Journal articles on the topic 'Failed repatriation'

Krysko et al. (2016a) used analyses of DNA sequence data to reveal two genetic lineages of Drymarchon couperi. The Atlantic lineage contained specimens from southeastern Georgia and eastern peninsular Florida, and the Gulf Coast lineage contained specimens from western and southern peninsular Florida as well as western Florida, southern Alabama, and southern Mississippi. In a second paper Krysko et al. (2016b) analyzed morphological variation of the two lineages, which allowed them to restrict D. couperi to the Atlantic lineage and to describe the Gulf Coast lineage as a new species, Drymarchon kolpobasileus. This taxonomic discovery was remarkable for such a large, wide-ranging species and was notable for its impact on conservation. Because of population declines, particularly in western Florida, southern Alabama, and southern Mississippi, D. couperi (sensu lato) was listed as Threatened under the Endangered Species Act (United States Fish and Wildlife Service 1978, 2008) and repatriation of the species to areas where it had been extirpated was listed as a priority conservation goal (United States Fish and Wildlife Service 1982, 2008). Such repatriation efforts were attempted in Alabama, Florida, Georgia, and South Carolina, starting in 1977 (Speake et al. 1987), but failed to create viable populations, likely because too few snakes were released at too many sites (Guyer et al. 2019; Folt et al. 2019a). A second attempt at repatriation was started in 2010 and concentrated on release of snakes at a single site in Alabama (Stiles et al. 2013). However, Krysko et al. (2016a) criticized this repatriation effort because it appeared to involve release of D. couperi (sensu stricto) into the geographic region occupied by D. kolpobasileus (as diagnosed in Krysko et al. 2016b).

State-backed systematic persecution in 2017 forcibly displaced more than 700,000 Rohingya people from Rakhine State, Myanmar, to Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh. The Rohingya refugee camps in Cox’s Bazar have become a matter of worry for the Bangladesh government. The conditions in the camps are appalling, raising the possibility of an epidemic, and there has been a spike in crime, including rape, murder, abduction and drug and human trafficking. Seeking a better future, some Rohingya refugees have attempted to move from Bangladesh to Malaysia, Thailand and Indonesia through various illegal routes. But these attempts have either failed or the refugees faced an even worse situation, since these Southeast Asian states refused to confer refugee status on the Rohingyas. Therefore, to bring normalcy back to the lives of the Rohingya people, a repatriation process from Bangladesh to Rakhine State, Myanmar, must be created and implemented. This would require the Government of Myanmar to guarantee a conducive living environment for the Rohingyas in the Rakhine State, uphold their basic human rights and provide Myanmar citizenship to the Rohingyas. As regional powers with major economic and political interests in Myanmar, India and China could play a constructive role and bring pressure on the Myanmar government to agree to take back the Rohingyas from Bangladesh. But so far, both New Delhi and Beijing have been reluctant to get involved in resolving the Rohingya refugee issue.

It was revealed that at the beginning of the XXI century joint activities of some Kabardian public associations, founded at the beginning of the XXI century (Circassian Congress, etc.), and some other Circassian public associations of the Russian Federation and the Circassian diaspora was focused on solving the components of the Circassian question at the federal and international levels: the problem of recognizing and condemning the Circassian genocide committed by tsarism at the end of the 18th–19th centuries, the problem of repatriation and emergency evacuation of Circassians from Syria to Russia. The International Circassian Association carried out activities to solve at the federal level the problem of granting to foreign Circassians, in particular Syrian, obtaining Russian citizenship in a simplified manner in accordance with the legislation of the Russian Federation on foreign compatriots. But Circassian public associations and ICA failed to achieve a solution to these problems at the federal level. The joint activities of Kabardian and other Circassian public associations of the Russian Federation and the Circassian diaspora on the solution of the Circassian question at the beginning of the XXI century, as well as the divergence of their positions on the question of holding the XXII Olympic Winter Games in Sochi (boycott by one group and support by another), testify about the preservation in the historical memory of the Adyghe people and, especially, in the memory of foreign Circassians of the large-scale tragedy in the New history of the Caucasus – the mass eviction of the Circassians into the Ottoman Empire, carried out by the authorities of Tsarist Russia (1858–1865), about the urgency of the problem of repatriation foreign Circassians.

This article evaluates the US ‘Monuments Men’ operations in Korea, focusing on wartime and postwar efforts undertaken by the government of the USA to preserve and restore artwork seized by Japan. The Asian initiative, conceived a year after the European model was established, likewise drew upon cultural, intellectual, and academic resources. Yet fundamental differences in personnel, perceptions of Korean cultural backwardness, prevailing imperialist attitudes, and Cold War sensibilities rendered a very different kind of project. Ultimately the ‘Monuments Men’ succeeded primarily in preserving the cultural patrimony of Japan, but it failed to recover any plundered objects from Korea, or the rest of Asia for that matter. Focusing on the US deliberations regarding repatriation of Korean looted art, this article lays bare both the US preoccupation with maintaining the national interests of its newest ally, and exposes an understanding of East Asian cultural hierarchy that privileged Japan’s artistic achievement and modern society above all.

Abstract Over the last 100 years, fishes native to the Southwestern United States have faced a myriad of biotic and abiotic pressures which has resulted in most being federally listed as endangered or threatened. Most notably, water diversions and the introduction of non-native fishes have been the primary culprits in causing the downfall of native fish populations. We describe how recent studies of morphology, physiology, and behavior yield insights into the failed (occasionally successful) management of this vanishing biota. We describe how understanding locomotor morphologies, physiologies, and behaviors unique to Southwestern native fishes can be used to create habitats that favor native fishes. Additionally, through realizing differences in morphologies and behaviors between native and non-native fishes, we describe how understanding predator–prey interactions might render greater survivorship of native fishes when stocked into the wild from repatriation programs. Understanding fundamental form–function relationships is imperative for managers to make educated decisions on how to best recover species of concern in the Southwestern United States and worldwide.

Both because the United Nations (UN) spectacularly failed in Rwanda and because of the close links between the 1994 Rwandan genocide and the continuing conflict in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), the United Nations Organization Stabilization Mission in the Democratic Republic of Congo (MONUSCO) – formerly the United Nations Organization Mission in the Democratic Republic of Congo (MONUC) – constitutes an important test-case for UN peacekeeping. However, since MONUSCO is ongoing, it is too early to assess whether or not it has passed this test. This article, however, focuses on a particular issue that may ultimately cause the mission to fail, namely contradictions within its ever-expanding mandate. It argues that MONUSCO itself is helping to fuel these tensions through its flawed approach to one of the key components of its mandate, namely DDR (disarmament, demobilization and reintegration) and DDRRR (disarmament, demobilization, repatriation, resettlement and reintegration). It thus suggests how MONUSCO might revise its approach to these processes, particularly through a more ‘bottom-up’ focus that engages directly with local communities and with former combatants as individuals.

The article describes the so-called requisition campaign carried out in Vilnius city and region and Kaunas, Lithuania, the aim of which was to recover the cultural heritage which was supposed to stay abroad as a result of the change of borders after World War II for the Polish State and its citizens People connected with the Cultural Department established by the Polish Committee of National Liberation in 1944 at the Office of the Chief Plenipotentiary for Evacuation in the Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic. The Cultural Department carried out this activity under the Agreement between the Polish Committee of National Liberation and the Government of the Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic regarding the evacuation of Polish citizens from Soviet Lithuania and Lithuanian citizens from Poland concerning the mutual repatriation of peoples. The article aims to recall the private collections and most important cultural institutions in Vilnius from the period before 1939 which failed to be transported from Vilnius to Poland, despite the great efforts of many people. However, regardless of the result, the actions described and those who conducted them deserve to be recalled and mentioned in the subject-matter literature.

This article taps into a growing literature interested in the multifold relations between sending-states and their migrants who have settled in foreign countries. Specifically, it considers circular and transnational (symbolic and concrete) mobility that Mussolini’s Italy put in motion towards, and including, its communities of emigrants. The dictator sought to use migrants as lobbies and incorporate them in a totalitarian building-state project in Italy. With the objective of reinforcing ties with the communities themselves and obtaining their consent, the fascist regime established an outflow of propagandistic materials and a network of travellers who were entrusted to export a ‘visual presence’ of the homeland outside of Italy. At the same time, Rome encouraged ethnic Italians to undertake root-tourism in Italy to observe the supposed ‘achievements’ accomplished by the regime in the homeland. After the proclamation of the Italian empire in 1936, fascism elevated its tone and by the outbreak of the Second World War the regime sought the repatriation of Italians settled abroad. Yet this project failed because of the unwillingness of migrants to betray their host countries and favour the imperialist designs of the Italian dictator.

This article examines the history of the establishment and work of the Arab Development Society (ADS) in Palestine from 1945–55. While this study contextualizes the project within the broader history of global rural development projects in the post-Second-World-War era, it mainly frames the ADS’s activities within the regional context of Palestine, Jordan, and Israel and the 1948 Arab-Israeli war. The discussion traces the alteration of the ADS’s mission after 1948 from a rural development project into a project that utilized its village modernization ethos to deal with the pressing problem of Palestinian refugee housing in the Jordan Valley. Drawing on archival research, the article scrutinizes ADS’s encounters with states, international bodies, and the refugee population. It shows that though the ADS was able to challenge the rule of experts on the specific case of the possibility of resettlement in the Jordan Valley, it generally consolidated the patronizing logic of expertise and failed to engage with the political visions of the refugee population. In shedding light on the widely-forgotten ADS experimental scheme, the article contributes to enriching the understanding of the overlapping nature of rural development and to the questions of resettlement and repatriation in Palestine in the aftermath of 1948.

Abstract: “The strong Baltic nationalistic centre” and Soviet foreign propaganda: from war to peace and toward the Cold War
 This special issue focuses on censorship, but it is difficult to treat censorship without also considering propaganda. This article discusses both censorship and foreign propaganda as complementary tools in the Soviet Union’s arsenal for manipulating public opinion in foreign countries. The purpose of such action was to shape the behaviour of those states to further Soviet interests. The article focuses on the use of propaganda and censorship in Soviet efforts to settle the “Baltic question”– the question of the future of the Baltic countries – in the 1940s. This was the time when the wartime alliance was crumbling and giving way to a cold-war confrontation.
 The article is based on Russian archival sources. The Molotov collection (F. 82), materials of the department of propaganda and agitation of the Central Committee (CC) of the CPSU (F. 17, opis 125), and of the CC department of international information (F. 17, opis 128) are stored in the Russian State Archive of Socio-political History (RGASPI). The collection of the Soviet Information Bureau (F. R8581) is located at the State Archive of the Russian Federation (GARF). The article also draws on previous research on Soviet propaganda, such as Vladimir Pechatnov’s and Wolfram Eggeling’s studies on the work of the Soviet Information Bureau (SIB) and on discussions in the Soviet propaganda apparatus in the early postwar years. However, this article digs somewhat deeper and alongside general developments, also looks at a particular case – the Baltic problem in the Soviet contest with the West for winning hearts and minds. It analyses Soviet policies without attempting to uncover and reconstruct all the twists and turns of the decision-making processes in Moscow. The archival material is insufficient for the latter task. Nevertheless, a look into the making of Soviet propaganda, the techniques and practices utilised to bring Soviet influence to bear on an important foreign-policy issue (the Baltic problem), is interesting for scholars working not only on propaganda and censorship but also on the history of the Soviet Union and Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania.
 The Baltic question was related, among other things, to the problem of repatriating people from the territories of the Soviet Union who had been displaced during the Second World War and were located in Western Europe at the war’s end. Moscow claimed that all these displaced persons (DPs) were Soviet citizens. This article helps correct the view, expressed for example by the Finnish scholar Simo Mikkonen, that the Soviet propaganda campaign to attract the remaining 247,000 recalcitrants back home started after a UN decision of 1951 that condemned repatriation by force. This article clearly shows that propaganda policies aimed at the DPs were in place almost immediately after the war, resting on the war-time experience of conducting propaganda aimed at national minorities in foreign countries. However, Mikkonen is right to point out that, in general, repatriation after the Second World War was a success, as approximately five million people in total returned to the USSR. The Baltic refugees were a notable exception in this regard.
 Research shows that despite displays of obligatory optimism, Soviet propagandists could critically evaluate the situation and the effectiveness of Soviet agitation. They understood that war-time successes were the result of the coincidence of a number of favourable factors: victories of the Red Army, Allied censorship and propaganda, the penetration by Soviet agents of the British propaganda apparatus, etc. They knew that the British media was extensively controlled and served as a virtual extension of Soviet censorship and propaganda. Nevertheless, the Soviets were wrong to assume that in the West, the free press was nothing but an empty slogan. Moscow was also wrong to expect that the Western media, which had worked in the Soviet interest during the war, could as easily be turned against the Soviet Union as it had been directed to support the USSR by political will. In actual fact, the Soviet Union started receiving negative press primarily because earlier checks on journalistic freedom were lifted.
 The Soviet Union may have been a formidable propaganda state internally, but in foreign propaganda it was an apprentice. Soviet propagandists felt inferior compared to their Western counterparts, and rightly so. In October of 1945, an official of the SIB noted jealously that the Foreign Department of the British Information Ministry had two thousand clerks and there were four hundred British propagandists in the United States alone. Another Soviet official in the London embassy noted in February of 1947 that they had so few staff that he was working under constant nervous strain.
 Soviet propagandists were aware of the problems but could not effect fundamental changes because of the nature of the Stalinist regime. The issue of foreign journalists working in Moscow was a case in point. The correspondents were handicapped in their work by extremely strict censorship. They could report mostly only those things that also appeared in Soviet newspapers, which was hardly interesting for their readers in the West. There had been suggestions that some restrictions should be lifted so that they could do more useful work and tell more interesting and attractive stories about the Soviet Union. Eventually, during Stalin’s first postwar vacation in the autumn of 1945, Foreign Minister Vyacheslav Molotov took the initiative and tried to ease the life of the press corps, but this only served to provoke the ire of Stalin who proceeded to penalise Molotov in due course. This showed that the system could not be changed as long as the extremely suspicious vozhd remained at the helm. Not only did correspondents continue to send unexciting content to newspapers abroad (which often failed to publish them), the form and style of Soviet articles, photos and films were increasingly unattractive for foreign audiences. Such propaganda could appeal only to those who were already “believers”. It could hardly convert.
 Moscow considered the activities of Baltic refugees in the West and the publicity regarding the Baltic problem a serious threat to the stability of the Soviet position in the newly occupied Baltic countries. Already during the war, but even more vigorously after the war, the Soviet propaganda apparatus realised the importance of tuning and adapting its propaganda messages for audiences among the Baltic diaspora. The Soviet bureaucracy expanded its cadres to enable it to tackle the Baltic “threat”. Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian officials were dispatched to the central organs in Moscow and to Soviet embassies abroad to provide the necessary language skills and qualifications for dealing with Baltic propaganda and working with the diaspora.
 The policy was to repatriate as many Balts as possible, but it was soon clear that repatriation along with the complementary propaganda effort was a failure. The next step was to start discrediting leaders of the Baltic diaspora and to isolate them from the “refugee masses”. This effort also failed. The “anti-Soviet hotbed” of “intrigues and espionage” – the words of the Estonian party boss Nikolai Karotamm – continued to operate in Sweden, the United States and elsewhere until the end of the Cold War. All this time, the diaspora engaged in anti-Communist propaganda and collaborated with Western propaganda and media organisations, such as the Voice of America, Radio Free Europe and even Vatican Radio. In the 1980s and 1990s, the diaspora was instrumental in assisting Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania to regain their independence from the collapsing Soviet Union. They also helped their native countries to “return to Europe” – that is to join Western structures such as the European Union and NATO. Therefore, the inability to deal with the Baltic problem effectively in the 1940s caused major concerns for the Soviet Union throughout the Cold War and contributed to its eventual demise.

Abstract The Indonesian government has carried out a tax amnesty policy in 2016. The background for the tax amnesty policy is, among other things, the wealth of Indonesian citizens who have not or have not all been reported in the Annual Notice. Some of the objectives of the tax amnesty, among others, are in the short term to increase tax revenues, the long-term goals include strengthening domestic liquidity, increasing investment, accelerating tax reforms and increasing tax revenues. The problem is whether the tax amnesty carried out by the Indonesian government succeeded, what was the negative side of the implementation of the tax amnesty. Tax amnesty in Indonesia from ransom receipts specifically from the declaration can be said to be successful, but the repatriation failed and the number of participants participating in the tax amnesty program was not as expected. The negative side of the tax amnesty is the tax amnesty, giving rise to a sense of injustice especially for obedient taxpayers, the tax amnesty can lead to non-compliance of taxpayers because they hope that a future tax amnesty and tax amnesty are not in accordance with the principles of law enforcement. Keywords: Tax Amnesty, success and ransom Abstrak Pemerintah Indonesia telah melakukan kebijakan pengampunan pajak (Tax Amnesty ) pada tahun 2016. Latar belakang dilakukannya kebijakan tax amnesty tersebut, antara lain adalah karena banyaknya harta warga negara Indonesia yang belum atau belum semuanya dilaporkan dalam Surat Pemeritahuan Tahunan. Beberapa tujuan tax amnesty, antara lain adalah dalam jangka pendeknya meningkatkan penerimaan perpajakan, tujuan jangka panjangnya antara lain adalah memperkuat likuiditas domestik, peningkatan investasi, mempercepat reformasi perpajakan dan meningkatkan penerimaan pajak. Permasalahannya adalah apakah tax amnesty yang dilakukan pemerintah Indonesia berhasil, apa saja yang menjadi sisi negatif dari pelaksanaan tax amnesty tersebut. Tax amnesty di Indonesia dari penerimaan tebusan khususnya dari deklarasi dapat dikatakan berhasil, namun dari repatriasinya gagal dan dari jumlah peserta yang mengikuti program tax amnesty tidak seperti yang diharapkan. Sisi negatif dari tax amnesty adalah tax amnesty, menimbulkan rasa ketidak adilan khususnya bagi wajib pajak yang patuh, tax amnesty dapat menimbulkan ketidakpatuhan wajib pajak karena berharap ada tax amnesty di masa yang akan datang dan tax amnesty tidak sesuai dengan prinsip penegakan hukum. Kata kunci : Tax Amnesty, keberhasilan dan uang tebusan

The paper, devoted to the institutions of citizenship in Russia and citizenship in the USSR, presents issues related to the trends of international migration policy over a long historical period. Despite the inevitable fluctuations, with the beginning of the reforms of Peter I, the policy of citizenship in Russia becomes part of the state policy in the field of modernization and strengthening of Russia’s defense capability. In the long term, the policy of citizenship in Imperial Russia up to the February revolution can be defined as keeping the population out of Russian citizenship and attracting foreigners in certain periods. Episodic were the measures aimed at returning former subjects to Russia. This approach corresponded to the populationist concept of population, which is explained by the constant expansion of the territory of Russia. The liberal law of 1864, which defined the position of foreigners in Russia, contributed to the influx of foreign investment in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The consequences of the law of 1864 were reflected in the strengthening of land and national contradictions. The state’s policy on emigration of Jews from Russia, which became widespread at the beginning of the XX century, also contributed to the growth of tension. the policy on citizenship and international migration changed fundamentally after October 1917 as a result of the ban on renouncing the citizenship of the RSFSR and the return to the USSR of the main part of the "white emigration". At the same time, accelerated industrialization determined the need to attract people to the USSR in the late 1920s and 1930s. foreign specialists, and the international political situation — the influx of political emigrants to the USSR. On the agenda in the 1930s, judging by the legislation, the issues of deprivation of Soviet citizenship were relevant. After world war II, citizenship issues were similar to those that were the focus of attention after world war I and the civil war. It was about large-scale repatriation of Soviet prisoners of war and displaced persons who found themselves outside the USSR, population movements (options) as a result of the revision of state borders, and the return of prisoners of war who were on the territory of the USSR. The" warming " of international relations in the 1950s and 1970s objectively meant the expansion of the USSR’s international relations. A number of laws passed in the 1970s and 1980s actually extended the isolation of the USSR, although these laws failed to stop the growing emigration potential of Soviet Jews, as well as of a number of other nationalities. It is also characteristic that in these years the laws regulating the situation of foreigners and stateless persons in the USSR were adopted in conditions when the statistics of these categories of the population were not available for analysis. Against the backdrop of strong experience in the development and application of legislation governing relations between the state and the population in the area of acquisition and renunciation of citizenship in the form of an unbroken chain of laws, regulations, comments to the laws on citizenship and international migration in many countries around the world fear, the uniqueness of Russia is the existence of two approaches — pre-revolutionary and Soviet. This experience should not be underestimated when choosing a citizenship policy in the future.

Interference of esotericism and politics became apparent especially in the 19th century when the early socialists expected the coming of the Age of Spirit, and narratives about secret wisdom being kept in mysterious sacred places became all the more popular. Thus, the idea of the Age of Enlightenment underwent transformation: the world will be saved not by ordinary knowledge but by some special secret wisdom. In this context, Helena Blavatsky (1831–1891) developed the doctrine of Theosophy the ideas of which were overtaken by the next-generation theosophists including also the Russian painter Nicholas Roerich (1874–1947) and his spouse Helena Roerich (1879–1955) who developed a new form of Theosophy. The aim of this article is to analyse the interference between Theosophy and politics paying special attention to its historical roots, which, in the context of Roerich groups, are to be sought in the political activities of Nicholas Roerich, the founder of the movement. The following materials have been used in the analysis: first, writings of the founders of Agni Yoga or Teaching of Living Ethics; second, the latest studies in the history of Theosophy made in the available archives after the collapse of the soviet regime; third, materials obtained from the interviews of a field research (2006–2008). The author has made use of an interdisciplinary approach combining anthropological methods with the method of systematic analysis. The historical roots of the political activity of contemporary theosophists stretch into the political aspirations of Nicholas Roerich, the founder of Agni Yoga or Teaching of Living Ethics. Opening of the USSR secret archives and publication of several formerly inaccessible diaries and letters of theosophists offer an opportunity to study the “spiritual geopolitics” of the Roerichs. Setting off to his Central Asian expeditions (1925–1928; 1934–1935), Nicholas Roerich strived to implement the Great Plan, i.e. to found a New State that would stretch from Tibet to South Siberia comprising the territories governed by China, Mongolia, Tibet and the USSR. The new state was conceived as the kingdom of Shambhala on the earth, and in order to form this state, Nicholas Roerich aspired to acquire the support of various political systems. During the Tzarist Empire, the political world outlook of Nicholas Roerich was markedly monarchic. After the Bolshevik coup in Russia, the artist accepted the offer to work under the wing of the new power, but after his emigration to the West Roerich published extremely sharp articles against the Bolsheviks. In 1922, the Roerichs started to support Lenin considering him the messenger of Shambhala. Roerich’s efforts to acquire Bolshevik support culminated in 1926 when the Roerichs arrived in Moscow bringing a message by Mahatmas to the soviet government, a small case with earth for the Lenin Mausoleum from Burhan-Bulat and paintings in which Buddha Maitreya bore strong resemblance to Lenin. The plan of founding the Union of Eastern Republics, with Bolshevik support, failed, since about the year 1930 the soviet authorities changed their position concerning the politics of the Far East. Having ascertained that the Bolsheviks would not provide the anticipated support for the Great Plan, the Roerichs started to seek for contacts in the USA which provided funding for his second expedition (1934–1935). The Roerichs succeeded even in making correspondence (1934–1936) with President Roosevelt who paid much larger attention to Eastern states especially China than other presidents did. Their correspondence ceased when the Security Service of the USA grew suspicious about Roerich’s pro-Japanese disposition. Nicholas Roerich has sought for support to his political ambitions by all political regimes. In 1934, the Russian artist tried to ascertain whether German national socialists would support his efforts in Asia. It may seem that the plans of founding the Union of Oriental Republics have passed away along with Roerich; yet in 1991 his son Svyatoslav Roerich (1904–1993) pointed out once again that the Altai is a very important centre of the great future and Zvenigorod is still a great reality and a magnificent dream. Interference between esotericism and politics is observed also among Latvian theosophists: the soviet regime successfully made use of Roerich’s adherents propagating the communist ideology in the independent Republic of Latvia. In the 1920s and 1930s, the embassy of the USSR in Riga maintained close contacts with Roerich’s adherents in Latvia and made a strong pressure on the Latvian government not to ban the Roerich’s Museum Friend Society who actively propagated the success of soviet culture and economy. On 17 June 1940, the soviet army occupied the Republic of Latvia, and Haralds Lūkins, the son of the founder of the Roerich’s Museum Friend Society, was elected to the first government of the soviet Latvia. Nevertheless, involvement of theosophists in politics was unsuccessful, since after the official annexation of Latvia into the USSR, on 5 August 1940, all societies including the Roerich’s Museum Friend Society were closed. Since the members of the movement continued to meet regularly, in 1949, Haralds Lūkins was arrested as leader of an illegal organization. After the Second World War, theosophists were subjected to political repressions. Arrests of Roerich’s followers (1948–1951) badly impaired the movement. After rehabilitation in 1954, the repressed persons gradually returned from exile and kept on their illegal meetings in small groups. To regain their rights to act openly, Roerich’s followers started to praise Nicholas Roerich as a supporter of the soviet power. With the collapse of the soviet regime, Roerich’s followers in Latvia became legal in 1988 when the Latvian Roerich Society was restored which soon split up according to geopolitical orientation; therefore, presently in Latvia, there are the following organisations: Latvian Roerich Society, Latvian Department of the International Centre of the Roerichs, and Aivars Garda group or the Latvian National Front. A. Garda fused nationalistic ideas with Theosophy offering a special social reorganization – repatriation of the soviet-time immigrants and a social structure of Latvia that would be formed by at least 75% ethnic Latvians. Activity of A. Garda group, which is being criticized by other groups of theosophists, is a continuation of the interference between theosophical and political ideas practised by the Roerichs. Generally it is to be admitted that after the crush of the soviet regime, in theosophist groups, unclear political orientation between the rightists and leftists is observed, characterised by fairly radical ideas.

Abstract In the aftermath of the Liberian civil war and the signing of the final peace agreement among the warring factions, the international community and host countries of Liberian refugees in the West African sub-region disproportionately pursued the policy of refugee repatriation to Liberia at the expense of other options such as integration and resettlement as a solution for the refugee problem. Using the Liberian refugees in the Buduburam refugee camp in Ghana as a qualitative case study, this research argues that the policy of repatriation has largely failed. The research arrives at this conclusion via the use of focus-group interviews of a cross-section of remaining Liberian refugees in the Buduburam camp. The research discovered that while the refugees are discontent with their current circumstances in Ghana, they are hesitant to return home due to unfavourable homeland conditions. The combination of both unfavourable host and homeland conditions constitutes ‘intervening obstacles’ that mitigate against repatriation and thus put the Ghana-based Liberian refugees in a dilemma. The research recommends the option of integration as a viable option that should be legislated and institutionalized to attract the necessary buy-in from the remaining refugees.

Africa is being annihilated by wars, gross violations of human rights, economic ruin and ecological disasters. Events in Somalia, Liberia, Mozambique, Angola, Zaire, Uganda,the Sudan,Chad, Aigeria, South Africa, Malawi and Kenya demonstrate the enormity of this tragedy. Indeed, many African states are disintegrating in the wake of these problems, thus exacerbating the refugee crisis on the continent. What factors are responsible for uprooting millions of refugees and internally displaced persons from their communities? Why does the African refugee crisis persist? Why have the traditional permanent/ durable solutions of voluntary repatriation, local integration and resettlement in third countries failed to address the plights oftoo many refugees for too long?


 
 
 This article adopts Copenhagen School, and Paris School approaches belonging to the broader framework of securitization theory in explaining whether Bangladesh‘s policy on the 2017-18 Rohingya refugee influx from neighbouring Myanmar has been securitized. In doing so, it analyses how the political discourses and governmental actions in Bangladesh have transformed over time. The findings suggest that human security-focused discourse, which was sensitive to the refugees, prevailed in Bangladesh during the initial days of the refugee influx. However, the national security-focused discourse has started to dominate the country‘s refugee policy as Bangladesh‘s early repatriation-oriented refugee policy has failed to yield any development for more than two years. Moreover, the lack of sincere efforts from Myanmar to provide security assurance and necessary civil rights to the displaced Rohingyas has made them reluctant to go back. As a result, the refugee settlement in Bangladesh is likely to persist for the foreseeable future. In such a situation, newly imposed securitized actions taken by Bangladesh as restricting the refugees from movement, mobile communication, internet, and livelihood opportunity could be counterproductive. It recommends Bangladesh to develop a comprehensive policy on the refugee issue that will address the country‘s security concerns and facilitate sustainable repatriation of the Rohingyas to Myanmar.
 
 

The Rohingya refugee crisis is a controversial issue, which has imposed Burma-Bangladesh relations in late 1970s. The Rohingya crisis has created a crisis against Rohingya Muslims in Rakhine due to human rights violations of the military junta in Myanmar. Rendered stateless, Rohingya escaped from Bangladesh and other neighboring countries to take shelter. Discussion failed to solve the Rohingya refugee crisis year. This research note proposes the need for intense bilateral and multi-party negotiations, which is a possibility that can be easily available through the democratic process of Myanmar. The report is divided into four sections. The first three address human rights issues through a temporal framework – past, present, and future – designed to approach the issues in a holistic manner. They cover specific human rights concerns for Rohingya in both Myanmar and Bangladesh, beginning with atrocities committed in the context of the crackdown, moving onto protection concerns for refugees in Bangladesh and ongoing rights violations in Myanmar, and finally addressing potential future violations in the context of repatriation and medium- and long-term residency in Bangladesh. The final section discusses the role of ASEAN in working toward a resolution, which also formed a key component of APHR’s investigation. The report concludes with recommendations for the Myanmar government, the Bangladeshi government, and ASEAN and member state governments.

IntroductionDispensing claims are used commonly as proxy measures in pharmacoepidemiological studies, however, their validity is often untested.
 Objectives and ApproachWe quantified the level of ascertainment and potential biases arising when using dispensing claims to identify incident cancer cases in cohort studies. We used Department of Veterans’ Affairs client data linked with the New South Wales (NSW) Cancer Registry and Repatriation and Pharmaceutical Benefits Scheme data. We included clients aged ≥65 residing in NSW between July 2004 and December 2012. We matched clients with a cancer diagnosis to clients without a diagnosis based on demographic characteristics and available observation time. We used dispensing claims for anticancer medicines dispensed between July 2004 and December 2013 as a proxy for cancer diagnosis and calculated sensitivity, specificity, positive predictive values and negative predictive values compared with cancer registry data (gold standard), overall and by cancer site. We illustrated the potential for misclassification by the proxy in a cohort of people initiating opioid therapy.
 ResultsWe identified 15,679 incident cancer diagnoses in 14,112 clients from the cancer registry and 62,663 clients without a diagnosis. The proxy’s sensitivity was 30% for all cancers and ranged from 10-67% for specific cancers. Specificity was >90% for all cancers. The proxy correctly identified 26% of people with a cancer diagnosis who initiated opioid therapy, failed to identify 74% those with a cancer diagnosis, and was most robust for clients with breast cancer (61% were correctly identified).
 Conclusion / ImplicationsUse of anticancer medicine dispensings for identifying people with incident cancer diagnosis is a poor proxy. Excluding people with evidence of anticancer medicine dispensing from cohort studies may remove a disproportionate number of women with breast cancer. Researchers excluding or otherwise using anticancer medicine dispensing to identify people with cancer in pharmacoepidemiological studies should acknowledge the potential biases introduced to their findings.

IntroductionDispensing claims are used commonly as proxy measures in pharmacoepidemiological studies; however, their validity is often untested.
 ObjectivesTo assess the performance of a proxy for identifying cancer cases based on the dispensing of anticancer medicines and estimate the misclassification of cancer status and potential for bias researchers may encounter when using this proxy.
 MethodsWe conducted our validation study using Department of Veterans’ Affairs (DVA) client data linked with the New South Wales (NSW) Cancer Registry and Repatriation Pharmaceutical Benefits Scheme data. We included DVA clients aged ≥65 years residing in NSW between July 2004 and December 2012. We matched clients with a cancer diagnosis to clients without a diagnosis based on demographic characteristics and available observation time. We used dispensing claims for anticancer medicines dispensed between July 2004 and December 2013 as a proxy to identify clients with cancer and calculated sensitivity, specificity, positive predictive values and negative predictive values compared with cancer registrations (gold standard), overall and by cancer site. We illustrated misclassification by the proxy in a cohort of people initiating opioid therapy. Using the proxy, we excluded people with cancer from the cohort, in an attempt to delineate people potentially using opioids for cancer rather than chronic non-cancer pain.
 ResultsWe identified 15,679 new cancer diagnoses in 14,112 DVA clients from the cancer registry and 62,663 clients without a diagnosis. Sensitivity of the proxy based on dispensing claims was 30% for all cancers and around 20% for specific cancers (range: 10-67%). Specificity was above 90% for all cancers. The dispensing proxy correctly identified 26% of people with a cancer diagnosis who initiated opioid therapy and failed to identify 74% those with a cancer diagnosis; the proxy was most robust for clients with breast cancer where 61% were correctly identified by proxy.
 ConclusionsDispensings of anticancer medicines as a proxy for people with a cancer diagnosis performed poorly. Excluding patients with evidence of anticancer medicine use from cohort studies may result removal of a disproportionate number of women with breast cancer. Researchers excluding or otherwise using anticancer medicine dispensing to identify people with cancer in pharmacoepidemiological studies should acknowledge the potential biases introduced to their findings.

In the last months of his life, 86-year-old Albert Facey became a best-selling author and revered cultural figure following the publication of his autobiography, A Fortunate Life. Released on Anzac Day 1981, it was praised for its “plain, unembellished, utterly sincere and un-self-pitying account of the privations of childhood and youth” (Semmler) and “extremely powerful description of Gallipoli” (Dutton 16). Within weeks, critic Nancy Keesing declared it an “Enduring Classic.” Within six months, it was announced as the winner of two prestigious non-fiction awards, with judges acknowledging Facey’s “extraordinary memory” and “ability to describe scenes and characters with great precision” (“NBC” 4). A Fortunate Life also transformed the fortunes of its publisher. Founded in 1976 as an independent, not-for-profit publishing house, Fremantle Arts Centre Press (FACP) might have been expected, given the Australian average, to survive for just a few years. Former managing editor Ray Coffey attributes the Press’s ongoing viability, in no small measure, to Facey’s success (King 29). Along with Wendy Jenkins, Coffey edited Facey’s manuscript through to publication; only five months after its release, with demand outstripping the capabilities, FACP licensed Penguin to take over the book’s production and distribution. Adaptations soon followed. In 1984, Kerry Packer’s PBL launched a prospectus for a mini-series, which raised a record $6.3 million (PBL 7–8). Aired in 1986 with a high-rating documentary called The Facey Phenomenon, the series became the most watched television event of the year (Lucas). Syndication of chapters to national and regional newspapers, stage and radio productions, audio- and e-books, abridged editions for young readers, and inclusion on secondary school curricula extended the range and influence of Facey’s life writing. Recently, an option was taken out for a new television series (Fraser).A hundred reprints and two million readers on from initial publication, A Fortunate Life continues to rate among the most appreciated Australian books of all time. Commenting on a reader survey in 2012, writer and critic Marieke Hardy enthused, “I really loved it [. . .] I felt like I was seeing a part of my country and my country’s history through a very human voice . . .” (First Tuesday Book Club). Registering a transformed reading, Hardy’s reference to Australian “history” is unproblematically juxtaposed with amused delight in an autobiography that invents and embellishes: not believing “half” of what Facey wrote, she insists he was foremost a yarn spinner. While the work’s status as a witness account has become less authoritative over time, it seems appreciation of the author’s imagination and literary skill has increased (Williamson). A Fortunate Life has been read more commonly as an uncomplicated, first-hand account, such that editor Wendy Jenkins felt it necessary to refute as an “utter mirage” that memoir is “transferred to the page by an act of perfect dictation.” Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson argue of life narratives that some “autobiographical claims [. . .] can be verified or discounted by recourse to documentation outside the text. But autobiographical truth is a different matter” (16). With increased access to archives, especially digitised personnel records, historians have asserted that key elements of Facey’s autobiography are incorrect or “fabricated” (Roberts), including his enlistment in 1914 and participation in the Gallipoli Landing on 25 April 1915. We have researched various sources relevant to Facey’s early years and war service, including hard-copy medical and repatriation records released in 2012, and find A Fortunate Life in a range of ways deviates from “documentation outside of the text,” revealing intriguing, layered storytelling. We agree with Smith and Watson that “autobiographical acts” are “anything but simple or transparent” (63). As “symbolic interactions in the world,” they are “culturally and historically specific” and “engaged in an argument about identity” (63). Inevitably, they are also “fractured by the play of meaning” (63). Our approach, therefore, includes textual analysis of Facey’s drafts alongside the published narrative and his medical records. We do not privilege institutional records as impartial but rather interpret them in terms of their hierarchies and organisation of knowledge. This leads us to speculate on alternative readings of A Fortunate Life as an illness narrative that variously resists and subscribes to dominant cultural plots, tropes, and attitudes. Facey set about writing in earnest in the 1970s and generated (at least) three handwritten drafts, along with a typescript based on the third draft. FACP produced its own working copy from the typescript. Our comparison of the drafts offers insights into the production of Facey’s final text and the otherwise “hidden” roles of editors as transformers and enablers (Munro 1). The notion that a working man with basic literacy could produce a highly readable book in part explains Facey’s enduring appeal. His grandson and literary executor, John Rose, observed in early interviews that Facey was a “natural storyteller” who had related details of his life at every opportunity over a period of more than six decades (McLeod). Jenkins points out that Facey belonged to a vivid oral culture within which he “told and retold stories to himself and others,” so that they eventually “rubbed down into the lines and shapes that would so memorably underpin the extended memoir that became A Fortunate Life.” A mystique was thereby established that “time” was Albert Facey’s “first editor” (Jenkins). The publisher expressly aimed to retain Facey’s voice, content, and meaning, though editing included much correcting of grammar and punctuation, eradication of internal inconsistencies and anomalies, and structural reorganisation into six sections and 68 chapters. We find across Facey’s drafts a broadly similar chronology detailing childhood abandonment, life-threatening incidents, youthful resourcefulness, physical prowess, and participation in the Gallipoli Landing. However, there are also shifts and changed details, including varying descriptions of childhood abuse at a place called Cave Rock; the introduction of (incompatible accounts of) interstate boxing tours in drafts two and three which replace shearing activities in Draft One; divergent tales of Facey as a world-standard athlete, league footballer, expert marksman, and powerful swimmer; and changing stories of enlistment and war service (see Murphy and Nile, “Wounded”; “Naked”).Jenkins edited those sections concerned with childhood and youth, while Coffey attended to Facey’s war and post-war life. Drawing on C.E.W. Bean’s official war history, Coffey introduced specificity to the draft’s otherwise vague descriptions of battle and amended errors, such as Facey’s claim to have witnessed Lord Kitchener on the beach at Gallipoli. Importantly, Coffey suggested the now famous title, “A Fortunate Life,” and encouraged the author to alter the ending. When asked to suggest a title, Facey offered “Cave Rock” (Interview)—the site of his violent abuse and humiliation as a boy. Draft One concluded with Facey’s repatriation from the war and marriage in 1916 (106); Draft Two with a brief account of continuing post-war illness and ultimate defeat: “My war injuries caught up with me again” (107). The submitted typescript concludes: “I have often thought that going to War has caused my life to be wasted” (Typescript 206). This ending differs dramatically from the redemptive vision of the published narrative: “I have lived a very good life, it has been very rich and full. I have been very fortunate and I am thrilled by it when I look back” (412).In The Wounded Storyteller, Arthur Frank argues that literary markets exist for stories of “narrative wreckage” (196) that are redeemed by reconciliation, resistance, recovery, or rehabilitation, which is precisely the shape of Facey’s published life story and a source of its popularity. Musing on his post-war experiences in A Fortunate Life, Facey focuses on his ability to transform the material world around him: “I liked the challenge of building up a place from nothing and making a success where another fellow had failed” (409). If Facey’s challenge was building up something from nothing, something he could set to work on and improve, his life-writing might reasonably be regarded as a part of this broader project and desire for transformation, so that editorial interventions helped him realise this purpose. Facey’s narrative was produced within a specific zeitgeist, which historian Joy Damousi notes was signalled by publication in 1974 of Bill Gammage’s influential, multiply-reprinted study of front-line soldiers, The Broken Years, which drew on the letters and diaries of a thousand Great War veterans, and also the release in 1981 of Peter Weir’s film Gallipoli, for which Gammage was the historical advisor. The story of Australia’s war now conceptualised fallen soldiers as “innocent victims” (Damousi 101), while survivors were left to “compose” memories consistent with their sacrifice (Thomson 237–54). Viewing Facey’s drafts reminds us that life narratives are works of imagination, that the past is not fixed and memory is created in the present. Facey’s autobiographical efforts and those of his publisher to improve the work’s intelligibility and relevance together constitute an attempt to “objectify the self—to present it as a knowable object—through a narrative that re-structures [. . .] the self as history and conclusions” (Foster 10). Yet, such histories almost invariably leave “a crucial gap” or “censored chapter.” Dennis Foster argues that conceiving of narration as confession, rather than expression, “allows us to see the pathos of the simultaneous pursuit and evasion of meaning” (10); we believe a significant lacuna in Facey’s life writing is intimated by its various transformations.In a defining episode, A Fortunate Life proposes that Facey was taken from Gallipoli on 19 August 1915 due to wounding that day from a shell blast that caused sandbags to fall on him, crush his leg, and hurt him “badly inside,” and a bullet to the shoulder (348). The typescript, however, includes an additional but narratively irreconcilable date of 28 June for the same wounding. The later date, 19 August, was settled on for publication despite the author’s compelling claim for the earlier one: “I had been blown up by a shell and some 7 or 8 sandbags had fallen on top of me, the day was the 28th of June 1915, how I remembered this date, it was the day my brother Roy had been killed by a shell burst.” He adds: “I was very ill for about six weeks after the incident but never reported it to our Battalion doctor because I was afraid he would send me away” (Typescript 205). This account accords with Facey’s first draft and his medical records but is inconsistent with other parts of the typescript that depict an uninjured Facey taking a leading role in fierce fighting throughout July and August. It appears, furthermore, that Facey was not badly wounded at any time. His war service record indicates that he was removed from Gallipoli due to “heart troubles” (Repatriation), which he also claims in his first draft. Facey’s editors did not have ready access to military files in Canberra, while medical files were not released until 2012. There existed, therefore, virtually no opportunity to corroborate the author’s version of events, while the official war history and the records of the State Library of Western Australia, which were consulted, contain no reference to Facey or his war service (Interview). As a consequence, the editors were almost entirely dependent on narrative logic and clarifications by an author whose eyesight and memory had deteriorated to such an extent he was unable to read his amended text. A Fortunate Life depicts men with “nerve sickness” who were not permitted to “stay at the Front because they would be upsetting to the others, especially those who were inclined that way themselves” (350). By cross referencing the draft manuscripts against medical records, we can now perceive that Facey was regarded as one of those nerve cases. According to Facey’s published account, his wounds “baffled” doctors in Egypt and Fremantle (353). His medical records reveal that in September 1915, while hospitalised in Egypt, his “palpitations” were diagnosed as “Tachycardia” triggered by war-induced neuroses that began on 28 June. This suggests that Facey endured seven weeks in the field in this condition, with the implication being that his debility worsened, resulting in his hospitalisation. A diagnosis of “debility,” “nerves,” and “strain” placed Facey in a medical category of “Special Invalids” (Butler 541). Major A.W. Campbell noted in the Medical Journal of Australia in 1916 that the war was creating “many cases of little understood nervous and mental affections, not only where a definite wound has been received, but in many cases where nothing of the sort appears” (323). Enlisted doctors were either physicians or surgeons and sometimes both. None had any experience of trauma on the scale of the First World War. In 1915, Campbell was one of only two Australian doctors with any pre-war experience of “mental diseases” (Lindstrom 30). On staff at the Australian Base Hospital at Heliopolis throughout the Gallipoli campaign, he claimed that at times nerve cases “almost monopolised” the wards under his charge (319). Bearing out Facey’s description, Campbell also reported that affected men “received no sympathy” and, as “carriers of psychic contagion,” were treated as a “source of danger” to themselves and others (323). Credentialed by royal colleges in London and coming under British command, Australian medical teams followed the practice of classifying men presenting “nervous or mental symptoms” as “battle casualties” only if they had also been wounded by “enemy action” (Loughran 106). By contrast, functional disability, with no accompanying physical wounds, was treated as unmanly and a “hysterical” reaction to the pressures of war. Mental debility was something to be feared in the trenches and diagnosis almost invariably invoked charges of predisposition or malingering (Tyquin 148–49). This shifted responsibility (and blame) from the war to the individual. Even as late as the 1950s, medical notes referred to Facey’s condition as being “constitutional” (Repatriation).Facey’s narrative demonstrates awareness of how harshly sufferers were treated. We believe that he defended himself against this with stories of physical injury that his doctors never fully accepted and that he may have experienced conversion disorder, where irreconcilable experience finds somatic expression. His medical diagnosis in 1915 and later life writing establish a causal link with the explosion and his partial burial on 28 June, consistent with opinion at the time that linked concussive blasts with destabilisation of the nervous system (Eager 422). Facey was also badly shaken by exposure to the violence and abjection of war, including hand-to-hand combat and retrieving for burial shattered and often decomposed bodies, and, in particular, by the death of his brother Roy, whose body was blown to pieces on 28 June. (A second brother, Joseph, was killed by multiple bayonet wounds while Facey was convalescing in Egypt.) Such experiences cast a different light on Facey’s observation of men suffering nerves on board the hospital ship: “I have seen men doze off into a light sleep and suddenly jump up shouting, ‘Here they come! Quick! Thousands of them. We’re doomed!’” (350). Facey had escaped the danger of death by explosion or bayonet but at a cost, and the war haunted him for the rest of his days. On disembarkation at Fremantle on 20 November 1915, he was admitted to hospital where he remained on and off for several months. Forty-one other sick and wounded disembarked with him (HMAT). Around one third, experiencing nerve-related illness, had been sent home for rest; while none returned to the war, some of the physically wounded did (War Service Records). During this time, Facey continued to present with “frequent attacks of palpitation and giddiness,” was often “short winded,” and had “heart trouble” (Repatriation). He was discharged from the army in June 1916 but, his drafts suggest, his war never really ended. He began a new life as a wounded Anzac. His dependent and often fractious relationship with the Repatriation Department ended only with his death 66 years later. Historian Marina Larsson persuasively argues that repatriated sick and wounded servicemen from the First World War represented a displaced presence at home. Many led liminal lives of “disenfranchised grief” (80). Stephen Garton observes a distinctive Australian use of repatriation to describe “all policies involved in returning, discharging, pensioning, assisting and training returned men and women, and continuing to assist them throughout their lives” (74). Its primary definition invokes coming home but to repatriate also implies banishment from a place that is not home, so that Facey was in this sense expelled from Gallipoli and, by extension, excluded from the myth of Anzac. Unlike his two brothers, he would not join history as one of the glorious dead; his name would appear on no roll of honour. Return home is not equivalent to restoration of his prior state and identity, for baggage from the other place perpetually weighs. Furthermore, failure to regain health and independence strains hospitality and gratitude for the soldier’s service to King and country. This might be exacerbated where there is no evident or visible injury, creating suspicion of resistance, cowardice, or malingering. Over 26 assessments between 1916 and 1958, when Facey was granted a full war pension, the Repatriation Department observed him as a “neuropathic personality” exhibiting “paroxysmal tachycardia” and “neurocirculatory asthenia.” In 1954, doctors wrote, “We consider the condition is a real handicap and hindrance to his getting employment.” They noted that after “attacks,” Facey had a “busted depressed feeling,” but continued to find “no underlying myocardial disease” (Repatriation) and no validity in Facey’s claims that he had been seriously physically wounded in the war (though A Fortunate Life suggests a happier outcome, where an independent medical panel finally locates the cause of his ongoing illness—rupture of his spleen in the war—which results in an increased war pension). Facey’s condition was, at times, a source of frustration for the doctors and, we suspect, disappointment and shame to him, though this appeared to reduce on both sides when the Repatriation Department began easing proof of disability from the 1950s (Thomson 287), and the Department of Veteran’s Affairs was created in 1976. This had the effect of shifting public and media scrutiny back onto a system that had until then deprived some “innocent victims of the compensation that was their due” (Garton 249). Such changes anticipated the introduction of Post-Traumatic Shock Disorder (PTSD) to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) in 1980. Revisions to the DSM established a “genealogy of trauma” and “panic disorders” (100, 33), so that diagnoses such as “neuropathic personality” (Echterling, Field, and Stewart 192) and “soldier’s heart,” that is, disorders considered “neurotic,” were “retrospectively reinterpreted” as a form of PTSD. However, Alberti points out that, despite such developments, war-related trauma continues to be contested (80). We propose that Albert Facey spent his adult life troubled by a sense of regret and failure because of his removal from Gallipoli and that he attempted to compensate through storytelling, which included his being an original Anzac and seriously wounded in action. By writing, Facey could shore up his rectitude, work ethic, and sense of loyalty to other servicemen, which became necessary, we believe, because repatriation doctors (and probably others) had doubted him. In 1927 and again in 1933, an examining doctor concluded: “The existence of a disability depends entirely on his own unsupported statements” (Repatriation). We argue that Facey’s Gallipoli experiences transformed his life. By his own account, he enlisted for war as a physically robust and supremely athletic young man and returned nine months later to life-long anxiety and ill-health. Publication transformed him into a national sage, earning him, in his final months, the credibility, empathy, and affirmation he had long sought. Exploring different accounts of Facey, in the shape of his drafts and institutional records, gives rise to new interpretations. In this context, we believe it is time for a new edition of A Fortunate Life that recognises it as a complex testimonial narrative and theorises Facey’s deployment of national legends and motifs in relation to his “wounded storytelling” as well as to shifting cultural and medical conceptualisations and treatments of shame and trauma. ReferencesAlberti, Fay Bound. Matters of the Heart: History, Medicine, and Emotions. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2010. Butler, A.G. Official History of the Australian Medical Services 1814-1918: Vol I Gallipoli, Palestine and New Guinea. Canberra: Australian War Memorial, 1930.Campbell, A.W. “Remarks on Some Neuroses and Psychoses in War.” Medical Journal of Australia 15 April (1916): 319–23.Damousi, Joy. “Why Do We Get So Emotional about Anzac.” What’s Wrong with Anzac. Ed. Marilyn Lake and Henry Reynolds. Sydney: UNSWP, 2015. 94–109.Dutton, Geoffrey. “Fremantle Arts Centre Press Publicity.” Australian Book Review May (1981): 16.Eager, R. “War Neuroses Occurring in Cases with a Definitive History of Shell Shock.” British Medical Journal 13 Apr. 1918): 422–25.Echterling, L.G., Thomas A. Field, and Anne L. Stewart. “Evolution of PTSD in the DSM.” Future Directions in Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder: Prevention, Diagnosis, and Treatment. Ed. Marilyn P. Safir and Helene S. Wallach. New York: Springer, 2015. 189–212.Facey, A.B. A Fortunate Life. 1981. Ringwood: Penguin, 2005.———. Drafts 1–3. University of Western Australia, Special Collections.———. Transcript. University of Western Australia, Special Collections.First Tuesday Book Club. ABC Splash. 4 Dec. 2012. <http://splash.abc.net.au/home#!/media/1454096/http&>.Foster, Dennis. Confession and Complicity in Narrative. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1987.Frank, Arthur. The Wounded Storyteller. London: U of Chicago P, 1995.Fraser, Jane. “CEO Says.” Fremantle Press. 7 July 2015. <https://www.fremantlepress.com.au/c/news/3747-ceo-says-9>.Garton, Stephen. The Cost of War: Australians Return. Melbourne: Oxford UP, 1994.HMAT Aeneas. “Report of Passengers for the Port of Fremantle from Ports Beyond the Commonwealth.” 20 Nov. 1915. <http://recordsearch.naa.gov.au/SearchNRetrieve/Interface/ViewImage.aspx?B=9870708&S=1>.“Interview with Ray Coffey.” Personal interview. 6 May 2016. Follow-up correspondence. 12 May 2016.Jenkins, Wendy. “Tales from the Backlist: A Fortunate Life Turns 30.” Fremantle Press, 14 April 2011. <https://www.fremantlepress.com.au/c/bookclubs/574-tales-from-the-backlist-a-fortunate-life-turns-30>.Keesing, Nancy. ‘An Enduring Classic.’ Australian Book Review (May 1981). FACP Press Clippings. Fremantle. n. pag.King, Noel. “‘I Can’t Go On … I’ll Go On’: Interview with Ray Coffey, Fremantle Arts Centre Press, 22 Dec. 2004; 24 May 2006.” Westerly 51 (2006): 31–54.Larsson, Marina. “A Disenfranchised Grief: Post War Death and Memorialisation in Australia after the First World War.” Australian Historical Studies 40.1 (2009): 79–95.Lindstrom, Richard. “The Australian Experience of Psychological Casualties in War: 1915-1939.” PhD dissertation. Victoria University, Feb. 1997.Loughran, Tracey. “Shell Shock, Trauma, and the First World War: The Making of a Diagnosis and its Histories.” Journal of the History of Medical and Allied Sciences 67.1 (2012): 99–119.Lucas, Anne. “Curator’s Notes.” A Fortunate Life. Australian Screen. <http://aso.gov.au/titles/tv/a-fortunate-life/notes/>.McLeod, Steve. “My Fortunate Life with Grandad.” Western Magazine Dec. (1983): 8.Munro, Craig. Under Cover: Adventures in the Art of Editing. Brunswick: Scribe, 2015.Murphy, Ffion, and Richard Nile. “The Naked Anzac: Exposure and Concealment in A.B. Facey’s A Fortunate Life.” Southerly 75.3 (2015): 219–37.———. “Wounded Storyteller: Revisiting Albert Facey’s Fortunate Life.” Westerly 60.2 (2015): 87–100.“NBC Book Awards.” Australian Book Review Oct. (1981): 1–4.PBL. Prospectus: A Fortunate Life, the Extraordinary Life of an Ordinary Bloke. 1–8.Repatriation Records. Albert Facey. National Archives of Australia.Roberts, Chris. “Turkish Machine Guns at the Landing.” Wartime: Official Magazine of the Australian War Memorial 50 (2010). <https://www.awm.gov.au/wartime/50/roberts_machinegun/>.Semmler, Clement. “The Way We Were before the Good Life.” Courier Mail 10 Oct. 1981. FACP Press Clippings. Fremantle. n. pag.Smith, Sidonie, and Julia Watson. Reading Autobiography: A Guide for Interpreting Life Narratives. 2001. 2nd ed. U of Minnesota P, 2010.Thomson, Alistair. Anzac Memories: Living with the Legend. 1994. 2nd ed. Melbourne: Monash UP, 2013. Tyquin, Michael. Gallipoli, the Medical War: The Australian Army Services in the Dardanelles Campaign of 1915. Kensington: UNSWP, 1993.War Service Records. National Archives of Australia. <http://recordsearch.naa.gov.au/NameSearch/Interface/NameSearchForm.aspx>.Williamson, Geordie. “A Fortunate Life.” Copyright Agency. <http://readingaustralia.com.au/essays/a-fortunate-life/>.

Hundreds of thousands of Australian children were born in the shadow of the Great War, fathered by men who had enlisted between 1914 and 1918. Their lives could be and often were hard and unhappy, as Anzac historian Alistair Thomson observed of his father’s childhood in the 1920s and 1930s. David Thomson was son of a returned serviceman Hector Thomson who spent much of his adult life in and out of repatriation hospitals (257-259) and whose memory was subsequently expunged from Thomson family stories (299-267). These children of trauma fit within a pattern suggested by Marianne Hirsch in her influential essay “The Generation of Postmemory”. According to Hirsch, “postmemory describes the relationship of the second generation to powerful, often traumatic, experiences that preceded their births but that were nevertheless transmitted to them so deeply as to seem to constitute memories in their own right” (n.p.). This article attempts to situate George Johnston’s novel My Brother Jack (1964) within the context of postmemory narratives of violence that were complicated in Australia by the Anzac legend which occluded any too open discussion about the extent of war trauma present within community, including the children of war.“God knows what damage” the war “did to me psychologically” (48), ponders Johnston’s protagonist and alter-ego David Meredith in My Brother Jack. Published to acclaim fifty years after the outbreak of the First World War, My Brother Jack became a widely read text that seemingly spoke to the shared cultural memories of a generation which did not know battlefield violence directly but experienced its effects pervasively and vicariously in the aftermath through family life, storytelling, and the memorabilia of war. For these readers, the novel represented more than a work of fiction; it was a touchstone to and indicative of their own negotiations though often unspoken post-war trauma.Meredith, like his creator, is born in 1912. Strictly speaking, therefore, both are not part of the post-war generation. However, they are representative and therefore indicative of the post-war “hinge generation” which was expected to assume “guardianship” of the Anzac Legend, though often found the narrative logic challenging. They had been “too young for the war to have any direct effect”, and yet “every corner” of their family’s small suburban homes appear to be “impregnated with some gigantic and sombre experience that had taken place thousands of miles away” (17).According to Johnston’s biographer, Garry Kinnane, the “most teasing puzzle” of George Johnston’s “fictional version of his childhood in My Brother Jack is the monstrous impression he creates of his returned serviceman father, John George Johnston, known to everyone as ‘Pop.’ The first sixty pages are dominated by the tyrannical figure of Jack Meredith senior” (1).A large man purported to be six foot three inches (1.9 metres) in height and weighing fifteen stone (95 kilograms), the real-life Pop Johnston reputedly stood head and shoulders above the minimum requirement of five foot and six inches (1.68 metres) at the time of his enlistment for war in 1914 (Kinnane 4). In his fortieth year, Jack Johnston senior was also around twice the age of the average Australian soldier and among one in five who were married.According to Kinnane, Pop Johnston had “survived the ordeal of Gallipoli” in 1915 only to “endure three years of trench warfare in the Somme region”. While the biographer and the Johnston family may well have held this to be true, the claim is a distortion. There are a few intimations throughout My Brother Jack and its sequel Clean Straw for Nothing (1969) to suggest that George Johnston may have suspected that his father’s wartime service stories had been embellished, though the depicted wartime service of Pop Meredith remains firmly within the narrative arc of the Anzac legend. This has the effect of layering the postmemory violence experienced by David Meredith and, by implication, his creator, George Johnston. Both are expected to be keepers of a lie masquerading as inviolable truth which further brutalises them.John George (Pop) Johnston’s First World War military record reveals a different story to the accepted historical account and his fictionalisation in My Brother Jack. He enlisted two and a half months after the landing at Gallipoli on 12 July 1915 and left for overseas service on 23 November. Not quite the imposing six foot three figure of Kinnane’s biography, he was fractionally under five foot eleven (1.8 metres) and weighed thirteen stone (82.5 kilograms). Assigned to the Fifth Field Engineers on account of his experience as an electric tram fitter, he did not see frontline service at Gallipoli (NAA).Rather, according to the Company’s history, the Fifth Engineers were involved in a range of infrastructure and support work on the Western Front, including the digging and maintenance of trenches, laying duckboard, pontoons and tramlines, removing landmines, building huts, showers and latrines, repairing roads, laying drains; they built a cinema at Beaulencourt Piers for “Brigade Swimming Carnival” and baths at Malhove consisting of a large “galvanised iron building” with a “concrete floor” and “setting tanks capable of bathing 2,000 men per day” (AWM). It is likely that members of the company were also involved in burial details.Sapper Johnston was hospitalised twice during his service with influenza and saw out most of his war from October 1917 attached to the Army Cookery School (NAA). He returned to Australia on board the HMAT Kildonian Castle in May 1919 which, according to the Sydney Morning Herald, also carried the official war correspondent and creator of the Anzac legend C.E.W. Bean, national poet Banjo Paterson and “Warrant Officer C G Macartney, the famous Australian cricketer”. The Herald also listed the names of “Returned Officers” and “Decorated Men”, but not Pop Johnston who had occupied the lower decks with other returning men (“Soldiers Return”).Like many of the more than 270,000 returned soldiers, Pop Johnston apparently exhibited observable changes upon his repatriation to Australia: “he was partially deaf” which was attributed to the “constant barrage of explosions”, while “gas” was suspected to have “left him with a legacy of lung disorders”. Yet, if “anyone offered commiserations” on account of this war legacy, he was quick to “dismiss the subject with the comment that ‘there were plenty worse off’” (Kinnane 6). The assumption is that Pop’s silence is stoic; the product of unspeakable horror and perhaps a symptom of survivor guilt.An alternative interpretation, suggested by Alistair Thomson in Anzac Memories, is that the experiences of the vast majority of returned soldiers were expected to fit within the master narrative of the Anzac legend in order to be accepted and believed, and that there was no space available to speak truthfully about alternative war service. Under pressure of Anzac expectations a great many composed stories or remained selectively silent (14).Data gleaned from the official medical history suggest that as many as four out of every five returned servicemen experienced emotional or psychological disturbance related to their war service. However, the two branches of medicine represented by surgeons and physicians in the Repatriation Department—charged with attending to the welfare of returned servicemen—focused on the body rather than the mind and the emotions (Murphy and Nile).The repatriation records of returned Australian soldiers reveal that there were, indeed, plenty physically worse off than Pop Johnston on account of bodily disfigurement or because they had been somatically compromised. An estimated 30,000 returned servicemen died in the decade after the cessation of hostilities to 1928, bringing the actual number of war dead to around 100,000, while a 1927 official report tabled the medical conditions of a further 72,388 veterans: 28,305 were debilitated by gun and shrapnel wounds; 22,261 were rheumatic or had respiratory diseases; 4534 were afflicted with eye, ear, nose, or throat complaints; 9,186 had tuberculosis or heart disease; 3,204 were amputees while only; 2,970 were listed as suffering “war neurosis” (“Enlistment”).Long after the guns had fallen silent and the wounded survivors returned home, the physical effects of war continued to be apparent in homes and hospital wards around the country, while psychological and emotional trauma remained largely undiagnosed and consequently untreated. David Meredith’s attitude towards his able-bodied father is frequently dismissive and openly scathing: “dad, who had been gassed, but not seriously, near Vimy Ridge, went back to his old job at the tramway depot” (9). The narrator-son later considers:what I realise now, although I never did at the time, is that my father, too, was oppressed by intimidating factors of fear and change. By disillusion and ill-health too. As is so often the case with big, strong, athletic men, he was an extreme hypochondriac, and he had convinced himself that the severe bronchitis which plagued him could only be attributed to German gas he had swallowed at Vimy Ridge. He was too afraid to go to a doctor about it, so he lived with a constant fear that his lungs were decaying, and that he might die at any time, without warning. (42-3)During the writing of My Brother Jack, the author-son was in chronically poor health and had been recently diagnosed with the romantic malady and poet’s disease of tuberculosis (Lawler) which plagued him throughout his work on the novel. George Johnston believed (correctly as it turned out) that he was dying on account of the disease, though, he was also an alcoholic and smoker, and had been reluctant to consult a doctor. It is possible and indeed likely that he resentfully viewed his condition as being an extension of his father—vicariously expressed through the depiction of Pop Meredith who exhibits hysterical symptoms which his son finds insufferable. David Meredith remains embittered and unforgiving to the very end. Pop Meredith “lived to seventy-three having died, not of German gas, but of a heart attack” (46).Pop Meredith’s return from the war in 1919 terrifies his seven-year-old son “Davy”, who accompanies the family to the wharf to welcome home a hero. The young boy is unable to recall anything about the father he is about to meet ostensibly for the first time. Davy becomes overwhelmed by the crowds and frightened by the “interminable blaring of horns” of the troopships and the “ceaseless roar of shouting”. Dwarfed by the bodies of much larger men he becomestoo frightened to look up at the hours-long progression of dark, hard faces under wide, turned-up hats seen against bayonets and barrels that are more blue than black ... the really strong image that is preserved now is of the stiff fold and buckle of coarse khaki trousers moving to the rhythm of knees and thighs and the tight spiral curves of puttees and the thick boots hammering, hollowly off the pier planking and thunderous on the asphalt roadway.Depicted as being small for his age, Davy is overwrought “with a huge and numbing terror” (10).In the years that follow, the younger Meredith desires emotional stability but remains denied because of the war’s legacy which manifests in the form of a violent patriarch who is convinced that his son has been rendered effeminate on account of the manly absence during vital stages of development. With the return of the father to the household, Davy grows to fear and ultimately despise a man who remains as alien to him as the formerly absent soldier had been during the war:exactly when, or why, Dad introduced his system of monthly punishments I no longer remember. We always had summary punishment, of course, for offences immediately detected—a cuffing around the ears or a sash with a stick of a strap—but Dad’s new system was to punish for the offences which had escaped his attention. So on the last day of every month Jack and I would be summoned in turn to the bathroom and the door would be locked and each of us would be questioned about the sins which we had committed and which he had not found out about. This interrogation was the merest formality; whether we admitted to crimes or desperately swore our innocence it was just the same; we were punished for the offences which, he said, he knew we must have committed and had to lie about. We then had to take our shirts and singlets off and bend over the enamelled bath-tub while he thrashed us with the razor-strop. In the blind rages of these days he seemed not to care about the strength he possessed nor the injuries he inflicted; more often than not it was the metal end of the strop that was used against our backs. (48)Ironically, the ritualised brutality appears to be a desperate effort by the old man to compensate for his own emasculation in war and unresolved trauma now that the war is ended. This plays out in complicated fashion in the development of David Meredith in Clean Straw for Nothing, Johnston’s sequel to My Brother Jack.The imputation is that Pop Meredith practices violence in an attempt to reassert his failed masculinity and reinstate his status as the head of the household. Older son Jack’s beatings cease when, as a more physically able young man, he is able to threaten the aggressor with violent retaliation. This action does not spare the younger weaker Davy who remains dominated. “My beating continued, more ferociously than ever, … . They ceased only because one day my father went too far; he lambasted me so savagely that I fell unconscious into the bath-tub, and the welts across my back made by the steel end of the razor-strop had to be treated by a doctor” (53).Pop Meredith is persistently reminded that he has no corporeal signifiers of war trauma (only a cough); he is surrounded by physically disabled former soldiers who are presumed to be worse off than he on account of somatic wounding. He becomes “morose, intolerant, bitter and violently bad-tempered”, expressing particular “displeasure and resentment” toward his wife, a trained nurse, who has assumed carer responsibilities for homing the injured men: “he had altogether lost patience with her role of Florence Nightingale to the halt and the lame” (40). Their marriage is loveless: “one can only suppose that he must have been darkly and profoundly disturbed by the years-long procession through our house of Mother’s ‘waifs and strays’—those shattered former comrades-in-arms who would have been a constant and sinister reminder of the price of glory” (43); a price he had failed to adequately pay with his uncompromised body intact.Looking back, a more mature David Meredith attempts to establish order, perspective and understanding to the “mess of memory and impressions” of his war-affected childhood in an effort to wrest control back over his postmemory violation: “Jack and I must have spent a good part of our boyhood in the fixed belief that grown-up men who were complete were pretty rare beings—complete, that is, in that they had their sight or hearing or all of their limbs” (8). While the father is physically complete, his brooding presence sets the tone for the oppressively “dark experience” within the family home where all rooms are “inhabited by the jetsam that the Somme and the Marne and the salient at Ypres and the Gallipoli beaches had thrown up” (18). It is not until Davy explores the contents of the “big deep drawer at the bottom of the cedar wardrobe” in his parents’ bedroom that he begins to “sense a form in the shadow” of the “faraway experience” that had been the war. The drawer contains his father’s service revolver and ammunition, battlefield souvenirs and French postcards but, “most important of all, the full set of the Illustrated War News” (19), with photographs of battlefield carnage. These are the equivalent of Hirsch’s photographs of the Holocaust that establish in Meredith an ontology that links him more realistically to the brutalising past and source of his ongoing traumatistion (Hirsch). From these, Davy begins to discern something of his father’s torment but also good fortune at having survived, and he makes curatorial interventions not by becoming a custodian of abjection like second generation Holocaust survivors but by disposing of the printed material, leaving behind artefacts of heroism: gun, the bullets, the medals and ribbons. The implication is that he has now become complicit in the very narrative that had oppressed him since his father’s return from war.No one apparently notices or at least comments on the removal of the journals, the images of which become linked in the young boys mind to an incident outside a “dilapidated narrow-fronted photographer’s studio which had been deserted and padlocked for as long as I could remember”. A number of sun-damaged photographs are still displayed in the window. Faded to a “ghostly, deathly pallor”, and speckled with fly droppings, years earlier, they had captured young men in uniforms before embarkation for the war. An “agate-eyed” boy from Davy’s school joins in the gazing, saying nothing for a long time until the silence is broken: “all them blokes there is dead, you know” (20).After the unnamed boy departs with a nonchalant “hoo-roo”, young Davy runs “all the way home, trying not to cry”. He cannot adequately explain the reason for his sudden reaction: “I never after that looked in the window of the photographer’s studio or the second hand shop”. From that day on Davy makes a “long detour” to ensure he never passes the shops again (20-1). Having witnessed images of pre-war undamaged young men in the prime of their youth, he has come face-to-face with the consequences of war which he is unable to reconcile in terms of the survival and return of his much older father.The photographs of the young men establishes a causal connection to the physically wrecked remnants that have shaped Davy’s childhood. These are the living remains that might otherwise have been the “corpses sprawled in mud or drowned in flooded shell craters” depicted in the Illustrated News. The photograph of the young men establishes Davy’s connection to the things “propped up our hallway”, of “Bert ‘sobbing’ in the backyard and Gabby Dixon’s face at the dark end of the room”, and only reluctantly the “bronchial cough of my father going off in the dawn light to the tramways depot” (18).That is to say, Davy has begun to piece together sense from senselessness, his father’s complicity and survival—and, by association, his own implicated life and psychological wounding. He has approached the source of his father’s abjection and also his own though he continues to be unable to accept and forgive. Like his father—though at the remove—he has been damaged by the legacies of the war and is also its victim.Ravaged by tuberculosis and alcoholism, George Johnston died in 1970. According to the artist Sidney Nolan he had for years resembled the ghastly photographs of survivors of the Holocaust (Marr 278). George’s forty five year old alcoholic wife Charmian Clift predeceased him by twelve months, having committed suicide in 1969. Four years later, in 1973, George and Charmian’s twenty four year old daughter Shane also took her own life. Their son Martin drank himself to death and died of organ failure at the age of forty three in 1990. They are all “dead, you know”.ReferencesAWM. Fifth Field Company, Australian Engineers. Diaries, AWM4 Sub-class 14/24.“Enlistment Report”. Reveille, 29 Sep. 1928.Hirsch, Marianne. “The Generation of Postmemory.” Poetics Today 29.1 (Spring 2008): 103-128. <https://read.dukeupress.edu/poetics-today/article/29/1/103/20954/The-Generation-of-Postmemory>.Johnston, George. Clean Straw for Nothing. London: Collins, 1969.———. My Brother Jack. London: Collins, 1964.Kinnane, Garry. George Johnston: A Biography. Melbourne: Nelson, 1986.Lawler, Clark. Consumption and Literature: the Making of the Romantic Disease. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006.Marr, David, ed. Patrick White Letters. Sydney: Random House, 1994.Murphy, Ffion, and Richard Nile. “Gallipoli’s Troubled Hearts: Fear, Nerves and Repatriation.” Studies in Western Australian History 32 (2018): 25-38.NAA. John George Johnston War Service Records. <https://recordsearch.naa.gov.au/SearchNRetrieve/Interface/ViewImage.aspx?B=1830166>.“Soldiers Return by the Kildonan Castle.” Sydney Morning Herald, 10 May 1919: 18.Thomson, Alistair. Anzac Memories: Living with the Legend. Clayton: Monash UP, 2013.

Abstract How do labor migrants serve as instruments of leverage against countries of destination across the Global South? Although international studies scholars are paying increasing attention to the interplay between power politics and cross-border mobility, scant work exists on the intricacies of South–South migration. This article expands research on migration interdependence by examining the range of strategies available to countries of origin, and the factors that determine their success. The argument put forth is two-fold. First, weaker countries of origin can use two sets of strategies to coerce stronger countries of destination, namely “restriction,” the curbing of the outflow of labor migrants, or “repatriation,” the forced return of labor migrants. Second, target countries’ degree of compliance is determined by their migration interdependence vulnerability, with repatriation being more potent than restriction. We test this empirically by drawing on a variety of primary and secondary sources as we examine how the Philippines successfully coerced the United Arab Emirates and Kuwait between 2014 and 2021. Selected within a least likely research design, the two cases demonstrate how a weaker country of origin may use labor migration as a successful instrument of leverage against two stronger countries of destination. Overall, the article adds a missing component to existing theorization of migration interdependence, enhances existing understandings of cross-border mobility and power politics, and provides original insights into overlooked processes of South–South migration. ¿Cómo sirven los migrantes laborales como instrumentos de presión contra los países de destino en el sur global? A pesar de que los especialistas en estudios internacionales prestan cada vez más atención a la interacción entre las políticas de poder y la movilidad transfronteriza, apenas existen trabajos sobre los entresijos de la migración Sur-Sur. En este artículo se amplía la investigación sobre la interdependencia migratoria analizando las diversas estrategias de que disponen los países de origen y los factores que determinan su eficacia. El argumento planteado tiene un doble enfoque. Por una parte, los países de origen más vulnerables pueden utilizar dos tipos de estrategias para coaccionar a los países de destino más poderosos, en concreto, la “restricción,” es decir, el freno a la salida de inmigrantes en busca de trabajo; o la “repatriación,” es decir, el retorno forzoso de los inmigrantes en busca de trabajo. Por otra parte, el grado de cumplimiento de los países de destino depende de su vulnerabilidad de interdependencia migratoria, siendo la repatriación más eficaz que la restricción. Para comprobar esto, nos basamos en diversas fuentes primarias y secundarias y analizamos el modo en que Filipinas logró coaccionar a los Emiratos Árabes Unidos y a Kuwait entre 2014 y 2021. En los dos casos, seleccionados en el marco de un diseño de investigación poco probable, se demuestra cómo un país de origen más vulnerable puede utilizar la migración por motivos de trabajo como instrumento de influencia contra dos países de destino más poderosos. En general, en este artículo se incorpora un componente que faltaba a la teorización existente sobre la interdependencia de las migraciones, se mejora la comprensión actual de la movilidad transfronteriza y la política de poder, y se aportan ideas originales sobre los procesos de migración Sur-Sur que se han dejado de lado. Comment les migrants du travail servent-ils d'instruments de levier contre les pays de destination dans les pays du sud? Bien que les chercheurs en études internationales accordent une attention croissante à l'interaction entre politiques de pouvoir et mobilité transfrontalière, peu de travaux existent sur les intrications entre migrations sud-sud. Cet article étend la recherche sur l'interdépendance migratoire en examinant l’éventail des stratégies à disposition des pays d'origine et les facteurs qui déterminent la réussite de ces stratégies. L'argument avancé a un double enjeu. D'une part, les pays d'origine plus faibles peuvent employer deux ensembles de stratégies pour exercer une coercition sur les pays de destination plus forts, à savoir des stratégies de « restriction » consistant en une limitation de l'exode des migrants du travail, ou des stratégies de « rapatriement » consistant en un retour forcé des migrants du travail. Et d'autre part, le degré de conformité des pays cibles dépend de leur vulnérabilité à l'interdépendance migratoire, le rapatriement étant une stratégie plus puissante que la restriction. Nous mettons cet argument à l’épreuve de manière empirique en nous appuyant sur diverses sources primaires et secondaires en examinant la manière dont les Philippines ont réussi à exercer une coercition sur les Émirats arabes unis et le Koweït entre 2014 et 2021. Choisis dans le cadre d'un modèle de recherche du cas le moins probable, les deux cas montrent comment un pays d'origine plus faible peut utiliser la migration du travail comme un instrument de levier efficace contre deux pays de destination plus forts. Globalement, cet article ajoute une composante manquante à la théorisation existante de l'interdépendance migratoire, améliore les compréhensions existantes de la mobilité transfrontalière et des politiques de pouvoir et offre des renseignements originaux sur les processus négligés de migration sud-sud.