A Comparison of the Late Pleistocene and Early Holocene Burials of North Africa and Western Europe: Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead 9781407306841, 9781407336855

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l na tio ne di nli ad l o ith ria W ate m

BAR S2143 2010  ELDER  LATE PLEISTOCENE AND EARLY HOLOCENE BURIALS

A Comparison of the Late Pleistocene and Early Holocene Burials of North Africa and Western Europe Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead

Emma Elder

BAR International Series 2143 9 781407 306841

B A R

2010

A Comparison of the Late Pleistocene and Early Holocene Burials of North Africa and Western Europe Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead

Emma Elder

BAR International Series 2143 2010

ISBN 9781407306841 paperback ISBN 9781407336855 e-format DOI https://doi.org/10.30861/9781407306841 A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

BAR

PUBLISHING

Dedication For Sandy, Ron and Ben.

relationships over time. This temporal perspective is vital given the inherently dynamic, unstable and unequal nature of power relationships which are continually open to contestation and redefinition. The Saxe-Goldstein hypothesis is flawed, but through exploring the archaeological record of Western Europe and North Africa with an emphasis on two cases studies (Mesolithic Scandinavia and Ibéromaurusian and Capsian Maghreb), this book aims to demonstrate that these flaws can be addressed, leaving us with a remarkably powerful tool.

Preface and Acknowledgements When Meggitt published his ethnographic work on the Mae Enga of Highland New Guinea in 1965 it’s doubtful he knew quite what he was about to unleash. After all, his observation that lineages legitimise their claims over scarce land through appealing to their ancestors during funerary rituals at graveyards did not seem particularly vital or striking. And yet Saxe, an American archaeologist, was so inspired he pounced on that relationship, reformulated it as a link between cemeteries and resource control, and included it as the last of the eight hypotheses he tested in his doctoral thesis, a thesis which (alongside the work of Binford) laid the foundations of processual funerary archaeology. In turn, his theory inspired a second doctoral dissertation, this time by Goldstein who further refined it, leading it to become known as the Saxe-Goldstein hypothesis. Many others went on to apply it to the archaeological record with interesting results. But it was so intimately entwined with Saxe/Binford processual approach to funerary studies that in the 1980s it was rejected as part of the post-processual shift and despite the efforts of several scholars, it has since remained in the graveyard of disused theoretical tools.

What you will find here is my DPhil dissertation, with the only changes being the removal of some figures and the modification of others. I’ve been very fortunate in the support I’ve received during my doctoral research and there are several people I’d like to thank. In particular, I’d like to thank my supervisor, Professor Nick Barton, for his encouragement, guidance and close attention to all the various versions of my thesis. Drs David Lubell, Mary Jackes, Silvia Bello and Louise Humphrey provided information, suggestions and advice, for which I’m grateful. In addition, I’d like to thank Dr Rick Schulting for help with radiocarbon calibrations, advice, and also – along with Professor Chris Gosden – for detailed feedback levelled at earlier versions of two chapters that appear in this book. I’d like to thank Naomi Freud and Drs Renee Hirschon, Tim Clack and Amy Bogaard for their support; I couldn’t have asked for better college advisors. St Peter’s College has been a wonderful place in which to study, and I’m grateful to the college for awarding me the Graduate Teaching Bursary and offering opportunities to present aspects of my research at the Graduate Seminars. Elvira Stadler provided invaluable assistance with my French translations and Jennifer Williams regarding the statistics, for which I’d like to thank them both. (All mistakes and misunderstandings remain my own.)

Nevertheless, here you’ll find a third doctoral thesis based on that same observation Meggitt made 45 years ago. It seems strange to me that it was rejected so forcefully given the things it united – social memory, ritual, power, and the cultural symbols and values associated with space – were so central to the postprocessual position. As this book argues, I’m convinced the hypothesis linking cemeteries and resource control provides an important avenue for investigating territoriality among prehistoric hunter-gatherers. Territoriality is a concept that has been explored by many different disciplines, ranging from biology and geography to psychology and anthropology. Archaeologists, however – particularly prehistoric archaeologists – tend to shy away from it.

However, this book wouldn’t have been possible in any shape or form without my parents. Words can’t ever express just how wonderful and incredible and supportive they are. Thank you so very, very much.

This is a shame because there is a great deal of ethnographic research among contemporary huntergatherers demonstrating that they do utilise territorial strategies, and the concept has been critically and carefully examined, particularly within geography. The work of Sack, for example, provides a political theory of territoriality as a spatial strategy of control that is ideally suited for use by archaeologists because it removes the preoccupation with whether it is an innate, biological imperative, and conceptualises it instead as a form of power. Archaeology has a great deal to offer the territorial debate, not just through answering questions other disciplines have posed, but through positing our own questions and developing our own avenues of enquiry. If we follow Sack as seeing it as a form of social behaviour then we become uniquely placed to study it from a perspective to which no other discipline has access. No other subject has recognised the link between cemeteries and territoriality in the same way, and no other subject has the ability to study change in territorial 2

Contents Page

Abbreviations used in the Appendixes

Page 5

1. Introduction

6

2. Exploring Territoriality Through Human Remains 2.1 The Saxe-Goldstein Hypothesis The Science of Death The Four Horsemen of the (Processual) Apocalypse Resurrecting the Ghost 2.2 Territoriality A Brief History of Territoriality Defining Territoriality The Saxe-Goldstein Hypothesis and the Archaeological Record What is a ‘Cemetery’? 2.3 Personhood 2.4 Social Memory 2.5 Conclusion

8 8 8 9 10 10 11 14 15 16 18 20 21

3. The Methodology 3.1 Funerary Rituals The Catalogue of Human Remains 3.2 Cemeteries and High MNI Sites High MNI Sites Cemeteries 3.3 A Terminology Inhumation vs. Bone Scatter Inhumation Primary Inhumation Secondary Inhumation Cremation Single vs. Group Burials and the Problem of Synchronicity Bone Scatter Bone Scatter type A Bone Scatter type B Bone Scatter type C Bone Scatter type D Bone Scatter and Taphonomy 3.4 Demographic Information 3.5 Cemeteries and Territoriality 3.6 Conclusion

23 23 23 23 24 24 25 26 26 26 26 27 27 27 27 27 27 27 28 28 30 32

4. A Summary of the Database 4.1 Taphonomy and the Database

33 33

5. Cemeteries and Territoriality in Mesolithic Scandinavia 5.1 Are all sites with an MNI ≥ 8 ‘cemeteries’? High MNI sites which are not Cemeteries Sites with an MNI ≥ 8 which are Problematic 5.2 Cemeteries, Settlements and Controlled Resources Did the cemeteries act as territorial markers? What did the cemeteries aim to control? 5.3 Comparing Cemetery with Non-Cemetery Funerary Rituals The Maglemose The Kongemose The Ertebølle Group 1: Eretebølle Sites with an MNI < 8

35 35 36 36 37 38 40 42 42 44 45 46

3

Group 2: Sites with an MNI between eight and 20 Group 3: Skateholm II, Skateholm I and Vedbæk-Bøgebakken Dichotomising Decomposition: Ground and Air, Humans and Animals, and Land and Sea 5.4 Understanding Territoriality in the Scandinavian Mesolithic Change through time in Costs Change through Time in Territorial Behaviour Change through Time in the Settlement-Subsistence System Conclusion

47 48 50 52 55 58 58

6. Cemeteries and Territoriality in the Ibéromaurusian and Capsian Maghreb 6.1 Are all sites with an MNI ≥ 8 ‘cemeteries’? Ibéromaurusian Sites which are Not Cemeteries Ibéromaurusian Sites which are Cemeteries Upper Capsian Sites which are Cemeteries 6.2 The Ibéromaurusian Ibéromaurusian Skeletal Remains Low MNI Sites The Ibéromaurusian and Capsian Cemeteries 6.3 The Capsian Capsian Skeletal Remains Low MNI Locales Capsian Cemeteries 6.4 Cemeteries, Settlements and Controlled Resources: Did the Cemeteries Act as Territorial Markers? Summary 6.5 How the Cemeteries Functioned as Territorial Markers 6.6 Conclusion

60 60 60 60 64 64 65 65 66 68 70 70 71 72 80 81 86

7. Territoriality: Discussion and Conclusions 7.1 What is a ‘Cemetery’? 7.2 Are ‘Cemeteries’ the only Type of High MNI Locale? 7.3 What is the Relationship – if any – between ‘Cemeteries’ and Other Types of High MNI Sites? 7.4 How do Cemeteries Function as Territorial Markers? 7.5 What Kind of Settlement-Subsistence System do Cemeteries tend to be Associated Within? 7.6 What ‘Resources’ do Cemeteries Aim to Control? 7.7 Do Cemeteries Always Give Rise to Mediation of the Same Sorts of Territorial Relationships? 7.8 What Notions of Property were Associated with the Resources? 7.9 What Made Resources ‘Restricted’? 7.10 Some Conclusions: A Return to the Saxe-Goldstein Hypothesis

88 88 90 90 92 93 94 95 95 98 99

8. Appendix A: The Relationship between Cemeteries and Occupation Debris

102

9. Appendix B: Problematic Cemeteries in the Maghreb

109

10. Appendix C: Tables from Chapter 2

116

11. Appendix D: Tables and Figures from Chapter 3

124

12. Appendix E: Tables from Chapter 4

127

13. Appendix F: Tables and Figures from Chapter 5

149

14. Appendix G: Tables and Figures from Chapter 6

180

15. Appendix H: Tables and Figures from Chapter 7

213

16. Bibliography

240

Please note that the CD referred to within the text has now been replaced with a download available at www.barpublishing.com/additional-downloads.html 4

Abbreviations used in the Appendixes For a discussion of the terminology please see Chapter 3. Contexts in which human remains have been discovered: IS Inhumation Single ISP Inhumation Single Primary ISS Inhumation Single Secondary IG Inhumation Group IGSP Inhumation Group Synchronous Primary IGSS Inhumation Group Synchronous Secondary IGDP Inhumation Group Diachronous Primary IGDS Inhumation Group Diachronous Secondary BS A Bone Scatter type A BS B Bone Scatter type B BS C Bone Scatter type C BS D Bone Scatter type D

Demography: A Adult of Unknown Sex AF Adult Female AM Adult Male C Child (100km) over large distances (Rahmani 2004); however, whether they moved as part of the seasonal round or passed through exchange systems is uncertain.

However, Lubell and his collaborators argued instead for settlement seasonality (Lubell et al. 1975, Lubell et al 1976, Lubell et al 1982-3, Lubell et al 1984, Lubell and Sheppard 1997) if for no other reason than the great number of sites (in the hundreds, if not in the thousands) that would have had overlapping catchment territories. Furthermore, if Capsian escargotières were sedentary their density would imply population figures well in excess of those accepted for very prosperous modern hunter-gatherers (Lubell et al. 1975). Both Balout (1955:428) and Pond discussed the possibility of transhumance between the High Constantine Plains and the northern Sahara along the major northeast-tosouthwest valleys of the Saharan Atlas (Lubell et al. 1976:910). Balout (1955) demonstrated the presence of Capsian sites in the Négrine region and emphasised the lack of barriers to movement via the valleys. Furthermore, Grébénart (1978) remarked on the rarity of land snails from sites with Capsian lithic assemblages in the Négrine and Ouled Djellal regions. Lubell et al. (1975) therefore speculated as to whether Capsian groups

As in the Ibéromaurusian, there is evidence that Site 12, Medjez II, Aïn Keda and Mechta el Arbi were associated with base camps (table 6.54). At Medjez II (CampsFabrer 1975), hundreds of bone, flint and limestone tools and debris were found, along with personal ornaments (bone pendants, egg shell beads), engraved stones, a flagstone and ochre. The faunal remains were dominated by hartebeest and gazelle, but the remains of aurochs, Barbary sheep, wild boar, horse, various felines, birds, lizards, tortoise and land snail shells were also present (Bouchud 1975). According to Bouchud (1975), all parts of the skeletons were identified, but no long bone was intact: these, together with the crania, were intentionally fractured to access the marrow and brains. In addition, the numerical relationships between the skeletal parts are 75

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead 2003). Two lines of evidence suggest this within the Ibéromaurusian and Capsian: lithics and dental ablation. To begin with the former, Lubell et al. (1984) suggested, based on lithic and skeletal data, that the Ibéromaurusian culture gave rise to the Capsian. There was, they asserted, a sharp increase in interior (Ibéromaurusian) population densities towards the end of a Late Pleistocene phase of aridity (1984:149) due to immigration of coastal groups. Although raised sea levels at the end of the Pleistocene inundated only small portions of the coast (except in the Gulf of Gabés), there is an indication that changing sea levels affected Ibéromaurusian settlement-subsistence systems at sites such as Tamar Hat. As sea levels rose, interior regions became more attractive for animals and humans. Those groups who moved inland would have encountered a range of new adaptive situations, which is reflected in the increased use of edge tools within analysed assemblages. As coastal groups expanded into the interior, coastal homogeneity (maintained by transcoastal contacts) perhaps became more difficult to sustain in areas that presented physical barriers to communication. This, together with the development of distinctive regional lithic styles, and regional differences in the newly occupied areas (e.g. flint resources, ecological conditions) could have caused the emergence of new lithic traditions, including the Keremian, Columnatian and Capsian (Lubell et al. 1984). There is, therefore, a suggestion that, from the Late Pleistocene on, Maghrebian cultures underwent a change in the utilisation of space, giving rise to greater variability between groups. It is possible that something of this can be seen in the evidence for dental avulsion.

rarely preserved, with the femurs and humeris’ comparatively rare (Camps-Fabrer 1975, Bouchud 1975). Mechta el Arbi yielded abundant lithics (Debruge 19231924, Pond 1928) made on a poor quality black flint (perhaps) collected from the nearby stream. A rich bone industry was recovered which included long and short points, awls, needles, bone pins and spatulas. Pendants were made on water worn pebbles, marine bivalves and incised bovidae teeth (Pond 1928). Two Bos phalanges may have been used as whistles (Debruge 1923-1924), and a boar tooth could have been used as a pendant. Seven astragali were found, each of which had a hole in one side; these were also interpreted as whistles. Other finds included ostrich egg shell fragments, red and yellow ochre, hammer stones and chert nodules. The abundant faunal remains included the bones of large and small mammals (Pond 1928, Debruge 1923-1924; Appendix A). Snail shells formed a large part of the assemblage, some of which exhibit perforations from where the cooked snails were removed (Mercier 1907; Debruge 1923-1924, Pond 1928). Similarly, an abundant lithic industry was found in Layer B at Aïn Keda, made on black and white good quality flint (although a few tools on coarse flints are also known). Other finds include three ostrich egg shell fragments, a stone pendant, and bone tools including stone smoothers and needles. Fragments of ochre, lead sulphide and lead ore were also found. Faunal remains were not common, but ruminant, Barbary sheep and gazelle bones were recovered, along with land and fresh water shells (Bayle des Hermens 1955, Camps 1974, Haverkort and Lubell 1999). Little information is available for Site 12 (Pond et al. 1938, Haverkort and Lubell 1999) but it was one of the sites on which Pond drew in his definition of escargotières, and it almost certainly contained lithics, bone tools, faunal remains and a few items of personal adornment in addition to the abundant snail shells. No published information is available (to my knowledge) for Bekkaria (Balout 1954, Roch and Roch 1963).

Dental avulsion is a ritual practice observed in the Ibéromaurusian and Capsian involving the extraction of healthy teeth for reasons other than ‘medical care’. This results in a considerable, though variable, degree of absorption of the alveolar border; and while in the upper jaw a gap of considerable size usually remains, in the lower jaw it nearly always shrinks to smaller proportions, and sometimes closes entirely due to mass migration forwards of the remaining dentition (Briggs 1955). According to Briggs (1955) the operation never caused any serious infection as the shrunken area of alveolar absorption is cleanly and smoothly healed in all cases but one (an adult male at Afalou bou Rhummel). However, while infection was rare, the impact of dental avulsion on the emergence and wear of the remaining teeth, and the cranio-facial structure of the individual, is widely documented.

The nature of the material utilised at these sites as locally available, together with their character as assemblages accumulated through the activities of all members of the social group, may indicate the existence of base camps. The length of occupation is less certain. According to table 6.35, Mechta el Arbi and Medjez II were the largest escargotières of the region in which they were found, and were substantially larger than Aïn Misteheyia, which was analysed by Lubell (2004a, b) to argue for a pattern of seasonal mobility. A similar interpretation – based on the available information – seems at least reasonable for the base camps associated with the Capsian cemeteries. 3.

Ferembach et al. (1962) observed in individuals at Taforalt that removal of the upper central incisors allowed the lower incisors to rise beyond their normal occlusal level. As there is no occluding tooth, the lower incisors often show evidence for less wear than the rest of the individual’s dentition, and is associated with a distinctive shift of masticatory and non-masticatory functions to the posterior teeth (Bonfiglioli et al. 2004). Indeed, the alteration of the normal occlusal plane and uneven wear patterns this creates is so identifiable that it is sometimes regarded as evidence for ablation even in

There may be evidence for regionality within the Ibéromaurusian and Capsian.

Regionality refers to increased group identification, and differentiation between groups, and is often expressed – among other means – by material culture, and associated with reduced mobility over smaller areas (Bergsvik 76

6. Cemeteries and Territoriality in the Ibéromaurusian and Capsian Maghreb associated with adult males, it is not clear how significant this pattern is. Intriguingly, a higher percentage (67%) of individuals found as bone scatter type A and B exhibit avulsion (table 6.57). Unfortunately, only two could be sexed (although it is interesting that ablation was documented in the male but not the female) and, as with the inhumations, only adults exhibit evidence for this activity. If we combine tables 6.56 and 6.57 (table 6.58) it becomes clear that while the number of adults who could be sexed is comparatively small, 67% of females show no evidence for avulsion whereas 100% of males do. The practice is conservative and tends to focus on the upper central incisors (table 6.59) and while there is variation in the number of teeth removed (table 6.60), most tend to lack only two.

the absence of associated maxilla (Humphrey and Bocaege 2008:111). Intentional removal of the anterior teeth during adolescence also has a marked affect on the cranio-facial morphology and on the mandibular-maxillar configuration (Hadjouis 2002, 2003), usually involving a reduction in facial height. Based on an analysis of crania recovered from Afalou bou Rhummel, Hadjouis (2003) found the resultant asymmetries in the facial architecture rendered the practice very noticeable, even without the visual impact of several missing teeth. Most studies are concerned to identify differences in practices between males and females, the age at which ablation occured (Camps 1974, Briggs 1955, CampsFabrer 1975, Chamla 1978) and change through time (Humphrey and Bocaege 2008), but interpretations remain contradictory. If we begin with the Ibéromaurusian, Boule and Vallois studied crania from Afalou bou Rhummel and found the dentition of four children aged 3-6 years and three adolescents aged 12-16 years exhibit no evidence for avulsion, while two remaining adolescents did. They therefore concluded that tooth knocking was practiced around puberty (summarised in Briggs 1955). Conversely, Hadjouis (2003) argued that two children (5-6 years) found at the same locale do exhibit evidence for the removal of the higher left central milk incisor. He further states that good citratization of the free edge of the jawbone of AbR 19 demonstrates the ablation of a tooth at an even younger age and therefore concludes this was an activity conducted pre-puberty, between 5-12 years. This interpretation concurs with that of Camps-Fabrer (1960), and Briggs (1955). Permanent incisors erupt between six to nine years, therefore – if this interpretation is correct – further analysis is required on the relationship of avulsion to milk and permanent dentition.

The cemeteries yielded evidence for an individual character of dental ablation. At Afalou bou Rhummel, there is a significant difference between males and females (table 6.61) as while 100% of the former exhibit evidence for avulsion of at least one tooth, only 71% of the latter had a tooth removed during life (Camps 1974, Hadjouis 2003). At Columnata (table 6.62) the percentage of individuals who exhibit avulsion is lower: 50% of males and 42% of females (Cadenat 1957, Maitre 1967, Hachi 2006, Chamla et al. 1970). Table 6.63 presents the available data for Taforalt, based on Camps (1974). Unfortunately he only describes dental removal for 8 (out of 31 or 25% of) females and 10 (of 39 or 25% of) males, and if these figures are accurate it would imply a very low rate of avulsion. However, Ferembach et al. (1962) comment that all adults from Taforalt show evidence for the removal of one or both upper middle incisors so these figures might be misleading. At Afalou bou Rhummel (table 6.61) there is variation in which teeth were removed: although ablation of the two upper median incisors is most common for males and females (70%), five other patterns were also described. Similarly, the removal of the two median incisors was most common at Taforalt (table 6.62) but there is a far lesser degree of variation. By contrast, Columnata shows a wider pattern of tooth removal (table 6.63) but the most common (60%) involved the ablation of all eight incisors. A chi-square test found the pattern at this cemetery and Afalou to be significantly different (table 6.64). Interestingly, a chi-square test found no difference in the percentage of females subjected to dental ablation at Afalou bou Rhummel and Columnata, but there is a significant difference in the percentage of males who did, and did not, have teeth removed (table 6.65, 6.66 and 6.67) with males much more likely at the former than the latter to exhibit avulsion.

However, the Ibéromaurusian individuals included in my database span a period of at least 7000 years (Medig et al. 1996, Barton et al. 2008), therefore, do not represent a single cultural group. It is unclear to what extent the differences in opinion reflect diachronic and synchronic variation. The low MNI sites shed little light on the question. It was suggested (Balout 1954, Camps-Fabrer 1960) that an individual at Champlain had a tooth removed upon reaching 14 years, but it is unclear what evidence this interpretation is based on given the mandible was not aged (Balout 1954, Camps-Fabrer 1960); indeed, there are no known crania of individuals aged between 10 and 20 years for the non-cemetery sites (see database). Therefore, it is uncertain at what age dental ablation was practiced; and we cannot exclude the possibility that the age varied, both between groups and over time.

Many scholars have searched for unifying trends in Ibéromaurusian practices of dental avulsion (e.g. Camps 1974) but what emerges from our examination of the data is not homogeneity but heterogeneity: the cemetery populations show internal commonalities that contrast in some manner with one another and with low MNI sites. It is uncertain whether the same is true of the Capsian cemeteries, given their smaller size and uneven quality of

Many adults at low MNI Ibéromaurusian locales (table 6.55, 6.56, 6.57, 6.58) show evidence for ablation. This includes 47% of buried individuals (table 6.56); intriguingly, however, while all males (MNI = 5) show removal of at least one tooth, only one female (of two) yielded evidence for avulsion. Given the suggestions made above that inhumation at low MNI sites was 77

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead It is possible the heterogenous practices of dental avulsion at the Ibéromaurusian and Capsian cemeteries represent symbolisation of group identity. This interpretation rests on an assumption that within each culture the graveyards were contemporary (and that the differences do not reflect change over time). Although the Ibéromaurusian human remains span around 7000 years (Medig et al. 1996, Barton et al. 2008), the cemeteries belong to the end of the period. The Ibéromaurusian deposits at Columnata were assigned to c.8800 BC, and the Columnatian to 6200 BC (Close 1980:163, Lubell 2001), which is slightly later than the results from Afalou bou Rhummel (Lubell 2001) and Taforalt (Lubell et al. 1992) where the bulk of the burials were interred between 10,000 and 8000 BC. (Note, however, that few radiocarbon analyses were undertaken – Hachi 1996, Lubell et al. 1992, Close 1980, 1984 – and we do not know when use of the cemeteries began and ended.) As for the Capsian, there are radiocarbon dates for only two cemeteries: Medjez II (Lubell 2001, Close 1980:164, Camps-Fabrer 1975) and Site 12 (Close 1984:19). At the former, determinations from the levels which yielded the human remains range from 5950±180 to 5080±160 bc (6900-3200 cal BC), which are comparable to results at the latter, which range from 5830±250 to 5360±390 bc (c.6000 BC) on materials in upper and lower levels (Close 1984:12). With regards to Bekkaria, Mechta el Arbi and Aïn Keda, I was unable to find chronological information aside from stratigraphic associations with Upper Capsian industries (Balout 1954). Based on the available material, we can tentatively suggest that three Ibéromaurusian (Afalou bou Rhummel, Columnata, Taforalt) and two Capsian cemeteries (Site 12 and Medjez II) were broadly contemporary, thus rendering an interpretation of dental ablation as a signifier of group identity at least feasible. This may support an argument of regionalisation. No geographic patterning could be identified in the low MNI avulsion practices; but direct radiocarbon dates on bone would clarify the issue. It would also be interesting to know whether the lithics (Sheppard 1987, Close 1977) and personal ornaments (Camps-Fabrer 1960) show similar evidence.

publication, but it is a possibility the available information does not contradict. There are hints of a difference in practice seen at the Capsian high and low MNI sites, although its significance remains uncertain: no reference is made to avulsion in many burial reports, and it is unclear whether this is indicative of its absence, poor preservation or inattention to the question. If we consider the demography of individuals who do and do not show evidence for dental avulsion found in inhumations (table 6.68) and as bone scatter type A, B and C (table 6.69) at the low MNI locales, there is no difference. When the data are combined (table 6.70) it is equally clear that there is a significant difference between males and females: all females show evidence for the removal of at least one tooth, whereas none of the males exhibit ablation. This might suggest it was a gendered ritual associated only with women. However, the cemeteries complicate the picture. If we exclude Mechta el Arbi and consider only Bekkaria, Aïn Keda, Site 12 and Medjez II (table 6.71), three females show evidence for the removal of a tooth while another three do not; and while most males (MNI = 5) do not show evidence for dental ablation, at least one (at Site 12; Balout 1954) does. Evidence for avulsion at Mechta el Arbi is complicated (see tables 6.72 and 6.73) as there is confusion in the literature (partly a result of application of different numbering systems to skeletal remains) but just as not all of the females at this cemetery were subjected to dental avulsion, some of the males do show evidence for ablation. Unfortunately, the cemeteries are too small and the published literature insufficient to allow a statistical comparison of avulsion at the cemeteries (Camps-Fabrer 1975, Bayle des Hermens 1950, Roch and Roch 1963, Balout 1954). However, although the patterning of tooth removal at the low MNI sites (table 6.74) seems more variable than at the high MNI locales (table 6.75), there are tentative indications among the latter to suggest a similar degree of variability existed between the Capsian disposal grounds, as among the Ibéromaurusian. What could explain this?

4. Dental ablation is a practice documented ethnographically among the Eke, Aka and Twa pygmies of the Central African Republic and the Democratic Republic of Congo (A. R. Gould et al. 1984), the Luvale, Luchazi and Mbudna tribes in Zambia (Jones 1992) and the Mano and Gio tribes of Liberia (Scwab 1947). The reasons vary, but include puberty rituals (Goose 1963, Talbot 1967, Pindborg 1969) and to facilitate speech (Goose 1963), improve hunting prowess (Jones 1992) and enhance attractiveness (Schwab 1947, Bohannan 1956, Jones 1992); and as a means of symbolising tribal or cultural affiliation. For example, groups in Nambia modify their dentition to signal group affiliation (Van Reenen 1978), as do the Ngangela of Angola (Jones 1992) and the Nuer and Dinka of Sudan (Willis et al. 2008, Finucane et al. 2008).

The environmental features of the cemeteries.

Archaeologists have increasingly recognised that Mesolithic hunter-gatherers sometimes achieved a high level of cultural complexity, particularly those situated with respect to marine resources (Erlandson 2001, Yesner 1980, J. E. Arnold 1995, Sassaman 2004, Bailey and Milner 2002). In these contexts (Chapter 2), it is possible to argue for territorial control. But what about inland societies founded on terrestrial economies? Can these groups be associated with resources sufficiently abundant to warrant the ideological legitimisation of claims (cf. Dyson-Hudson and Smith 1978)? The material recovered from Aïn Keda, Columnata, Mechta el Arbi, Medjez II, Site 12, Taforalt and Afalou bou Rhummel was variable and is documented for all (except Bekkaria for which there is no published information) in Appendix A. All show an association between cemeteries and base camps (tables 6.54 and 6.76) and tended to be situated with 78

6. Cemeteries and Territoriality in the Ibéromaurusian and Capsian Maghreb in the valleys, oaks in the mid-altitudes and fir trees and cedars above 1200m altitude (Hachi et al. 2002), and is likely to have been forested during the period of occupation. The Oued Agrioun runs close to the site from the mountains into the sea and the cave would have overlooked a now inundated coastal plain (Lubell 2001); thus, the prehistoric environment encompassed a mixed landscape of mountains, forest and coastal plains. Coastal plains tend to support complex wetland ecosystems with high biodiversity (Nicholas 1998), and it is not impossible this cave provided access to such resources.

respect to the resources provided by wetland contexts (rivers, streams, coasts and chotts). There have, to my knowledge, been no reconstructions of the environmental context in which they were situated, but it is possible to speculate as to what they could have controlled given what we know of their archaeology and modern surroundings. Grotte des Pigeons, Taforalt, is located in Eastern Morocco at an altitude of 750m in the mountainous massif of Beni Snassen (a limestone ridge connected to the western chain of the Atlas mountains) and is near to the entry of the Zegzel valley (Roche 1953a, b). The upper section of the Zegzel-Cherraa hydro-system by which Taforalt is located – the ‘Haut Zegzel’ – is located upstream in a mountainous forest. The stream is fed by Liassic springs (Laghlalcha, Aïn Bourbah and Aïn Hallouma) and although the stream in its entirety is known as an ‘ephemeral river’, this upper section only occasionally runs dry. Temperatures are more stable than downstream and today’s bordering vegetation include laurel, willows, reeds, ferns, pomegranates, plum and fig trees and poplars (Melhaoui 2004). The upper reaches of the river support large populations of native fish (e.g. Barbus marocanus), and has a high biodiversity of mollusca and mammals. The flora also includes medicinal and herbal plants (e.g. Mentha, Rosmarinus), provides natural fibres and timbers, and is home to migratory birds (Melhaoui 2004).

The environmental context of Columnata is equally speculative. Located close to the Upper Capsian site of Aïn Keda (discussed below) in Sidi Hosni (Waldeck Rousseau), in the Tell Atlas mountains, Columnata is today located at the junction of three vegetation zones (the Mediterranean evergreen oak belt, the woodland steppe, and the shrub or tree pseudo-steppe and woodland) on the boundary of steppic North Africa and the Northern Sahara (Lubell 2001). To the north is found the Chelif, a river whose source is located in the Tell Atlas and which discharges into the Mediterranean via a fertile valley. A high plateau is found to the south with level terrain on which water collects during the wet season to form large, shallow lakes. On this plain are today located the Chott el Hodna and the Chott’ech Chergui (the second largest chott in North Africa) between which Columnata is located at equidistance. An extensive and enclosed depression containing permanent and seasonal saline, brackish and freshwater lakes and pools together with hot springs, chotts are home to diverse habitats, including steppic areas, aquatic lakes, salt marshes and brackish wetlands. It forms a remarkable feature of an arid region where water is often temporary (Masgidi and Islam 2005). The climatic and environmental conditions during the Ibéromaurusian and Caspian were different from today, but Masgidi and Islam (2005) make several pertinent points: Mediterranean wetlands are second only to the tropics in terrestrial biodiversity; they are abundant and diverse in the terrestrial and marine life they support; and were home to many of the agricultural, horticultural and medicinal plants that became important in later periods. While the configuration of the ecosystem(s) to which Columnata provided access was different, the Chott’ech Chergui is representative of Mediterranean wetlands in general (Masgidi and Islam 2005), and it is possible similar contexts were present and exploited by those who lived at Columnata.

Given the environmental changes that have occured since the Ibéromaurusian ended (discussed above), it is unclear how closely the contemporary ecology of Taforalt reflects the Late Pleistocene (Lubell 2001). However, riparian zones along river networks are among the most complex forms of ecosystem and support a bio-diversity and productivity far in excess of their spatial context (Nicholas 1998), and while the precise combination of available resources was probably different to that of today, there is no reason to think it was not as abundant. In addition, the cave provided access to both coastal plains and steppes of the Hauts Plateaux. The cave is next to Aïn Taforalt, a spring which reportedly never runs dry; and according to Roche (1972b) its large size, good light, proximity to food resources, easy defence and excellent views of the surrounding area would have made it especially favourable for habitation. Finally, the cave is positioned on the crossing of two natural routes of communication in an east-west and a north-south direction (Roche 1972b). All of these factors could have made the locale favourable enough to warrant territorial marking.

The area in which the Upper Capsian was present may, similarly, have been abundant in food resources during the Early Holocene. There are no major rivers but throughout the area are found marshes, seasonal pans and wadis which contain water throughout the year (Sheppard 1987). Precipitation was higher than today and Sheppard (1987:46) notes that in the summer of 1978 water ran through two wadis in, and adjacent to, the small Télidjene valley south of Tébessa. These are fed by springs, and in an area of 2,475km2 around Garet et Tarf there are over 250 springs, not including the lake (Garet et Tarf) itself.

Afalou bou Rhummel is situated on the eastern coast of Bejaia Bay, c.300km east of Algiers. It forms part of a vast karstic network that stretches along the Mediterranean, belonging to the Tellian area of caves and shelters of the Beni Segoual in the Babors massif (Merzoug and Sari 2008). Today the area receives 10002000mm of rain during 100-125 days of the year, with the maximum between November and February. The area is forested, with cork oak, elms, ashes and poplars present 79

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead There is one further aspect of the environment worth considering. The introduction of a pressure flaking technique at the Typical-Upper Capsian transition (Rahmani 2004) was associated with climate change and a shift in fauna from larger to smaller, aridity adapted species (Jackes and Lubell 2008). This is based on stratigraphic information from, for example, Relilaï (Vaufrey 1934-5), Kef Zoura D, Aïn Misteheyia (Jakes and Lubell 2008), El Mekta, Bortal Fakher (Rahmani 2004) and Aïn Dokkara (Tixier 1976) together with radiocarbon dates (Close 1980, 1984, 1988). The majority of human remains are associated with the Upper Capsian, including the cemeteries (Balout 1954). Although the act of burial is, first and foremost, a rite of passage, it is nevertheless interesting that Mechta el Arbi, Medjez II, Bekkaria, Aïn Keda and Site 12 were created and utilised after the shift to aridity and the alteration in the resource base. It is possible that, if we are justified in seeing the Capsian cemeteries as markers of control, there was a rearticulation of the relationship between communities and the resources they relied on in the face of environmental change. The cemeteries may represent control over increasingly scarce resources, or even a territorial expresson against the changing environment (cf. Larson 2003).

This area could have provided a habitat for the ungulates whose remains were found in deposits associated with the cemeteries. Ungulates live in small herds in a restricted range. In areas where grazing and water are adequate, hartebeest (a large portion of many faunal assemblages) can form herds of four to 15 and sometimes up to 30 animals (Sheppard 1987). He compared this archaeological data with that for the modern !Kung San (Africa) and ethno-historic Wintu (North America) and concluded that the Capsian, while representing a mid-way point in terms of resource availability, occupied a region with relatively spatially predictable, abundant populations of game. If we consider the specific locations of the Upper Capsian cemeteries this picture is reinforced. Aïn Keda rock shelter is situated in an east-west cliff that forms part of the Djebel Ghezoul. It is associated with a spring and its orientation is such that it receives morning sunlight and provides shelter from northerly and westerly winds (Bayle des Hermens 1955). As with Columnata, the site would have provided access to the Sersou Plateaux. Although part of the high steppes, it is today unusually well watered as it is traversed by several water courses (notably the Oued Mina and the Nahre Ouassel) and acts as a fertile antechamber to the vast semi-arid expanse of the Haut Plateaux, an undulating steppe that is today so dry it is sometimes considered part of the Sahara. However, it is crossed for most of the year by the Chelif as a chain of marshes and muddy pools and in the context of a higher rate of precipitation and cooler temperatures of the Early Holocene may have formed a more abundant region. It would also have been possible to cross the Ouarsensif Massif from the Sersou Plateaux to the Chelif Plaine via the Theniet al-Haad (Rushworth 2004:86).

Summary This section argued: 1. 2.

The escargotières of Medjez II, Mechta el Arbi and Site 12 are situated on the Constantine plain (Camps-Fabrer 1975, Balout 1954, Haverkort and Lubell 1991). Separated from the sea by a mountain range, the plain differs to the Haut Plateau in its higher level of precipitation and the presence of salt marshes. The majority of wadis flow in the direction of the salt marshes rather than to the Mediterranean Sea. There are also a series of playa basins that were almost certainly shallow lakes during the Early Holocene (Mussi et al. 1995). Slightly to the south, Lubell et al. (1975:46) commented that although the Télidjène Basin is semi-arid and characterised by steppe-grassland at the steppe-desert boundary, the water table has lowered considerably since the Roman period and the current ecology is a recent phenomenon. The more humid habitats – e.g. along the courses of perennial wadis and near springs – support poplars, willows, tamarisk, oleander, rushes and various thistles, and it is possible these plants, together with others such as oak, pine and juniper, are more characteristic of Early Holocene conditions. The mammalian remains from these escargotières include aurochs (Bos primigenius) which would be expected under the moister and cooler conditions likely to have prevailed at these higher altitudes (Mussi et al. 1995).

3. 4.

5.

6.

7.

80

The Ibéromaurusian and Capsian cultures may have utilised mobile settlement-subsistence strategies. Cemeteries of both periods were associated with occupation debris perhaps indicative of base camps. These base camps may have been occupied on a seasonal or multi-seasonal basis. The heterogeneous practices of dental avulsion within the two periods (Humphrey and Bocaege 2008) may point to its use as a means of symbolising group identity (Finucane et al. 2008); this, in turn, could indicate regionality. Literature discussed in Chapter 2 (e.g. DysonHudson and Smith 1978, Baker 2003, Sack 1986, Cashdan 1983) suggests that contemporary huntergatherers exhibiting a similar pattern of mobility to the Ibéromaurusian and Capsians were territorial (Sheppard 1987). Although the available faunal lists are difficult to compare, it is probable that Ibéromaurusian and Capsian subsistence strategies were somewhat different. The former had a coastal orientation (Brahimi 1978), but although some sites show evidence for the exploitation of marine foods, it is clear terrestrial resources were predominantly important (Camps 1974, Merzoug and Sari 2008, Roche 1963:152-4, Arambourg et al. 1934, Hachi 2006). The latter was a culture with an inland focus (Lubell et al. 1971, Lubell 2004a, b). Nevertheless, the Ibéromaurusian and Upper Capsian cemeteries are similar in their proximity

6. Cemeteries and Territoriality in the Ibéromaurusian and Capsian Maghreb

8.

For example, three pairs of scars were identified on the parietal bones of a c.20 year old female (‘bone scatter type A’) at Gambetta (table 6.77; Balout and Briggs 1949), each of which – based on the degree of healing – was made at a different time. The middle pair were produced around two weeks before death; the uppermost pair were caused first, around five years before death; and the lowermost pair were made at some point in between. The transverse and longitudinal sections suggest they were produced by sawing with a bevelled edge tool (Briggs 1955). Afalou bou Rhummel and Taforalt yielded crania with partially healed perforations interpreted as evidence for trephination (Dastugue 1962, 1975, Crubézy et al. 2001). The interpretation is equivocal, but these examples remain interesting given the parietal bone of a young child (‘bone scatter type A’) at El Bachir exhibits a perforation made by a flint tool a few weeks before death (Briggs 1955). There is a high incidence of cranial bones among the bone scatter type A (table 6.18), and at Ifri n’Ammar the head of a small child was detached from, and buried with the body (Ben-Ncer 2004a). Columnata shows a parallel as the head of an adult woman (H 08/a) was removed from, and buried with, the body (Cadenat 1957). If it is fair to see the head as a locus of bodily symbolisms, it is clear they were manipulated as a part of living and deceased identities.

to highly productive wetland habitats (Nicholas 1998) such as the coast, rivers, salt lakes and chotts, and well-watered plains, all of which are locales at which game would have been abundant and (perhaps) predictable. Several (Taforalt, Columnata and Aïn Keda) were located on natural communication routes, many are found in the vicinity of lithic raw materials, and all (from the cave opening and/or overlooking reaches) provided excellent views of the surrounding landscape (table 6.76). Upper Capsian cemeteries may be associated with a restriction of resources caused by an environmental shift.

Though many archaeologists, particularly Camps (1974), Grébénart (1978), Lubell et al. (1975), Balout (1955) and Morel (1974), for example, have achieved much in advancing our understanding of Ibéromaurusian and Capsian settlement-subsistence systems, further analysis is required to strengthen and nuance our interpretations. This could involve comparative zooarchaeological studies, techno-functional lithic analyses (cf. Merzoug and Sari 2008), and application of isotopic and radiocarbon techniques. It is therefore recognised my argument that the Ibéromaurusian and Capsian cultures provided a context in which territoriality was a feasible strategy of control is not as robust as one might wish; but, based on the available literature, it seems reasonable. Through returning to the high and low MNI sites outlined in the preceding discussions, the following section suggests the nature of territoriality in the Late Pleistocene and Early Holocene Maghreb was of a very different order to that found in Mesolithic Scandinavia.

This symbolic system bears a loose parallel to those regarding the land/sea, decomposition and its avoidance, and humans/dogs identified for the Kongemose and Ertebølle in Chapter 5. However, unlike their Scandinavian counterparts, the Ibéromaurusian cemeteries do not present identifiable evidence for the ritual manipulation of symbolic dichotomies in the way discussed by Bell (1992). It remains unclear whether this is an accurate reflection of past realities or a failure to recognise ritual manipulations. Given the (archaeological) intangibility of behaviours associated with funerals, the latter is possible. Furthermore, the Moroccan and Algerian material was investigated in the early decades of the twentieth century in a colonial setting, and studies were abandoned for many years as a result of political events. Although new research is being conducted (e.g. Mikdad et al. 2002, Barton et al. 2008, Hachi 2006, Ben-Ncer 2004b), and although some early publications are exemplary (e.g. Arambourg et al. 1934), the quality as a whole is uneven, and in some cases (e.g. Taforalt) important information was lost. Despite these problems the available literature is, I think, sufficiently detailed that were symbolic dichotomies present at the low MNI sites, and manipulated via material culture at the cemeteries, they would be identifiable. That they were not recognised may suggest communities at Afalou bou Rhummel, Columnata and Taforalt legitimised their territorial control via different means. It is argued here that Ibéromaurusian groups mobilised their funerary rituals in a more direct manner.

6.5. How the Cemeteries Functioned as Territorial Markers If we are justified in arguing that Ibéromaurusian communities claimed resources, then who were the controllers and the controlled, and how did cemeteries function as territorial markers? As can be seen in the evidence for dental avulsion (Humphrey and Bocaege 2008), the head/mouth/teeth held symbolic importance as an identity marker, and one may legitimately wonder where this practice was performed and what happened to the removed teeth: were they thrown away, worn as ornaments or buried in ritual deposits? It is possible they were used as adornment – we have evidence for this in the Capsian at Bortal Fakher (Camps-Fabrer 1960) and a Columnatian child (H 21) at Columnata may have been buried with three human molars (Cadenat 1957) – but no such objects have been found for the Ibéromaurusian (Balout 1954). Indeed, isolated teeth are rarely recovered as disarticulated items (see table 6.18), which is interesting given they are among the most durable elements of the skeleton. Whatever was done to the extracted dentition may have been undertaken away from both high and low MNI sites. Intriguingly, there are other indications of the symbolic importance of the head.

As discussed above, there are several contrasts between the low and high MNI sites. There is a statistically significant difference in demography (table 6.78): 50% of those at the latter are children, but only 21% at the former 81

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead links with a static and ‘known’ past, but more as a means of reconstructing perceptions of the past in response to contemporary concerns … (H. Williams 2003:90).

died at an age younger than 20 years. Furthermore, group burials dominate the cemeteries but are absent at the low MNI sites (table 6.79; e.g. Arambourg et al. 1934, Cadenat 1955, 1957, Roche 1953a, 1953b, Balout 1954, Barton et al. 2008, and see database). Most graves at low MNI sites tend to consist of shallow (natural) pits (Camps 1966, Barton et al. 2008, Ben-Ncer 2004b, Barbin 1910, 1912; but see Camps 1966, Mikdad et al. 2002); by contrast, stone constructions are common at Columnata (Cadenat 1955, 1957), there is evidence at Taforalt for the use of Barbary sheep horns (Roche 1953a, 1953b) and although at Afalou bou Rhummel there is no sign of intentional grave cuts, the fact that two graves were used repeatedly for the deposition of large numbers of bodies (Arambourg et al. 1934, Hachi 2006) points to the existence of markers to advertise their position.

If Ibéromaurusian cemeteries were utilised as a platform for the ideological legitimisation of territorial control through an explicit engagement with the past that did not involve manipulating symbolic dichotomies, it seems possible such claims were made on collective levels, perhaps by lineages and/or residential groups (or on a wider ethnic/clan basis) against other lineages and/or residential groups. This is an argument based on several convergent lines of reasoning. 1.

The cemetery activities represent an explicit engagement with the past through emphasising children and group burial. It may be that these elements focused the participants’ attention on the social associations between individuals; in particular, the children could have emphasised generational linkages, providing a symbolicstructural connection with the past. In this sense, it is difficult to identify the subtlety of manipulations involving ritual dichotomies as argued for Mesolithic Scandinavia, but as Bell (1992, and see Appadurai 1981, Fentress and Wickham 1992) noted, even on a general level the past is both a context for action and a medium for manipulation. Connerton (1989) argued that some forms of social memory are created and maintained by bodily interactions and performances. The interaction between bodies in death, together with the interaction between participants at the funerals, may have provided an explicit engagement with the past as a legitimising force for maintaining control. It is worth quoting H. Williams, who in the context of an examination of AngloSaxon mortuary rites, considered the relationship between social memory (cf. Connerton 1989) and funerary practices:

‘Ritual masters’, as outlined by Bell (1992), and the Ibéromaurusian.

Ritual mastery is the ability – not equally shared, desired or recognised – to take and remake cultural schemes, deploy them in the formulation of a privileged ritual experience, and impress them upon agents able to recreate them in circumstances beyond the circumference of the rite (Bell 1992:116). Bell (1992:130-135) argued the authority of ritual masters was based on the intrinsic importance of ritual as a means of mediating relations between human and non-human powers. When strategies of ritualisation are dominated by a special group recognised as experts, the reality they objectify acts to maintain the authority of the experts themselves. However, correctness of a ritual performance is critical to its effectiveness, and others have the right to pass judgement. Consequently, Bell (1992:134) argued that, “the power to do the ritual correctly resides in the specialist’s officially recognised or appointed status (office), not in the personhood or personality of the specialist.” Thus, while ritual mastery is an unevenly shared ability, a ‘ritual master’ is also a culturally recognised position within the society in question. This does not necessitate the existence of status inequalities but it does imply a level of differentiation of personhood and the recognition of (semi-formalised) identities achieved through ability. Such individuals are ethnographically documented in hunter-gatherer communities (Seligman and Seligman 1911). As the evidence stands, it is debateable as to whether there were (semi-formalised) culturally defined roles in the Ibéromaurusian. On the one hand, there are indications of the deliberate selection of adults for burial at the low MNI sites and a greater focus on children at the cemeteries; and Mariotti et al. (2004) interpreted differences in male and female activities based on skeletal muscle markers at Taforalt. However, these seem based on age and gender, and there is no evidence in the burials for an elaboration of particular (achieved) socially recognised identities. Given the complex relationship between life and death, we cannot take the dead as a direct mirror for the living (Parker-Pearson 1999); but Lubell (2001:131) notes that among the occupation debris, “there is little or no evidence for internal

For many societies, rituals surrounding death, disposal and commemoration can have a particularly poignant role in the way the past is remembered through both inscribing and embodying practices. There might be numerous reasons for this. Funerals connect the past and present because they focus on constructing and mediating relations between the living and the dead. They are also times when emotional and ritualised behaviour is heightened and hence society’s attitudes to the past, myths of origin and cosmologies are more likely to take overt and discursive form. Yet, first and foremost, mortuary practices are rites of passage aimed at transforming the social, cosmological and ontological status of both the dead and the living. In this sense, they need to be considered less as rituals aimed at maintaining the social order and 82

6. Cemeteries and Territoriality in the Ibéromaurusian and Capsian Maghreb boundaries (Cashdan 1983). Again, this is not a context the ethnographic literature suggests would give rise to individual claims (Chapter 2).

community organisation other than the presence of hearths [and] concentrations of debris …” and though there is evidence for adornment (Camps-Fabrer 1960), nothing in its context of discovery suggests anything other than an egalitarian form of display. At present there is no contextual evidence supportive of an argument of ‘ritual masters’ as described by Bell (1992) within the Ibéromaurusian. This does not, however, undermine claims of territoriality: it is a highly variable form of behaviour (Chapter 2) ethnographically documented in hunter-gatherer communities of variable complexity and economic activities (Turner and Jones 2000, Barnard 1992, Cashdan 1983, Turnbull 1968, Grøn et al. 2008, N. M. Williams 1982, Johnson 1988, C. S. Fowler 1982, Dyson-Hudson and Smith 1978). 2.

4.

In Chapter 5 I suggested that a high incidence of trauma to the crania, evidence for weapons embedded in bone and a focus on adult males might indicate warfare. As can be seen in tables 6.77 and 6.81 there is little evidence that would support a comparable interpretation in the Ibéromaurusian Maghreb. There are some signs of close contact violence and violence committed at a distance: at Columnata an adult male (H10/a) was killed by two flint weapons (Chamla et al. 1970) and a second adult male (H33/a) was shot with an arrow (Camps 1974). There are also signs of cranial trauma (Briggs 1955, Ben-Ncer 2004a, Dastugue 1962, 1975), but when considered as a whole there are few persuasive indications of widespread inter-group aggression. Trauma to the head is found in a low proportion of the population (3% or 9/335), and a greater number of individuals (5%, 17/335) exhibit injuries to the body and limbs; weapons are documented but rare (0.6% or 3/335); and the female: male ratio is more balanced (2:3) than seen in Scandinavia. This pattern strongly resembles that identified by Jackes in Mesolithic human remains found at the middens along the Muge River in Portugal. In this region trauma to the crania (2%, 6/282) and evidence for weapons embedded in bone (0.4%, 1/282) is rare and injuries tend to be located on the body and limbs (7%, 19/282). She interpreted these injuries as deriving from childhood accidents, injuries involved in hunting, aggression in a domestic setting and perhaps some activity that placed stress on the elbows and forearms of young males. Unfortunately the material from Ibéromaurusian sites in Morocco and Algeria has not been studied as recently (Arambourg et al. 1934, Camps 1974, Chamla et al. 1970, Dastague 1962, Dastague 1975) but given the similarities in the parts of the body affected by trauma, the percentage of the population afflicted, and the female: male ratio, it is possible a similar situation to that in Portugal may apply. There is, therefore, no skeletal evidence for warfare. Violence tends to be associated with practices of exclusive land use involving defended boundaries (Baker 2003), and although its absence in the Ibéromaurusian may indicate the existence of other ways of expressing and resolving inter-group antagonisms (Turnbull 1968, Radcliffe Brown 1952, Keesing and Strathern 1998), the pathological data nevertheless finds congruence in an interpretation of territorial claims made on a collective level in a context of non-exclusive use.

The nature of the funerary rituals and (possible) collective forms of control.

The funerary rituals at Taforalt (Roche 1953a, b), Columnata (Cadenat 1955, 1957) and Afalou bou Rhummel (Arambourg et al. 1934, Hachi 2006) are dominated by group burials. If an aim of those who oversaw the rituals (the ‘controllers’) was to establish a link with the past and emphasise social relations between the dead and the living (through the physical placement of multiple bodies in the same grave), it seems difficult to understand how individual, rather than collective claims could be made visible to the participants in this context. It remains uncertain as to whether there were explicit, visual linkages of these cemeteries with resources under control. A link was argued for Skateholm in Chapter 5 through a discussion of fish bones discovered in the graves (Jonsson 1988). It is possible the Barbary sheep horns at Taforalt (Roche 1953a, b), for example, provided a link with a hunted resource, but it is difficult to evaluate the importance of this animal at the site as Roche (1963) only published presence/absence lists with regards to the faunal remains. It seems reasonable that reference to contended materials could be made during archaeologically invisible aspects of the rites – perhaps feasting activities involving the resources took place away from the burials – but the funerary emphasis on group interment points in general to collective claims. As an aside, claims made on an individual level (e.g. Turner and Jones 2000) would be more likely in a community in which ritual masters (Bell 1992) were present. 3.

The pathological evidence.

The association of cemeteries and base camps situated in seasonal settlement subsistence systems.

Detailed analyses of the faunal material and isotopic studies of the human bones from cemetery and noncemetery sites would clarify our understanding, but if it the above interpretation of seasonality is reasonable, ethnographic analogies render exclusive control over defined areas demarked by defended boundaries unlikely (Baker 2003). Communities with a degree of mobility (e.g. Dyson-Hudson and Smith 1978, C. S. 1982, N. M. Williams 1982) tend to operate more flexible forms of territorial control with restriction to resources via social

Therefore, there is contextual evidence for territorial control independent of the cemeteries within the Ibéromaurusian, but the nature of those claims fell somewhere along the middle of the ‘territorial behavioural spectrum.’ Claims were collective, made by lineages, residential groups or clans, or some mixture of the three, against other lineages, residential groups or clans, or some mixture of the three. There may have been a mix of social-boundary and spatial perimeter defence 83

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead bone made with a sharp object (Briggs 1955). This is a low level and while it may reflect the general good health of the Upper Capsian population, it is also possible there have been too few analyses concerned to identify such features.

(cf. Cashdan 1983) as mechanisms providing access to the resources. Baker (2003:132) identified five points along a spectrum of territoriality (see Chapter 2). The second and third (midway) points were, respectively: geographically stable territories with open access where groups maintain exclusive use of spatial areas but leave some land unclaimed and undefended; and home ranges wherein groups maintained territories but ownership is not exclusive. Based on the nature of the cemeteries and the way I believed they functioned as territorial markers, together with the base camps and the wider evidence for the settlement-subsistence system, I think the Ibéromaurusian communities who interred their dead at Taforalt, Columnata and Afalou bou Rhummel lie somewhere between these two points, perhaps falling closer to the latter. This is intriguing, and would suggest that ‘cemeteries’ are not a feature exclusive to huntergatherer societies who maintain exclusive ownership of geographically stable territories (cf. Baker 2003), but were a form of control utilised in a wide range of contexts. A similar picture may be true for the Capsian.

As with the Ibéromaurusian, there is evidence in the Capsian for cultural symbolisms focused on the head. This is seen in the unusual placement of crania in a single inhumation at Mechta el Arbi (Balout 1954), group inhumations at Aïn Keda (Bayle des Hermens 1955), and secondary inhumations at Site 12 (Haverkort and Lubell 1999). There is evidence for the removal of the head at Site 12 (Haverkort and Lubell 1999) and Daklat es Saâdane (Tixier 1955); the bone scatter type A is dominated by crania (table 6.41); at Mechta el Arbi, Medjez II and Columnata, crania were turned into masks (Balout 1954, Camps-Fabrer 1975); and at Faïd Souar II (Laplace 2004, Vallois 1971) a cranial mask was buried with the body. Practices of dental avulsion at cemetery and non-cemetery sites suggest the importance of the mouth; the presence of certain teeth seems to have been as important as the absence of others, as suggested by the prosthetic tooth found in a cranium at Faïd Souar II (Vallois 1971); and, at Bortal Fakher, a second upper incisor was utilised as an ornament (Gobert 1957). This material, however, presents a marked contrast to the Ibéromaurusian: in the Capsian there is evidence for the deliberate post-mortem manipulation of human bone.

Ibéromaurusian and Capsian funerary rituals are very similar, perhaps reflecting continuity (Lubell et al. 1984). The demography of those in single inhumations (table 6.82), their body position where known (table 6.83), associated grave structures (table 6.84) and the number (table 6.85) and type (table 6.86) of grave goods show no significant differences. The same is true of the parts of the body found as bone scatter type A (table 6.87). There is, however, one obvious dissimilarity (table 6.88) that remains true if we compare only the low (table 6.89) and high (table 6.90) MNI sites: the contexts from which human bones were recovered. The Ibéromaurusian – as a result of the cemeteries – is dominated by group burial, whereas single inhumation is more common during the Capsian and intentional modification of human bone known. The Capsian, therefore, not only marked a shift inland and a reorganisation of subsistence practices (Lubell et al. 1984) but possibly also a transformation in the understanding of identity. There are also hints that the method – if not the nature – of territorial legitimisation changed, too.

Skulls and long bones were utilised at high and low MNI sites (Camps-Fabrer 1960, 1975, Pond et al. 1938, Balout 1954, Gobert 1957, Vallois 1971) in the production of material culture (tables 6.41, 6.53 and 6.94). There is an even split between the crania and the long bones, and it is interesting that various parts of the body were treated differently. The former were rubbed with ochre and transformed into masks; the latter were shaped into ‘tools’. Although it would be facile to distinguish between ‘symbolic’ and ‘functional’ uses of different objects, it is possible they transformed the living body in alternative ways (C. Fowler 2004). Masks disembody the embodied soul and through obscuring the face alter a person’s agency (as deriving not just from the living but also ‘deceased’ sources of knowledge, power and capacity). By contrast, the tools (Dobres and Robb 2000) are a more subtle mediator of identity as they extend a persons agency, rather than substantially altering it. If we compare them further it can be seen that while both masks and tools were made from human remains, the latter were treated in a manner analogous to faunal material while the former were not. Fabricators were made on animal bones (Camps-Fabrer 1960) and it is conceivable those made on human material (Pond et al. 1938, Camps-Fabrer 1975) were produced by individuals skilled in working the former and used in similar contexts. In this sense, they possessed the capacity to ritualise contexts normally associated with non-ritual activities through blurring the distinction between ‘humans’ and ‘animals’. By contrast, there are no known examples of masks made from animal skulls. Pond et al. (1938:123) commented that these objects were found in

With regards to the Capsian, it is more difficult to identify differences between the high and low MNI sites other than in the number of persons present (table 6.91). The demography of individuals differed at each of the high MNI locales (Haverkort and Lubell 1999, Bayle des Hermens 1955, Balout 1954, Camps-Fabrer 1975, Roch and Roch 1963) but, generally, there is no significant contrast between cemetery and non-cemetery sites (table 6.92) as adults tend to be more common than children at both. This is true of the children’s age structure (table 6.93), and of the evidence for pathology (table 6.77). Two individuals at low MNI sites (an adult male at Aïn Misteheyia and an adult female at Faïd Souar II) exhibit dental caries (Meiklejohn et al. 1979, Vallois 1971); while at Mechta el Arbi (Balout 1954) a six year old child (1927/I) shows evidence for brachycephaly, two individuals (1927/II, 1927/III) suffered from abscesses, and an adult male (1912/III) exhibits a hole in the parietal 84

6. Cemeteries and Territoriality in the Ibéromaurusian and Capsian Maghreb (Camps 1974, Lubell 2001, Merzoug and Sari 2008, Balout and Briggs 1949, Lubell 2004a, 2004b); but based on the available literature, there is no evidence in the Capsian for geographically stable regimes wherein land use is exclusive and spatial boundaries defended (Baker 2003), the context where we would expect to find evidence for both ‘ritual masters’ (Bell 1992) and claims made at an individual level (e.g. Turner and Jones 2000, C. S. Fowler 1982, Gottesfeld 1994, Dyson-Hudson and Smith 1978). Indeed, there is little evidence for pathology in the Capsian, and almost no evidence for violence (Haverkort and Lubell 1999, Bayle des Hermens 1955, Balout 1954, Camps-Fabrer 1975, Roch and Roch 1963) and, again, while this does not mean alternative mechanisms were not utilised in the mediation of inter(and intra-) group antagonisms, it fits a picture of territoriality similar to that defined for the Ibéromaurusian, as something close to the mid-point of Baker’s (2003) spectrum: home ranges in which groups maintained territories (of controlled resources) but ownership was not exclusive and access was through a mixture of spatial perimeter and social boundary defence (Cashdan 1983), perhaps with a tendency towards the latter.

deposits identical to those made on animal bone, an observation echoed by later discoveries (e.g. CampsFabrer 1975). There is, however, no recognisable difference in this material at the high and low MNI sites. Crania dominate the bone scatter type A at both low (60%) and high (75%) MNI sites (table 6.94). Grave goods interred with the deceased are similar at cemetery and non-cemetery sites: the average number tends to be low (0.52 and 0.91 respectively; table 6.95) with a similar degree of variation in which ochre was the most common. There is no evidence for an association by sex, although they were found more often with adults than children. Of the inhumations, there is no significant difference in demography. There is, however, a hint of a difference in the sex ratios as while females and males are equally likely to be found at the cemeteries, males are twice as common as females at the non-cemetery sites. Furthermore, there is a significant difference in the contexts from which human remains were recovered (table 6.96). Group inhumations are absent at noncemetery locales; by contrast, they are present at cemeteries. Furthermore, only 36% of individuals were placed in a burial at the former whereas 55% of those at the latter were interred. However, this percentage may have been much higher as the number of individuals at Mechta el Arbi (Balout 1954) described in the database as inhumations erred on the side of caution. We know that secondary activities took place at the low MNI sites (Laplace 2004, Tixier 1955); but we have yet to find evidence for secondary burial of deliberately reduced cadavers in the ground. If we compare only inhumations, the non-cemetery locales suggest the rite involved the placement of fleshed cadavers in single graves; by contrast, at cemeteries there was variation in who was interred and how (primary/secondary; single/group). This is in part (as discussed above) a reflection of the variable and individual character of the cemeteries.

As to who the ‘controllers’ and ‘controlled’ were, it is difficult to speculate. Individual primary and secondary burials are documented at all cemeteries (Balout 1954, Haverkort and Lubell 1999, Roch and Roch 1963, Camps-Fabrer 1975) except Aïn Keda (Bayle des Hermens 1955). The potential for individual control through the linkage of interred persons with resources existed; there is evidence, for example, at Medjez II (Camps-Fabrer 1975), for the placement of faunal remains in graves. However, territorial claims made by an individual tend to be documented ethnographically in communities (e.g. Turner and Jones 2000) that are sedentary, or semi-sedentary; that show evidence for formalised identities by ability, as well by as age and gender, and perhaps even status differentiation; they tend to utilise spatial boundary forms of defence; and they usually exhibit exclusive control and concepts of ownership (Cashdan 1983, Dyson-Hudson and Smith, Baker, Sack 1986). This picture is not supported by the Capsian evidence. The nature of the burials as ‘individual’ is too tangential an argument alone to repudiate and invalidate the alternative interpretation – collective forms of control – which is based on a wider synthesis of information from burial and habitation contexts. Though speculative, it seems possible that Capsian cemeteries were utilised as platforms for the legitimisation of claims made by, for examples, lineages, residential groups and/or clans.

Given the overwhelming similarity of the high and low MNI sites, it is possible that – as in the Ibéromaurusian – symbolic dichotomies were not manipulated at Capsian cemeteries in the (re)construction of a world order legitimising territorial claims (cf. Bell 1992). There is no evidence in the burials for differentiation in social identities and, although the dead are not a direct mirror for the living (Parker Pearson 1999), there is no evidence from the occupation debris for internal community organisation (Camps 1974, Lubell 2001), and nothing in the context from which items of adornment were recovered (Camps-Fabrer 1960) to suggest anything other than egalitarian relationships with identities based on age and gender. This is not a context in which we would expect to see ‘ritual masters’ (cf. Bell 1992). The evidence for the settlement-subsistence system points to a pattern of seasonal movement (see above), and this is supported by the archaeological debris contained within sites interpreted as base camps, which tend to lack any evidence for structures (energy investment) other than burials and hearths (Pond et al. 1938, Balout 1958, Camps 1974, Lubell 2001). As discussed above, the Capsian economy differed to that of the Ibéromaurusian

It is not clear how burials were advertised in the periods between funerary rituals. Although some cemeteries are described as lacking grave structures (Haverkort and Lubell 1999, Bayle des Hermens 1955), one of the burials (group 2) at Aïn Keda was surrounded by four large stones (Bayle des Hermens 1955), and stones surrounded an interment at Medjez II (Camps-Fabrer 1975). Similarly, a burial at Aïn Dokkara (Balout 1958) was 85

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead According to Sack’s (1986) theory territories do not need to be physically defended and the controllers do not need to be present within the territory or, indeed, anywhere near it to exert their control so long as their claim is communicated in a recognisable manner; fences, walls, no trespass signs – or any other widely understood marker – are sufficient. The placement of burials in the midden deposits would have articulated a direct relationship between the group territorialising its claims and the resources under control through depositing the remains of the dead directly in the remains of that which gave the community life. Although there is no evidence for subtle manipulations of symbolic dichotomies (Bell 1992), it is possible that, as in the Ibéromaurusian, a direct and explicit engagement with the past through bodily performances in the creation of social memory continued to form the main mechanism (Appadurai 1981, Fentress and Wickham 1992, Connerton 1989) for (re)creating the world order to ideologically legitimise claims. The combination of midden and grave marker could have communicated this to out-group members.

perhaps associated with a hearth, two boulders were placed over an adult male at Aïn Misteheyia (Meiklejohn et al. 1979) and at Daklat es-Saâdane the remains of an adult were covered with a large number of stone blocks (Tixier 1955). It thus seems possible that even at those cemeteries (Roch and Roch 1963, and Balout 1954 with regards to Mechta el Arbi) and low MNI sites (Balout 1954, Camps-Fabrer et al. 1961-2, Pond et al. 1938, Laplace 2004) where bodies were placed in pits, there may have been above ground markers in materials that have decomposed. These could have advertised the existence of burials and served as a visual reminder of ceremonies in which control was legitimised. There are three things from the above discussion which I think are significant to our examination of Capsian territoriality, and they are: (1) the individual character of the cemeteries, (2) the chronological relationship of their appearance with the shift to aridity, and (3) the seasonal movement of communities. Recent research (Rahmani 2004, Jackes and Lubell 2008) suggests the relationship between the Typical and Upper Capsian was one of chronology, in which a technological transition – the adoption of pressure flaking – was involved in a shift from the former to the latter. This may have been a response to environmental changes at 6200 BC which caused a shift to aridity. As a consequence groups were forced not only to diversify their resource base but also to exploit larger areas for their food: many rock shelters and escargotières utilised in the earlier period continued to be occupied (Vaufrey 1938, Jackes and Lubell 2008, Close 1980, 1984, 1988) but the geographic region in which the later industry is found was enlarged (Rahmani 2004).

There is one other facet of territoriality that might have been significant in the Capsian. Sack does not see power as essentially aggressive (1986); he argues instead that territoriality is intimately related to how people use the land, how they organise themselves in space, and how they give meaning to place. Indeed, territoriality can be a means of emphasising group identity. This is something that has been recognised by others, including Ardrey (1966) and Cashdan (1983) who argued that resources can be controlled not just through defending physical boundaries but by guarding access to the social group. The variability between Mechta el Arbi, Medjez II, Bekkaria, Aïn Keda and Site 12 may have been significant in the context of claims made by the residential group, for if social boundary defence was a key way of controlling access to resources, an emphasis on group identity could have been important during the legitimisation of territorial claims. Territoriality, however, could also have acted within the society to mould its social values and strengthen its sense of group identity and its relationship with the land.

It is possible that cemeteries could have expressed claims over resources like land snails that needed fallow periods when the groups were not present, if there was also recognition that they would return as part of their seasonal round. According to Grebenart’s (1976) survey there was a great deal of variation in the size of the escargotières. Unfortunately there is little information available on the Early Holocene ecology of the region, but something worth investigating would be whether there were particular areas more amenable to the regular growth of large quantities of snails each year, and whether these areas are associated with (a) the larger middens and (b) cemeteries. As Lubell (2004a, b) notes, snails are unlikely to have been the cornerstone of the Capsian diet, but given the increased aridity if they were a regular and predictable resource they could have been an important supplement to the diet. In addition, large quantities of snails that appear regularly each year could have been an indicator as to where water resources were most likely to be reliable, and where more significant food sources could be caught. Significantly, however, the snails would need fallow periods between collection to sustain the populations (Lubell 2004a, b), and while the controlling community was absent it would be important to prevent other groups harvesting the snails to ensure the creatures had a chance to recover their numbers by the time the controllers returned.

6.6. Conclusion This chapter argued that the Ibéromaurusian and Capsian cultures provided contexts in which territoriality was a feasible social strategy for controlling access to resources. The evidence for subsistence activities suggests that, although the former had a marine orientation, terrestrial resources were predominantly exploited; by contrast, the Capsian represents an inland hunter-gatherer culture. There is evidence within both settlement-subsistence systems for seasonal mobility, but there are also indications of regionality, for example, in the symbolisation of group identity through dental avulsion. The cemeteries were associated with base camps situated with respect to good views of the surrounding areas, and in regions providing access to abundant wetland resources (of rivers, wadis, the coast and lacustrine chotts) and routes of communication. The 86

6. Cemeteries and Territoriality in the Ibéromaurusian and Capsian Maghreb evidence is recognised as ephemeral in some respects, but based on the available literature an interpretation of territoriality seems reasonable. Through a comparison of high and low MNI sites, it was argued that – in contrast to the Scandinavian Mesolithic – there is no evidence for ‘ritual masters’, such that legitimisation of control was a practice that involved a direct and explicit engagement with the past.

o

The arguments outlined here contribute to our wider discussion through the suggestions that: • Cemeteries are not a feature dependent on complex territorial systems involving geographically stable areas of defended land; they are a flexible form of marker present in a variety of systems. o Thus, the presence of a ‘cemetery’ cannot be taken as an indicator of a particular regime of control. • As such, while the cemetery acts as a spatial, communicating territorial marker, it is the activities which take place within it that act to legitimise control. • The ‘territorialising activities’ are, however, context dependant, and must be understood as part of the wider funerary, economic, ideological and social system. • The form of territorial control, and hence the practices involved in its legitimisation, are – perhaps – dependant on, and integrated in, the nature of the social system (Sack 1986, DysonHudson and Smith 1978). ƒ ‘Ritual masters’ as defined by Bell (1992), according to this proposal, are more likely to occur in societies with: • Geographically stable territorial regimes (cf. Baker 2003); • Semi-formalised, culturally recognised identities achieved by ability (and/or through a system of social stratification); • Spatial boundary defence, perhaps indicated archaeologically through evidence for violence. • Claims made at a number of levels (the lineage, residential group, clan/wider ethnic category), including the individual. ƒ In more diffuse social systems in which seasonal mobility underpins the subsistence system – as in Ibéromaurusian and Capsian North Africa – we are perhaps more likely to find: • A direct, explicit engagement with the past as mechanism for legitimising control; • The ‘controllers’ (who direct the funerary rites) are unlikely to have been ritual specialists; • Flexible systems of territoriality; • Perhaps involving a mixture of social boundary and spatial perimeter

87

defence (cf. Cashdan 1983), with a focus on the former; • And claims made at fewer levels, by collective (residential group, lineages) entities. This hypothesis is, admittedly, based on two case studies, and therefore requires further testing; but the emerging picture is one where ‘territoriality’, far from being a single, monolithic behavioural strategy, was highly variable and contingent on a range of social and ideological factors.

7. Territoriality – Discussion and Conclusions Burial has long occupied a central place in archaeological research, and no one put the reason more succinctly than Edmund Leach (1977:173, my emphasis), who said, “The land of the dead is always ‘other than’ the land of the living. If you can understand the logic of where men place their dead you will begin to understand something of how they perceive themselves.” The remains of funerary rites are a Claude glass, focusing our simplified attention here and there, abstracting the reflected subject from its surroundings. Burials are not a direct mirror for the dead or the living, but occupy a reduced range somewhere in between; and so too do cemeteries. The archaeological record pays so little testimony to the myths, metaphors and rituals into which past lives and deaths were woven; and yet, Leach remained optimistic for the potential of funerary archaeology, and so too should we. Just as Saxe (1970) and Goldstein (1981) argued, cemeteries do have something to say about territoriality, and what they say differs depending on the culture to which they belonged. This chapter explores aspects of the relationship between territoriality and high MNI sites that were raised by the case studies (Mesolithic Scandinavia, and Ibéromaurusian and Capsian North Africa) so as to address the research questions outlined in Chapter 2. 7.1. What is a ‘cemetery’? ‘Necropolis’, ‘burial ground’, ‘graveyard’, ‘churchyard’, ‘kirkyard’: the English language abounds with diverse synonyms, but what is a ‘cemetery’, this ubiquitous and seemingly cross-cultural archaeological assemblage, and how should it be defined? It may be a formal disposal area (Saxe 1970, Goldstein 1971) and a total social landscape (Frankaviglia 1971:50), but it is also an enigma, prompting Meiklejohn et al. (1998) to articulate it as “the ‘Cemetery’ Problem.” The ‘problem’ for Meiklejohn and his colleagues (et al. 1998, 2008) involved the relationship of occupation debris to cemeteries, and the number of burials necessary for a site to be defined as such. Although they were not the first (Larsson 1995), nor the only scholars to consider the ‘cemetery question’ from a Mesolithic perspective (e.g. Rowley Conwy 1998), their observations are significant and owe their roots to Saxe (1970). Saxe (1970:119, my emphasis) stated that “by formal disposal area we mean a permanently specialised, bounded territorial area such as a ‘cemetery’, etc.”, thus implying a spatial separation between habitation and funerary rituals. This aspect was not incorporated into the archaeological criteria outlined for identification of ‘cemeteries’ (Chapter 2) as it was felt that spatial behaviour is socially constructed (Tilley 1994) and therefore would be difficult to argue for as a crosscultural attribute. Nevertheless, this is one of two points by which Meiklejohn et al. (1998, 2008) problematised application of the nomenclature to the archaeological record. The term is often taken to mean a “place, usually a ground, set apart for the burial of the dead,” but as they

note, this is not the situation in Mesolithic Scandinavia, where at “Vedbæk, every site which has been properly excavated has relinquished burials.” Indeed, on some they are “as common as hearths” (Meiklejohn et al. 1998:205, 2009:639). The archaeological record substantiates their views: the high MNI sites included in this study as ‘cemeteries’ show a variable relationship with areas of habitation. Some are found in caves associated with (Hachi 2006) and without (Schulting 2005) occupation debris, and there are caves where both are present, but spatially separate (e.g. Roche 1953a, b). Others are found in nonmidden open air locales associated with (Larsson 1984) and without (Duday and Courtaud 1998) habitations. Stratigraphic observations demonstrate that burials at some locales slightly preceded early marine mollusc accumulation (Larsson 1996), while those at others were directly placed in midden deposits (Roksandic 2006, Arnaud 1989), and similar observations can be made for the Capsian escargotières (Lubell et al. 1975, 1982-3, Camps-Fabrer 1975). Given this variability, are Meiklejohn et al. (1998, 2008) fair in problematising our understanding of ‘cemetery’ based on the relationship between burials and habitation debris, and does an association between the two affect a cemetery’s ability to act as a territorial marker (cf. Saxe 1970)? Meiklejohn et al. (1998) draw their definition of a ‘cemetery’ from the Oxford English Dictionary, but it fails to recognise space as imbued with myth and meaning (Tilley 1994), as something that is shaped by human experience (Bender 2006), a resource for action (Appadurai 1981), a means of political control (Sack 1986) and as underpinned by culturally variable practices (Ucko and Layton 1999), or the way different people see the same space differently (Bender 2006). The definition regards ‘cemetery’ as a noun, and the site as a ‘finished’ artefact rather than a process in continual transformation (that is both physical – the growth of the graveyard – and social). More pertinently, the view espoused by the OED is based on a tradition of Christianity and a modernist, western view of place, and although it implies a neutral view of space as a backdrop to social action, it in fact references a European understanding wherein activities are kept separate, and the living and the dead are segregated. Meiklejohn et al. (1998) are ambiguous whether they accept or reject this definition, but in a later paper (Meiklejohn et al. 2008) they include many of the sites they regarded as uncritically labelled ‘cemeteries’. Their main criterion seems based on the number of burials, and they provide three cut-off points: > (more than) 2, >3 and >9 individuals (2009:640), again skirting an examination of the term. Similar issues were raised by Larsson (1995:96). Although he did not define ‘cemetery’, he raised a number of pertinent questions (see Chapter 2) which include whether their appearance has a common triggering factor, and how representative their skeletal material is of the wider population (patterns of social inclusion and exclusion). To these we can add whether

7. Territoriality: Discussion and Conclusions Hill-Tout 1907, Kew 1990). Despite this ethno-historical variability, prehistoric archaeologists consistently apply the term ‘cemetery’ to locales utilised for multiple burial (e.g. Arnaud 1989, Albrethsen and Brinch Petersen 1977, Larsson 1984, 2004, Schulting 1996, 2005, Camps 1974, Lubell 2001, etc.); sites such as Grotte Placard (Le Mort and Gambier 1991), Isturitz (Gambier 1990/1991), Brassempouy (Henry-Gambier et al. 2004), Strøby Egede (Brinch Petersen 1987), Abri Autours (Cauwe 2001) and Grotte Margaux (Cauwe 2001) are never regarded as such, despite their high human MNI; – indeed, there is no coherent nomenclature recognising their large number of human remains.

the number of dog burials at a site should be considered in the numerical aspect of our definitions. For example, seven graves were found at Nederst (Kannegaard 1988, 1989, 1990) and it is commonly referred to in the literature as a ‘cemetery’ (e.g. Larsson 2004:377) but the human MNI is five: two inhumations were those of dogs (Larsson 1990a). The site was classified in this study with the low MNI locales, but in a society where there is evidence that dogs were embodied agents (Larsson 1989, 1990a), it should be recognised that our canine-human dichotomy is underpinned by a western, rather than Mesolithic Scandinavian, notion of personhood (Bird David 1999). The issue returns us to questions regarding intentionality: at what point does a ‘burial ground’ become a ‘cemetery’, and how do the groups who inter their dead at these places regard their creations? Thus: the relationship between cemeteries and occupation debris is cross-culturally variable; the minimum number of individuals present is uncertain and, to some extent, an arbitrarily assigned number; and whether that number should be restricted to humans is unclear.

Although symptomatic of the lack of critical engagement with the notion ‘cemetery’, the practices described for the Coast Salish should, nevertheless, not be referred to as involving ‘cemeteries’. These unusual locales, together with our archaeological cemeteries, may act as intersecting nodes linking landscape and cultural rules regarding spatial behaviour, personhood, social memory, ritualised activities and rites of passage, but there are significant differences. At its most basic level, a cemetery involves (1) a mortuary system that embraces burial, which implies a relationship between landscape and personhood wherein physical interaction between the two (placement in the ground of the body) plays a role in reconstituting identity in death (cf. Van Gennep 2002 [original 1909]), and (2), a view of space wherein specific places are culturally construed as meaningful and significant in a manner that finds expression in ‘repeated’ acts of spatially contiguous interment. Cemeteries are a cross-cultural archaeological assemblage because they depend only on this conjunction of personhood and place; all other aspects of identity, landscape, memory and ritual may vary and still give rise to places which we, from our external vantage point, regard as similar.

Clearly then, ‘cemeteries’ are an enigma. The 298 sites documented within the database yielded a minimum of 1747 individuals (table 7.01); 1010 of these derive from 28 ‘cemeteries’ (table 7.02). In the Methodology it was suggested they possess the following attributes: 1. 2. 3. 4.

An MNI greater than or equal to 8; Intentional deposition of human remains in the ground; Repeated deposition of human remains over a period of time; In a specific locale.

While these criteria were informed by Pardoe’s (1998:183-4) discussion, the position adopted here rejects these archaeological features as a definition (Dunnell 1992, Dunnell and Dancey 1983). Rather, from a phenomenological perspective (Tilley 1994), these should be seen as the material linkages between the archaeological record and a set of past behaviours, and it is the behaviours in which we are interested. It is therefore suggested that our understanding of ‘cemeteries’ should be based on a dualism which combines the criteria outlined above and a consideration of the practices involved.

Building on these two assumptions, we can speculate further. Cemeteries do not depend on a separation of the living and the dead (contra Meiklejohn et al. 1998 and Saxe 1970). Segregation of habitation and funerary activities is something we regard as intrinsic to space, but is actually only one of many cultural views (Bender 2006, Tilley 1994) that may find expression in cemeteries, and should not, therefore, influence a site’s definition. A blurring of the boundaries between burial and habitation does not negate the possibility of territoriality, not least because there is ethnographic evidence (Brody 1986) that many people, even of the same culture, may interpret the same space as different places depending on the features of the physical landscape referenced, the social relations enacted, and the aspect of personhood performed (Jimenez 2003). Sack (1986) recognised the ‘territorial unit’ was only one of many possible places within the same space, which can fade into the background when unneeded (Chapter 2). Indeed, the ability of a cemetery to provide a context for territorial control is based on the ability of a single place (a graveyard) to give rise to many different spaces (funerary area, political arena).

There is much ethnographic variability in hunter-gatherer funerary rituals recorded by anthropologists, and although non-/pre-Christian ‘cemeteries’ are rarely described, the term has been used with regards to the late nineteenth/ early twentieth century Coast Salish (America). After death, an individual is placed in a coffin and taken to a ‘cemetery’, whereupon the coffin may be set on logs, planks or a scaffold to raise it slightly off the ground; alternatively, groups may place their coffins in spruce trees stripped of their lower branches (the Squamish and Mαskwiαm). For some, especially the Pentlatch and the Comox, the height of the coffin indicated the rank of the deceased, and the former had a ‘grove’ reserved for the deposition of bodies (Barnett 1995 [1955], Suttles 1990, 89

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead wider database, which includes places such as Early Mesolithic Grotte Margaux (Belgium; Cauwe 2001) which has the character of an ossuary, and Magdalenian Le Placard (France; Le Mort and Gambier 1991) where human bones were used in the production of personal ornaments (see database). The non-cemetery high MNI sites show an understanding of the body as representative of the deceased’s personhood, a form of food, and raw material for the manufacture of goods. Taphonomic approaches (anthropologie de terrain; Duday 2006) and physical techniques (radiocarbon and isotopic analyses) have been brought to bear on disarticulated (and commingled) bones at a number of low MNI locales (Meiklejohn et al. 2005, Larsson et al. 1981, Schulting 2008, Fischer et al. 2007a, Svoboda 2000), and in the process a great deal has been achieved in reconstructing funerary activities whose traces in the archaeological record tend to be diffuse. However, despite these investigations, and the availability of information regarding preservation of the human skeleton (e.g. Bello and P. Andrews 2006, Duday 2006), there remains a lacuna in our understanding of non-cemetery high MNI locales. There seems to be a critical blind spot with regards to these places, an uncertainty as to how to understand them in the absence of well known, contemporary analogies.

Cemeteries exist as a cross-cultural assemblage because they are independent of the way personhood is construed, requiring only physical interaction between person and place in death. They do not rely on a symbolic system entwined with notions of the body as an integral unit, thus, both secondary and primary interments, single and group (diachronous and synchronous) inhumations, along with cremation, contribute towards its formation (e.g. Haverkort and Lubell 1999, Arambourg et al. 1934, Bayle des Hermens 1955, Brinch Petersen and Meiklejohn 2003, Larsson 1984, Schulting 1996, Arnaud 1989). Thus, a case could be made for arguing Mesolithic dogs at, for example, Nederst (Kannegaard 1988, 1989, 1990) contributed towards the formation of the site as a cemetery if it is also possible to demonstrate that within the Ertebølle, canine creatures constituted a form of personhood regarded as analogous (if not necessarily the same) as humans. Regarding intentionality, there will always be an unanswerable question of whether those who interred the first burials at a site foresaw it as a point for the accumulation of many individuals; but the fact remains that a ‘cemetery’ is underpinned by a repetitive form of behaviour persistent over several generations; thus, something compels people to consistently inter their dead. Therefore, for a cemetery to be defined as such, its role as a funerary place needs to persist through social memory (Fentress and Wickham 1992) such that interments are contiguous in both space and time. Repeated acts of burial – a form of bodily incorporating practice (cf. Connerton 1989) – become a mechanism for maintaining social memory. This necessarily conceives of cemeteries as a process: the meaning of space is never finished, inherent or fixed, but is one which is constantly renewed (Ucko and Layton 1999). Where the numerical division lies is arbitrary (Pardoe 1998:183), because the concept of ‘many’ is relational: some differentiate between small burial sites and cemeteries with an MNI of, for example, more than two (Larsson 2004, Meiklejohn et al. 2008), three (Meiklejohn et al. 2008), eight (here, as inspired by Larsson 1995:96) and nine (Meiklejohn et al. 2008). There is no ‘correct’ limit and Meiklejohn et al. (1998, 2008) and Larsson (1995) demonstrate that however we choose to define a ‘cemetery’ we need to be explicit in our understanding, and critical in our approach.

This investigation focused on cemeteries defined as involving burial because the aims of the project were concerned with territoriality from the perspective of the Saxe-Goldstein hypothesis; but although the high MNI locales in regions other than the case studies were not discussed, they form an important tangential strand as they have the potential to nuance our understanding of the way cemeteries act as territorial markers. It is recognised that there are some who would take issue with the notion of ‘cemetery’ as depending on a definition incorporating interment in the ground, particularly given ethnographic examples of sky burials in places termed ‘cemeteries’ by ethnographers discussed in Chapter 4; but in the context of this study adopting a broader definition than was suggested in the Methodology would have conflated two issues. The first is that our archaeological understanding of a ‘cemetery’ has not previously been explored from a critical perspective. As with any definition, it is possible to work within a ‘lumping’ paradigm (with few conceptual categories that mask variation) or a ‘splitting’ paradigm (which makes a virtue of adopting many categories to emphasise variation). This investigation, in a sense, opted for the latter in proposing an understanding of ‘cemetery’ founded on burial, partly for a prosaic reason: it has a greater archaeological utility in identifying easily comparable sites. An understanding that did not include burial would have created unnecessary conceptual and interpretive difficulties in attempting to reconstruct and compare funerary activities at sites like Stora Förvar whose human remains consist of bone scatter to those at sites more easily recognisable as graveyards. Furthermore, it is my belief that there has been a bias among archaeologists which has prevented us

7.2. Are ‘cemeteries’ the only ‘type’ of high MNI locale? AND 7.3. What is the relationship – if any – between ‘cemeteries’ and other types of high MNI locale? Of the 46 high MNI locales documented within the database (table 7.03), a significant number – 18 (or 39%) – are not cemeteries. Of these, Dyrholmen (Mathiassen et al. 1948), Strøby Egede (Brinch Petersen 1987) and Stora Förvar (Lindqvist and Possnert 1999) were found in Mesolithic Scandinavia (Chapter 5), and La Mouillah (Barbin 1910, 1912) in Algeria (Chapter 6). These encompass mass burial, cannibalism and disarticulated bodies. This variability is further emphasised by the 90

7. Territoriality: Discussion and Conclusions common triggering factor: ‘cemeteries’ were a (comparatively) ‘late’ development in the practice of concentrating human remains at specific points in the landscape.

from recognising that cemeteries are not the only type of high MNI site, and I felt the definition outlined in the Methodology would help focus our attention on the variation to be found in funerary locales. Any critical examination of mortuary places needs to begin from a position that recognises graveyards are not the only type of place in which people can aggregate their dead. More significant, however, is the fact that the central aim of this study was to investigate territoriality from the perspective of the Saxe-Goldstein hypothesis. Saxe (1970) and Goldstein (1976) defined a cemetery as involving burial and were explicit in their belief that groups who deposited their dead at high MNI sites in a way other than interment in the ground did not participate in activities to claim resources; the hypothesis, for them, does not apply to the latter. Whether they were correct was a question which, in the end, it was not possible to address, and a more diffuse definition of ‘cemetery’ would have hindered rather than enabled the study presented here. There are many unresolved issues surrounding our understanding of funerary places as ritual landscapes, but although a more detailed taphonomic study remains beyond the scope of this study, I would like to make three brief suggestions.

Meiklejohn et al. (2008) disagreed with archaeologists (R. Chapman et al. 1981, Clark and Neeley 1987, Mithen 1994, and Clark 2004) who saw cemeteries as a Late Mesolithic phenomenon, and through a Wilcoxon rank sum test using radiocarbon dates associated with burials at 118 European high and low MNI sites, demonstrated that regardless of the numerical division, the former (defined as containing >2, >3, >9 individuals) are consistently earlier than the latter. Indeed, sites containing 100 or more individuals exhibit an average mean age over six hundred years earlier than locales with a single inhumation (Meiklejohn et al. 2008:641). Given the intriguing nature of these results, it was decided to perform a similar test, but one which compared high MNI sites (recorded in the database) that did and did not fulfil the archaeological criteria for definition as a cemetery.1 All radiocarbon dates on human bones (regardless of the nature of the site) are presented in Chapter 4. Calibration used CALIB version 5.0.2 (Stuiver et al. 2005) and are given with 2σ ranges. Values of -21‰ were taken as indicating a purely terrestrial, and -12‰ a purely marine diet for correction of 13C values. Those dates associated with high MNI sites were compiled into a separate table (7.05) and are plotted in figure 7.01. The image suggests that non-cemetery high MNI locales tend to be earlier than cemeteries. This observation was statistically tested for significance. As can be seen, human remains from only 21 of the 46 high MNI locales were subjected to radiocarbon analysis. For this reason, radiocarbon dates on associated materials and/or stratigraphy were also compiled to facilitate the analysis. Mean ages for each site were based on the oldest and youngest available dates. The median ages of the cemetery and non-cemetery high MNI sites were compared via a two-sided Wilcoxon rank sum test (Lowry 1999). The results are presented in table 7.06, and analysis found a statistically significant difference: non-cemetery high MNI sites are, on average, older than cemeteries which do not appear until – at the earliest – 10,000 BC (e.g. 10,000 BC in the Maghreb; 6500 BC in Scandinavia).2

The first and second are that there may be many ‘types’ of high MNI locale, and that these places may be comparable only in their high MNI (table 7.04). If we consider the wider database, not all places bore witness to funerary rituals: although people were intentionally interred, for example, at (Gravettian) Cro Magnon (France; Lartet and Christy 1865-1875), it is possible that those persons whose remains were found at (Magdalenian) Grotte Placard (Le Mort and Gambier 1991) were subject to rituals elsewhere and parts of the body selected and transported to the locale (see database). The temporal element is also significant. Some places were utilised only once (e.g. Strøby Egede, Brinch Petersen 1990) whereas others (Abri Autours, Cauwe 2001) were repeatedly returned to and the human bones moved around the cave. Not all human remains were intentionally deposited and the activities at many sites were underpinned by different concepts of personhood as consumable (Boulestin 1999), partible (Cauwe 2001), indivisible (Brinch Petersen 1990) and mutable (HenryGambier et al. 2004). There is also some implication that the social relationships manipulated at these sites also differed. For example, although activities at (Magdalenian) Isturitz (France; Buisson and Gambier 1991) contributed to the transformation of the deceased’s identity (cf. Van Gennep 2004 [original 1909]), the creation of art and adornment from the human teeth and bones altered the field of agency in which the items were situated. Some interpret the cave as an aggregation locale (Bahn 1982), and as a materially grounded form of social reproduction these objects could have mediated relations between the groups present (Conkey 1980) as well as symbolising group identity (see database). This is perhaps very different to the potential cemeteries have for territoriality, and is worth further exploration. However, there is a third point worth suggesting in light of Larsson’s (1995) musing whether cemeteries have a

There are problems in the comparability of dates derived from human bones, associated materials and stratigraphy, but in the absence of a finer grained dataset, the results broadly support the pattern suggested by figure 7.01. Maps plotting the various high MNI sites by age (figures 7.02-7.07) demonstrate no internal/regional culturalevolutionary development ‘towards’ cemeteries, and given the rise of sea levels after the Late Glacial 1

Analysis was undertaken with the assistance of Jennifer Williams. As noted in Chapter 5, problems were identified by Schulting (pers comm.; Brinch Petersen and Meiklejohn 2009) with regards to the calibration of Scandinavian Mesolithic dates on human bone by Tauber. This is conjectured to increase the antiquity of two cemeteries, Kørsor Nor and Vedbæk-Bøgebakken; however, it is unlikely to invalidate the general pattern outlined here. 2

91

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead another in an endless chain of reference. However, binary oppositions always involve asymmetrical relations of dominance and subordination. Bodies are strategic resources deployed in social and political discourse (Connerton 1989), and in death are liminal and a metaphor (Van Gennep 2004 [1909]) linking what they were (a living social persona) with what they will become (a dead social entity) through what they are (an object). It is the physicality of the body as an object requiring funerary rituals which invoke ties of kinship and exchange that bestows its role as a nexus of relations linking people and place, objects and animals, and past, present and future. These relations are spatial, temporal and social and the way they are transformed forms the axis on which the rest of the ritual revolves (Bell 1992; Chapter 5).

Maximum, we cannot be certain early examples were not lost beneath the waters. But if our understanding of the relationship between cemeteries and territoriality is reduced to its most basic level, we could argue that the various methods by which control is legitimised are based on the concentration and repeated deposition of human skeletal material in a single local. This facilitates a manipulation of the spatial relationships articulated through the physical proximity of those remains in the mediation of inter- and intra-group relationships. Though the relationships vary, the various high MNI sites may share in common a role as a nodal point in a nexus of relations linking people and place. The above analysis suggests this was a (potentially powerful) spatial property people may have been (perhaps unconsciously?) aware of for a long period before the first cemeteries were created. This is a relationship that requires further study, particularly from the perspective of an investigation regarding the social histories of cemetery and noncemetery sites.

It was, however, difficult to recognise similar manipulations in the Ibéromaurusian and Capsian of North Africa. It remained unclear whether this is an accurate reflection of past realities or a failure to recognise ritual manipulations. Given the (archaeological) intangibility of behaviours associated with funerals, together with the history of excavation and publication in the Maghreb (Lubell and Sheppard 2001), the latter is possible (Chapter 6). But it was equally difficult to reject the alternative hypothesis, that communities at Ibéromaurusian Afalou bou Rhummel, Columnata and Taforalt legitimised their territorial control via different means.

7.4. How do cemeteries function as territorial markers? Saxe (1970) and Goldstein (1976) argued that cemeteries function as territorial markers through legitimising claims by means of lineal descent from the dead. While the hypothesis was prescient in its understanding that the past can be refigured to justify the present, it was suggested the focus on ‘ancestors’ and ‘lineal ties’ (I. Morris 1991) was too narrow, and that a consideration of anthropological studies of social memory (e.g. Connerton 1989, Fentress and Wickham 1992, Appadurai 1981, etc.) and Bell’s (1992) investigation of ritual would encourage recognition that the manner of control is socially embedded and therefore culturally variable. Cemeteries are, first and foremost, places for burial of the dead; but funerary activities provide a poignant link between the past and the present through rites of passage that transform the living into the dead (e.g. H. Williams 2003, 2004a, b) and those links are not deployed in a monolithic, homogenous way. It was suggested in previous chapters we can see something of this in the archaeological record.

It was suggested in Chapter 6 that the high proportion of children and group burials at the Ibéromaurusian cemeteries was significant, and that these practices represent an explicit engagement with the past. These elements perhaps focused participants’ attention on the social associations between individuals; in particular, the children could have emphasised generational linkages, providing a symbolic-structural connection with the past in a way envisaged by Saxe (1970), Goldstein (1976) and I. Morris (1991). In this sense, it is difficult to identify the subtlety of manipulations involving pervasive ritual dichotomies as argued for Mesolithic Scandinavia, but as Bell (1992, Appadurai 1981, Fentress and Wickham 1992) noted, even on a general level the past in ritual is a context for action and a medium for manipulation. Connerton (1989) argued that some forms of social memory are bodily: they are created and maintained by bodily interactions and performances. The interaction between bodies in death, together with the interaction between participants at the funeral, may have provided an explicit engagement with the past as a legitimising force for maintaining control.

The comparison of the funerary rituals of high and low MNI Mesolithic sites in Scandinavia (Chapter 5) argued that while those at cemeteries drew on wider practices observed at non-cemetery locales, they also show a number of differences. Based on this I suggested that activities at cemeteries invoked and subverted symbolic dichotomies centred on decomposition and its avoidance, humans and dogs, and land and sea. The manipulation of these symbolisms formed integral activities directed at restructuring the past into the social memory of the present, and it was the ability to do so that gave groups the ideological capital necessary for legitimising control. Bell (1992:101) argues the generation of a structured environment necessary for moulding the bodies acting within it involves the construction of schemes of binary oppositions within a loosely integrated hierarchy in which each element ‘defers’ to, nuances and dominates

With regards to the Capsian, it was more difficult to identify internal differences in the high and low MNI sites other than in the number of persons present (Chapter 6). Based on their overwhelming similarity, it is possible that – as in the Ibéromaurusian – symbolic dichotomies were not manipulated at Capsian cemeteries in the (re)construction of a world order legitimising territorial claims (cf. Bell 1992) and that rights were 92

7. Territoriality: Discussion and Conclusions resources and the groups located therein normally show a low level of mobility (sedentary/semi-sedentary). This assertion was echoed in subsequent research (e.g. Baker 2003, Casimir and Rao 1992) and it is interesting that the cemeteries represented within the database tend to be found in ecotonal environments, associated with sedentary and semi-sedentary (multiple-season) base camps integrated within logistical settlement-subsistence systems.

instead validated through diffuse appeals to a mythologized past. However, it was emphasised in this discussion that Sack (1986) did not conceptualise territoriality as inherently antagonistic or based on an aggressive conceptualisation of power. He interpreted it as a flexible strategy of control that did not require either defended areas or the controller to be present in a territory so long as a widely understood marker was present to communicate the community’s claims. Furthermore his understanding of territoriality recognised its ability to act as a catalyst for change, to mould social values in the construction of group identity, and its ability for influencing the way people give meaning to space. It was suggested in Chapter 6 that the Capsian cemeteries may have also acted on this level.

Table 7.07 lists all such sites (n = 28) identified within the study area (see database). Of these one (Bekkaria, Algeria) was associated with occupation debris that was not described (Roch and Roch 1963) and two in England and France (Aveline’s Hole, La Vergne 3) were not associated with evidence for habitation (Schulting 2005, Schulting et al. 2008), although it is possible settlements were once present but have not survived. One cemetery (Vale de Romeiras, Portugal) was interpreted as a specialised mortuary site (Arnaud 1989) and another (Cabeço do Pez, Portugal) was associated with a seasonal locale (Arnaud 1989). However, twenty (see table 7.07 for references) were linked with semi-sedentary base camps and three (along the Muge River in Portugal) were associated with sedentary habitations (Van der Schriek et al. 2007, Lubell et al. 1984, Lentacker 1986, 1991).

It was suggested, however, that the contrasting mechanisms of legitimisation in Scandinavia and the Maghreb may contribute to a wider picture of different territorial practices (cf. Baker 2003). ‘Ritual masters’, as outlined by Bell (1992), were probably not present in the Ibéromaurusian and Capsian but may have existed in Mesolithic Scandinavia. Ritual mastery is the ability to take and remake schemes from the shared culture, deploy them in the formulation of a privileged ritual experience, and impress them upon agents able to recreate them in a range of circumstances beyond the circumference of the rite (Bell 1992:116). Bell (1992:134) argues that, “the power to do the ritual correctly resides in the specialist’s officially recognised or appointed status (office), not in the personhood or personality of the specialist.” Thus, while ritual mastery is an unevenly shared ability, a ‘ritual master’ is also a culturally recognised position. This does not necessitate the existence of status inequalities (Keesing and Strathern 1998) but it does imply a level of internal differentiation of personhood, and the recognition of (semi-formalised) identities that might be adopted through ability. Such individuals are ethnographically documented in hunter-gatherer communities (Seligman and Seligman 1911). However, as the evidence stands, while such individuals may have been present in Scandinavia, it is debateable whether there were (semi-formalised) culturally defined roles in the Ibéromaurusian or Capsian (Chapter 6). It was further suggested the controllers and controlled may have been different: in Scandinavia – during the ‘cemetery tradition’ phase of territorial control – claims could have been made at individual as well as collective levels; by contrast, it was suggested that the Ibéromaurusian and Capsian cemeteries represented territorialising strategies utilised by, for example, lineages or groups (Chapters 5 and 6).

Therefore, 82% of the cemeteries within the database were associated with base camps integrated within sedentary and semi-sedentary settlement systems. The possibility this association was a peculiarity of Western Europe and North Africa was explored through compiling another table (7.08) with information on cemeteries from the Iron Gates Gorge (G. T. Cook et al. 2001, Roksandic 1999, Bonsall et al. 2002, Boric and Stefanovic 2003), North East Europe (Price and Jacobs 1990, O’Shea and Zvelebil 1984, Larsson and Zagorska 2006, Lillie 2004, Lillie et al. 2003) and Israel (Bocquentin 2003, Byrd 1989, Bar Yosef 1998, Tchernov and Villa 1997). This yielded a list of 21 sites of which five were graveyards with no associated habitation, three were associated with specialised seasonal camps, and 12 with semi-sedentary or sedentary base camps. The base camps associated with the cemeteries are believed to have formed part of logistical settlement systems (Binford 1980; see table 7.08 for references). On the one hand it seems that cemeteries tend to occur in areas and are associated with settlement-subsistence systems predicted by Dyson-Hudson and Smith (1978) to sustain territorial behaviour; but is this a reliable pattern to infer from the data given the potential recovery biases discussed in Chapter 3 and 4? As noted, the presence of a cemetery and habitation site in the same area does not automatically mean both were used by the same community at the same time, and they need to be chronologically linked. Consideration was given to this in compiling tables 7.07 and 7.8. Furthermore, it is unclear how far archaeological techniques are oriented towards the identification of cemeteries associated with settlements. Together they represent a great quantity of material that may be more visible than the remains of a

7.5. What kind of settlement-subsistence system do cemeteries tend to be situated within? Dyson-Hudson and Smith (1978:24) argued that territoriality should be expected when the costs of control (time, energy, risk, negative consequences) are outweighed by the benefits of use. As such, the areas wherein this behaviour tends to be found are characterised by variable but abundant, predictable 93

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead control economic materials. From the water-filled pans of the Kalahari (Barnard 1992) and the estuaries of the Yolngu of Australia (N. M. Williams 1982) to the berry patches and fishing sites of the Gitksan and Wit’suwit’en (Johnson 1998), the tree groves of the Northern Paiute (C. S. Fowler 1982) and the game of the Siberian Evenk (Grøn et al. 2008), where territorial practices are ethnographically described for hunter-gatherers, the ‘resources’ under control are usually economic in nature. There are, however, some allusions to control over symbolic features (N. M. Williams 1986). ‘Resources’ are not simply abstract ‘things’ in a neutral landscape, becoming ‘restricted’ by the whims of population pressure and environmental change (e.g. Wendorf 1968, Pardoe 1998, Charles and Buikstra 1983), but are actively defined by people (N. M. Williams and Hunn 1983:8-9). It is possible that places with a symbolic/mythological significance may be territorially defined, and there are some indications of this among Australian Aboriginal societies (Layton 1986).

graveyard alone. It is uncertain how far these factors have influenced the patterning identified here. We know territoriality as a social strategy is not restricted to systems involving geographically stable regimes, and yet the methodology adopted in this investigation was directed towards the recognition of control over economic materials. Nevertheless, given the variation in the regions documented in tables 7.07 and 7.08, and in Chapters 5 and 6, it seems fair to at least conclude that DysonHudson and Smith (1978) should be recognised as an indicator of where territoriality over economic materials might occur, but as incapable of predicting the construal of control. 7.6. What ‘resources’ do cemeteries aim to control? All the cemeteries within the database (and those in table 7.08) regardless of their association with occupation debris, were situated in ecotones that would have been abundant and varied in the resources they provided (table 7.07 and 7.08). In light of ethnographic (e.g. N. M. Williams 1986, Casimir and Rao 1992, N. M. Williams and Hunn 1982) and theoretical (Dyson-Hudson and Smith 1978, Cashdan 1983, Baker 2003) research, this was not surprising. An emphasis on aquatic resources has been a recurrent theme in the renaissance of Mesolithic hunter-gatherer studies (Sassaman 2004:234), playing a vital role in the conceptualisation of pre-agricultural societies as ‘complex’ (Brinch Petersen and Meiklejohn 2007). But wetland ecotones are not restricted to the coast. Marshes, swamps, wet valley bottoms, river deltas, shallow lake shores, peat bogs, chotts and bogs concentrate within a small circumference a high biomass of diverse plants and animals (Cole 1998:7). These areas also exhibit environmental stability and provide access to unearned (migratory) species (Yesner 1980, Erlandson 2001, J. E. Arnold 1995, Sassaman 2004). Yesner (1980) argues that subsistence systems oriented around ecotonal environments entail a series of social consequences, including sedentism, the promotion of technological sophistication (e.g. construction of boats), lower dependency rates (as children and old people can contribute to their nutritional intake), and high population densities. The intriguing finding here, however, is that although nearly all of the cemeteries show a spatial proximity to wetlands, they are not restricted to marine environments. The various utilised ecosystems include lacustrine (Price and Jacobs 1990, Larsson and Zagorska 2006), riparian (Melhaoui 2004), estuarine (Arnaud 1989, Lentacker 1991, Lubell et al. 1994), marine (S. H. Andersen 2000, Fischer et al. 2007a, Chapter 5) and terrestrial (Schulting 2005, Schulting et al. 2008, Camps 1974, Sheppard 1987, Chapter 6) habitats. Thus, any ecotonal setting – coastal or inland – which concentrates abundant but variable resources is (potentially) capable of supporting hunter-gatherer societies which made territorial claims.

There are suggestive examples within the overall, larger database which should encourage us to consider the importance of non-economic ‘resources’. No associated occupation debris was identified during excavations of Early Mesolithic La Vergne 3 (Schulting et al. 2008) and although it is most likely a settlement was originally present (and destroyed by subsequent Iron Age activities; Duday and Courtaud 1998) the possibility exists that the cemetery was a dedicated funerary locale oriented with respect to the control of a ritually significant (and archaeologically invisible) feature of the landscape. Early Mesolithic Aveline’s Hole (England) is equally ambiguous. There is no evidence within the cave for a settlement contemporary with the burials; population density within the area was probably low; people were mobile over large areas; and there were no (known) locally available concentrated resources. Furthermore, there is little evidence for contemporary settlement within the Mendips or in North Somerset in general and the most sizable assemblages are found some 25-35km to the south at Shapwick, Middlezoy and Greenway Farm, where lithics are dominated by a material (Greensand chert) not seen at the cemetery (Schulting 2005:244-246). It is therefore possible Aveline’s Hole was important as a mythic place. Conversely, there may have been a habitation area outside the cave which has not survived, and Schulting (2005) interpreted the cemetery as a territorial claim over hunting grounds made by local groups against incoming hunter-gatherers displaced by progressive flooding of the plain that eventually became the Bristol Channel. There are additional possibilities. For example, (Ibéromaurusian) Taforalt (Morocco) may have controlled routes of communication (Roche 1953a, 1953b). Late Mesolithic Poças de São Bento (Portugal) occupied a position within the Sado Valley that was unusual by comparison with the other middens: it was 3km to the south of and substantially above the river (Arnaud 1989). While it is possible this location reflects the desire of inhabitants to avoid summer infestations of

Previous chapters argued, based on ecological and ethnographic evidence, that the societies who created the cemeteries of Kongemose and Ertebølle Scandinavia, and Ibéromaurusian and Capsian Maghreb, were concerned to 94

7. Territoriality: Discussion and Conclusions evidence if we are to identify different patterns of territoriality. A comparison of the interpretations outlined in Chapters 5 and 6 demonstrates that a consideration of habitation debris alongside an analysis of the funerary rituals at high and low MNI locales led to suggestions of different regimes of control in Scandinavia and the Maghreb. To briefly summarise: Baker (2003:132) identified five points along a spectrum of territoriality (see Chapter 2). The first, second and third points were, respectively, (1) geographically stable regimes wherein all land ownership is exclusive; (2) geographically stable territories with open access where groups maintain exclusive use of spatial areas but leave some land unclaimed and undefended and (3) home ranges in which groups maintain territories but ownership is not exclusive. It was suggested in Chapter 5 that Kongemose and Early Ertebølle groups of Scandinavia fell somewhere between points one and two, perhaps closer to the former. Conversely, it was proposed (Chapter 6) that the system in Ibéromaurusian and Capsian Maghreb lay somewhere between points two and three, perhaps falling closer to the latter.

insects (e.g. mosquitoes), or to control archaeologically invisible materials (water, plants, nesting sites), it is also conceivable there was something culturally significant about the locale (Larsson 1995:97). Furthermore, (Ertebølle) Skateholm I and II (Sweden) may have been symbolically directed against the loss of land to rising waters (Larsson 2003), and a suggestion was made in Chapter 6 that Upper Capsian cemeteries could have been directed against ecological changes induced by increasing aridity. In the latter context it was emphasised that territoriality is ‘about’ more than just controlling resources. As Sack (1986) notes, if we move away from a biologically determinist position and recognise that not all power is aggressive, it becomes possible to recognise that it is intimately related to how people use the land, position themselves in space and give meaning to space. It has the potential to mould social values in the creation of community cohesion, and can even act as a catalyst for change. The methodology – informed by the ethnographic and theoretical literature discussed in Chapter 2 – was designed towards identification of control over economic materials; as such, it is difficult to argue for territoriality over ‘invisible’ symbolic ‘resources’. Nevertheless, it is important we recognise that ‘resources’ could have been more variable than just economic materials and that territoriality is a more flexible form of behaviour with a range of potential uses.

The theoretical discussions of territoriality outlined in Chapter 2 said little about concomitant concepts of ‘property’ and ‘ownership’, and even Sack (1986) – whose definition we took as a base for underpinning the Saxe-Goldstein hypothesis – sidestepped the issue through regarding it as a form of spatial control. So far his understanding has served us well, but here there is cause to recognise that territoriality is predicated on the assumption that there are ‘rights’ invested in ‘things’, and that those ‘rights’ belong to some individuals/ lineages/ residential groups/ clans/ ethnic sets and not others. The problem with ‘property’ is that, despite ethnographic recognition that ownership of ‘things’ and territorial control of resources show a close parallel (Hann 1998a, Humphrey 2002, N. M. Williams 1986), the relationship of the two has rarely been considered (see references in this section and in Chapter 2). Furthermore, as an anthropological concept, ‘property’ is as contentious as is ‘territoriality’ within the field of hunter-gatherer research.

7.7. Do cemeteries always give rise to mediation of the same sorts of territorial relationships? AND 7.8. What notions of property were associated with the resources? ‘Territoriality’ is not a monolithic form of behaviour. Sack (1986) not only recognised it could be ‘switched on and off’, but observed within it the potential for variation in the way it is deployed; Dyson-Hudson and Smith (1978) saw a relationship between territoriality and ecological context; Baker (2003) rearticulated this as a spectrum of territorial systems varying in their degree of control; Cashdan (1983) recognised different means of limiting access to resources; and Turner and Jones (2000) described different patterns of territoriality adopted by contemporary groups within the same region of America (D. H. Thomas 1981). The question is whether we can recognise this variation in the archaeological record. Saxe (1970) and Goldstein (1976) suggested the ‘formality’ of a cemetery varied with the degree of control; but this is difficult to identify archaeologically. Cemeteries may indicate the ideological legitimisation of claims over resources, but they are an architectural feature (Francaviglia 1971) and it is difficult to extrapolate from their form as to the nature of the territorial control itself given the form is influenced by so many other aspects of the social system, not least the funerary domain and cultural views regarding space. Indeed, territoriality might be legitimised in a mortuary context, but it is, first and foremost, a mode of behaviour embedded in the settlement-subsistence system.

The resurgence of interest in property (Hann 1998b) in anthropology occured within the context of the shift from socialist to capitalist systems in the post-Soviet states (D. Anderson and Pine 1995, Burawoy and Verdery 1999, Creed 1998, Humphrey 1983, Lampland 1995, Pryor 1992, Swain 1998) and over what constitutes ‘property’ in a late twentieth/ early twenty-first century context dominated by bio-medical and information technological developments (Hann 1998a, Strathern 1998, Humphrey and Verdery 2004); but despite two unifying ethnographic contexts there remains a debate over what exactly ‘property’ is. It has become axiomatic that ‘property’ is some ‘thing’ (objects, names, knowledge, personal and collective identities, currency holdings, land, etc.) in which all (or the majority of) rights are invested (‘owned’) by an individual or group (Hann 1998b). Some (e.g. Strathern 1998:218) rephrased this definition to argue that all property claims engage, but only some are about, relationships; others regard it as an

The Saxe-Goldstein hypothesis is an archaeological signpost, but we need to consider a wider range of 95

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead countervailing rights in the same area, but those rights might apply to different species and/or to resources caught using different hunting or fishing techniques (Carrier 1990). Therefore, classification by area acts at a general level, but in some circumstances could have been underpinned by other components that are difficult to archaeologically identify.

umbrella term for ‘things’, relations of persons to things, person-person relations mediated through things, and bundles of abstract rights (Humphrey and Verdery 2004), or as a species of reification where the values of ownership and possession become identified with the thing possessed (Hirsch and Strathern 2004). Property claims are occasionally seen as communication technologies (Demian 2004) or as inseparable from the processes by which identities are created (Humphrey 2002). Although some regard ‘property’ as universal (e.g. Rigsby 1998:25), the applicability of concepts of ‘property’ to some non-western groups has been denied because of its dependence on a western view of the person (Strathern 1988), and position in a particular linguistic history (Strathern 1998). It was also suggested that persistent focusing on ‘persons’ and ‘things’ presupposes an object-relations view of the world specific to Western Europe (Humphrey and Verdery 2004), thus further undermining the applicability of the concept to other cultures.

There is also a question within the literature regarding what it is that ‘property rights’ involve. Rigsby (1998) suggests they include the ‘right’ to possess (exclusive physical control), use (personal enjoyment), manage (decide how and by whom a thing should be used), transmissibility (to bequeath the thing), to the income (the benefits derived from use) and capital (ability to alienate, consume, waste, modify or destroy the thing). However, none of these are essential to a definition of property, and Hann (1998a) and Strathern (1998) note that different rights associated with a ‘thing’ may be vested in different people; indeed, ‘ownership’ is often considered as the concentration of all (or the majority) of rights into a single person. As Humphrey and Verdery (2004:6) note, some scholars dislike the term ‘rights’ to the extent they instead adopt a language of ‘debts’, ‘liabilities’ and ‘claims’. Nevertheless, despite the terminological problems, a landmark case brought by the Yolngu community against the Supreme Court of the Northern Territory (Australia) led to the legal recognition of their land tenure (territorial) regime as founded on a system of property and ownership recognised by the government, involving title, possession and use (N. M. Williams 1986). In light of these problems, my reading of the literature suggests there is a lacuna in our understanding of the relationship between territoriality, property, ownership, rights and land within a huntergatherer context. As such, the term ‘property’ is used here on the understanding that it involves relationships between people and ‘things’ (in this case, resources within the land), and the existence of rights regarding those ‘things’ in people (and perhaps also non-human agents). It is not possible based on the funerary record to consider the specifics of Late Pleistocene and Early Holocene concepts of property, but at a general level the territorial systems of Mesolithic Scandinavia and Ibéromaurusian and Capsian Maghreb were perhaps based on different understandings of property and/or a different distribution of rights in the land’s resources.

Further complicating the issue is the recognition that land is a peculiar type of ‘property’. The literature tends to treat it as simply another form (e.g. D. Anderson 1998, Rigsby 1998, Acheson 1990) and it receives less attention than, for example, intellectual property rights (Hann 1998a:5). However, unlike most types, land does not circulate easily between people (Hann 1998a:31); ‘land as property’ (in the way western Europeans understand it) has a complex relationship with capitalism; and it was argued by Ingold (1986:147-8) that hunter-gatherer and agricultural concepts of ‘tenure’ (territoriality) encompass different views of space wherein the latter conceive of land in terms of area, whereas the former view it in terms of points and tracks. This conceptualisation is significant. Spatial boundaries are widely documented among huntergatherer societies (Casimir and Rao 1992, Barnard 1992, C. S. Fowler 1982, N. M. Williams 1982, Seligman and Seligman 1911) but the prevailing view is that these are predominantly signified by geological or ecological features of the landscape and are rarely physically marked. It was suggested that in many societies their primary function involves signifying spatial discontinuities in the categories of rights granted to users (N. M. Williams 1986), and according to Cashdan (1983) and Baker (2003) they exclude outsiders only under specific territorial regimes. In this sense, Sack’s (1986) assertion that people classify their control by area rather than kind seems supported, but in light of Ingold’s (1986) discussion, and the fact that boundaries are rarely marked, it seems likely that, for hunter-gatherers, focal markers were as, and in some contexts perhaps more, important. N. M. Williams (1986) discusses sites among the Yolngu (Australia) that symbolised title to land which were focal (though not always geographically central) to the areas they stood for. It is probable that Scandinavian and Maghrebian cemeteries acted in a similar way. Furthermore, the ethnographic literature suggests a bewildering diversity of ways rights in resources were assigned to individuals and/or lineages within a group’s ‘territory’. Different people might have, for example,

Chapters 5 and 6 argued the nature of the different territorial regimes in Mesolithic Scandinavia, and the Ibéromaurusian and Capsian Maghreb implied other differences, including the way control was ideologically legitimised (see above) via the manipulation of symbolic dichotomies by ritual masters (cf. Bell 1992) at the former, and reinterpretation of the past in the present by groups at the latter. It was also suggested the category of owners in the Maghreb were confined to groups, including lineages, clans and residential associations, whereas in Scandinavia claims could also be made by individuals. At a general level, this implies a difference in the distribution of rights regarding use with more concentrated in fewer hands in the latter. It was also 96

7. Territoriality: Discussion and Conclusions Mesolithic people to maintain proprietary interests in the creatures they trained and causing these relationships to be operationalised in terms of ‘ownership’. This would have involved social innovations, including “coordination in activities like hunting or war, and exploitation short of immediate execution”, and the interactions would have been mediated through material culture: collars, tethers, pens and perhaps also harnesses. However, Mesolithic Scandinavia does not differ to the rest of Western Europe and North Africa considered within the database only in terms of the high canid MNI: the Maglemose, Kongemose and Ertebølle cultures are also unique in the diversity of ways this animal was treated in death. Dogs were recovered (table 7.10) as unmodified, disarticulated components within the faunal composition of a locale (Richter 1988), they were found disarticulated but with evidence for skinning (Richter and Noe-Nygaard 2003), the presence of bones in human inhumations suggests they may have formed grave goods (Larsson 1990a), and some received burial with objects in their own right (Larsson 1984). Therefore they formed part of the faunal landscape, were a source of raw material, were ‘possessions’, and they were embodied ‘persons’.

suggested (Chapter 5) that the nature of the inferred territorial regime in Scandinavia (Baker 2003) raised the possibility that access to resources was controlled via perimeter defence (see Cashdan 1983) which points towards a concentration of rights regarding use in the controlling group. The significance of the high levels of violence in Mesolithic Scandinavia, as opposed to the pathological abnormalities identified in other regions (Chapter 5) is uncertain. Violence is not a signifier of territoriality, but it may indicate where rights and claims are disputed by the groups against whom they were made and situations where other forms of mediation failed. There are also other lines of evidence that may support the suggestion that concepts of property in Mesolithic Scandinavia involved a greater concentration of rights in fewer controlling groups and/or individuals. The existence of Kongemose and Ertebølle fish traps was interpreted (Chapter 5) through a discussion of Pedersen’s (1997) ideas as an indicator of concepts of rights and ownership within Mesolithic Scandinavia. It is difficult to cross culturally compare this form of technology because their recovery is dependant on good preservation. Examples were discovered at Mesolithic wetland sites in the Netherlands (Louwe Kooijmans 2003), but their absence elsewhere – for example, Morocco and Algeria – cannot be taken as evidence of absence. However, the treatment of dogs may facilitate our discussion. It may seem an unusual tangent to introduce dogs in the context of territoriality and ‘land rights’, but southern Mesolithic Scandinavia is remarkable in the prevalence of this species; indeed, a minimum number of 84 (table 7.09) is known for this region, or 78% of individuals identified within the study area. There is no association between this species and cemeteries. Some of the earliest domesticated canines were interred in burials, including at the Early Natufian graveyard at Eynan Mallaha (Tchernov and Valla 1997); but the earliest remains date to the Magdalenian, and were found in a human grave at Bonn Oberkassel (Morey 2006) in Germany, and as disarticulated components, for example, at Pont d’Ambon (France) and Erralla (Spain, Vigne 2005). Indeed, of the 48 cemeteries listed in tables 7.07 and 7.08, only 19 (or 40%) yielded dog bones. But canid bones are rare in Upper Palaeolithic sites and become a feature of the archaeological record only near the end of the Pleistocene (Morey 1992, Sablin and Khlopachev 2002); indeed, our relationship with this creature is relatively late by comparison with our association with other animals, such as reindeer (Bleed 2006:9); but as Bleed (2006) notes, by 5000 BC domestic dogs are nearly ubiquitous (Olson 1985, Villa et al. 1997). These two observations – (a) the broadly contemporary timing of the domestication of this species and the first appearance of formal graveyards at around 12,000 years ago, together with (b) the high number in Mesolithic Scandinavia as opposed to other geographic areas with a cemetery tradition – are interesting in light of Bleed’s comments.

Other animals were socially significant within Mesolithic Scandinavia: for example, a wild cat may have been buried at Skateholm I (Larsson 1984) while the skin of another was used as a container for the cremated remains of an adult at Hammelev (The Copenhagen Post 2005). However, there is no evidence that other animals were brought so intimately into the sphere of human sociality and personhood in the same way; and, aside from three Mesolithic burials at Polderweg in the Netherlands (Louwe Koojimans 2003), dogs are found at locales within the rest of the database only as disarticulated, unmodified components, often as part of the faunal remains (see references in table 7.09). The ethnographic literature demonstrates that the way dogs (and dingoes) are culturally regarded is highly variable (Clutton Brock 1995 Meggitt 1965b, Ikeya 1994) but Maglemose, Kongemose and Ertebølle groups treated their dogs in ways which, I think, support the ideas outlined in Bleed’s (2006) short article, and though his argument was brief, the ethnographic data provides depth for his assertions. To return us to Pedersen’s (1997) paper on the relationship of fish traps to rights and ownership, it is possible to suggest a broad analogy between this technology and the significance of dogs. If we reduce her argument to its bones, she saw fish traps as (1) conferring hunting benefits in so far as they were non-specific in the marine creatures they caught. The nature of the hunting (2) was transformed from active to passive control, and this required (3) a higher energy investment and (4) the assumption that whatever was caught would be attributed by others to the individual who created and set the trap. We can make a similar argument for dogs. The number and morphology of those found in Scandinavia suggest they could have played a vital role in hunting (see references in table 7.09), and they were capable of taking a wide range of small animals and game. Between a third and three quarters of the fauna killed during Lee’s (1979)

Bleed (2006:9) suggests that dogs helped humans form concepts of personalised animal possession, prompting 97

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead when the costs (time, energy, risk, negative consequences) of use are out weighted by the benefits, and hence correlated control with ecotonal regions (table 7.07). The significance of population pressure and climate change is treated variably by the anthropological literature, but Cashdan (1983) suggests that patchiness of predictable resources within an uneven landscape, for example, may encourage territorial control and there is ethnographic support (Richardson 1982) that environmental change can make resources restricted. However, Sack (1986) regarded it as a form of control with a variable array of ‘causes’. Is Saxe (1970) right to argue that territoriality always occurs when resources are ‘restricted’ or do we run the risk of ecological determinism?

stay with the !Kung San were obtained with the help of often highly trained dogs, an observation supported through a study undertaken by Ruusila and Pesonen (2004) which compared moose hunting in Finland by hunters with and without their dogs, and found that dogs significantly increased success. Although canines might require some guidance, often they are treated as autonomous persons (Ikeya 1994) capable of acting without human supervision; therefore, while the distinction between ‘active’ and ‘passive’ is less useful in this context, there remains the observation that dogs significantly aid subsistence activities. Unlike traps, however, the utility of canines extends also to tracking, protection and companionship, and as guard and sled dogs (Richter and Noe-Nygaard 2003). They represent an ongoing investment in training, maintenance and care, although the levels vary. For example, the amount of food required for dogs depends on both the nature of the environment and of the human-dog relationship. In some communities they feed themselves (Meggitt 1965b) but among the Siberian Eskimos dogs consumed 20-35% of the hunted food (Morey and Sørensen 2002). It is difficult to quantify the emotional and social investment, but the personification and anthropomorphism of the Scandinavian Mesolithic dogs in death (e.g. Larsson 1990a) indicates an important significance.

Chapters 5 and 6 suggested that the nature of territorial regimes in pre-agricultural Scandinavia and Maghreb changed through time. Cemeteries (associated with individuals who exhibit a high level of violence) appear in the former during the Late Kongemose and last until the end of the Early Ertebølle (6500- 4350 cal BC) when they were replaced as markers by middens (5000-3800 cal BC) and a reduction in evidence for trauma. The two forms were seen as communicating claims in different ways: where cemeteries acted through the remains of those whom the contested resources nourished, middens focused on the resources themselves. It was suggested this had implications for the ability of controllers to ideologically legitimise their rights, as while individuals, lineages and residential groups could symbolise their entitlement at the former, the latter facilitated only group activities, most likely those of the base camps. Therefore, it was suggested there could have been a reduction through time in the range of possible controllers and controlled. The sequence of activities in the Maghreb was different. Ibéromaurusian cemeteries appeared at c.10,000 BC and are thought to last to until 8800 BC (Hachi 2006, Close 1980, Lubell 2001, et al. 1992), following which there was a hiatus. Although individuals associated with this tradition continued to be interred (e.g. Barton et al. 2008), the shift of coastal populations inland and the establishment of an inland settlement system by Typical Capsian (c. 8000-6200 BC) and other groups were processes associated with the creation of escargotières but no sites with large numbers of human remains (Balout 1954). However, from 6200 BC, cemeteries appeared once more (Rahmani 2004, Lubell 2001, Close 1980, 1984, Camps-Fabrer 1975), associated with the Upper Capsian and Columnatian. If it is possible to view the escargotières in a manner analogous to the Kongemose and Ertebølle middens – as territorial markers composed at least in part of the contested resources – then it could be suggested the Capsian witnessed an inversion of the Scandinavian trend.

Domestication has been envisaged as a social process that acts back on humans (Hodder 1990, Wilson 1988) and Bleed’s (2006) discussion of the significance of dogs in terms of ownership is intriguing. Although it is debateable whether ‘ownership’ and ‘property’ were Late Pleistocene developments, the way Mesolithic groups treated dogs in Scandinavia, together with, for example, the fish traps (Pedersen 1997) and evidence for violence (Chapter 5), suggests a pattern of ownership that is closer to exclusivity than in, for example, the Maghreb. Future excavations and/or reanalyses of museum collections of Ibéromaurusian and Capsian materials may change this understanding, but the evidence as it stands points (tentatively) towards a picture of territoriality in these two regions that was underpinned by different notions of property. 7.9. What made resources ‘restricted’? Saxe (1971:119) saw cemeteries as a context for control over “crucial but restricted resources”; Wendorf (1968:993) interpreted Site 117 (Nubia) as a response to population pressures caused by climatic deterioration and the effects this had on local game; and Pardoe (1998) correlated Australian Aboriginal disposal grounds with efforts to control stable resources along a river that provided the only reliable and predictable source of food in a region periodically afflicted by drought. It therefore seems contradictory that Chapters 5 and 6 should argue that the Mesolithic and Ibéromaurusian and Capsian cemeteries of Scandinavia and the Maghreb were situated in areas with verdant, diverse and predictable resources. Indeed, this seems to be the case for most hunter-gatherer graveyards (see above and table 7.07). Dyson-Hudson and Smith (1978:24) argued that territoriality is expected

There are some indications that territoriality within both regions was a response to ecological pressures. It is unclear what might have made the resources claimed by Ibéromaurusians ‘restricted’, but it was argued (Chapter 6) that the association of cemeteries with Upper, rather than Typical Capsian industries, might be significant. The 98

7. Territoriality: Discussion and Conclusions BC until the start of the Neolithic (see above and Chapter 5)3. There are problems with the representativeness of the radiocarbon database used in the study (Shennan and Edinborough 2007) and the possibility of taphonomic biases, but the technique was utilised for the Upper Palaeolithic (e.g. Gamble 2006) and received support (Gamble et al. 2005, and comments thereof). The Mesolithic tends to be juxtaposed to the Neolithic such that we don’t always examine internal changes apparent within the former, but if Shennan and Edinborough’s (2007) findings are reliable, they would suggest that increases in population levels were a challenge to which hunter-gatherer cultures were capable of adaptation without recourse to the adoption of alternative subsistence strategies. This is, however, only one possible interpretation for the shift from cemeteries to middens as territorial markers, and others were suggested in Chapter 5.

relationship between the two facies is considered to be one of chronology, in which technological innovations – the introduction of a pressure flaking technique – produced a shift from the Typical to Upper Capsian around 6200 cal BC (Rahmani 2004), a transition which Jackes and Lubell (2008) associate with climate change and a shift in fauna from larger to smaller, aridity adapted species. The vast majority of human remains are associated with the Upper Capsian, including all the cemeteries (Balout 1954). Although the act of burial is, first and foremost, a rite of passage, it is nevertheless interesting that Mechta el Arbi, Medjez II, Bekkaria, Aïn Keda and Site 12 were created after the shift to aridity and the alteration in the resource base. If game animals were important to Capsian subsistence activities, it is possible that with the increased aridity the fauna became ‘restricted’; or, perhaps, that the cemeteries were a territorial act directed against the changing environment (cf. Larson 2003).

Population pressure and climatic change have long and distinguished histories within ecologically deterministic literature. More research is required on the phase of aridity within Morocco and Algeria, and other evidence is required to substantiate Shennan and Edinborough’s (2007) findings in a way that address the potential biases inherent in the use of dates-as-data. Nevertheless, these are causes to which the ethnographic literature gives some credence in restricting resources to the point that territorial control becomes necessary and, at the least, they are avenues worthy of further investigation.

With regards to Scandinavia, the question of ‘restriction’ is less certain. Although environmental changes were documented within the Mesolithic (see discussions in Chapter 5), those considered as impacting subsistence activities (e.g. Rowley Conwy 1984, Kullman 1988, Berglund et al. 1991 etc.) tend to date to the MesolithicNeolithic transition, and are usually discussed in terms of the adoption of agriculture. Population pressure as a driver of the agricultural transition also has a venerable history in the study of the Neolithic revolution (PaludanMüller 2000 [1978], Meiklejohn 1978, Meiklejohn 1979, Meiklejohn et al. 1984, Deevey 1960; see also Price 2000), assuming that hunter-gatherers exceeded the carrying capacity of their land and, unable to maintain their population with existing subsistence practices and technology, were forced to adopt new strategies of production. Studies based on a range of evidence have failed to substantiate the model, and in fact suggest the demographic transition succeeded the adoption of farming (e.g. Berglund et al. 1991, Price and Gebauer 1992, Jackes et al. 2008, Bocquet-Appel 2002). However, recent projects (e.g. Gamble et al. 2005) have attempted to develop a methodology using dates-as-data (Shennan and Edinborough 2007) to examine population changes and have made some suggestive observations.

7.10. Some Conclusions: A Return to the SaxeGoldstein Hypothesis We have come a long way from the ideas of Saxe (1970) and Goldstein (1976), but how useful has their work been in our archaeological, hunter-gatherer context? If we return to their hypothesis, the former argued that: “To the degree that corporate group rights to use and/or control critical but restricted resources are attained and/or legitimised by means of lineal descent from the dead (i.e. lineal ties to ancestors), such groups will maintain formal disposal areas for the exclusive disposal of their dead, and conversely” (1970:119, my emphasis).

Using radiocarbon determinations on materials from 388 Danish sites dating from 7000 cal BC until the end of the Neolithic, Shennan and Edinborough (2007) produced two figures (Shennan and Ediborough 2007:1342 and 1343, figures 7.02 and 7.03 respectively) to represent population changes. The results (Shennan and Edinborough 2007:1344) confirm the above studies in depicting a significant population increase after the arrival of farming, but also suggest that Kongemose and Ertebølle population levels were variable: the model postulates a population increase from 6500 cal BC and a decrease after 5000 cal BC to a low at 4500 cal BC. These dates are interesting because they parallel the Scandinavian ‘cemetery tradition’: the cemeteries appear at 6500 cal BC and last until 4350 cal BC, but are replaced by middens as territorial markers from 5000 cal

Several years later Goldstein reformulated this as: A. “To the degree that corporate group rights to use and/or control crucial but restricted resources are attained and/or legitimised by lineal descent from the dead (i.e. lineal ties to ancestors), such groups will, by the popular religion and its ritualisation, regularly reaffirm the lineal corporate group 3 It is uncertain how Tauber’s calibration of some of the Mesolithic Scandinavian radiocarbon dates will affect this pattern (cf. Schulting pers comm; Chapter 5).

99

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead and its rights. One means of ritualisation is the maintenance of a permanent, specialized, bounded area for the exclusive disposal of their dead.

signpost indicating that “cemeteries may indicate territoriality”, and from there begin to ask questions relevant to the context under investigation, such as those addressed in this investigation.

B. If a permanent, specialised, bounded area for the exclusive disposal of the group’s dead exists, then it is likely that this represents a corporate group that has rights over the use and/or control of crucial but restricted resources. This corporate control is most likely to be attained and/or legitimised by means of lineal descent from the dead, either in terms of an actual lineage or in the form of a strong, established tradition of the critical resource passing from parent to offspring.

It is also worth considering the questions asked in Chapter 3 regarding the archaeological utility of Saxe (1970) and Goldstein’s (1976) ideas:

C. The more structured and more formal the disposal area, the fewer alternative explanations of social organisation apply, and conversely” (1981:60, my emphasis).

To answer these questions, I suggested (Chapter 3) it might be useful to consider the occupation debris associated with cemeteries to explore whether there was evidence for the following:

1.

2. 3.

1.

If we strip these models back (and focus on the italicised aspects) it can be seen that Saxe and Goldstein made significant observations. Cemeteries may act as a territorial marker, but they are not the only form of control, and their absence does not translate into the absence of control. Cemeteries are a material manifestation of a relationship between ‘controllers’ and ‘controlled’, but the means of legitimisation is the activities at the cemetery, not the cemetery itself; the cemetery is a visual, communicating marker of rights and claims. And finally, cemeteries link concepts of social memory, personhood, political control and territoriality. While these really were prescient ideas given the context in which they were developed, my impression is that by formalising Meggitt’s (1965a) ethnographic observations into a set of ‘laws’ using the standard academic language of processual archaeology too many avenues of investigation were shut down.

2. 3. 4.

Is it possible to demonstrate a link between ‘resources’ and ‘cemeteries’ based on the archaeological record generated by huntergatherers? Is it possible to recognise what ‘resources’ were controlled based on the archaeological record? How was the control over resources achieved, and can this behaviour be identified?

For long term and repeated occupation of the habitation site AND That the occupation and burial activities are contemporary AND For activities not associated with burial AND/OR For a considerable level of activity which cannot be accounted for in terms of behaviour related solely to funerary activities (e.g. feasting): a. Nature of the occupation of the site (sedentary, semi-sedentary, mobile; base camp or logistical locale) b. A level of food exploitation significantly higher than that expected for funerary feasting.

From the vantage point of a database and two case studies later, I think it fair to suggest it is possible to demonstrate a link between ‘occupation debris’ and ‘cemeteries’ based on the archaeological record generated by huntergatherers; that it is also possible to speculate as to what ‘resources’ were controlled; and that the way control was exercised can also be hypothesised. In the event, however, I encountered an issue with the above features. These criteria were useful in general for evaluating the relationship between funerary remains and habitation debris, but more as a pointer towards considering the occupation remains than as a checklist of features to be searched for. Indeed, contextual evidence regarding wider settlement-subsistence behaviour, for example, from faunal analyses of material at other sites, isotopic investigations, stylistic studies of stone tools, distributions of art and personal ornaments, patterns of dental ablation etc., were equally important in arguing that the cultural milieu of, for example, Ibéromaurusian Algeria and Morocco, could have supported territorial strategies. This contextual material, however, has the potential to take different forms in different areas, depending on the nature of the archaeological remains generated by past cultures, and the techniques and

The hypothesis is a tool, but not the question or the answer. It is a way of approaching the archaeological record in search of evidence for territorial behaviour, but alone it cannot conclusively demonstrate that territoriality was practiced by past peoples, and nor can it say how control was justified, what was controlled, or which ‘type’ of territorial system was deployed. It points to a variety of questions – who were the controllers and controlled, why was territoriality adopted as strategy of control, and was that control ‘successful’ – and it is a heuristic reminder that what we so often separate as different areas of social life (landscape, personhood, political control, ritual) were not separate for the people we study. However, it is the archaeologist who needs to mobilise all available lines of evidence from the funerary and habitation domain to address them. In this sense, the hypothesis has gone through enough iterations (Saxe 1970, Goldstein 1976, Charles and Buikstra 1983, etc.) without this study adding its own. Instead, I would like to suggest we take the Saxe-Goldstein hypothesis as a 100

7. Territoriality: Discussion and Conclusions concerns of the investigating scholars. Like the ‘hypothesis’, the features I defined closely skirt the abyss of ‘criteria’ and ‘traits’, and I think now we would do better to begin with a question, such as: is this culture a context in which we would expect to find territorial behaviour?

ƒ ƒ ƒ

As such, this study concludes the Saxe-Goldstein hypothesis is useful in archaeological investigations, but that ‘usefulness’ depends on the way we deploy it. If we consider the questions it raises, rather than relying on the ‘laws’ it proposes, it can aid us in our study of prehistoric patterns of land use, as well providing insights into the ritual and political behaviour of past cultures. My main disagreement with their work is the idea that the form of a graveyard indicates the territorial system in which it was situated; it was argued in Chapters 5 and 6 that it is not the cemetery, but the activities which take place within the cemetery that legitimise control. Territoriality is not a homogenous, monolithic form of behaviour; it is variable, not just between societies, but within them, too, and over time. To understand the ideological justification of control requires a holistic approach that recognises cultural concepts of power, identity, settlement patterns, ritual, property and memory are inherently and inextricably linked. It was suggested in the case studies that:

group who were involved in the construction of the middens. Thus, claims were at a group level. Access to resources may have focused on social rather than geographical boundary defence. Claims were advertised by the middens.

Ibéromaurusian and Capsian Maghreb: • Adopted a form of territorial control involving home ranges in which groups maintained territories but wherein ownership was not exclusive. • This was oriented around a settlement-subsistence system incorporating (multi-)seasonal base camps. • The social system did not involve recognised identities, thus control did not require ritual masters; legitimisation of resource claims were made in a more direct, explicit engagement with the past. • Access to resources may have involved a mixture of social boundary and spatial perimeter defence (cf. Cashdan 1983), with a focus on the former. • Claims were made at fewer levels, by collective (residential group, lineages, ethnic) entities but probably not on an individual level.

Mesolithic Scandinavia: • Saw a shift from a ‘cemetery-’ to a ‘midden-‘ tradition of control. o The cemetery tradition was associated with a geographically stable territorial regime (cf. Baker 2003) involving semi-sedentary base camps situated in logistical settlementsubsistence systems. ƒ Control was legitimised by ‘ritual masters’. ƒ This involved the existence of semiformalised, culturally recognised identities achieved by ability. ƒ Access to resources may have focused on spatial boundary defence, perhaps indicated archaeologically through evidence for violence. ƒ Claims were made at a number of levels (the lineage, residential group, clan/wider ethnic category), including the individual. ƒ There may have been circumscribed notions of property wherein many rights regarding resources were invested in fewer groups/individuals. ƒ Claims were advertised during funerary rituals. o The ‘midden-tradition’ of control also involved semi-sedentary base camps situated in logistical settlement-subsistence systems, but the form of control shifted. ƒ Claims were legitimised by the activities of all members of the social

Territoriality has become a concept archaeologists rarely address in a hunter-gatherer context, but (Chapter 2, 5, 6) there is both ethnographic and archaeological support for the existence of spatial strategies of control in nonagricultural societies. Archaeology has a great deal to offer this debate, not just in terms of answering questions other disciplines have posed, but through suggesting our own questions and avenues of enquiry. Arthur Saxe and Lynne Goldstein provided a novel way for us to achieve this, but to explore the potential of their hypothesis – particularly in a hunter-gatherer context – is not straightforward. Their theory was developed in a processual framework, and was articulated in the dominant terminology of the day (as a cross-cultural law), and yet it is inherently complex and encapsulates a social linkage between territoriality and cemeteries no other discipline has identified; as such, it is too valuable to leave mired in paradigmatic debates. The Saxe-Goldstein hypothesis isn’t perfect, but this study argues it is an important heuristic tool that can further our understanding of Late Pleistocene and Early Holocene behaviour.

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8. Appendix A: The Relationship between Cemeteries and Occupation Debris

materials for the manufacture of blades and flakes for skinning and butchering (Lindqvist and Possnert 1999).

Appendix A outlines the relationship between the high MNI sites (cemeteries) discussed in the case studies (Chapters 5, 6) and their occupation debris to determine whether the latter reflect areas of habitation whose activities cannot be explained solely as the result of funerary rituals. The criteria were outlined in the Methodology and are as follows:

d.i. Occupation of the cave seems to have been seasonal. The main grey seal hunting season was the winter or spring and ringed seals were hunted during the late summer and autumn. The salmon (and pike) were caught during the summer. Only a few bird and hare bones have been identified, but they indicate the trapping of migrating aquatic birds and hares in the late autumn, winter and spring (Lindqvist and Possnert 1999).

Is there evidence: a. For long term and repeated occupation of the habitation site AND b. That the occupation layer and burial activities are contemporary AND c. For activities not associated with burial AND/OR d. For a considerable level of activity which cannot be accounted for in terms of behaviour related solely to funerary activities: i. Nature of occupation (seasonal vs. permanent); ii. A level of food exploitation significantly higher than that expected for funerary feasting.

d.ii. The ca. 120cm thick ash layer, which included enormous quantities of bone (nearly 16,000 identified bones of seal, fish, and birds) as well as numerous flints and some stone axes, indicate that Stora Förvar was not merely a hunting station of short duration. The activities – which included the extraction of seal meat, blubber and skins; fishing and catching birds; gathering hazelnuts and other plant foods; tending fires for cooking and heating; preparing stone, bone and wooden tools; scraping hides and building boats – cannot be explained as a result of funerary activities (Lindqvist and Possnert 1999). References: Lindqvist and Possnert 1999

8.1 Scandinavian Cemeteries (Chapter 5)

Vedbæk-Gøngehusvej 7, Kongemose, Denmark

Stora Förvar, Maglemose, Sweden

a. The extent of Vedbæk-Gøngehusvej 7 is unclear as only 100m2 were exposed (without reaching the limits of the site) as part of rescue investigations concentrated on an undisturbed culture horizon situated two meters below the surface. However, Mesolithic material was found in at least two levels, there is evidence for structures such as pits and a possible house, and the site, in all likelihood, extended further beyond what has been found. Based on the published reports it seems reasonable to suggest it was a repeatedly occupied site (Brinch Petersen and Meiklejohn 2003).

a. There is good evidence for long term and repeated occupation of the cave. The culture layer in the inner area was composed largely of ashes due to the continuous existence of a hearth. As this layer was 1.2m deep it is unlikely to have accumulated as the result of temporary visits. These layers contained enormous quantities of seal, bird and fish bones which not only point to plentiful resources but also suggest that skins, meat and fat were processed beside the hearth along with the production of stone tools (Lindqvist and Possnert 1999). b. The human remains and occupation layers are contemporary: as Lindqvist and Possnert (1999:82) note, the “human bones, including fire-damaged cranial bones, crushed cranial bones and a frontal bone with cut marks … have been identified among seal bones, flints, stone axes and ashes …” c. Few terrestrial species are represented in the faunal remains at Stora Förvar and 99% were composed of marine material dominated by the bones of seal (Lindqvist and Possnert 1999:68). This focus on marine hunting is further emphasised by the lithic technology. The almost total lack of formal geometric microlithic tools and microblade cores, which are typical forms in the material culture on the mainland, is probably a reflection of the economic activities undertaken at the cave. There are only two examples of the bird arrow heads so common in the Maglemose of the mainland, and they are both made of ‘imported’ flint. The remainder comprise, for the most part, items made on local, low quality

b. There is good evidence that the human remains were associated with the occupation layers. The group inhumation (grave CÆ) of an adult female and a child derive from a later layer than that which produced most of the evidence for the Mesolithic settlement. It dates either to the late Kongemose or Ertebølle and although it was mechanically removed (as a result of time constraints imposed by the rescue excavation) there was evidence for occupation debris with which the burial seems to have been associated. The remaining burials and cremations derive from a lower (Kongemose) level (which produced the bulk of habitation evidence) and the stratigraphy and radiocarbon dates show an association (Brinch Petersen and Meiklejohn 2003). c. Excavations at Vedbæk-Gøngehusvej 7 have produced evidence for a settlement. Lithic scatters across the site were composed primarily of débitage from the production of core axes, although refitting activities suggest there were different functional areas. A possible hut, indicated by several stake holes, was found in the northern part of the excavation. A simple hearth of a few cooking stones

8. Appendix A: The Relationship between Cemeteries and Occupation Debris implements suggest special weapons suitable for spearing flatfish and large quantities of fish bones from small species suggest fishing in shallow water. There are objects made of antler, therefore, the forest environment provided not only food but also the raw materials for every day life. During the Ertebølle there is evidence for structural remains: two contemporary huts and a long house. The long house was 15m long and 6m wide. The floors have produced a large and varied Ertebølle stone tool assemblages. All of this shows activities connected with the practice of every day living (Karsten and Knarrström 2001, Ahlström 2003).

was found at the centre of the structure, and just north of the hearth a flaking area for a greenstone axe was identified. A concentration of arrowheads was also found in the hut, along with several elements which, when refitted, resemble “side-blow blade-flakes”. Outside the hut was found a concentration of greenstone flakes with a grindstone. There are charcoal patches and cooking stones, pits containing bones (mostly of fish) and a small hoard of a dozen flint blades (Brinch Petersen and Meiklejohn 2003). d.i. Vedbæk-Gøngehusvej 7 was interpreted as a seasonally occupied settlement, from which late summer and early autumn herring fishing could be undertaken (Brinch Petersen and Meiklejohn 2003, Brinch Petersen et al. 1993).

d.i. The site was interpreted by Karsten and Knarrström (2001) as the central site in the Såxa fjord during the Kongemose and Ertebølle, and although it is unlikely to have been permanently occupied, there does seem to be a trend through time for a decreasingly mobile lifestyle. For example, the 2.2 tons of flint show that while the Kongemose was dominated by blades of high quality (in terms of raw material and craftsmanship), the time consuming elements were replaced in the Ertebølle by an improved efficiency devoted to the ‘mass production’ of more basic tools (on a lower quality flint). During the Ertebølle the faunal material shows a shift in economic strategies towards the broader exploitation of a greater number of economic niches alongside technological developments (including changes in fishing which increased the size of a single catch). The Ertebølle settlement was also much larger than that of the Kongemose (Karsten and Knarrström 2001).

References: Brinch Petersen and Meiklejohn 2003, Brinch Petersen et al. 1993. Tågerup, Kongemose and Ertebølle, Sweden a. There is good evidence for long term and repeated occupation of the site in the form of stratigraphy and radiocarbon dates. There are a few scattered finds of tanged points, cores and microliths suggesting occasional visits by Early Mesolithic hunter-gatherers, but radiocarbon dates and the stratigraphy suggests Tågerup was mainly occupied from 6500-5000 cal BC. This long occupation gave rise to one of the largest Stone Age settlements in Scania, with an area of approximately 900 by 500m (Karsten and Knarrström 2001; Ahlström 2003).

d.ii. The level of food exploitation was significantly higher than that which can be expected for funerary activities (Karsten and Knarrström 2001).

b. The relationship between the burials and settlement changed over time: those dating to the Kongemose were spatially separate from (although associated and contemporary with) the area of habitation, while the Ertebølle burials were found within the settlement. Cremated human bones were also discovered in the refuse layers adjacent to the occupation zone, and other skeletal components (bone scatter) were found in the occupation layers. Therefore, there seems to be a good association between the human remains and the settlement (Karsten and Knarrström 2001).

References: Karsten and Knarrström (2001), Ahlström (2003). Dyrholmen, Ertebølle, Denmark a. The remains at Dyrholmen were interpreted as representing at least three zones based on differences in the lithics and the presence/absence of bones and antler tools. Mathiasen et al. (1942) suggested that the zones correspond to three different Ertebølle stages. If correct this would imply repeated use of the site over a period of time

c. The activities at the site correspond to those found at other settlements (base camps) with no human remains. Around 8500 years ago, the moraine hillock was reached by the rising sea, which followed the present river valley depressions, thus creating a narrow fjord. Freshwater streams mixed with salt water, creating optimal environmental conditions for many different species of plants, molluscs and animals. There is evidence for the exploitation of these zones in the form of fresh- and saltwater fish, grey seal and otter. The remains of red deer, elk and wild boar show the exploitation of the nearby sparse forest. The former sea floor adjacent to the Kongemose settlement yielded the remains of a complex configuration of wooden stakes and poles which formed abutments for jetties and moorings for boats. Thirteen osier baskets and a large V-shaped fish trap may have been put out at night to collect fish. Two wooden

b. The occupation layers are almost certainly contemporary with the ‘funerary’ [post-mortem] activities because the human remains were identified among the recovered faunal bones (Mathiasen et al. 1942). c. The site was interpreted as a settlement based on the presence of lithics, faunal material and hearths. The animal remains show the hunting of a range of species, including beaver, wild cat, red and roe deer, wild boar and dolphin; the catching of birds, and fishing. The tools indicate the working of bone, antler and wood, as well as flint (Mathiasen et al. 1942).

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Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead Skateholm II was the older site, dating to the late part of the Kongemose and the early Ertebølle. Skateholm I is slightly younger and dates to the middle part of the Ertebølle. Therefore, the radiocarbon dates and limited stratigraphy suggest that both were used repeatedly over a considerable period of time.

d. It is difficult to evaluate the nature of the occupation of the site any further based on the published material. References: Mathiasen et al. 1942, S. H. Andersen 2000. Korsør Nor, Ertebølle, Denmark

b. Analysis of the stratigraphy and radiocarbon dates, together with a typological study of the stone tools found in the graves and the occupation debris, demonstrates the two were contemporary (Larsson 1984). At Skateholm I the radiocarbon dates suggest that the graves are older than the occupation debris, but analyses of the material, apart from being few in number, were all taken from a limited area before the extent of the settlement was recognised; therefore, they cannot be seen as representative of the site as a whole. The stratigraphic observations are important in this context. Ten graves were found beneath the occupation debris – showing that they were older than the settlement. In other graves where no evidence for an occupation layer was found, the composition of the infill suggests there was once an occupation layer which may have been contemporary with the graves. Finally, a study of the typology of various forms of transverse arrowheads found in the burials and the occupation layers would suggest that there was an association between the two. It therefore seems there was some temporal overlap between the graves and settlement (Larsson 1984). At Skateholm II there are very few radiocarbon dates. None of the graves are associated with the occupation layer, but this may reflect the higher rates of erosion observed at the top of the rise where they were found. Finds in the grave infill, however, together with the nature and typology of the stone tools imply a degree of correlativity between the inhumations and settlement (Larsson 1984).

Korsør Nor is a submerged Ertebølle site discovered during the construction of a harbour; unfortunately it is not possible to evaluate the relationship of the human remains to the occupation debris. The finds were collected by workmen while specialists from the National Museum carried out only summary inspection, therefore stratigraphic details are sparse. Excavations found the remains of an intact grave along with scattered material from eight other people. Flint and bone tools, decorated antler tools and some faunal bones were also found, but most of the occupation layers were washed out. Schilling (1997) argued that many of the finds were found over the whole area (240 by 40m) dug for the harbour, albeit with a slight concentration in the middle. He believes that the position of Korsør Nor on the eastern side of a headland by the entrance to the cove was intentional. Based on the limited finds and new investigations, he interpreted the site as a base camp and the central site of the Halsskov fjord. Recent surveys in the fjord found evidence for 14 more sites around the inlet which include a landing place at Horsekær and activity sites linked to fishing weirs at Halsskovholm, Næs and Kragepuller. The position of the site allowed the placement of fishing structures in waters sheltered from strong winds. The size of the inlet also meant that great numbers of eels, cod and flatfish, etc. passed through this bottleneck in different seasons; therefore, it was an unusually attractive fishing place for most of the year. Furthermore, with the use of boats the people at the base camps could easily have exploited a radius of about 4km, and the land and sea within this catchment could have supported a large population (Fischer 1997).

c. As Jonsson (1988:77) notes, the size, structure and settlement remains at Skateholm II and I strongly indicate that the prehistoric inhabitants made a conscious and strategic choice of location. The factors important to them involved the exploitation of the maximum number of biotopes so as to minimise periods of shortage and the level of effort, and to have a protected dwelling place. The location by the coastal lagoon was the best theoretical way to meet such demands. Within only a few kilometres one could find the sea, the coastal strip, the lagoon with its different beaches, the streams and wetlands and the different types of deciduous forests. Slightly further away were lakes and pine woods (Gaillard et al. 1988). Eighty-seven species of mammal, fish and fowl bones were identified which testify to the exploitation of these biotopes. There is evidence for hunting to acquire food, fat and blubber as well as raw materials (such as bone and antler for tools and teeth for ornaments, etc.). The relatively high frequency of bones of furry animals, such as otter, marten, wild cat and beaver suggests demand for fur and pelts was high. The presence of small fish species, such as roach, herring and eel, strongly indicate the extensive deployment of stationary equipment in the form of wicker work traps and/or nets. Use-wear analysis of the stone tools shows

References: Schilling 1997, Fisher 1997 Skateholm II and Skateholm I, Ertebølle, Sweden a. Because the area of investigation around Skateholm I and II was exposed to agriculture for several thousand years and also to erosion as a result of changes in sea levels, the remains of the settlement have been subject to a great deal of destruction. Nevertheless, both seem to have been the largest locales in the area: at least ten other Late Mesolithic places were situated around the ancient lagoon, although they were much smaller and were interpreted as short term camps (Larsson 1988b). The occupation layers were, in some places, up to 1m thick. The oldest remains were situated at the foot of the slope and most recent higher up. More than 200 ‘constructions’ (other than burials) of varying size and form were discovered as well as 130m2 of the occupation layer. Based on the radiocarbon dates and a typological analysis of the stone tools (Larsson 1989a:369), 104

8. Appendix A: The Relationship between Cemeteries and Occupation Debris red and roe deer, common porpoise, and a large number of bird bones (of red- or black-throated diver, cormorant, eider duck and buzzard) were also found (Albrethsen and Brinch Petersen 1976). However, the settlement area has not been investigated or published to the same level of detail as the graveyard. While the evidence seems to point to a settlement area, it is difficult to evaluate the relationship with the cemetery.

evidence for bone working, wood working, flesh- and hide-working, and hafting. Furthermore, there was evidence for constructions such as pits, and one (at Skateholm I) which was interpreted as a house (Larsson 1988a, b). d.i. Skateholm II and I were seasonally occupied. Jonsson (1988) studied the animal bones of grey seal, wild boar, red deer, and roe deer, fish and birds from Skateholm I and argued that they demonstrated permanent occupation. However, Rowley-Conwy (1998) disagreed and based on his study of roe deer, wild boar and pig bones argued the site was seasonally occupied, primarily during the winter. Regardless of which interpretation one follows, the two cemeteries remain base camps whose occupation debris reflect habitation activities.

References: Albrethsen and Brinch Petersen 1976. 8.2. Maghreb Cemeteries (Chapter 6) Afalou bou Rhummel, Ibéromaurusian, Algeria a. Arambourg (et al. 1934) discovered 51 individuals from Level I (MNI = 48) and Level II (MNI = 2) at Afalou bou Rhummel during excavations between 1928 and 1931. At the time of investigation the ground of the cave formed a convex surface whose highest point corresponded to the axis of the chimney of the vault. Many flints, marine shells and fragments of bone covered the surface, on the slopes of which could be distinguished the remains of several hearths. The stratigraphy as presented by Arambourg et al. (1934) is outlined in table 8.01.

d.ii. The level of food exploitation at the sites cannot be accounted for in terms of behaviour related solely to funerary activities (Larsson 1988b). References: Larsson 1984, Larsson 1988a, Larsson 1988b, Larsson 1989a, Larsson 1989b, Larsson 1993, Rowley-Conwy 1998, Gaillard et al. 1988 Strøby Egede, Ertebølle, Denmark

Silmane Hachi excavated at Afalou bou Rhummel from 1983-1993 and discovered two further burials: Burial C (MNI = 8) in Level IV and Burial D (MNI = 2). Hachi et al. (2002) identified the layers summarised in table 8.02.

Brinch Petersen (1987:14) writes that the site, now a “garden among other gardens” was once a Mesolithic coastal habitation on the right bank of the estuary of the small river, Tryggevælde. However, most of the known material from the settlement dates to around 4200 BC while the eight individuals in the primary group synchronous inhumation date to 4700 BC (Brinch Petersen 1990). It is possible that earlier levels at the Mesolithic coastal site were associated with the group inhumation, but based on present evidence this remains uncertain.

The various levels were described by Hachi et al. (2002) and Arambourg et al. (1934) as containing, in addition to the human remains, various quantities of Ibéromaurusian lithics, bone tools, zoomorphic and anthropomorphic figurines, ochre and faunal bones. Several hearths were also found. The available radiocarbon dates range between 9,000 BC and 13,000 BC (Hachi et al. 2002); burials D and E were found in lower levels, suggesting a greater antiquity. The stratigraphy and radiocarbon dates therefore suggest the cave was repeatedly used and returned to over a long period of time.

References: Brinch Petersen 1990 Vedbæk-Bøgebakken, Ertebølle, Denmark Frequent comments in published papers have been made to the effect that the archaeological remains at VedbækBøgebakken show a link between the settlement and graveyard, but it is difficult to evaluate this based on the available literature. The site was investigated several times before the discovery of the cemetery (during rescue investigations), including by G. Hatt in 1924, A. Avnholt in 1937 and G. Kunwald in 1939, all of whom found Mesolithic artefacts. Radiocarbon analysis of the material found by Hatt suggests a date of around 4100 BC. Excavations found evidence for core-axes and transverse arrowheads, a large number of axes of greenstone and grinding stones, harpoons made from roe deer antler, and slotted bone points. Improved excavation techniques utilised in later investigations (by Brinch Petersen) produced a faunal material rich in fish – indeed, three square meters produced an average of 10,000 specimens of at least ten species. Mammalian remains included those of hedgehog, beaver, pine marten, seal, wild pig,

b. According to the stratigraphy outlined above and descriptions in Hachi (2006), et al. (2002) and Arambourg et al. (1934) it seems reasonable to suggest the funerary activities at the site were contemporary with its use for habitation. c. and d. The faunal remains were not quantified or statistically analysed so it is difficult to know if they could be explained solely as the result of funerary feasting. The lithics are not abundant but are present in layers in which burials were and were not found, which would suggest they cannot all be explained in connection with the inhumations alone. The presence of zoomorphic and anthropomorphic figurines does not seem related to the human remains (given they are virtually unique for the Ibéromaurusian). It seems reasonable therefore to

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Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead 0-0.5m 0.54.4m

4.4-5m ??55.4m ??5.46m

Level I

Level II Level III

Layer contained evidence for recent occupation Uniform grey ash and angular stones characterise the layer; no evidence for mixing or disturbance; contained Ibéromaurusian lithics but the industry was poor in quantity and together with bone items (including several needles) amounted to only 263 items from 4m3; faunal remains were dominated by marine shells (Mytilus, Patella, Trochus) and also some Helix shells; at a depth of 3m was found a large hearth (consisting of ashes and stones) and many moufflon bones; immediately below the hearth at a depth of 3.5-4m was found burial A. Layer was yellow-reddish in colour and contained ashes and angular stones; faunal debris similar to that of Level I but contained a higher proportion of Moufflon; lithic industry similar to that of Level I (72 tools from 8m3). Sterile layer of compact clay. Reddish-coloured compact layer which contained lithic tools similar in character to Layers I and II but greater in abundance (242 tools from 14m3) and in the higher part, at a depth of 5m, was found burial B (an adult and child).

Table 8.01: Stratigraphic profile of Afalou bou Rhummel, as described by Arambourg (et al. 1934). b. It is unclear whether the burials are contemporary with the evidence for habitation. There is little published information regarding the stratigraphic location of the human remains, and according to Roche (1976) the position was not secure because the burials had disturbed the layers to a large extent. He suggests, however, that the radiocarbon dates indicate the necropolis was contemporary with the end of the Ibéromaurusian occupation. The human remains were found in a broad semi-circular room (in the north-western area of the cave) which has not yielded evidence for Ibéromaurusian occupation; therefore there may have been a spatial divide between the burials and settlement area.

suggest that the diversity of finds cannot be accounted for in terms of funerary rituals. References: Arambourg et al. 1934, Briggs 1955, Hachi 1996, Hachi 2006, Hachi et al. 2002. Grotte de Pigeons, Taforalt, Ibéromaurusian, Morocco a. Grotte des Pigeons, Taforalt, is situated c. 55km northwest of Oujda, in Eastern Morocco, at an altitude of 750m in the mountainous massif of Beni Snassen. It is a large, east-facing cave with the shape of an arch; it is 32m deep, 30m wide and the vault rises to 15m above the filling. It is near the entry to the Zegzel valley and close to both the coastal plains and steppes of the Hauts Plateaux. According to Roche (1972b) the large size of the cave, good light, proximity to food resources, easy defence and good views of the surrounding area would have made it especially favourable for habitation. In addition, the cave is close to Aïn Taforalt, a spring which is reported to never dry up; and the cave is also positioned on the crossing of two natural routes of communication in an east-west, and a north-south direction. Roche discovered a series of archaeological deposits dating to the Mousterian, Aterian and Ibéromaurusian, the latter of which was associated with two necropoles. The most recent campaign of excavations, undertaken by Barton et al. (2006) have also discovered human remains but they are not included in this study. The Ibéromaurusian burials are thought to be contemporary with the end in habitation of the cave (Roche 1959).

c./d. The archaeological remains provided evidence for the production and use of stone tools, hunting and gathering, leather working and (possibly) the production of art. The spatial separation of the burials and occupation debris and (tentative) indications of a high level of food exploitation make it unlikely that the cave was utilised solely for funerary rituals (Roche 1963:1524). References: Bonfiglioli et al. 2004, Mariotti et al. 2004, Coon 1964, Barton et al. 2007, Hachi 2006, Bruzek et al. 2004, Roche 1972b. Columnata, Ibéromaurusian and Columnatian, Algeria a. This north-facing collapsed rock shelter was excavated several times under the direction of both Cadenat (19371962) and Brahimi (1969-1971). Four levels were identified at Columnata: Ibéromaurusian, Columnatian, Upper Capsian and Neolithic. According to Cadenat (1955) the lower, Ibéromaurusian layer, lay on the original ground and, in some places, reached a thickness of nearly a meter. The Ibéromaurusian levels exist in a complex stratigraphic sequence with the Columnatian which is lateral rather than vertical. While the Columnatian strata are, in places, superimposed on the Ibéromaurusian, for the most part they exist next to it. Radiocarbon analysis on materials found in the Ibéromaurusian and Columnatian levels suggest that the former dates to 8800 BC and the latter to 6200 BC. This stratigraphy is partly related to the areas of the shelter used by different groups and the clearing activities of later occupants. Brahimi’s (1972) analysis confirmed

The archaeological deposits were ashy, with an abundance of fire-cracked rock, land snail shells and bone fragments. The stratigraphic layers were sometimes difficult to establish and were only readily readable when freshly cut. However, Roche (1953, 1972b) overcame these problems through the use of slightly oblique cuts and photographic filters and identified the layers presented in table 8.03. Although there has been some debate over whether Taforalt was permanently (Ferembach et al. 1962) or seasonally (Mariotti et al. 2004) occupied, it seems certain there is evidence for long term and repeated occupation (Roche 1953a, Roche 1953b, Roche 1972b).

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8. Appendix A: The Relationship between Cemeteries and Occupation Debris The higher formation, Levels X-I Higher subset, Levels IV-I Lower subset, Levels X-V The Lower formation, Layers XI–XIII

Arambourg’s Level I Arambourg’s Level III

This formation consists of a series of layers and is distinguished from the earlier (lower) formation by the comparative wealth of anthropic artefacts. Levels V and VI contained Burial C. Levels X contained Burials D and E. An argillaceous lower base which rests on the rock substrate (not yet reached) that contained a bone and lithic industry on black flint.

Table 8.02: Stratigraphic profile of Afalou bou Rhummel, as described by Hachi (et al. 2002). are indications that all parts of the skeleton (of a huge range of species) were present, the numerical relationship between various components points to an intentional selection of parts that were transported to the escargotière for consumption. There are also signs of intensive processing of the remains, as it is commented that the long bones were always broken, suggesting the extraction of marrow (Bouchud 1975). As with the tools, the quantity of material is such that interpretation as the remains of feasting activities associated with the burials seems unlikely. A more detailed analysis is required, but based on the detailed publication report it seems reasonable to suggest that Medjez II was a base camp.

speculations earlier made by Cadenat (1955) that the later inhabitants cleared out the Ibéromaurusian deposits down slope. Therefore it is clear that some of the older deposits are not in situ. Furthermore, Biraben (1969) commented that only 2/5ths of the deposits were excavated by Cadenat, and even taking into account the excavations under the direction of Brahimi, it seems possible that the cave contains human remains which have yet to be excavated. b. According to Cadenat (1955, 1957) the relationship between burials and habitation changed over time, with a shift from a spatial separation of the living and the dead during the Ibéromaurusian to an association in the Columnatian. Nevertheless, he also suggests that during both periods the rock shelter was utilised for occupation and funerary rituals at the same time.

References: Camps-Fabrer 1975, Bouchud 1975 Site 12, Upper Capsian, Algeria

b. Camps-Fabrer (1975) was meticulous in her method of excavation and there is precise information recording the depth at which the human remains she discovered were found. All were found in levels associated with occupation debris.

a. Alonzo Pond and his team conducted research in the region around Canrobert (Oum el Bouaghi) and mapped a large number of open air, cave and rock shelters. Site 12 (Aïoune Beriche) was chosen for excavation as it was the largest escargotière identified in the area. To my knowledge the only detailed publication on this site (Haverkort and Lubell 1999) is concerned with the skeletal remains and there is little available information about the habitation debris. However, based on this and other locales (including Mechta el Arbi) Pond (1938:109) defined an escargotière as “a group of refuse heaps welded into a single mound by centuries of wind and rain. It is composed of snail shells, camp fire ashes, hearth stones, animal bones and tools of bone and flint. It often contains human skeletons. Many present saucer shaped depressions and hard-packed areas which seem to have been habitation floors. On many of these ‘floors’ hearths or fire places, areas of burned stone, and deep beds of ashes are found. They are always located close to the banks of a lake or watercourse either modern or ancient. They generally are homogenous in culture from top to bottom …” It would therefore seem reasonable to assume that Site 12, in being the largest example of the region, contained all of these archaeological remains in addition to the skeletal material.

c./d. There is evidence for activities not associated with the funerary rituals. For example, the quantity of debris from working stone and bone testifies to the manufacture of tools in excess of what we might reasonably consider as associated with mortuary rites. The faunal material was not analysed in detail (Bouchud 1975), but while there

b. Analysis of the lithics from Site 12 by Sheppard (1987) led to the identification of a technological transition in the deposits which, on the basis of two radiocarbon analyses, was placed at around 6000 BC. Unfortunately there is little published information regarding the stratigraphic position of the burials, so it is not possible to correlate

c./d. Given the range and quantity of faunal material and archaeological artefacts it seems unlikely that they can be understood as the remains of activities associated with funerary rituals. It seems more likely that Columnata was utilised for habitation as well as burial. References: Cadenat 1948, 1955, 1957, 1966, 1970; Biraben 1969 Medjez II, Upper Capsian, Algeria a. The Medjez II escagotière measured 100 by 40m and was 3.65m deep. No differences in the stratigraphy were identified, and Camps-Fabrer excavated in levels of a depth of around 0.25m. All yielded abundant evidence for lithics and bone tools and debris, along with some faunal remains, personal ornaments and ochre. This would seem to represent evidence for a long term and repeated occupation of the locale (Camps-Fabrer 1975).

107

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

LEVEL A LEVEL B LEVEL C

LEVEL D

9

LEVEL E LEVEL F LEVEL G LEVEL H

Ground surface, 0.1m thick. Brittle surface, rich in snail shells, animal bones, carbonised stones and traces of hearths, 0.7-1.85m thick. Ibéromaurusian; the ossuary of ten children + ? the main necropole(s). Traces of hearths at the top of the 0.3m thick layer. Brittle ground, 0.15-1.7m thick. Ibéromaurusian; burial of two complete adults. Stony layer with traces of hearths at the top, 0.1-1m thick. Brittle ground tilted toward the entry of the cave, 0.4-0.75m thick. Ibéromaurusian. Stony layer, 0.15-0.5m thick. A sandy layer comprising: a. an industry similar to that of Level C on the surface. b. near the entrance, Aterian. c. at the base of the cave a series of three superimposed layers:

Identified at the entrance to the cave.

Table 8.03: Stratigraphic profile of Taforalt, as described by Roche (1953; 1972b). greater than would be expected had it been associated only with funerary rituals.

them with the facies Sheppard identified; however a hand drawn profile published in Haverkort and Lubell (1999) suggests that the remains were found in different levels, and it is likely that they represent an activity associated with the habitation debris that was conducted over a long period of time.

References: Mercier 1907, Debruge 1923-1924, Pond 1928. Aïn Keda, Upper Capsian, Algeria

c./d. To my knowledge there is little published information about the archaeological material from Site 12, but Haverkort and Lubell (1999:161) suggested that it was a locale (perhaps a base camp) that was seasonally occupied during the summer months.

a. The rock shelter of Aïn Keda is located in an EastWest cliff that forms part of the Djebel Ghezoul, close to the source of the Aïn Keda spring. Several other shelters are present in the cliff face. Aïn Keda is 4.8m wide at the opening and 2.25m deep, and dominates the valley. It opens to the east and is not only sheltered from northerly and westerly winds but receives much of morning sunlight. Layer A yielded the sparse remains of a Neolithic industry, but Layer B – in which the human material was found – was more abundant, and includes a lithic industry made on high quality flint, numerous bone tools, ochre, lead ores, personal ornaments and a few faunal remains. The human remains were found at different levels (Group 1 at a depth of 80-90cm; Group 2 at 90-95cm depth and Group 3 at a depth of 3-4m) and it is likely that the rock shelter was returned to over a period of time.

References: Haverkort and Lubell 1999, Sheppard 1987 Mechta el-Arbi, Upper Capsian, Algeria a. Mechta el-Arbi is situated on the plain of Chateaudun du Rhummel (Wilaya de Mila) in the vicinity of at least four other escargotières (Debruge 1923-1924). At the time of discovery it was 90 by 50m, but excavations found that the deposits extended in both directions beneath the soil surface; therefore, it was probably originally 125 by 75/80m, thus making it one of the largest known examples. According to Pond (1928) the escargotière shows no evidence of internal stratification and a study of materials from arbitrary ‘levels’ found no difference in technique, quality of workmanship or types of implements. However, given the size and quantity of the remains it seems reasonable to assume this locale was repeatedly occupied over a long span of time.

b. According to the publication report the human remains were associated with the archaeological material of Layer B. c./d. The variety of material found at the site is not consistent with interpretation of use only for funerary activities. It seems likely that this locale was a place of habitation in which the remains of certain individuals were interred.

b. The available literature outlining the archaeological context of the finds (Mercier 1907, Debruge 1923-1924) describe the human remains as found at different depths and locations in, and associated with, the occupation debris.

References: Bayle des Hermens 1955, Camps 1974; Haverkort and Lubell 1999.

c./d. Unfortunately there have not, to my knowledge, been any detailed analyses of the lithics or faunal remains. However, the variety of material point to the transport of faunal remains to the site for consumption, procurement of raw materials (bone, stone, ochre, etc.) and production of tools, etc. The quantity also seems

108

9. Appendix B: Problematic Cemeteries in the Maghreb 9.1 Table comparing which individuals discovered at Columnata were reported in which papers.

Period

Individual Number

Ibéromaurusian

H 01/a

Ibéromaurusian

H 01/b

Ibéromaurusian

H 02/a

Ibéromaurusian

H 02/b

Ibéromaurusian

H 02/bulk

Columnatian

H 03/a

Columnatian

H 03/b

Columnatian

H 03/c

Columnatian

H 04/a

Columnatian

H 04/b

Columnatian

H 04/b’

Columnatian Columnatian Columnatian

H 04/bulk-1 H 04/bulk-2 H 04/bulk-3

Columnatian

H 04/bulk-4

Columnatian

H 04/c

Columnatian Columnatian

H 04/d H 04/e

Columnatian

H 04/e-1

Columnatian

H 04/e-2

Columnatian Columnatian Columnatian

H 04/e-3 H 04/f-1 H 04/f-2

Columnatian

H 04/f-3

Columnatian

H 05, H 6/a

Columnatian

Columnatian Columnatian Columnatian Columnatian Columnatian

H 05, H 6/b H 05, H 6/bulk-1 H 05, H 6/bulk-2 H 05, H 6/c H 05, H 6/d H 05, H 6/e H 05, H 6/f H 05, H 6/g

Columnatian

H 07

Columnatian

H 08/a

Columnatian Columnatian

Age Adolescent, c.15-18 yrs Child, c.6-8 yrs Indeterminate Adult Adult, c.3040 yrs Indeterminate Adult Adult, c.2030 years Child Indeterminate Adult Adult, c.20 yrs Adult, c.2030 yrs Child, c.2-5 yrs Adult Adult Adult Child, less than 6 months Adult, c.4050 yrs Child Child, c.6 yrs Child, less than 6 months Child, less than 6 months Child, c.6 yrs Adult Adult Child, less than 6 months Adult, c.2030 yrs Adult

Maitre 1965

Chamla et al. 1970

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Male

Yes

Yes

?Male

Yes

Yes

Male

Yes

Yes

Male

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Male

Yes

Yes

Male

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Male Male Female

Yes

Yes Yes Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

?Female

Yes

Yes

Unknown Unknown

Yes Yes

Yes Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown Male Female

Yes Yes

Yes Yes Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Sex

Cadenat 1955

Cadenat 1957

Male

Yes

Yes

Yes

Female

Yes

Yes

Yes

Adult

Male

Yes

Yes

Adult

Female

Yes

Yes

Adult Adult Foetus Adult Adult Child, c.6-8 yrs Adult, c.2030 yrs

Female Unknown Unknown Male Female

Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes

Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Female

Yes

Yes

Comment

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead Columnatian Columnatian

H 08/b H 08/c

Columnatian

H 09

Columnatian

H 10/a

Columnatian

H 10/b

Ibéromaurusian

H 11/a

Ibéromaurusian

H 11/b

Ibéromaurusian

H 11/c

Ibéromaurusian

H 12

Ibéromaurusian

H 13

Columnatian

H 14

Columnatian

H 15

Columnatian

H 16/a

Columnatian

H 16/b

Columnatian

H 16/c

Columnatian

H 17

Columnatian

H 18/a

Columnatian

H 18/b

Columnatian

H 19/a

Columnatian

19/b

Columnatian

H 20

Columnatian

H 21

Columnatian

H 22

Uncertain

H 23

Uncertain

Adult Child Child, c.2-5 yrs Adult, c.2030 yrs Child, c.6-10 yrs Adult Foetus/ Newborn Adult Child, c.8-10 yrs Adolescent Child, c.18 months – 2 yrs Adult Newborn Child Child, c.5 yrs Child, c.10 yrs Newborn Child Newborn Child Child, c.4-5 yrs Child, c.2 months Child, c.2 yrs Child, few months Child, c.8-10 yrs Adult, c.20 yrs

Male Unknown

Yes

Yes Yes

Yes Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Yes

Male

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Female

Yes

Yes

Yes

Unknown Male

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Unknown Unknown

Yes

Unknown Unknown

Yes

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Yes

?Female

Yes

Yes

Yes

Adult

Unknown

Yes

Yes

(Yes)

H 24

Unknown

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Ibéromaurusian Ibéromaurusian

H 25 H 26

Adult Adult

Male Female

Yes Yes

Yes Yes

Yes Yes

Ibéromaurusian

H 27

Adult

Unknown

Yes

Yes

(Yes)

Ibéromaurusian

H 28

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Yes

Columnatian

H 30

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Columnatian

H 31

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Columnatian

H 32/a

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Columnatian

H 32/b

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Columnatian

H 33/a

Female

Yes

Yes

Columnatian Columnatian Columnatian

H 33/b H 33/c H 34

Adolescent Child, c.2-5 yrs Newborn Child Child, c.1520 months Child, c.4 yrs Adult, c.2030 yrs Young Child Adult Adolescent

Unknown Unknown Unknown

Yes Yes Yes

Yes Yes Yes

H 35 Columnatian

H 36/a

Columnatian

H 36/b

Male

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

110

Maitre (1965): left in place

Maitre (1965): left in place

Yes Adult, c.2030 yrs Child, c.2-3 yrs

Maitre (1965): left in place Maitre (1965): left in place

9. Appendix B: Problematic Cemeteries in the Maghreb Columnatian

H 37

Columnatian

H 38

Columnatian

H 39

Columnatian

H 40/a

Columnatian Columnatian

H 40/b H 40/c

Columnatian

H 42

Columnatian

H 43

Columnatian

H 44

Columnatian

H 45/b,c

Columnatian

H 46/a

Columnatian

H 46/b

Columnatian

H 47 H 48/a H 48/b H 49 H 50/a H 50/b H 51/a H 51/b H 52 H 53/a H 53/b H 54/a H 54/b

Columnatian

H 55

Columnatian

H 56 H 57 H 58 H 59 H 60/a H 60/b

Upper Capsian

Hx

Adult, c.4050 yrs Newborn Child Old Adult Adult, c.3040 yrs Child, c.6 yrs Adolescent Newborn Child Child, c.1215 yrs Newborn Child Newborn Child Child, c.7-10 yrs Newborn Child Newborn Child Adult Adult Adult, c.3040 yrs Newborn Child Child, c. few months Child, c. few months Adult Newborn Child Foetus Child, c.2-5 yrs Newborn Child Child, c. few months Child, c.3-4 yrs Adult Child, c.1523 months Child, c.3-4 yrs Child, c.7-9 months Child, c.1-2 months Adult Adult, c.2530 yrs

Female

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Female

Yes

Yes

Male

Yes

Yes

Unknown Unknown

Yes Yes

Yes Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Male ?Female

Yes Yes

Yes Yes

Female

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Columnata A

Child, c 4-5 yrs

Unknown

Yes

Columnata B

Adult

Unknown

Yes

Unnumbered A Unnumbered

Newborn Child Child, c.15-

= Unnumbered F = Unnumbered H

Unknown

Yes

Unknown

Yes

111

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead

Neolithic Neolithic

B Unnumbered C Unnumbered D Unnumbered E Unnumbered F Unnumbered G Unnumbered H H 41 H 29

18 months Child, c.15 months

Unknown

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Unknown

Yes

Adult

Unknown

Yes

Adult

Male

Child, c.2 yrs Newborn Child Child, c.4-5 yrs Newborn Child

7

Yes Yes 105

22

= Columnata A = Columnata B

Yes Yes 114

9.2 Inventory of human remains discovered at Taforalt from Ferembach et al. 1962; speculative burial numbers based on their anthropological descriptions. Ferembach’s Assigned Number

Possible Burial Number

Individual No.

Age

Sex

Taforalt I Taforalt I Taforalt I Taforalt I Taforalt I Taforalt I Taforalt I Taforalt I Taforalt I ?Taforalt I/II Taforalt II Taforalt II Taforalt II Taforalt II Taforalt II Taforalt II Taforalt II Taforalt III Taforalt III Taforalt IVa Taforalt IVa Taforalt IVa Taforalt IVa Taforalt IVa Taforalt IVa Taforalt IVb Taforalt V Taforalt V Taforalt V Taforalt V Taforalt V Taforalt V Taforalt V

T 01 T 01 T 01 T 01 T 01 T 01 T 01 T 01 T 01 T 02 T 03 T 03 T 03 T 03 T 03 T 03 T 03 T 04 T 04 T 05 T 05 T 05 T 05 T 05 T 05 T 06 T 07 T 07 T 07 T 07 T 07 T 07 T 07

I-A I-B I-C I-D I-E I-F I-G I-H I-J I/II? II-A II-B II-C II-D II-E II-F II-G III-A III-B IVa-A IVa-B IVa-C IVa-E IVa-F IVa-G IVb-A V-A V-B V-C V-D V-E V-F V-G

adult adult adult adult adult adolescent, c.16 years child, c. a few months child, c.20-30 months child, c.2-3 years adolescent, c.16 yrs adult adult adult child, c.10-15 years child, newborn child, c. few months child, c.1-2 years adult child, 3yrs or older child, newborn child, c.4-5 months? child, c.1 year child, c.14-18 months child, c.2-3 years child, c.4-5 years child, c.16-18 months adult adult child, around a few months of age child, around a few months of age child, c.1-2 years child child

male male male female female ?female unknown unknown unknown unknown male male ?female unknown unknown unknown unknown female unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown male female unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown

112

9. Appendix B: Problematic Cemeteries in the Maghreb Taforalt V Taforalt VI Taforalt VI Taforalt VI Taforalt VI Taforalt VI Taforalt VI Taforalt VI Taforalt VII Taforalt VII Taforalt VIIa Taforalt VIII Taforalt VIII Taforalt VIII Taforalt VIII Taforalt VIII Taforalt VIII Taforalt VIII Taforalt VIII Taforalt IX Taforalt IX Taforalt IX Taforalt X Taforalt XI Taforalt XI Taforalt XI Taforalt XI Taforalt XI Taforalt XII Taforalt XII Taforalt XII Taforalt XII Taforalt XII Taforalt XII Taforalt XII Taforalt XIII Taforalt XIII Taforalt XIII Taforalt XIII Taforalt XIV Taforalt XIV Taforalt XIV Taforalt XIVbis Taforalt XV Taforalt XV Taforalt XV Taforalt XV Taforalt XV Taforalt XV Taforalt XV Taforalt XV Taforalt XV Taforalt XV

T 07 T 08 T 08 T 08 T 08 T 08 T 08 T 08 T 09 T 09 T 10 T 11 T 11 T 11 T 11 T 11 T 11 T 11 T 11 T 12 T 12 T 12 T 13 T 14 T 14 T 14 T 14 T 14 T 15 T 15 T 15 T 15 T 15 T 15 T 15 T 16 T 16 T 16 T 16 T 17 T 17 T 17 T 18 T 19 T 19 T 19 T 19 T 19 T 19 T 19 T 19 T 19 T 19

V-H VI-A VI-B VI-C VI-D VI-E VI-F VI-G VII-A VII-B VIIa-A VIII-A VIII-B VIII-C VIII-D VIII-E VIII-F VIII-G VIII-H IX-A IX-B IX-C X-A XI-A (XI-C1) XI-B (XI-C2) XI-C (R XI) XI-D XI-E XII-A (XII-C1) XII-B (XII-C4) XII-C (XII-P) XII-D XII-E XII-F (XII-C2) XII-G XIII-A XIII-B XIII-C XIII-D XIV-A XIV-B XIV-C XIVbis-A XV-A XV-B XV-C XV-D XV-E XV-F XV-G XV-H XV-J XV-K

child adult adolescent, c.19 years child, c. few months child, c.1 year child, c.16-18 months child, c.3-4 years child adult child c.2 years (?) child, c.3-5 years adult adult adult adult child, newborn child, c.2 years child, c.9-10 years child, c.10-12 years adult adult child, newborn adult adult adult adult adult child, c.12 years adult adult adult adult adult child, c.2-3 years child, c.12 years adult adult adolescent child, older than 2 years adult adult child child, c. 5-6 years adult adult adult adult adult adult adult child, c.6-8 months child, less than one year child, less than two years

113

unknown male unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown female unknown unknown male female unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown male female unknown male male male male female unknown male male male male unknown unknown unknown male female unknown unknown male male unknown unknown male male male male male male female unknown unknown unknown

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead Taforalt XV Taforalt XVI Taforalt XVI Taforalt XVI Taforalt XVI Taforalt XVI north Taforalt XVII Taforalt XVII Taforalt XVII

T 19 T 20 T 20 T 20 T 20 T 21 T 22 T 22 T 22

Taforalt XVII

T 22

Taforalt XVII Taforalt XVII Taforalt XVIII Taforalt XVIII Taforalt XVIII

T 22 T 22 T 23 T 23 T 23

Taforalt XIX

T 24

Taforalt XIX Taforalt XIX Taforalt XIX Taforalt XIX Taforalt XIX Taforalt XIX Taforal XX Taforal XX Taforal XX Taforal XX Taforalt XXI Taforalt XXI Taforalt XXII Taforalt XXII Taforalt XXIII Taforalt XXIII Taforalt XXIII Taforalt XXIV Taforalt XXIV Taforalt XXIV Taforalt XXIV Taforalt XXIV Taforalt XXIV Taforalt XXV Taforalt XXV Taforalt XXV Taforalt XXV Taforalt XXV Taforalt XXV Taforalt XXV Taforalt XXV Taforalt XXV Taforalt XXVa Taforalt XXVa

T 24 T 24 T 24 T 24 T 24 T 24 T 25 T 25 T 25 T 25 T 26 T 26 T 27 T 27 T 28 T 28 T 28 T 29 T 29 T 29 T 29 T 29 T 29 T 30 T 30 T 30 T 30 T 30 T 30 T 30 T 30 T 30 T 31 T 31

XV-L XVI-A (XVI C3) XVI-B (XVI C2) XVI-C XVI-D (XVI C1) XVI north A XVII-A (XVII C2) XVII-B (XVII C3) XVII-C (XVII C1 ) XVII-D (XVII C3 - mandible does not derive from the same individual as cranium XVII C3) XVII-E XVII-F XVIII-A XVIII-B XVIII-C XIX-A (XIX C1-CB and XIX C2) XIX-B XIX-B (XIX Cr) XIX-C XIX-D (XIX 2) XIX-E (XIX 2(1)) XIX-F (XIX 2(1)) XX-A (XX C1) XX-B (XX C2) XX-C XX-E XXI-A XXI-B XXII-A XXII-B XXIII-A XXIII-B XXIII-C XXIV-A (XXIV C2) XXIV-B (XXIV C1) XXIV-C XXIV-D XXIV-E XXIV-F XXV-A XXV-B XXV-C XXV-D XXV-E XXV-F XXV-G XXV-H XXV-J XXVa-A XXVa-B IEa

114

child, c.1-2 years adult adult adult child, c.5 years adult adult adult adult

unknown female female female unknown unknown male male female

adult

female

child, newborn child, 10-11 years adult child, c.6-8 months child, c.3-5 years

unknown unknown female unknown unknown

adult

female

adult adult adult adult adult adult adult adolescent, c.18-20 years adult adolescent, c.20 years adult adult adult child, c.7-13 years adult adult adult adult adult child, newborn child, around a few months of age child, c.12-16 months child, c.5-6 years adult adult adult adult adult adult adult adult adult child, c.4-7 months child, newborn

female female female male unknown unknown male female female unknown male female male unknown female unknown unknown male female unknown unknown unknown unknown male male male male male female female female female unknown unknown

9. Appendix B: Problematic Cemeteries in the Maghreb Taforalt XXVa Taforalt XXVa Taforalt XXVa Taforalt XXVa Taforalt XXVa Taforalt XXVa Taforalt XXVa Taforalt XXVa Taforalt XXVa Taforalt XXVa Taforalt XXVa Taforalt XXVa Taforalt XXVI Taforalt XXVI Taforalt XXVI Taforalt XXVI Taforalt XXVI Taforalt XXVI Taforalt XXVI Ic Taforalt XXVI Ic Taforalt XXVI Ic Taforalt XXVI Ic Taforalt XXVII Taforalt XXVII Taforalt XXVII Taforalt XXVII Taforalt XXVIII Taforalt XXVIII Taforalt 52 C Taforalt E Taforalt E Taforalt E Taforalt E Taforalt E Taforalt E Taforalt E Taforalt E Taforalt E Taforalt E Taforalt E Taforalt E Taforalt E n/a n/a n/a n/a n/a n/a n/a

T 31 T 31 T 31 T 31 T 31 T 31 T 31 T 31 T 31 T 31 T 31 T 31 T 32 T 32 T 32 T 32 T 32 T 32 T 33 T 33 T 33 T 33 T 34 T 34 T 34 T 34 T 35 T 35 T 36 T 37 T 37 T 37 T 37 T 37 T 37 T 37 T 37 T 37 T 37 T 37 T 37 T 37

XXVa-B IEb XXVa-B IEc XXVa-C i XXVa-C ii XXVa-D i (XXV B) XXVa-D ii (XXV B) XXVa-D iii (XXV B) XXVa-E (XXV B1) XXVa-F i (XXV B 3W) XXVa-F ii (XXV B 3W) XXVa-F iii (XXV B 3W) XXVa-F iv (XXV B 3W) XXVI-A XXVI-B XXVI-C XXVI-D XXVI-E XXVI-F XXVI IC A XXVI IC B XXVI IC C XXVI IC D XXVII-A (XXVII C2) XXVII-B (XXVII C1) XXVII-C XXVII-D XXVIII-A XXVIII-B 52 C TE-1 (E2) TE-10 (Ex2) TE-11 TE-2 (E3) TE-3 (E4) TE-4i (E5) TE-4ii (E5) TE-5 (E6) TE-6 (E7) TE-7 (E8) TE-8i TE-8ii TE-9 (Ex1) Surface A1 Surface A2 Surface A3 Surface A4 Surface A5 Surface A6 Surface A7

115

child, c. few months child, c.2 years child, c. few months child, c.14-16 months child, c.12-14 months child, c. few months child, c.16-20 months child, less than 1 year old child, newborn child, c.22 months child, c.1 year child, c.1 year child, younger than 15 years child, c.2 months child, less than one year child, newborn child, c.12 months child, c.13 years child, newborn child, c.5 months child, c.11-12 months child, c.5-6 years adult adult adolescent, c.19 years adult adult child, newborn child, c.1-2 years child, less than 1 year old child, c.6 years child, less than 1 year old child, few months old child, c.1-2 years child, c.14 months child, less than 1 year old child, c.2 years child, c.8-14 months child, c.1-2 years child, c.4-5 months child, c.8 months child, c.6 years child, newborn child, c.2 years child, newborn child, c. few months child, c. few months child, c.6 months child, c.1 year

unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown male female unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown unknown

10. Appendix C: Tables from Chapter 2 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

a. b. c. d. e. f. g. h. i. j. k. l. m. n.

The Ten Tendencies Classification by area rather than by kind. Communication through use of a boundary. Enforcement of control. Reification of power as it makes potentials explicit by making them visible. Displacement of attention from controller/controlled onto the territory. It makes relationships impersonal. Territoriality may appear neutral. It is a container or mould for the spatial properties of events. Territoriality enables the creation of conceptually empty space. Territoriality can engender more territoriality. The Fourteen Combinations Territoriality allows the hierarchical circumscription of knowledge and responsibility, the formation of impersonal relationships, and strict channels of communication. Requires long and short term planning at the highest and lowest levels of bureaucratic responsibility, respectively. Territorial definition of social relationships. Efficient supervision and large span of control (e.g. few supervisors for many supervisees). Conceptual separation and recombination of space and substance. Reification through territory makes power visible, but displacement renders the visible territorial manifestation as the source’s power. The first makes the source of power prominent while the second disguises it; when combined they may lead to a mystical view of space. A mismatch of territory and mould. Territoriality appears to be the end rather than the means of control. Establishment of differential access to things may create inequalities. The bureaucratic organisation may become entrenched and indispensable to the coordination of the parts. Obfuscation of mismatching things to places by making it seem appropriate. Directing attention away from causes of social conflict to conflicts among territories themselves. Obfuscation of the geographic impact of an event. A reduction of control and secession.

Sack X X X X X

Study X X X X X X X X

X

X

X X X

X

Table 2.01: A summary of the attributes described by Sack (1986) for territoriality and my modifications. Reference Radcliffe-Brown 1923, A. R. Brown 1912a, 1912b, 1918

Definition Radcliffe-Brown’s papers do not present a definition of either ‘territory’ or ‘territoriality’.

Lee and Devore 1968a

No definition offered for ‘territoriality’ in the introduction (Lee and Devore 1968b) nor in the articles contained in the section on ‘Social and Territorial Organisation’ (Hiatt 1968, Woodburn 1968, Damas 1968, Helm 1968, B. J. Williams 1968, Turnbull 1968, Pilling 1968) although Helm (1968) defines the ‘socioterritorial group’ as those “groups which conjoin settlement pattern with community pattern.”

Soja 1971:33

“Territory provides an essential link between society and the space it occupies primarily through its impact on human interaction and the development of group spatial identities.”

Gottman 1973:1

Territoriality refers to “a relationship between a community of politically organised people and their space” and “civilised people … have always partitioned the space around them carefully to set themselves apart from their neighbours.”

Dyson-Hudson and Smith 1978

They define a “territory as an area occupied more or less exclusively by an individual or group by means of repulsion through overt defence or some form of communication.”

Godelier 1978:404, 407

“The term ‘territory’ is used to designate a portion of nature and space that is claimed by a given society, this society guaranteeing for all, or only some of its members, stable rights of access to control and use of all or part of the resources found therein and which it (the society) is capable of exploiting.” In addition, “territorial ownership forms thus exist both as a relationship with nature and as a twofold relationship between men.”

Gold 1982:48

“Territoriality represents a culturally derived and transmitted answer to particular human problems, not the blind operation of instinct … Its rules, mechanisms, and symbols are developed gradually over time and are passed from one generation to the next by the … process of socialisation.”

10. Appendix C: Tables from Chapter 2 Cashdan 1983:47

Cashdan (1983) defined “territoriality as the maintenance of an area within which the resident controls or restricts use of one or more environmental resources.”

Sack 1983, 1986

Sack regards territoriality as the attempt by an individual or group to affect, influence or control people, phenomena and relationships by delimiting and asserting control over a geographic area.

Ingold 1986

Ingold distinguished between ‘territoriality’, which he regards (1986:143) as a “mode of reciprocal communication, conveying information about the locations of people and resources which is of mutual benefit to all parties”, and ‘tenure’, (1986:131) as a mode of appropriation by which persons exert claims over resources dispersed in space.

R. B. Taylor 1988:80-81

Defines territoriality as an interlocked system of attitudes, sentiments and behaviours that are specific to a particular, usually delimited, site or location which in the context of individuals in a group or a small group reflect and reinforce some degree of excludability of use, responsibility for, and control over activities in specific sites.

Baker 2003

Utilises the terms territoriality and tenure interchangeably, but no definition is offered.

Storey 2001:1

“Territory refers to a portion of geographic space which is claimed or occupied by a person or group of persons or by an institution. It is, thus, an area of bounded space. The process whereby individuals or groups lay claim to such territory is referred to as territoriality.”

Table 2.02: Definitions of territoriality given by various scholars. Component Classification (Boundaries)

Discussion Classification of what is to be controlled occurs by area, rather than by type, but there is a high degree of variability in the way that area is defined. Among some people, spatial boundaries are rigidly and strictly enforced, whereas among others they are fluid and often transgressed (Baker 2003:124). Cashdan (1983) identified two methods for controlling entry: spatial perimeter defence involves the marking and advertisement of boundaries, usually by groups with a low mobility in areas with abundant resources, while social boundary defence involves limiting access to the social group with rights to the resources. To a certain extent both are ethnographically documented in the same societies, but with differing emphases on one or the other.

References Baker 2003, Lee 1972, Cashdan 1983, Sack 1986

Communication (Markers)

Communication, Sack (1986) insists, occurs through the use of a boundary; Ingold (1986:147) agrees that advertisement is vital, particularly where the communicating parties are not in direct audio-visual contact; and N. M. Williams (1982) argues that boundaries are a spatial representation of discontinuities in ownership. However, in the case of hunter-gatherers we should consider communication under the rubric of ‘markers’ because not all forms of communication occur at the boundary (particularly in societies who have systems of ownership and control but do not practice exclusive use of land). Some markers communicate a boundary (often geographical features including rivers, cliffs, hills, different elevations), whereas other (focal) markers (such as incisions in trees, hearths, the physical watching presence of the ‘owner’) claim specific resources within a territory.

Sack 1986, Ingold 1986, C. S. Fowler 1982, N. M. Williams 1982

Control (External Defence)

Territoriality establishes control over an area as a means of controlling access to things and relationships. The role of defence within this is uncertain. Baker (2003:167) argues that “the means of territorial defence … seem to be more developed among peoples in resource-rich regions and may even emerge because the stability possible in a resource-rich region influences defence technology.” However, Ingold (1986:133) suggests that even if boundary defence is taken as an essential attribute, little or no actual fighting need be involved as where the boundaries act as communicators of information they may in fact serve to reduce conflict. This may therefore be a highly variable component.

Sack 1986, Baker 2003, Ingold 1986

Subsistence System

There is a relationship between patterns of territorial behaviour, environmental context and settlement-subsistence system. Baker (2003) argues that geographically stable territories are more likely to occur when resources are dense and predictable; according to Dyson-Hudson and Smith (1978), territorial behaviour is expected when the costs of defence of an area are outweighed by the benefits gained from exclusive use of the local resources (see also table 2.04); and Sack (1986) states that enforcement of control is most efficient when food is abundant and predictable in time and space.

Baker 2003, DysonHudson and Smith 1978, Sack 1986

117

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead

Property

Notions of territoriality are inherently linked to concepts of ownership, property and inheritance. Ownership also, potentially, occurs at a variety of levels, including the ethnic group, residential group, clan, family lineage, and individual (see main discussion).

Sack 1986, Godelier 1978, Richardson 1982

Power Relationships

Territoriality allows the reification of power as it makes potentials explicit by rendering them visible. This is associated with the potential for the emergence of social hierarchies, especially through the circumscription of knowledge. As Sack (1986) notes, the combination of reification with the displacement of attention away from the controller and controlled onto the land allows territorial manifestations to be construed as sources of power. Reification makes power explicit, but displacement disguises its true source, thus facilitating a mystical view of place or territory.

Sack 1986

Internal Conflict

As Lee and Devore (1968b), Woodburn (1968) and Turnbull (1968) note, among small scale, highly mobile, non-territorial societies such as the Hadza and Mbuti Pygmies, internal social conflict is easily resolved through a mobility pattern that accommodates flux, thus separating individuals/groups antagonistic to one another. Among groups with a low mobility and rigidly defined social boundaries other forms of resolution must be adopted, including social sanctions, mediation and channelling violence into rituals.

Lee and Devore 1968b, Woodburn 1968, Turnbull 1968, Radcliffe Brown 1956, Keesing and Strathern 1998, Sack 1986.

Territoriality as a Spectrum

Dyson-Hudson and Smith (1978) argue that variability in territoriality includes whether territories are exclusive or overlapping, defended or non-defended, geographically stable or mobile, and seasonal or permanent. Baker (2003:132) similarly argues there are different tenure regimes, including: 1. Geographically stable regimes in which all land and ownership is exclusive; 2. Geographically stable territories with open access where groups maintain exclusive use of spatial areas but leave some land unclaimed and undefended; 3. Home ranges in which groups maintain territories but ownership is not exclusive; 4. Home ranges with open access as groups maintain tracts of land but not exclusively, and some land is left undefended; and 5. Open access where groups do not defend any portion of their endowed land. Such definitions should be seen as points along a spectrum rather than as a typology.

Dyson-Hudson and Smith 1978, Baker 2003

Land vs. Sea

Territorial control is possible not just over land, but also over waterways and marine resources. Depending on the level of seafaring technology, it is possible to utilise different patterns of control, including nucleated (where ownership grows progressively weaker the further one moves from a specific point, such as a harbour mouth) and perimeter defence (in which boundaries over the sea are sharply drawn and defended). The latter is often correlated with similar claims over land. Alternative distributions of rights might involve (a) by species (where different people/groups have rights to different species in the same area) and (b) by fishing technique (in which different people/groups have rights to catch fish using different technologies in the same area).

Acheson 1990, Berkes 1990, Carrier 1990

Scale

Territoriality occurs on a variety of scales, ranging from interactions between individuals to clashes between ‘nations’.

Sack 1986, Storey 2001

Table 2.03: Attributes of territoriality. Resource Distribution Unpredictable, dense Unpredictable, scarce Predictable, dense Predictable, scarce

Economic Defensibility Low Low High Fairly low

Resource Utilisation Info-sharing Dispersion Territoriality Home ranges

Degree of Nomadism High Very high Low Low-medium

Table 2.04: Defensibility of a region according to resource distribution and degree of nomadism, as seen by Dyson-Hudson and Smith (1978).

118

10. Appendix C: Tables from Chapter 2 Name Haida

Country Northwest Coast of North America

Description According to traditional funerary practices, prior to the introduction of Christianity in the 1870s, when an individual died the face was painted and the body dressed and left in a flexed position in the centre of the house. The body remained in this state for three to ten days, depending on the person’s rank. The body was then placed in a coffin and carried to the clan grave house, or was put in a niche carved into a grave post, both of which might contain the remains of other members of the deceased’s matriclan. Coffins containing commoners were placed on the ground behind the dwelling. If the deceased was socially important, a memorial totem pole might be raised in his/her honour. This would be followed by a potlatch of several days duration, which also included feasting, the initiation of youths, piercing of ears and distribution of property, but expenditure was barely 1/10th as much the wealth involved during a house-building potlatch. Status and ranking were symbolised by the vertical structuring of space, as high ranking people were placed above ground on grave posts while those of low status were deposited on ground level behind the houses (Blackman 1973).

Reference Blackman 1973, 1990

Similarly, Blackmen (1990:254) writes: “Of all Haida life cycle events, death was accorded the most ceremony, and the elaborateness of the ritual was correlated with the deceased’s rank. At death the body was cleansed, costumed, and the face painted by women of the deceased’s father’s lineage. The body, surrounded by personal property, lay in state near the rear of the house for several days so that friends and relatives might file past the body and sing crying songs. Men of the father’s lineage constructed the bent-corner coffin. Once in the coffin, the body was removed from the house through a hole in the side wall and placed in a lineage grave house behind the main dwelling. There the body remained until it was transferred to a niche in a newly covered mortuary column; if a memorial pole was erected instead the body would remain permanently in the grave house. The mortuary potlatch for a man was given by his heir; that of a woman was given by her husband. Commoners were not normally placed in grave houses with the high ranking, and carved poles were not erected in their honour. Slaves were cast into the sea at death.” From the 1870s the introduction of Christianity saw a shift to burial in cemeteries and the replacement of raising totem poles with head stones, and of potlatches with smaller gatherings (Blackman 1973). Kwakiutl

British Colombia

Rohner and Rohner (1970) undertook fieldwork in the village of Guilford on Guilford Island in the 1960s and describe the funeral of an important chief of the Tsawatenok tribe. On the Monday night there was a preliminary church service followed by an official Anglican church service on Tuesday afternoon. After the second, the deceased was buried in the grave yard. Rituals continued at the big house, but in a fashion more closely approximating the native style which involved funeral songs, speeches and dances. This ended at around 5 pm, and from 7pm there was a commemorative potlatch and dance.

Rohner and Rohner 1970

Rohner and Rohner (1970) comment that the first western religious influence came through Catholic traders, explorers and missionaries. Later the Anglicans became the dominant religious force in the Guilford region, as their missionaries arrived in the region around the 1880s. More recently the Pentecostals and others have had a strong impact. Coast Salish

British Colombia

Based on a survey of twelve groups (the East Sanetch, the West Sanetch, the Cowichan, the Nanaimo, the Pentlatch, the Comox, the Homalco, the Klahuse, the Slaiamαn, the Sechelt, the Squamio and the Mαskwiαm), the burial rituals of the Coast Salish are outlined as adhering in general to the following pattern. After death an individual is placed in a coffin and taken to the cemetery. The coffin is sometimes set on logs or planks to raise it slightly off the ground, or it is placed on a scaffold, and/or a shed built

119

Barnett 1995, Suttles 1990, Hill-Tout 1907, Kew 1990

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead around it. Alternatively some groups place their coffins high in spruce trees which are stripped of their lower branches. For some, especially the Pentlatch and the Comox, the height of the coffin indicated the rank of the deceased. In addition, the Pentlatch had a grove reserved for the deposition of bodies. Canoes were sometimes utilised as depositories, but this was not commonly documented. Among the Squamish and Mαskwiαm the dead might be suspended on platforms supported by trees and/or posts. Cremation, evisceration and interment were not practiced. Barnett (1995:218) comments that, “an attempt was always made to bring a body to its home cemetery; if death occurred at a distance, an undertaker was employed to transport the body to the home cemetery.” Of the Central Coast Salish, Suttles (1990:465) comments that: “After death the body was wrapped in blankets by someone with ritual knowledge and placed in a raised canoe or grave box, and the family and house were ritually cleaned with burning boughs. Several years later the bones of the deceased were re-wrapped with new blankets with a display of hereditary privileges and the payment of witnesses. Graves were marked by carvings. Names of the dead were not publically spoken until they were bestowed again.” However, Hill-Tout comments that all of the tribes he studied (including, for example, the Lillooets) buried their dead in “proper burial grounds” (1907:211) according to Christian customs, although he notes that some groups – including the Thompsen – continued to exhume parts of the body. Similarly, Kew notes that since c. 1900 funerary rituals among the Salish have tended to take the following form: “Funerals are well attended and usually involve visitors from several villages. They are always occasions for repayment of obligations to the deceased and bereaved, or for making gifts of money to assist those in mourning. These are made during visits to bereaved households, especially the evening of the wake, and during funeral dinners that follow church services and interment. The bereaved family as host provides food for visitors and after the funeral luncheon makes gifts of money to non-family members who have provided requested services such as sitting up with the deceased during the wake, digging the grave, serving as pall bearer, or cooking food for visitors.” Tshimshian Peoples

British Colombia

Halpin and Seguin (1990:277-8) comment that:

Halpin and Seguin 1990

“Death was announced by the distribution of marmot skins by the deceased’s own lineage, which contributed to a funeral fund. Other clan relatives were also expected to contribute. The preparation of the body and the coffin and related tasks were the responsibility of the deceased’s father’s lineage, for which it was compensated from the funerary fund. Traditionally cremation was practiced. Secret society regalia were burned with the body. The bodies of shamans were placed in caves or special grave houses.” Kamchadal

Siberia

Corpses were thrown out to be eaten by dogs.

O’Shea and Zvelebil 1984

Tungus

Siberia

The Tungus are described as sewing their dead in skins and hanging them in trees.

O’Shea and Zvelebil 1984, Czaplicka 1914

Yukagir

Siberia

The Yukagir reportedly placed their dead upon wooden piles and distributed the bones of shamans among relatives.

O’Shea and Zvelebil 1984, Jochelson 1926

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10. Appendix C: Tables from Chapter 2 Koryak

Siberia

Although they are described as possessing an ancestral cult of considerable social importance, Koryak burial rites are relatively simple and involve cremation and a sacrifice of reindeer. The body is dressed in an elaborate garment and adorned with personal belongings prior to burning. Their society is egalitarian and acephalous, with temporary positions of leadership.

O’Shea and Zvelebil 1984, Jochelson 19051908, Mangarella 1972.

Nivkhi

Siberia

The Nivkhi practice cremation, and a man’s prestige is described as dying with him.

O’Shea and Zvelebil 1984, Black 1972

Reindeer Chukchi

Siberia

The number of reindeer each head of family possessed expressed differences in wealth which ranged from none to as many as 5000 deer; yet, despite this potential for stratification, no development towards chieftainship or established social ranking is described. The dead were disposed of via cremation or exposure, and were left with piles of broken items: funeral items, personal belongings, reindeer remains, reindeer harnesses and sledges. The only material expression of wealth took the form of reindeer antlers annually deposited over burials, which related to the sacrifices performed in memory of the deceased, and heaps of up to a hundred could occur for wealthy individuals and shamans.

O’Shea and Zvelebil 1984, Leeds 1965

Maritime Chukchi

Siberia

The social structure and funerary rituals were similar to those described for the Reindeer Chukchi, but the vehicle for social ownership among the Maritime group was boat ownership, as the owner of a boat was also the master of the crew (six to eight related or unrelated men). However, although this position entitled him to preferential access to the hunted catch, he was limited in his ability to capitalise economically.

O’Shea and Zvelebil 1984, Leeds 1965, Bogoraz 1904-9

Yakut

Siberia

The Yakut are among the most complex of the societies of Siberia: they are stratified with groups headed by toyons or hereditary clan leaders, and this was reflected in their burials. A toyon was interred with his personal possessions, weapons and garments, alongside his horse and saddle. In addition to the toyon, the shaman and blacksmith might also receive elaborate graves.

O’Shea and Zvelebil 1984, Okladnikov 1970

Aboriginal Australians

Australia (primarily groups along the Darling and Murray Rivers in New South Wales)

Littleton and Allen (2007) provide a summary of some of the early ethnographic descriptions of Aboriginal Australian burial customs although they caution that the representativeness of these accounts is uncertain. Infectious diseases brought to the continent by Europeans, especially smallpox, spread rapidly and had effects in several areas prior to direct contact between colonists and local groups. The papers they describe, however, are nevertheless worth summarising here.

Littleton and Allen (2007), and papers therein.

Mitchell (1839), according to Littleton and Allen (2007), noticed a spatial difference in style and location of graves. Near the Murrumbridge-Murray Junction, graves were observed: “Several graves all enclosed in separate parterres of exactly the same remarkable double or triple ridges, as those formerly seen of the lower part of the Lachlan. There were three of these parterres all lying due east and west. On one the ashes of a hut appeared over the grave. On another, which contained two graves, (one of a small child) logs of wood, mixed with long grass, were neatly piled, transversely; and in the third, which was so ancient that the enclosing ridges were barely visible, the grave had sunk into a grassy hollow. I understood from the widow that such tombs were made for men and boys only, and that the ashes over the most recent one were the remains of the hut, which had been burnt and abandoned, after the murder of the person had been avenged” (Mitchell 1839(II): 87–88). Further west, he wrote: “We continued our journey, and soon found all the usual features of the Darling; the hills of soft red sand

121

Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead near the river, covered with the same kind of shrubs seen so much higher up. The graves no longer had any resemblance to those on the Murrumbidgee and Murray but they were precisely similar to the places of interment we had seen on the Darling” (Mitchell 1839(II): 113). Based on their survey of the literature, Littleton and Allen (2007) comment that accounts of burials are not common, but Hobler, for instance, described an inhumation on the Murrumbidgee River: “The blacks do not always pay so much respect to the dead as we supposed—I heard lately of their turning the bones out of an old grave to make room for another body—and a few days ago they opened an old grave at the end of the garden and tucked in the body of an old man so quickly that we were not aware of it till the stench found the fact—I gave them credit for acting the part of Scots Old Mortality as they observed to have packed the bark upon the grave more carefully and scraped away the weeds for a few yards around it, but it seems it were from laziness only—they made the sunken grave hold another tenant.” (Hobler, 1992: 7 March, 1847). By contrast, Musgrave (1930) wrote an extensive description of a burial practice whereby the bodies of children who had died were carried by their mothers until an appropriate adult male died at which time they were buried with him. Littleton and Allen (2007) argue that the accounts of burial sites have several common features despite the observations of regional variants: they are commonly accounts of up to three burials, visibly mounded, surrounded by a boundary of some type (generally ridges), and often surmounted with a hut, or other structure. The visibility of graves was variable, and often tended to be in terms of a generation, but it is worth noting that Littleton and Allen (2007) describe reports of the persistence of these places in the social memory of many groups, as Aboriginal people were aware of where burials occurred and tended to avoid these locations when camping. Clustering was noted, but only of small numbers. Variation was noted in placement of the body, location of the graves, and grave form but there was an overall adherence to both primary burial (except for children) and rules that relate in varying circumstances to clan, age and sex Regional variations include the location of the graves (high ground among the Darling and Murray corridor but not on the Hay Plain), the form of the visible monument (hut, wood, fishing net and logs, etc.) and the way in which they decayed (naturally over time, or assisted via burning). At least some types of markers might have been linked to cultural groups, as scarred and carved trees are described with some frequency east of the Riverine Plain, and artefacts such as the widow caps of gypsum plaster and kopi eggs seem to have been particularly associated with Barkindji people from the lower Darling River (Littleton and Allen 2007). Hadza

Northern Tanzania

The Hadza fear death, and display their fear, but there are remarkably few documented prescriptions, taboos or rituals, and no real corpus of doctrine or of formal practice. During the four years Woodburn lived among the Hadza only a single child died (two days after birth). No one perished in the nomadic camp in which he resided, nor at a camp close enough that he could witness the procedures; therefore, his description is based on the information given by informants. When a person dies with other Hadza present they are usually buried soon after death. The burial is likely to be near the surface, and advantage may be taken of an old anteater hole or other feature that will ease the labour of excavation. In nearly all cases men prepare the grave, except for infants who are usually interred by women. There are no particular kinship rules

122

Woodburn 1982

10. Appendix C: Tables from Chapter 2 regarding who is involved in the preparation of the burial or interment of the corpse. Most individuals are positioned on their left side facing a high mountain, and but a few are placed facing the sunset and there is some implication that this direction is used for people who are not pure Hadza but of part Isanzu descent. Water may be poured on the grave and the surface trodden down. Sometimes people are not buried at all but the framework and grass thatch of a temporary hut are simply pulled down on top of the corpse; and even where people are buried, occasionally the grave may be covered with branches. Women cry and wail during the death and inhumation of the deceased. The death is usually linked with the major religious celebration, the sacred epeme dance performed in pitch darkness each month, and it usually continues for two or three nights in succession in every camp. Mbuti Pygmies

Zaire

Members of the nuclear family of the person who died are responsible for disposing of the body, although they may sometimes be aided by others. They scratch a shallow hole in the floor of the hut in which they place the dead, and the hut is pulled down over the remains. No grave goods accompany the deceased, except for a few personal belongings, such as bark cloth, bracelets or a necklace. All other property is divided among the camp. During the period between which the individual dies and is interred there may be a great deal of wailing and expression of personal grief. As soon as the burial is over the camp is abandoned, and nothing is left to mark the grave site.

Woodburn 1982

Baka Pygmies

Cameroon

The Baka view of death has been complicated in recent years by external influences from Bantu villagers who have taught the Pygmies to inter their dead, and from missionaries who preach about a life after death. Until recently the only mortuary act performed by the Baka was the pulling down of the hut over a corpse; the local group then quit the camp and never returned to that particular part of the forest. There was no view until recently of a life after death. Today, however, if a death occurs in a village camp the deceased is likely to be interred on the edge of the encampment near to the forest, usually on the same day the individual expired.

Woodburn 1982

The Veddas

Sri Lanka

When a man or woman died from sickness, the body was reported as being left in the cave or rock shelter in which the death took place. The body was not washed, dressed or ornamented but was placed in a supine position and covered with leaves and branches. Usually the site was abandoned for a period long enough for the body to decompose, but if a group returned before this happened the remains would be thrown into the jungle. Possessions were usually redistributed during the funerary rites. According to Seligman and Seligman (1911) this was the usual custom, with the occasional addition of the placement of a large stone over the chest of the deceased; but more recently (from the perspective, that is, of the turn of the last century), funerary rituals have altered. Burial has become more common as a result of British Government enforcement. The grave was usually excavated at some distance from the habitation, and a feast held a few days after interment.

Seligman and Seligman 1911

Table 2.05: Summary of some ethnographic descriptions of hunter-gatherer funerary activities.

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11. Appendix D: Tables and Figures from Chapter 3 Region Name

Countries

Scandinavia

Southern Sweden, Southern Denmark

Northwest Europe

Britain, Belgium, North France, the Netherlands, Luxembourg

West Europe

Southern France, Northern Spain

Southwest Europe

Southern Spain, Portugal

The Maghreb

Algeria, Morocco

Period Upper Palaeolithic Mesolithic Upper Palaeolithic Mesolithic Upper Palaeolithic Mesolithic Upper Palaeolithic Mesolithic Ibéromaurusian Capsian

MNI 0 280 23 169 245 83 16 394 392 145 1747

Number of Sites 0 75 10 44 59 33 6 18 23 30 298

Table 3.01: Summary of regions and the number of sites which have produced human remains from each region. Category Name Country Region Period Site Type Occupation Debris Occupation Debris Description Burial Number Burial Type Single/Group Synchronous/Diachronous Primary/Secondary Individual Number Age Sex Position Articulated Complete Present Post Burial Manipulation Post Burial Manipulation Description Pathology

Data

Comment

Yes/no

Are the human remains associated with occupation layers? Brief summary of the occupation layers.

Inhumation/ cremation/ bone scatter Single / group/ n/a Synchronous/ Diachronous/ n/a Primary/ Secondary/ n/a

For a discussion of the terminology see table 3.03.

Age as given in the literature. Male/female/unknown Yes/no Yes/no Yes/no

Position in which the body was found. Whether the remains were found articulated. Whether the skeletal remains were complete. If the body was incomplete, what remains were present. Were the skeletal remains manipulated after burial. Description of the manipulations.

Yes/no

Pathology Description Grave Dimensions Grave Goods

Yes/no

Shells Animal teeth Human teeth Miscellaneous stone items Stone tools Bone tools Antler tools Ivory objects Unmodified animal remains Antler structures Ochre Use of fire Other Location Comment References

Yes/no Yes/no Yes/no Yes/no Yes/no Yes/no Yes/no Yes/no Yes/no Yes/no Yes/no Yes/no Yes/no

Description of any pathological alterations observed on the bones. Description of the grave pit. Whether any grave goods were found with the human remains and a summary of the finds.

Table 3.02: Description of the categories of information for which data will be collected.

11. Appendix D: Tables and Figures from Chapter 3

Burial Number

Burial Type

Single/ Group

Synchronous/ Diachronous

Primary/ Secondary

Individual Number

Grave 1

Inhumation

Single

n/a

Unknown

Person 1

Grave 2

Inhumation

Single

n/a

Primary

Person 2

Grave 3

Inhumation

Single

n/a

Secondary

Person 3

Grave 4

Inhumation

Group

Unknown

Unknown

Person 4a

Grave 4

Inhumation

Group

Unknown

Unknown

Person 4b

Grave 5

Inhumation

Group

Diachronous

Primary

Person 5a

Grave 5

Inhumation

Group

Diachronous

Primary

Person 5b

Grave 6

Inhumation

Group

Diachronous

Secondary

Person 6a

Grave 6

Inhumation

Group

Diachronous

Secondary

Person 6b

Grave 7 Grave 7 Grave 7 Grave 8 Grave 8 Grave 8

Inhumation Inhumation Inhumation Inhumation Inhumation Inhumation

Group Group Group Group Group Group

Synchronous Synchronous Synchronous Synchronous Synchronous Synchronous

Primary Primary Primary Secondary Secondary Secondary

Person 7a Person 7b Person 7c Person 8a Person 8b Person 8c

n/a

Bone scatter type A

n/a

n/a

n/a

Person 9

n/a

Bone scatter type B

n/a

n/a

n/a

Person 10

n/a

Bone scatter type C

n/a

n/a

n/a

Person 11

n/a

Bone scatter type D

n/a

n/a

n/a

Person 12

Explanation Single burial of an individual for whom it is unknown whether deposition was primary or secondary. Single burial of an individual who decomposed in the grave in which s/he was found. Single burial of an individual whose body decomposed elsewhere and whose bones were placed in the grave. Multiple individuals found in the same grave but with no information regarding where the bodies decomposed or if they were placed in the grave at the same time. Double burial in which both individuals decomposed in the grave but were placed in it at different times.* Burial of two individuals whose bodies decomposed elsewhere and whose bones were placed in the same grave at different times. Three individuals who were placed in the same grave at the same time, and whose bodies decomposed in the grave. Group burial of three individuals who were placed in the grave at the same time but decomposed elsewhere. Individual represented by a few components disarticulated in the archaeological record. Individual represented by more than five components disarticulated in the archaeological record. Individual represented by disarticulated components which were intentionally modified.** Individual represented by disarticulated bones with evidence interpreted as cannibalism.

Table 3.03: Summary of the way the terminology adopted for describing human remains will appear in the database. * = For those found in group inhumations, each individual will receive a single entry. ** = The modifications to the bones of individuals described in the database as ‘bone scatter type C’ will be described in the column on ‘post-mortem manipulations’; see Chapter 3 and P. Andrews and Bello 2006, Roksandic 2002.

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Grim Investigations: Reaping the Dead

Figure 3.01: Modification of Gamble’s (1999:66; figure 3.1) map, adding Scandinavia and the Maghreb as regions. The demarcations do not follow modern geographic boundaries as they are based on the ecological structure of the resources. Political boundaries are given for the countries whose material is included in the database.

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12. Appendix E: Tables from Chapter 4 For references please see the database. Key for abbreviations used in the following tables. Contexts in which human remains have been discovered: Demography: IS Inhumation Single A Adult of Unknown Sex ISP Inhumation Single Primary AF Adult Female ISS Inhumation Single Secondary AM Adult Male IG Inhumation Group C Child (