes readers to both well-known and often passed over areas of downtown Toronto.The book suffers from poor setup, however, and slow character development. Leah Bobet uses a stilted writing style, meant to reflect the main character’s education and state of mind. Often this style makes the plotline difficult to follow, and undercuts some of the more intriguing descriptions of Toronto. Readers are also launched into the world without explanation, which can make it difficult to figure out what is going on for the first half of the book. The story can be even more confusing as it is told in patchworks. Outside of Matthew’s main storyline, the narratives of other characters are interwoven into the book, so not all events are chronological.Above has a good premise that will appeal to the right group of young adults, but with the difficult writing level and the lack of setup, some of the target audience might lose interest before finishing the novel. It is worth nothing that some of the content deals with difficult topics, including mental illness, abuse, disability, poverty, gender-identification, people of different and mixed ethnicities, experimentation on people, and death.Recommended with Reservations: 2 out of 4 starsReviewer: Colette LeungColette Leung is a graduate student at the University of Alberta, working in the fields of Library and Information science and Humanities Computing who loves reading, cats, and tea. Her research interests focus around how digital tools can be used to explore fields such as literature, language, and history in new and innovative ways.

Abstract This research note unveils new archival evidence from Amnesty International's first twenty-five years (1961–1986) to shed light on the realization of international human rights as Amnesty balanced “nonpolitical politics” through multifaceted government relations. The research draws from minutes and reports of eighty meetings of Amnesty's executive leadership and interviews from the 1983 to 1985 Amnesty Oral History project, all collected from the International Institute of Social History. The records show that during this time Amnesty relied on government and foundation funding to exit a severe financial crisis. Amnesty also cultivated a private diplomatic network with governments for access and advocacy and conducted side bargains with closed countries for access and reforms. In one sense, the new evidence complicates the conventional wisdom that Amnesty was only financed from small, individual donors and stayed away from private government dealings. In another sense, the new data extend existing insights about INGO strategic action by revealing Amnesty's pragmatic trade-offs when maintaining arms–length relations with governments to better appreciate the organization's early challenges and accomplishments. The note ultimately contributes to scholarship on the strategic choices of INGOs and provides new data for future research on the agency of nonstate actors in global governance navigating complex government relations. Esta nota de investigación presenta nueva evidencia documental de los primeros 25 años de Amnistía Internacional (Amnesty International), de 1961 a 1986, para arrojar luz sobre el cumplimiento de las normas internacionales de derechos humanos mientras Amnistía balanceaba la “política no política” mediante relaciones gubernamentales polifacéticas. La investigación incorpora actas e informes de 80 reuniones del liderazgo ejecutivo de Amnistía y entrevistas de 1983 a 1985 del proyecto Historia Oral de Amnistía (Amnesty Oral History), recopiladas del Instituto Internacional de Historia Social. Los documentos muestran que, en ese momento, Amnistía necesitó financiación gubernamental y de fundaciones para salir de una crisis financiera grave. Amnistía también cultivó una red diplomática privada con gobiernos a cambio de acceso y defensa, y tuvo negocios paralelos con países cerrados a cambio de acceso y reformas. En un sentido, la nueva evidencia complica la sabiduría convencional de que Amnistía solo tuvo financiamiento de donantes pequeños e individuos y se mantuvo lejos de los negocios privados con gobiernos. En contraste, los nuevos datos amplían las percepciones existentes sobre la acción estratégica de organizaciones no gubernamentales internacionales (ONGI), revelando las concesiones pragmáticas de Amnistía al mantener relaciones independientes con gobiernos, y permiten apreciar mejor los desafíos y logros iniciales de la organización. La nota, fundamentalmente, contribuye a la investigación sobre las decisiones estratégicas de las ONGI y brinda nuevos datos para futuras investigaciones sobre la autonomía de los actores no estatales que navegan relaciones gubernamentales complejas en la gobernanza global. Cet exposé de recherche dévoile de nouvelles preuves issues des 25 premières années d'archives d'Amnesty International (1961–1986) pour apporter un éclairage sur l'application des droits de l'Homme tandis qu'Amnesty équilibrait la « politique apolitique » par le biais de relations gouvernementales à plusieurs facettes. Cette recherche s'appuie sur des minutes et rapports de 80 réunions de la haute direction d'Amnesty, ainsi que sur des entretiens qui ont eu lieu entre 1983 et 1985 dans le cadre du projet Oral History (Histoire orale) d'Amnesty. Ces données ont toutes été recueillies auprès de l'Institut International d'Histoire Sociale. Les archives montrent que durant cette période, Amnesty a dû compter sur le financement de gouvernements et de fondations pour sortir d'une grave crise financière. Amnesty a également cultivé un réseau diplomatique privé avec des gouvernements pour faciliter son accès et son plaidoyer dans le pays concerné tout en menant des négociations parallèles avec les pays fermés pour y favoriser son accès et les réformes. En un sens, les nouvelles preuves compliquent les idées reçues selon lesquelles Amnesty ne serait financée que par de petits donateurs individuels et resterait à l’écart des affaires gouvernementales privées. Mais en un autre sens, ces nouvelles données enrichissent les renseignements existants sur l'action stratégique des organisations non gouvernementales internationales en révélant qu'Amnesty s’était livrée à des compromis pragmatiques en entretenant des relations avec les gouvernements tout en restant à distance. Ces renseignements nous permettent donc de mieux apprécier les premiers défis et accomplissements de l'organisation. En définitive, cet exposé contribue aux études sur les choix stratégiques des organisations non gouvernementales internationales et fournit de nouvelles données pour les recherches futures sur l'intervention des acteurs non étatiques dans la gouvernance mondiale tandis qu'ils naviguent dans des relations gouvernementales complexes.

The public discourse on asylum seekers in the past year or so and the generation of hatred against them contains a strong linguistic element marking clear boundaries between 'ourselves' and the asylum seekers. I will discuss this linguistic dimension, which calls for vigilance and critical awareness in future discourses of exclusion. One of John Howard's political platforms in the victorious campaign, in which he replaced Paul Keating as Prime Minister was to liberate Australia of the 'political correctness' imposed by his opponents. In this respect, at least, he came close to the far right in Australian politics. For instance, he said of far right ex-Labor Independent Graeme Campbell: 'His attacks on political correctness echo many of the attacks I made on political correctness' (The Age, 18 June 1996). 'Political correctness' is a negative term for 'inclusive language' -- avoiding or being encouraged by stylistic or policy guidelines to avoid the choice of lexical items that may be offensive to sections of the population. The converse is the discourse of exclusion. Whether it excludes on the basis of ethnicity, religion, gender or any other basis, the discourse of exclusion creates a division between 'us' and 'them', partly on the basis of different lexical items for the two groups (Clyne, Establishing Linguistic Markers of Racism). Asylum seekers have been projected by politicians (especially those in the government) as not only different from the Australian people and therefore not belonging, but also as a threat to the Australian people. To demonstrate this projection it is worth considering some of the terms and formulations of exclusion and division that have been used. As Mungo MacCallum (41) argues, 'The first step was to get rid of the term 'refugee'; it has a long and honourable history and is generally used to describe people forced to flee from their homelands.' It might be more accurate to say that the government limited its use so that no honourable associations could be made with the current group of asylum seekers. There had been newspaper columns which had focused on the achievements and contributions to the nation of previous vintages of refugees; some communities consisted largely or entirely of refugees and their descendants, including some who had given longstanding support to the Liberal Party. The semantic narrowing of 'refugee' was illustrated in the Prime Minister's pronouncement (Herald-Sun, 8 Oct. 2001) when it was alleged that asylum seekers had thrown their children overboard: 'Genuine refugees don't do that'. Thus, refugee status in the public discourse was being related to their moral representation and not to any consideration of the threat of persecution in their homeland. While refugee status was officially a legal issue, when the Prime Minister interacted with the media and the voters, the asylum seekers were already excluded by guided popular opinion, for 'I don't want people like that in Australia'. The exclusionary line based on moral grounds was echoed by Alexander Downer (The Age, 8 Oct. 2001), who described the asylum seekers as lacking the civilized behaviour to be worthy to live in Australia: 'Any civilized person wouldn't dream of treating their own children that way'. So what could the asylum seekers be called? MacCallum (2002: 43) attributes to Philip Ruddock the verbal masterstroke' of reducing the identification of the asylum seekers to a 'one word label': 'unlawful'. However, this identification came in a number of facets. They were described on both sides of parliament as 'illegals', illegal arrivals', 'illegal immigrants' (e.g. Hansard, 29 Aug. 2001). All of these terms encourage the view of intrusion. In actual fact, whether people's arrival had been authorized by the government or not, there is no such thing as an 'illegal refugee'. Other descriptions ranged from 'occasional tourists' (Gary Hardgrave, Minister for Citizenship and Multicultural Affairs; House of Representatives, 30 Aug. 2001) '; to 'café latte poor' (Senator Robert Ray, former Labor Minister for Immigration), which assumes that only the poor can be refugees. Such descriptions suggested that the asylum seekers were dishonest imposters. But the term 'illegals' lowers asylum seekers to the status of 'non-people' and this gives others the licence to treat them in a way that may be different to those who are 'people'. This is reinforced by the fact that the asylum seekers are neither nice nor poor, and therefore cannot expect to attract support from the government (and, to a large extent from the opposition). The 'bully' image of the asylum seekers was propagated by comments on the behaviour of those allegedly harming their children, described by Ruddock as 'carefully planned and premeditated' (The Age, 14 Feb. 2002). It was reinforced by Peter Reith, who described the action as a 'premeditated attempt to force their way into the country' (The Age, 8 Aug. 2001). When Kim Beazley said: 'It is not unhumanitarian (sic) to try to deter criminals' (The Age, 8 Nov. 2001), he left it to our imagination or choice whether, in supporting the government's position, he wanted to defend us from the asylum seekers or from the 'people smugglers' of whom they are victims. However he put the asylum seekers directly or by association into the criminal category. The suggestion that the asylum seekers might be economic migrants masquerading as refugees enabled the government to differentiate them from 'battlers', who are likely to support action against any 'crooks' who will take the little the battlers have away from them. So far asylum seekers as 'bad cruel people' have been differentiated from 'genuine refugees' of the past, from a nation of 'civilized', gentle, child-loving people, and from Aussie 'battlers'. 'Queue-jumper' is a term that differentiates asylum seekers from both the 'mainstream' and the succession of migrants who have come at various times. This term occurs in several debates (used e.g. by Senator Ron Boswell and Kay Ellison, 29 Aug. 2001). Firstly, it invokes the twin cultural concepts of fairness and orderliness. The 'destruction' of 'political correctness' and especially Pauline Hanson's expressed views regenerated the notion that the needy were unfairly getting something for nothing that others had to work for. This included Aborigines, recently arrived migrants or refugees, single mothers, and even the disabled. The fact that there were no queues in Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran, or the Palestinian Territories in which people could stand to fill in immigration applications was not taken into account. Queuing is very much an Anglo concept of orderliness, reflecting the strong linear emphasis in British-derived cultures, even in academic discourse and school essays and in formal meetings as I have discussed elsewhere (e.g. Clyne, Inter-cultural Communication at Work). In another sense, the 'queue jumper' is a repugnant person to migrants of all backgrounds. The impression is gained from the designation that asylum seekers are taking the place in a tight quota of their relatives (or people like them) waiting to be admitted under the family reunion scheme. In actual fact, the number of asylum seekers recognized as refugees does not affect other categories such as family reunion, and in fact, the quota for the humanitarian category wasn't nearly filled in 2001. The government's handling of asylum seekers is thus underpinned by two types of moral principles -- the schoolmaster principle -- They have to behave themselves, otherwise they will be punished, and the schoolchild principle (based on the perception)-- It ain't fair; he pushed in. Another term that has played an important role in the asylum seeker discourse is 'border protection'. This term featured prominently in the 2001 election campaign, when both major parties vied to persuade voters that they were best equipped to protect Australia. It lives on in the public discourse and relates both to contemporary international politics and to traditional Australian xenophobia. The 2001 federal election was fought in the context of the terrorist attacks on the twin towers and the American-led coalition against international terrorism. Thus, the term 'border protection' was necessarily ambiguous. Was it terrorists or asylum seekers who were being kept out? Or were they perhaps the same people? Even though many of the asylum seekers were claiming to be escaping from persecution by the terrorists or those who were harbouring them. Maybe the linking association is with Islam? It is possible that 'border protection' (like the Liberal Party's 1998 election slogan 'For all of us') is also ambiguous enough to attract opponents of multiculturalism without alienating its supporters.2 Boat-loads of new arrivals have long caused fear among Australians. For much of Australia's British history, we were terrified of invasions from our north -- not just the 'yellow peril', it even included the Russians and the French, from whom Australians were protected by fortresses along the coast. This was immortalized in the final verse of the politically incorrect early version of Advance Australia Fair: Should foreign foe e'er sight our coast Or dare a foot to land, We'll rouse to arms like siers of yore To guard our native strand; Brittania then shall surely know, Beyond wide oceans roll Her sons in fair Australia's land Still keep a British soul, In joyful strains, etc. In fact, the entire original version of Advance Australia Fair has a predominantly exclusionist theme which contrasts with the inclusive values embodied in the present national anthem. While our 'politically correct' version has 'boundless plains to share' with 'those who've come across the seas', they are only open to 'loyal sons' in the original, which is steeped in colonial jingoism. The gender-inclusive 'Australians all' replaces 'Australia's sons' as the opening appellation. Are our politicians leading us back from an inclusive and open identity? I do not have space to go into the opposing discourse, which has come largely from academic social scientists, former prime ministers, and ministers of both major parties, current politicians of the minor parties, and journalists from the broadsheet press and the ABC. Objections are often raised against the 'demonisation' and 'dehumanisation' of the asylum seekers. In this short article, I have tried to demonstrate the techniques used to do this. The use of 'illegal' and 'queue jumper' to represent asylum seekers differentiates them from 'refugees' and 'migrants' and has removed them from any category with whom existing Australians should show solidarity. What makes them different is that they are cruel, even to their children, dishonest and imposters, badly behaved, unfair and disorderly – enemies of the Australian people, who want to deprive them of their sovereignty. It is interesting to see this in contrast to the comment of a spokesperson from Rural Australians for Refugees (AM, Radio National, 26 Jan. 2002): 'We can't recognise our country anymore which was based on fairness and fair go'. Notes This is based on 'When the discourse of hatred becomes respectable – does the linguist have a responsibility?', a paper presented at the Australian Linguistic Society conference at Macquarie University, July 2001. Some of the same data was discussed in 'The discourse excluding asylum seekers – have we been brainwashed?' Australian Language Matters 10: 3-10, by the same author. Research assistance from Felicity Grey is gratefully acknowledged. 2 I thank Felicity Meakins for this suggestion. References Clyne, Michael. Inter-Cultural Communication at Work. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. Clyne, Michael. 'Establishing Linguistic Markers of Racism.' Language and Peace. Ed. C. Schäffner and A.Wenden. Dartmouth: Aldershot, 1995. 111-18. MacCallum, Mungo. Girt by Sea (Quarterly Essay). Melbourne: Black, 2002. Markus, Andrew. 'John Howard and the Naturalization of Bigotry.' The Resurgence of Racism. Ed. G.Gray and C.Winter. Clayton: Monash University, Department of History (Monash Publications in History 24), 1997. 79-86. Citation reference for this article Substitute your date of access for Dn Month Year etc... MLA Style Clyne, Michael. "Saving Us From Them" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.5 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/mc/0210/Clyne.html &gt. Chicago Style Clyne, Michael, "Saving Us From Them" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 5 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/mc/0210/Clyne.html &gt ([your date of access]). APA Style Clyne, Michael. (2002) Saving Us From Them. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(5). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/mc/0210/Clyne.html &gt ([your date of access]).

IntroductionThis article suggests extensions to the place of ‘national collections’ of Australia’s migration histories, and considers the role of regional libraries and museums in collecting, preserving, and making accessible the history of migration. The article describes a recent collaboration between the Bonegilla Migrant Experience site, the Albury LibraryMuseum and the regionally-based Charles Sturt University (CSU) to develop a virtual, three-dimensional tour of Bonegilla, a former migrant arrival centre. Through this, the role of regional collections as keeping places of migration memories and narratives outside of those institutions charged with preserving the nation’s memory is highlighted and explored.What Makes a Nation’s Memory?In 2018 the Australian Research Council (ARC) awarded a Linkage grant to a collaboration between two universities (RMIT and Deakin), and the National Library of Australia, State Library of South Australia, State Library of Victoria, and State Library of New South Wales titled “Representing Multicultural Australia in National and State Libraries” (LP170100222). This Linkage project aimed to “develop a new methodology for evaluating multicultural collections, and new policies and strategies to develop and provide access to these collections” (RMIT Centre for Urban Research).One planned output of the Linkage project was a conference, to be held in early 2019, titled “Collecting for a Society’s Memory: National and State Libraries in Culturally Diverse Societies.” The conference call for papers suggested themes that included an interrogation of the relationship between libraries and ‘the collecting sector’, but with a focus still on National and State Libraries (Boyd). As an aside, the correlation between libraries and memories seemed slightly incongruous here, as archives and museums in particular would also be key in this collecting (and preserving) society’s memory, and also the libraries that exist outside of the national and state capitals.It felt like the project and conference had a definite ‘national’ focus, with the ‘regional’ mentioned only briefly in a suggested theme.At the same time that I was reading this call for papers and about the Linkage, I was part of a CSU Learning and Teaching project to develop online learning materials for students in our Teacher Education programs (history in particular) based around the Bonegilla Migrant Arrival Centre in Wodonga, Victoria. This project uses three-dimensional film technology to bring students to the Centre site, where they can take an interactive, curriculum-based tour of the site. Alongside the interactive online tour, a series of curricula were developed to work with the Australian History Curriculum. I wondered why community-led collections like these in the regions fall to the side in discussions of a ‘national’ (aka institutional) memory, or as part of a representation of a multicultural Australia, such as in this Linkage.Before I start exploring this question I want to acknowledge the limitations of the ARC Linkage framework in terms of the project mentioned above, and that the work that is being done in the “Representing Multicultural Australia in National and State Libraries” project is of value to professional practice and community; in this article I am using the juxtaposition of the two projects as an impetus to interrogate the role of regional collaboration, and to argue for a notion of national memory as a regional collecting concern.Bonegilla: A Contested SiteFrom 1947 through to 1971 over 300,000 migrants to Australia passed through the Bonegilla Migrant Reception and Training Centre (“Bonegilla”) at a defining time in Australia’s immigration history, as post-World War II migration policies encompassed non-English speaking Europeans displaced by the war (Pennay "Remembering Bonegilla" 43). Bonegilla itself is a small settlement near the Hume Dam, 10 km from the New South Wales town of Albury and the Victorian town of Wodonga. Bonegilla was a former Army Camp repurposed to meet the settlement agendas of multiple Australian governments.New migrants spent weeks and months at Bonegilla, learning English, and securing work. The site was the largest (covering 130 hectares of land) and longest-lasting reception centre in post-war Australia, and has been confirmed bureaucratically as nationally significant, having been added to the National Heritage Register in 2007 (see Pennay “Remembering Bonegilla” for an in-depth discussion of this listing process). Bonegilla has played a part in defining and redefining Australia’s migrant and multicultural history through the years, with Bruce Pennay suggesting thatperhaps Bonegilla has warranted national notice as part of an officially initiated endeavour to develop a more inclusive narrative of nation, for the National Heritage List was almost contemporaneously expanded to include Myall Creek. Perhaps it is exemplary in raising questions about the roles of the nation and the community in reception and training that morph into modern day equivalents. (“Memories and Representations” 46)Given its national significance, both formally and colloquially, Bonegilla has provided rich material for critical thinking around, for example, Australian multicultural identity, migration commemorations and the construction of cultural memory. Alexandra Dellios argues that Bonegilla and its role in Australia’s memory is a contested site, and thatdespite criticisms from historians such as Persian and Ashton regarding Bonegilla’s adherence to a revisionist narrative of multicultural progress, visitor book comments, as well as exchanges and performances at reunions and festivals, demonstrate that visitors take what they will from available frameworks, and fill in the ‘gaps’ according to their own collective memories, needs and expectations. (1075)This recognition of Bonegilla as a significant, albeit “heritage noir” (Pennay, “Memories and Representations” 48), agent of Australia’s heritage and memory makes it a productive site to investigate the question of regional collections and collaborations in constructing a national memory.Recordkeeping: By Government and CommunityThe past decade has seen a growth in the prominence of community archives as places of memory for communities (for example Flinn; Flinn, Stevens, and Shepherd; Zavala et al.). This prominence has come through the recognition of community archives as both valid sites of study as well as repositories of memory. In turn, this body of knowledge has offered new ways to think about collection practices outside of the mainstream, where “communities can make collective decisions about what is of enduring value to them, shape collective memory of their own pasts, and control the means through which stories about their past are constructed” (Caswell, Cifor, and Ramirez 58). Jimmy Zavala, and colleagues, argue that these collections “challenge hierarchical structures of governance found in mainstream archival institutions” (212), and offer different perspectives to those kept on the official record. By recognising both the official record and the collections developed and developing outside of official repositories, there are opportunities to deepen understandings and interpretations of historical moments in time.There are at least three possible formal keeping places of memories for those who passed through, worked at, or lived alongside Bonegilla: the National Archives of Australia, the Albury LibraryMuseum in Albury, New South Wales, and the Bonegilla Migrant Experience site itself outside of Wodonga. There will of course be records in other national, state, local, and community repositories, along with newspaper articles, people’s homes, and oral lore that contribute to the narrative of Bonegilla memories, but the focus for this article are these three key sites as the main sources of primary source material about the Bonegilla experience.Official administrative and organisational records of activity during Bonegilla’s reception period are held at the National Archives of Australia in the national capital, Canberra; these records contribute to the memory of Bonegilla from a nation-state perspective, building an administrative record of the Centre’s history and of a significant period of migration in Australia’s past. Of note, Bonegilla was the only migrant centre that created its own records on site, and these records form part of the series known as NAA: A2567, NAA A2571 1949–56 and A2572 1957–71 (Hutchison 70). Records of local staff employed at the site will also be included in these administrative files. Very few of these records are publicly accessible online, although work is underway to provide enhanced online and analogue access to the popular arrival cards (NAA A2571 1949-56 and A2572 1957–71) onsite at Bonegilla (Pennay, personal communication) as they are in high demand by visitors to the site, who are often looking for traces of themselves or their families in the official record. The National Archives site Destination Australia is an example of an attempt by the holder of these administrative records to collect personal stories of this period in Australia’s history through an online photograph gallery and story register, but by 2019 less than 150 stories have been published to the site, which was launched in 2014 (National Archives of Australia).This national collection is complemented and enhanced by the Bonegilla Migration Collection at the Albury LibraryMuseum in southern New South Wales, which holds non-government records and memories of life at Bonegilla. This collection “contains over 20 sustained interviews; 357 personal history database entries; over 500 short memory pieces and 700 photographs” (Pennay “Memories and Representations” 45). It is a ‘live’ collection, growing through contributions to the Bonegilla Personal History Register by the migrants and others who experienced the Centre, and through an ongoing relationship with the current Bonegilla Migrant Experience site to act as a collection home for their materials.Alongside the collection in the LibraryMuseum, there is the collection of infrastructure at the Bonegilla Migrant Experience (BME) site itself. These buildings and other assets, and indeed the absence of buildings, plus the interpretative material developed by BME staff, give further depth and meaning to the lived experience of post-war migration to Australia. Whilst both of these collections are housed and managed by local government agencies, I suggest in this article that these collections can still be considered community archives, given the regional setting of the collections, and the community created records included in the collections.The choice to locate Bonegilla in a fairly isolated regional setting was a strategy of the governments of the time (Persian), and in turn has had an impact on how the site is accessed; by who, and how often (see Dellios for a discussion of the visitor numbers over the history of the Bonegilla Migrant Experience over its time as a commemorative and tourist site). The closest cities to Bonegilla, Albury and Wodonga, sit on the border of New South Wales and Victoria, separated by the Murray River and located 300 km from Melbourne and 550 km from Sydney. The ‘twin towns’ work collaboratively on many civic activities, and are an example of a 1970s-era regional development project that in the twenty-first century is still growing, despite the regional setting (Stein 345).This regional setting justifies a consideration of virtual, and online access to what some argue is a site of national memory loaded with place-based connections, with Jayne Persian arguing that “the most successful forays into commemoration of Bonegilla appear to be website-based and institution-led” (81). This sentiment is reflected in the motivation to create further online access points to Bonegilla, such as the one discussed in this article.Enhancing Teaching, Learning, and Public Access to CollectionsIn 2018 these concepts of significant heritage sites, community archives, national records, and an understanding of migration history came together in a regionally-based Teaching and Learning project funded through a CSU internal grant scheme. The scheme, designed to support scholarship and enhance learning and teaching at CSU, funded a small pilot project to pilot a virtual visit to a real-life destination: the Bonegilla Migrant Experience site. The project was designed to provide key teaching and learning material for students in CSU Education courses, and those training to teach history in particular, but also enhance virtual access to the site for the wider public.The project was developed as a partnership between CSU, Albury LibraryMuseum, and Bonegilla Migrant Experience, and formalised through a Memorandum of Understanding with shared intellectual property. The virtual visit includes a three-dimensional walkthrough created using Matterport software, intuitive navigation of the walkthrough, and four embedded videos linked with online investigation guides. The site is intended to help online visitors ‘do history’ by locating and evaluating sources related to a heritage site with many layers and voices, and whose narrative and history is contested and told through many lenses (Grover and Pennay).As you walk through the virtual site, you get a sense of the size and scope of the Migrant Arrival Centre. The current Bonegilla Migrant Experience site sits at Block 19, one of 24 blocks that formed part of the Centre in its peak time. The guiding path takes you through the Reception area and then to the ‘Beginning Place’, a purpose built interpretative structure that “introduces why people came to Australia searching for a new beginning” (Bonegilla site guide). Moving through, you pass markers on the walls and other surfaces that link through to further interpretative materials and investigation guides. These guides are designed to introduce K-10 students and their teachers to practices such as exploring online archives and thematic inquiry learning aligned to the Australian History Curriculum. Each guide is accompanied by teacher support material and further classroom activities.The guides prompt and guide visitors through an investigation of online archives, and other repositories, including sourcing files held by the National Archives of Australia, searching for newspaper accounts of controversial events through the National Library of Australia’s digital repository Trove, and access to personal testimonies of migrants and refugees through the Albury LibraryMuseum Bonegilla Migration Collection. Whilst designed to support teachers and students engaging with the Australian History Curriculum, these resources are available to the public. They provide visitors to the virtual site an opportunity to develop their own critical digital literacy skills and further their understanding of the official records along with the community created records such as those held by the Albury LibraryMuseum.The project partnership developed from existing relationships between cultural heritage professionals in the Albury Wodonga region along with new relationships developed for technology support from local companies. The project also reinforced the role of CSU, with its regional footprint, in being able to connect and activate regionally-based projects for community benefit along with teaching and learning outcomes.Regional CollaborationsLiz Bishoff argues for a “collaboration imperative” when it comes to the galleries, libraries, archives, and museums (GLAM) sector’s efficacy, and it is the collaborative nature of this project that I draw on in this article. Previous work has also suggested models of convergence, where multiple institutions in the GLAM sector become a single institution (Warren and Matthews 3). In fact the Albury LibraryMuseum is an example of this model. These converged models have been critiqued from resourcing, professionalisation and economic perspectives (see for example Jones; Hider et al.; Wellington), but in some cases for local government agencies especially, they are an effective way of delivering services to communities (Warren and Matthews 9). In the case of this virtual tour, the collaboration between local government and university agencies was temporal for the length of the project, where the pooling of skills, resources, and networks has enabled the development of the resource.In this project, the regional setting has allowed and taken advantage of an intimacy that I argue may not have been possible in a metropolitan or urban setting. The social intimacies of regional town living mean that jobs are often ‘for a long time (if not for life)’, lives intersect in more than a professional context, and that because there are few pathways or options for alternative work opportunities in the GLAM professions, there is a vested interest in progress and success in project-based work. The relationships that underpinned the Bonegilla virtual tour project reflect many of these social intimacies, which included former students, former colleagues, and family relationships.The project has modelled future strategies for collaboration, including open discussions about intellectual property created, the auspicing of financial arrangements and the shared professional skills and knowledge. There has been a significant enhancement of collaborative partnerships between stakeholders, along with further development of professional and personal networks.National Memories: Regional ConcernsThe focus of this article has been on records created about a significant period in Australia’s migration history, and the meaning that these records hold based on who created them, where they are held, and how they are accessed and interpreted. Using the case study of the development of a virtual tour of a significant site—Bonegilla—I have highlighted the value of regional, non-national collections in providing access to and understanding of national memories, and the importance of collaborative practice to working with these collections. These collections sit physically in the regional communities of Albury and Wodonga, along with at the National Archives of Australia in Canberra, where they are cared for by professional staff across the GLAM sector and accessed both physically and virtually by students, researchers, and those whose lives intersected with Bonegilla.From this, I argue that by understanding national and institutional recordkeeping spaces such as the National Archives of Australia as just one example of a place of ‘national memory’, we can make space for regional and community-based repositories as important and valuable sources of records about the lived experience of migration. Extending this further, I suggest a recognition of the role of the regional setting in enabling strong collaborations to make these records visible and accessible.Further research in this area could include exploring the possibility of giving meaning to the place of record creation, especially community records, and oral histories, and how collaborations are enabling this. In contrast to this question, I also suggest an exploration of the role of the Commonwealth staff who created the records during the period of Bonegilla’s existence, and their social and cultural history, to give more meaning and context to the setting of the currently held records.ReferencesBishoff, Liz. “The Collaboration Imperative.” Library Journal 129.1 (2004): 34–35.Boyd, Jodie. “Call for Papers: Collecting for a Society’s Memory: National and State Libraries in Culturally Diverse Societies.” 2018. 1 Apr. 2019 <https://networks.h-net.org/node/73374/announcements/2079324/collecting-society%E2%80%99s-memory-national-and-state-libraries>.Caswell, Michelle, Marika Cifor, and Mario H. Ramirez. “‘To Suddenly Discover Yourself Existing': Uncovering the Impact of Community Archives.” The American Archivist 79.1 (2016): 56–81.Dellios, Alexandra. “Marginal or Mainstream? Migrant Centres as Grassroots and Official Heritage.” International Journal of Heritage Studies 21.10 (2015): 1068–83.Flinn, Andrew. “Community Histories, Community Archives: Some Opportunities and Challenges.” Journal of the Society of Archivists 28.2 (2007): 151–76.Flinn, Andrew, Mary Stevens, and Elizabeth Shepherd. “Whose Memories, Whose Archives? Independent Community Archives, Autonomy and the Mainstream.” Archival Science 9.1–2 (2009): 71.Grover, Paul, and Bruce Pennay. “Learning & Teaching Grant Progress Report.” Albury Wodonga: Charles Sturt U, 2019.Hider, Philip, Mary Anne Kennan, Mary Carroll, and Jessie Lymn. “Exploring Potential Barriers to Lam Synergies in the Academy: Institutional Locations and Publishing Outlets.” The Expanding LIS Education Universe (2018): 104.Hutchison, Mary. “Accommodating Strangers: Commonwealth Government Records of Bonegilla and Other Migrant Accommodation Centres.” Public History Review 11 (2004): 63–79.Jones, Michael. “Innovation Study: Challenges and Opportunities for Australia’s Galleries, Libraries, Archives and Museums.” Archives & Manuscripts 43.2 (2015): 149–51.National Archives of Australia. “Snakes in the Laundry... and Other Horrors”. Canberra, 29 May 2014. <http://www.naa.gov.au/about-us/media/media-releases/2014/25.aspx>.Pennay, Bruce. “‘But No One Can Say He Was Hungry’: Memories and Representations of Bonegilla Reception and Training Centre.” History Australia 9.1 (2012): 43–63.———. “Remembering Bonegilla: The Construction of a Public Memory Place at Block 19.” Public History Review 16 (2009): 43–63.Persian, Jayne. “Bonegilla: A Failed Narrative.” History Australia 9.1 (2012): 64–83.RMIT Centre for Urban Research. “Representing Multicultural Australia in National and State Libraries”. 2018. 11 Feb. 2019 <http://cur.org.au/project/representing-multicultural-australia-national-state-libraries/>.Stein, Clara. “The Growth and Development of Albury-Wodonga 1972–2006: United and Divided.” Macquarie U, 2012.Warren, Emily, and Graham Matthews. “Public Libraries, Museums and Physical Convergence: Context, Issues, Opportunities: A Literature Review Part 1.” Journal of Librarianship and Information Science (2018): 1–14.Wellington, Shannon. “Building Glamour: Converging Practice between Gallery, Library, Archive and Museum Entities in New Zealand Memory Institutions.” Wellington: Victoria U, 2013.Zavala, Jimmy, Alda Allina Migoni, Michelle Caswell, Noah Geraci, and Marika Cifor. “‘A Process Where We’re All at the Table’: Community Archives Challenging Dominant Modes of Archival Practice.” Archives and Manuscripts 45.3 (2017): 202–15.

“Language is inseparable from the world that provokes it”-- Don DeLillo, “In the Ruins of the Future”The attacks of 9/11 generated a public discourse of suspicion, with Osama bin Laden occupying the role of the quintessential “most wanted” for nearly a decade, before being captured and killed in May 2011. In the novel, Falling Man (DeLillo), set shortly after the attacks of September 11, Justin, the protagonist’s son, and his friends, the two Siblings, spend much of their time at the window of the Siblings’ New York apartment, “searching the skies for Bill Lawton” (74). Mishearing bin Laden’s name on the news, Robert, the younger of the Siblings, has “never adjusted his original sense of what he was hearing” (73), and so the “myth of Bill Lawton” (74) is created. In this paper, I draw on postclassical, cognitive narratology to “defamiliarise” processes undertaken by both narrator and reader (Palmer 28) in order to explore how narrative elements impact on readers’ and characters’ perceptions of the terrorist. My focus on select episodes within the novel “pursue[s] the author’s means of controlling his reader” (Booth i), and I refer to a generic reader to identify a certain intuitive reaction to the text. Assuming that “the written text imposes certain limits on its unwritten implications” (Iser 281), I trace a path from the uttered or printed word, through the reading act, to the process of meaning-making. I demonstrate how renaming the terrorist, and other language games, challenge the notion that terror can be synonymous with a locatable, destructible source by activating a suspicion towards the text in particular, and towards language in general.Falling Man tells the story of Keith who, after surviving the attacks on the World Trade Centre, shows up injured and disoriented at the apartment of his estranged wife, Lianne, and their son, Justin. The narrative, set at different periods between the day of the attacks and three years later, focuses on Keith’s and Lianne’s lives as they attempt to deal, in their own ways, with the trauma of the attacks and with the unexpected reunion of their small family. Keith disappears into games of poker and has a brief relationship with another survivor, while Lianne searches for answers in the writings of Alzheimer sufferers, in places of worship, and in conversations with her mother, Nina, and her mother’s partner, Martin, a German art-dealer with a questionable past. Each of the novel’s three parts also contains a short narrative from the perspective of Hammad, a fictional terrorist, starting with his early days in a European cell under the leadership of the real terrorist, Mohamed Atta, through the group’s activities in Florida, to his final moments aboard the plane that crashes into the World Trade Centre. DeLillo’s work is noted for treating language as central to society and culture (Weinstein). In this personalised narrative of post-9/11, DeLillo’s choices reflect his “refusal to reproduce the mass media’s representations of 9/11 the reader is used to” (Grossinger 85). This refusal is manifest not so much in an absence of well-known, mediated images or concepts, but in the reshaping and re-presenting of these images so that they appear unexpected, new, and personal (Apitzch). A notable example of such re-presentation is the Falling Man of the title, who is introduced, surprisingly, not as the man depicted in the famous photograph by Richard Drew (Leps), but a performance artist who uses the name Falling Man when staging his falls from various New York buildings. Not until the final two sentences of the novel does DeLillo fully admit the image into the narrative, and even then only as Keith’s private vision from the Tower: “Then he saw a shirt come down out of the sky. He walked and saw it fall, arms waving like nothing in this life” (246). The bin Laden/Bill Lawton substitution shows a similar rejection of recycled concepts and enables a renewed perspective towards the idea of bin Laden. Bill Lawton is first introduced as an anonymous “man” (17), later to be named Bill Lawton (73), and later still to be revealed as bin Laden mispronounced (73). The reader first learns of Bill Lawton in a conversation between Lianne and the Siblings’ mother, Isabel, who is worried about the children’s preoccupation at the window:“It has something to do with this man.”“What man?”“This name. You’ve heard it.”“This name,” Lianne said.“Isn’t this the name they sort of mumble back and forth? My kids totally don’t want to discuss the matter. Katie enforces the thing. She basically inspires fear in her brother. I thought maybe you would know something.”“I don’t think so.”“Like Justin says nothing about any of this?”“No. What man?”“What man? Exactly,” Isabel said. (17)If “the piling up of data [...] fulfils a function in the construction of an image” (Bal 85), a delayed unravelling of the bin Laden identity distorts this data-piling so that by the time the reader learns of the Bill Lawton/bin Laden link, an image of a man is already established as separate from, and potentially exclusive of, his historical identity. The segment beginning immediately after Isabel’s comment, “What man? Exactly” (17), refers to another, unidentified man with the pronoun “he” (18), as if to further sway the reader’s attention from the subject of that man’s identity. Fludernik notes that “language games” are a key feature of the postmodern text (Towards 221), adding that “techniques of linguistic emasculation serve implicitly to question a simple and naive view of the representational potential of language” (225). I propose that, in Falling Man, bin Laden is emasculated by the Bill Lawton misnomer, and is thereby conceptualised as two entities, one historical and one fictional. The name-switch activates what psychologists refer to as a “dual-process,” conscious and unconscious, that forms the reader’s experience of the narrative (Gerrig 37), creating a cognitive dissonance between the two. Much like Wittgenstein’s duck-rabbit drawing, bin Laden and Bill Lawton exist as two separate entities, occupying the same space of the idea of bin Laden, but demanding to be viewed singularly for the process of recognition to take place. Such distortion of a well-known figure conveys the sense that, in this novel, “all identities are either confused [...] or double [...] or merging [...] or failing” (Kauffman 371), or, occasionally, doing all these things simultaneously.A similar cognitive process is triggered by the introduction of aliases for all three characters that head each of the novel’s three parts. Ernst Hechinger is revealed as Martin Ridnour’s former, ‘terrorist’ identity (DeLillo, Falling 86), and performance artist David Janiak (180) as the Falling Man’s everyday name. But the bin Laden/Bill Lawton switch offers an overt juxtaposition of the historical with the fictional or, as Žižek would have it, “the Raw real” with the “virtual” (387), and allows the mutated bin Laden/Bill Lawton figure to shift, in the mind of the reader, between the two worlds, as well as form a new, blended entity.At this point, it is important to notice that two, interconnected, forms of suspicion exist in the novel. The first is invoked in the story-level towards various terrorist-characters such as Bill Lawton, Hammad, and Martin. The second form is activated when various elements within the narrative prompt the reader to treat the text itself as suspicious, triggering in the reader a cognitive reaction that mirrors that of the narrated character. One example is the “halting process” (Leps) that is forced on the reader when attempting to manoeuvre through the narrative’s anachronical arrangement that mirrors Keith’s mental perception of time and memory. Another such narrative device is the use of “unheralded pronouns” (Gerrig 50), when ‘he’ or ‘she’ is used ambiguously, often at the beginning of a chapter or segment. The use of pronouns in narrative must adhere to strict grammatical rules (Fludernik, Introduction) and when these rules are ignored, the reading pattern is affected. First, the reader of Falling Man is immersed within an element in the story, then becomes puzzled about the identity of a character, and finally re-reads the passage to gain clarity. The reader, after a while, distances somewhat from the text, scanning for alternative possibilities and approaching interpretation with a tentative sense of doubt.The conversation between the two mothers, the Bill Lawton/bin Laden split, and the use of unheralded pronouns also destabilises the relationship between person and name, and appears to create a world in which “personality has disintegrated into a mere semiotic mark” (Versluys 21). Keith’s obsession with correcting the spelling of his surname, Neudecker, “because it wasn’t him, with the name misspelled” (DeLillo, Falling 31), Lianne’s fondness of the philosopher Kierkegaard, “right down to the spelling of his name. The hard Scandian k’s and lovely doubled a” (118), her consideration of “Marko [...] with a k, whatever that might signify” (119), and Rumsey, who is told that “everything in his life would be different [...] if one letter in his name was different” (149), are a few examples of the text’s semiotic emphasis. But, while Versluys sees this tendency as emblematic of the novel’s portrayal of a decline in humanity, I suggest that the text’s preoccupation with the shape and constitution of words may work to “de-automatise” (Margolin 66) the relationship between sign and perception, rather than to denigrate the signified human. With the renamed terrorist, the reader comes to doubt not only the printed text, but also his or her automatic response to “bin Laden” as a “brand, a sort of logo which identifies and personalises the evil” (Chomsky, September 36). Bill Lawton, according to Justin, speaks in monosyllables (102), a language Justin chooses, for a time, for his own speech (66), and this also contributes to the de-automatisation of the text. The language game, in which a speaker must only use words with one syllable, began as a classroom activity “designed to teach the children something about the structure of words and the discipline required to frame clear thoughts” (66). The game also gives players, and readers, an embodied understanding of what Genette calls the gap between “being and saying” (93) that is inevitable in the production of language and narrative. Justin, who continues to play the game outside the classroom, because “it helps [him] go slow when [he] thinks” (66), finds comfort in the silent pauses that are afforded by widening the gap between thought and utterance. History in Falling Man is a collection of the private narratives of survivors, families, terrorists, artists, and the host of people that are affected by the attacks of 9/11. Justin’s character, with the linguistic and psychic code of a child, represents the way in which all participants, to some extent, choose their own antagonist, language, plot, and sequence to personalise this mega-public event. He insists that the towers did not collapse (72), but that they will, “this time coming” (102); Bill Lawton, for Justin, “has a long beard [...] speaks thirteen languages but not English except to his wives [and] has the power to poison what we eat” (74). Despite being confronted with the factual inaccuracies of his narrative, Justin resists editing his version precisely because these inaccuracies form his own, non-mediated, authentic account. They are, in a sense, a work of fiction and, paradoxically, more ‘real’ because of that. “We want to pass beyond the limits of safe understandings”, thinks Lianne, “and what better way to do it than through make-believe” (63). I have so far shown how narrative elements create a suspicion in the way characters operate within their surrounding universe, in the reader’s attitude towards the text, and, more implicitly, in the power of language to accurately represent a personal reality. Within the context of the novel’s historical setting—the period following the 9/11 attacks—the narration of the terrorist figure, as represented in Bill Lawton, Hammad, Martin, and others, may function as a response to the “binarism” of Bush’s proposal (Butler 2), epitomised in his “either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists” (Silberstein 14) approach. Within the novel’s universe, its narration of terrorist-characters works to free discourse from superficial categorisations and to provide “a counterdiscourse to the prevailing nationalistic interpretations” (Versluys 23) of the events of 9/11 by de-automatising a response to “us” and “them.” In his essay published shortly after the attacks, DeLillo notes that “the sense of disarticulation we hear in the term ‘Us and Them’ has never been so striking, at either end” (“Ruins”), and while he draws distinctions, in the same essay, with technology on ‘our’ side and religious fanaticism on ‘their’ side, I believe that the novel is less settled on the subject. The Anglicisation of bin Laden’s name, for example, suggests that Bush’s either-or-ism is, at least partially, an arbitrary linguistic construct. At a time when some social commentators have highlighted the similarity in the definitions of “terror” and “counter terror” (Chomsky, “Commentary” 610), the Bill Lawton ‘error’ works to illustrate how easily language can destabilise our perception of what is familiar/strange, us/them, terror/counter-terror, victim/perpetrator. In the renaming of the notorious terrorist, “the familiar name is transposed on the mass murderer, but in return the attributes of the mass murderer are transposed on one very like us” (Conte 570), and this reciprocal relationship forms an imagined evil that is no longer so easily locatable within the prevailing political discourse. As the novel contextualises 9/11 within a greater historical narrative (Leps), in which characters like Martin represent “our” form of militant activism (Duvall), we are invited to perceive a possibility that the terrorist could be, like Martin, “one of ours […] godless, Western, white” (DeLillo, Falling 195).Further, the idea that the suspect exists, almost literally, within ‘us’, the victims, is reflected in the structure of the narrative itself. This suggests a more fluid relationship between terrorist and victim than is offered by common categorisations that, for some, “mislead and confuse the mind, which is trying to make sense of a disorderly reality” (Said 12). Hammad is visited in three short separate sections; “on Marienstrasse” (77-83), “in Nokomis” (171-178), and “the Hudson corridor” (237-239), at the end of each of the novel’s three parts. Hammad’s narrative is segmented within Keith’s and Lianne’s tale like an invisible yet pervasive reminder that the terrorist is inseparable from the lives of the victims, habituating the same terrains, and crafted by the same omniscient powers that compose the victims’ narrative. The penetration of the terrorist into ‘our’ narrative is also perceptible in the physical osmosis between terrorist and victim, as the body of the injured victim hosts fragments of the dead terrorist’s flesh. The portrayal of the body, in some post 9/11 novels, as “a vulnerable site of trauma” (Bird, 561), is evident in the following passage, where a physician explains to Keith the post-bombing condition termed “organic shrapnel”:The bomber is blown to bits, literally bits and pieces, and fragments of flesh and bone come flying outwards with such force and velocity that they get wedged, they get trapped in the body of anyone who’s in striking range...A student is sitting in a cafe. She survives the attack. Then, months later, they find these little, like, pellets of flesh, human flesh that got driven into the skin. (16)For Keith, the dead terrorist’s flesh, lodged under living human skin, confirms the malignancy of his emotional and physical injury, and suggests a “consciousness occupied by terror” (Apitzch 95), not unlike Justin’s consciousness, occupied from within by the “secret” (DeLillo, Falling 101) of Bill Lawton.The macabre bond between terrorist and victim is fully realised in the novel’s final pages, when Hammad’s death intersects, temporally, with the beginning of Keith’s story, and the two bodies almost literally collide as Hammad’s jet crashes into Keith’s office building. Unlike Hammad’s earlier and clearly framed narratives, his final interruption dissolves into Keith’s story with such cinematic seamlessness as to make the two narratives almost indistinguishable from one another. Hammad’s perspective concludes on board the jet, as “something fell off the counter in the galley. He fastened his seatbelt” (239), followed immediately by “a bottle fell off the counter in the galley, on the other side of the aisle, and he watched it roll this way and that” (239). The ambiguous use of the pronoun “he,” once again, and the twin bottles in the galleys create a moment of confusion and force a re-reading to establish that, in fact, there are two different bottles, in two galleys; one on board the plane and the other inside the World Trade Centre. Victim and terrorist, then, share a common fate as acting agents in a single governing narrative that implicates both lives.Finally, Žižek warns that “whenever we encounter such a purely evil on the Outside, [...] we should recognise the distilled version of our own self” (387). DeLillo assimilates this proposition into the fabric of Falling Man by crafting a language that renegotiates the division between ‘out’ and ‘in,’ creating a fictional antagonist in Bill Lawton that continues to lurk outside the symbolic window long after the demise of his historical double. Some have read this novel as offering a more relative perspective on terrorism (Duvall). However, like Leps, I find that DeLillo here tries to “provoke thoughtful stillness rather than secure truths” (185), and this stillness is conveyed in a language that meditates, with the reader, on its own role in constructing precarious concepts such as ‘us’ and ‘them.’ When proposing that terror, in Falling Man, can be found within ‘us,’ linguistically, historically, and even physically, I must also add that DeLillo’s ‘us’ is an imagined sphere that stands in opposition to a ‘them’ world in which “things [are] clearly defined” (DeLillo, Falling 83). Within this sphere, where “total silence” is seen as a form of spiritual progress (101), one is reminded to approach narrative and, by implication, life, with a sense of mindful attention; “to hear”, like Keith, “what is always there” (225), and to look, as Nina does, for “something deeper than things or shapes of things” (111).ReferencesApitzch, Julia. "The Art of Terror – the Terror of Art: Delillo's Still Life of 9/11, Giorgio Morandi, Gerhard Richter, and Performance Art." Terrorism, Media, and the Ethics of Fiction: Transatlantic Perspectives on Don DeLillo. Eds. Peter Schneck and Philipp Schweighauser. London: Continuum [EBL access record], 2010. 93–110.Bal, Mieke. Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narratology. Toronto: U of Toronto P, 1985.Bird, Benjamin. "History, Emotion, and the Body: Mourning in Post-9/11 Fiction." Literature Compass 4.3 (2007): 561–75.Booth, Wayne C. The Rhetoric of Fiction. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1961.Butler, Judith. 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