Collaborative Heritage Management 9781463236892

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Collaborative Heritage Management

Regenerating Practices in Archaeology and Heritage 2 Editorial Board Gemma Tully Mal Ridges Leif Isaksen Richard Madgwick

Regenerating Practices in Archaeology and Heritage is a new interdisciplinary series, exploring emerging debates in Archaeology and Heritage studies. Shaping future directions for research through contemporary theory and practice, the volumes in this series are intended to build on and complement each other, developing perspectives and positions taken by other authors in the series, showing connectivity between diverse scales of discourse and between different subfields in Archaeology and Heritage. The series encompasses methodological, scientific and theoretical themes in both edited volumes and monographs and will encompass: collaborative archaeology; museum practice; digital humanities; archaeological fieldwork methodologies; and the intersection between scientific techniques and new understandings of the past.

Collaborative Heritage Management

Edited by

Gemma Tully Mal Ridges

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34 2016

Gorgias Press LLC, 954 River Road, Piscataway, NJ, 08854, USA www.gorgiaspress.com Copyright © 2016 by Gorgias Press LLC

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise without the prior written permission of Gorgias Press LLC. 2016

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ISBN 978-1-4632-0570-6

Printed in the United States of America

TABLE OF CONTENTS Table of Contents ..................................................................................... v Introduction .............................................................................................. 1 GEMMA TULLY AND MAL RIDGES Waewae Tapu: (Re)Connecting with the footprints of ancestral landscapes ......................................................................................... 5 HAUITI HAKOPA On the aesthetics of community: A Cape Breton view .................... 25 LON DUBINSKY The changing role of heritage practitioners in community-based heritage ............................................................................................ 45 MAL RIDGES, LYNN BAKER AND CLAUDE MCDERMOTT Talking with nature: Southern Paiute epistemology and the double hermeneutic with a living planet .................................... 75 RICHARD W. STOFFLE, RICHARD ARNOLD AND ANGELITA BULLETTS Practices for visualizing the regional past: Archaeology, social communication and education in Puerto San Julián, Argentina ......................................................................................101 ARIEL D. FRANK, MANUEL CUETO, FABIANA SKARBUN, DARÍO MARTÍNEZ AND RAFAEL S. PAUNERO Developing ‘urban environmental literacy’: A perspective on communal resources from Sukagawa, Fukushima .................129 JUNKO TAGUCHI

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Learning from the Guthis: An indigenous community-based heritage management system .....................................................153 NEELAM PRADHANANGA AND CHRIS LANDORF From community archaeology to civilian activism: The journey of cultural resource management through heritage dialogue in Egypt .........................................................................................181 GEMMA TULLY Collaborative discourses and interdisciplinary research in heritagisation processes: The case of the pilgrimage from Santiago to Finisterre ..................................................................209 CRISTINA SÁNCHEZ-CARRETERO, PAULA BALLESTEROSARIAS, GUADALUPE JIMÉNEZ-ESQUINAS AND EVA PARGA-DANS Access to heritage in the western Balkans: Disabled people and museums .......................................................................................229 DIANA WALTERS AND MICHÈLE TAYLOR

INTRODUCTION GEMMA TULLY MAL RIDGES In June 2012, the inaugural conference of the Association of Critical Heritage Studies (ACHS) was held at the University of Gothenburg, Sweden. The theme of the conference was ‘Re/theorising heritage’ and the event was used as a platform to launch the Association of Critical Heritage Studies, which, in association with the International Journal of Heritage Studies, aims to develop an extensive network of heritage scholars across the globe in order to debate and discuss cutting-edge research in the field of heritage studies. The Association’s manifesto asks all those working across the diverse spectrum of ‘heritage’ to: …question the received wisdom of what heritage is, energise heritage studies by drawing on wider intellectual sources, vigorously question the conservative cultural and economic power relations that outdated understandings of heritage seem to underpin and invite the active participation of people and communities who to date have been marginalised in the creation and management of ‘heritage’. 1

This book is the result of ACHS’s provocation and aims to take up this challenge across the social, scientific, political, technological and ethical dimensions of heritage studies. 2

Gary Campbell and Laurajane Smith, Asociation of Critical CManifesto, 2012, http://criticalheritagestudies.org/site-admin/site-content/ about-achs 2 Please note, this is not an official ACHS affiliated publication. 1

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The discourse surrounding ‘Collaborative Heritage Management’ was selected as the theme for the volume as the intercultural and interdisciplinary dialogues concerned with the use, practice and management of both tangible and intangible heritage by diverse stakeholders are the ‘glue’ that holds heritage work together in the real world, beyond pure theorisation. Thus, the chapters to follow were drawn largely from the papers presented in a session of the ACHS conference titled ‘Community heritage’. 3 Bringing together scholars from across the globe, from a range of disciplines including archaeology, anthropology, urban planning, human geography, cultural resource management (CRM) and museology, what was immediately apparent about the contributions, and the other works selected, however, was the extent to which the case studies, methodologies and outcomes presented moved beyond the limitations of traditional ‘community archaeology’ from which much collaborative heritage practice finds it roots. While exploring the organic, evolving and unpredictable nature of working with communities, the volume therefore focuses on emerging discourse which represents a shifting balance of power as once marginalised stakeholders are taking control of the constitution, representation and management of heritage as they experience it, both with or without ‘professional facilitation’. The heritage dialogues presented here range from personal responses to individual/local/tribal heritage to complex international cross-cultural partnerships. They reflect a range of ‘world views’ and include: discussions between people, landscapes and nature (Stoffle et al., Ridges et al., Hakopa); conversations surrounding human relationships with the built environment (Taguchi, Dubinsky, Landorf et al.); 21st century responses to the colonial/hegemonic control of heritage and identity (Tully, Frank et al); re-enfranchising marginalised heritage users (Walters and Taylor) and the exploration of the integrated cultural, socio-economic and personal implications of ‘heritagisation processes’ (Sanchez). To help the reader process this range of themes, the papers are presented in terms of scale. Hakopa and Dubinsky offer two highly The session took place from 9:00 to 11:00am on 7 June 2012 in the Nils Wedel Room of Gothenburg University. 3

INTRODUCTION

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personal and yet extremely different approaches, from opposite sides of the globe, in the exploration of the heritage narratives of the place they call ‘home’. Ridges et al., Frank et al., Landorf et al., Stoffle et al., Sanchez et al. and Taguchi all present case studies from specific sites or regions where collaboration with local/indigenous/resident groups has led to new working practices and epistemologies. Tully’s work represents a national case study, highlighting the empowerment of citizens in heritage management in Egypt, while Walters and Taylor reveal the possibilities for international collaboration across countries once part of the former Yugoslavia. There is no single adequate definition of what heritage is and what it means, but a common theme that emerged from the ACHS conference was that heritage is increasingly being re-theorised in terms of experience. By its very nature, heritage, both tangible and intangible, is personal. As a consequence, things/places/traditions that were once considered part of a person’s/culture’s heritage can shift over time and space. For this reason, this introduction has not set out to define ‘heritage’ or ‘collaboration’, instead, through the different perspectives, methodologies and examples outlined by the contributors to this volume, who are looking for ways to integrate the diverse discourse surrounding heritage at different scales, we ask you to join the conversation about how communities experience heritage, critically engage with heritage studies and continue the debate. In the words of the ACHS’s manifesto, ‘heritage studies needs to be rebuilt from the ground up’. 4 This volume aims to make a start in this process, but it is only when more diverse voices are involved and respected within heritage studies that this rebuilding can really begin and seemingly disparate epistemologies can sit side-by-side or even be reconciled.

4

See footnote 1.

WAEWAE TAPU: (RE)CONNECTING WITH THE FOOTPRINTS OF ANCESTRAL LANDSCAPES

HAUITI HAKOPA INTRODUCTION When Ngātoroirangi, the famous tohunga ancestor and navigator of the Arawa canoe, first landed at Maketū some 28 generations ago he erected a tūāhu (altar) and offered up a special karakia (incantation) known as an uruuru whenua. The purpose was to greet the spirit and guardians of the earth, of this new land, to receive the hearts of the strangers who had just arrived on their shores. This act established a pattern of behavior and observance of how we connect with the earth and how the earth recognises who we are and receives us into her presence. Ngātoroirangi then navigated inland across unfamiliar territory erecting tūāhu and offering up karakia at these special places; constantly connecting with the spirit of the land; weaving footprints into the land for his offspring to follow and performing memorable deeds in his search for whenua (land) for his descendants to occupy. Ngātoroirangi stopped briefly at the Lake at the centre of the Fish 1 of Māui before continuing south along the eastern shores of Tāuponui-a-Tia. He eventually arrived at Tongariro and on breaching the summit he cast his eyes over the region and claimed the land for his descendants; he also began the process of understanding the spirit and mauri (life force) of the environs giving appropriate

The North Island of New Zealand is known by Māori as Te Ika a Māui – The Fish of Māui. 1

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names to many significant sites and waterways to further cement his occupation of this territory. However his claim to those lands lay dormant for eight generations. Tūwharetoa, moved by a sense of knowing that he needed to reclaim those lands vacated by his ancestor, sent his sons to reclaim those lands; to do so they had to re-establish their connection to the land in the same way that Ngātoroirangi did. Rakeipoho rededicated some of the tūāhu of Ngātoroirangi then he began the process of subduing Ngāti Hotu who now occupied the territory. In the process, he left names on the landscape. He was followed by Rereao who went about his task in a similar fashion. A few generations later, Turangitukua breached the final Ngāti Hotu stronghold thus establishing the descendants of Tūwharetoa and Ngātoroirangi firmly in their lands. These ancestors reconnected with the landscape in the same way their ancestor Ngātoroirangi did. It is this (re)connection with the ancestral footsteps that will imbue us of this generation with the mana (prestige), tapu (sacredness) and wairua (spirit) necessary to reclaim the cultural heritage bestowed on us by Ngātoroirangi and to maintain the mauri of those footsteps.

BACKGROUND We of the Ngāti Tūwharetoa Tribe, who occupy the land surrounding Taupōnui-a-Tia in Te Ika a Māui of Aotearoa (New Zealand), derive our whakapapa (genealogy), our mana, our identity, our right to occupy our ancestral territories and our connection to the ancient homelands of Hawaiki nui, Hawaiki roa and Hawaiki pamamao and to the heavenly hosts/deities through our great ancestors who navigated across Te-Moana-Nui-a-Kiwa, the great ocean of Kiwa (Pacific Ocean) to settle in Aotearoa. In particular, we of Tūwharetoa descent derive these privileges from one known as Ngātoroirangi; this is his story. This is the story of a very influential and prominent ancestor who travelled on one of the canoes that left the ancient homelands of Hawaiki to journey down to Aotearoa, the land of the long white cloud. The journey, however, began with Kupe an explorer of great renown who, along with his contemporary Ngāhue, found themselves in pursuit of Te Wheke a Muturangi (the pet octopus of Muturangi), who had interfered with several fishing expeditions in and around their islands, and ended up discovering Aotearoa.

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7

The incident with the wheke contains two important discoveries: one was the discovery of a new land and the second was the discovery of pounamu (greenstone). The discovery of Aotearoa by Kupe and Ngāhue was important to the eventual migration of our ancestors from their existing homelands. The discovery of pounamu was important to the creation of two toki (adze) used to build our ancestral waka (canoe) Te Arawa. After slaying the wheke both waka headed down the west coast of Te Waipounamu (South Island) where Ngāhue retrieved a great slab of pounamu at Arahura which became known as Te Ika a Ngāhue (the fish of Ngāhue). This piece of pounamu was taken back to Hawaiki where two toki (adze) and a taringa whakakai (ear pendant) were made. The names of the toki were Tutauru and Hauhauterangi; these toki were used to carve the ancestral waka known as Te Arawa which conveyed Ngātoroirangi, his wife Kearoa and many other ancestors to Aotearoa. The whakakai, known as kaukaumatua, was passed down to Mananui Te Heuheu who died with it in 1846. The preceding account is but one variation of the well-known story surrounding the great navigator and explorer Kupe and his discovery of Aotearoa; but it contains the ngako, that is to say, the essence of the story that led our ancestors to this land.

THE CULTURAL FOOTPRINT(S) OF NGĀTOROIRANGI The Arawa canoe had two puka or anchors: one called Te Toka Parore and the other called Tū-Te-Rangi-Haruru. Te Toka Parore was the anchor for the Tauihu or bow of the canoe, while Tū-Te-RangiHaruru 2 was the anchor for the Taurapa or stern. 3 Ngātoroirangi occupied his esteemed position at the Taurapa of the canoe because he was the principal navigator who was well versed in the knowledge of the heavens, earth and oceans, and was sufficiently skilled to guide the expedition to its destination. The puka were used to stabilise the canoe when moored to keep it from drifting. Today we use other cultural devices to keep Grace, Tūwharetoa: The history of the Māori people of the Taupō District, p. 40 (comments that Tū-te-Rangi-Haruru is the bow anchor). 3 Stafford, Te Arawa: a history of the Arawa people, p. 11 & p. 18. 2

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us from drifting away from our moorings, our cultural roots; one such device is called pēpeha. The following is what we, who derive descent from Tūwharetoa of the Taupō region, use: Ko Tongariro te maunga Ko Taupō-nui-a-Tia te moana Ko Te Heuheu tonu te tangata Ko Ngāti Tūwharetoa te iwi

Tongariro is the mountain Taupō-nui-a-Tia is the lake Te Heuheu is the chief Tūwharetoa are the people

This simple cultural device is a glimpse into our worldview; within this pēpeha reside the cultural footprints that define who we are as a tribe (Tūwharetoa), where our principal anchor is (Tongariro); one of the most significant areas of our ancestral landscape (Taupō-nui-aTia which is known by Tūwharetoa as: Te Manawa o Te Ika a Māui, the heart of the fish of Māui); and who our Ariki (principal chief) is: he who upholds the mana of our people (Te Heuheu). Although the tribal region is not explicitly articulated in this pēpeha, it will become apparent in the text that follows that the region our ancestral canoe occupies geographically stretches from Maketū (the bow of the canoe), where the canoe landed, to Tongariro (representing the stern of the canoe occupied by Ngātoroirangi) in the central plateau of Te Ika a Māui. This pēpeha defines who we are culturally, it defines our geographical location, it defines how we connect to our ancestral landscape and it defines the geographical location that the tribes of the Arawa canoe inhabit from Maketū to Tongariro. Each line of this pēpeha contains essential building blocks that locate and anchor each member of the tribe to their Wāhi Kura (significant landmarks or places) within their ancestral landscapes. Each place and name is a link to a body of tribal lore consisting of whakapapa (describing the genealogical connections to the deities of the Heavens, to Mother Earth and her bounty, to their ancestors across the Pacific Islands, and to the unborn generations), karakia (complex incantations), mōteatea (traditional songs and chants), whakataukī (proverbial utterances), pēpeha, and kōrero pūrākau (stories) and is underpinned by the concept of mana. Furthermore, each placename:

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…describe(s) the deeds of the ancestors, imbue the land with character and shape the identity of the local iwi or tribe as a separate and unique people of Aotearoa, New Zealand; behind each name is a story. 4

For us of Tūwharetoa in the Taupō region it all began with Ngātoroirangi; he is the central character whose ritual practices from the time he left the ancient homeland of Hawaiki to when he scaled the heights of Tongariro mountain set in place the cultural footprints which established our tribal rights to occupy the Taupō region and claim Tongariro as our principal anchor akin to the anchor Tū-TeRangi-Haruru which held the taurapa of the canoe in place. This is his story; this is our tribal legacy.

TAPUNUI O ATUANUI Kupe found his way to Aotearoa by following the wheke. When he returned to the islands, he gave instructions to his kin how to find the new land. Similar instructions were given to those of the Arawa canoe by those who had already made that journey. kia whakatau koutou ki a Atutahi ma Rehua; ko Atutahi e whakatata nei ki te Mangoroa! Direct your course to Canopus by Rehua (Antares); Canopus that is by the side of the Milky Way! 5

Ngātoroirangi, whose name has been translated as “To Grasp the Heavens” or “Frequent Visitor of the Heavens”, perhaps in reference to his esoteric knowledge of the Heavens and the Earth, was known among our people as an Ariki Ahorei Kaipupuri, a Tohunga of the highest order of learning. 6 Another term for his status was Tohunga Tūāhuroa, the highest grade of expert in traditional lore. The title, Tohunga Tūāhuroa denotes He Who Uses The World As His p. 4.

36.

4 5

Hakopa, Spatial Information Technologies and the Geography of Narratives,

Grace, Tūwharetoa: The history of the Māori people of the Taupō District, p.

Crown Forestry Rental Trust, Te Taumarumarutanga O Ngāti Tūwharetoa, p. 18. 6

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Altar, or He Of The Endless Altar. 7 He was the first born of the first born and thus was the keeper of esoteric knowledge that was handed down from father to son. His father was Rakauri, a first born male, whose father was Atuamatua (Tuamatua), another first born male of an ancient bloodline of High Priests. It was because of his knowledge and status that he was sought after as a passenger on two of the migration waka: Tainui and Te Arawa. Both he and his wife were subtly “kidnapped” by his close kin, Tama-te-kapua, who was the captain of the Arawa canoe, to perform the rituals (karakia) to release the canoe from its mooring to begin the journey to Aotearoa. In the midst of the recitation of the departing karakia, Tama-te-kapua uplifted the anchors and let the canoe drift ever so quietly out to the open sea thus denying Tainui their right to the High Priest. This act ensured that the Arawa had on board an important tohunga who knew the ancient Ara Moana (pathways of the ocean), and who held great mana among his peers. Grace puts it this way: 8 He understood the language of the stars, the children of the lord of light, Tane nui a Rangi: he conversed with the moon, Hineauri; and he kept the prow of the Te Arawa pointed in a direction that was a little to the left of the setting sun.

KA Ū KI MATANUKU The Arawa first landed at a place called Whangaparaoa and after a brief rest headed in a northerly direction stopping at a small Island off Moehau, which they called Te Pito o te Kupenga a Taramainuku (The extremities of the net of Taramainuku). 9 It was there that Ngātoroirangi deposited the first of the Ara stones that he had brought with him. The purpose was to keep at bay any unknown evil spirits of the new land from the people of their canoe. From here they headed in a southerly direction making landfall at Maketū. 7 8

p. 41.

9

p. 35.

Ngāti Tūwharetoa WAI 575; Briefs of Evidence, p. 5. Grace, Tūwharetoa: The History of the Māori people of the Taupō District, Davis, He Kōrero Pūrākau Mō Ngā Taunahanahatanga ā Ngā Tūpuna,

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Three of the Ara stones were deposited at Whakatāne, Whangarā and Kawhia; the fourth was on Tongariro. When the Arawa canoe landed at Maketū, Ngātoroirangi erected a tūāhu known as Koaretaia and then offered up a special karakia known as an Uruuru Whenua. 10 Ka ū ki Matanuku Ka ū ki Matarangi Ka ū ki tēnei whenua Hei whenua Māu e kai te manawa o tauhou

I arrive where unknown earth is under my feet. I arrive where a new sky is above me; I arrive at this land, a resting-place for me, O Spirit of the Earth! The stranger humbly offers his heart as food for thee!

The tūāhu was the physical symbol of occupation and connection to that part of the land; the karakia was the spiritual invocation to the guardians of that land expressing their (Ngātoroirangi) presence in the new land. Furthermore, the recitation of this karakia served to placate the spirits and guardians of the earth, of this new land, to receive the hearts of the strangers who had just arrived on their shores. Furthermore, he was establishing his right and his descendants’ rights to be there. This act established a pattern of behavior and observance of how we can connect with the earth and how the earth recognises who we are and receives us into her domain; thus giving rise to the expression: ko tātou te whenua, ko te whenua ko tātou. We are the land, and the land is us. My cultural lens, shaped by my worldview discussed in the preceding sections, tells me that he followed the course of rivers for sustenance and moved from Mountain to Mountain: first, to get the lay of the land and to set his course forward; second, to communicate his presence to the guardians of the land; third, to bespeak the lands for his descendants. Furthermore, he cemented his claims by naming places. In other words, he was leaving footprints for his descendants and declaring his presence and occupation to the lands and to other tohunga.

10

p. 48.

Grace, Tūwharetoa: The History of the Māori people of the Taupō District,

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These footprints are in the form of a collection of names depicting his exploration and search for land; they are also expressed in the form of tūāhu where, again, karakia were recited. Each name is packed with a story which, when they are all linked together, form what has been called, by Sir Tipene O’Regan, Oral Maps. 11

WAEWAE TAPU: THE BEGINNING OF ORAL MAPPING There are several names in and around the landing site of the Arawa that tell part of the story. Taumatatungoungou and TeAkeake a Ngātoroirangi are two places that Ngātoroirangi occupied. Te Awa o Ngātoroirangi is so named as the place where the bow of the Arawa canoe came to shore, while Te Awakari a Ngātoroirangi is given to represent a new channel for the river that he and his kinfolk dug. Other accounts give the landing place of the Arawa as Te Awahou, near Te Tumu. 12 From Maketū, Ngātoroirangi headed in a southerly direction along the coast until he reached what is now known as the Tarawera River. It was once known as Te Awa o te Atua (The River of the God) in reference to the great influence and priestly knowledge that Ngātoroirangi wielded. He then followed the river inland across unfamiliar territory towards the centre of the Island, to a place known as Ruawāhia near Tarawera Mountain. From here he headed in a southerly direction to the Paeroa range across the Kaingaroa plains arriving at Tauhara Mountain nestled to the east of Lake Taupō. He proceeded to climb Tauhara where he erected a tūāhu known as Te Pou o Ngātoroirangi at the top and established Te Ikatere as kaitiaki or guardian over the surrounding land. Here, on the summit, he also claimed the land for his descendants. On the northern shores of Lake Taupō (possibly at Tapuaeharuru) he erect-

11

p. xiii.

12

p. 35.

Davis, He Kōrero Pūrākau Mō Ngā Taunahanahatanga ā Ngā Tūpuna, Davis, He Kōrero Pūrākau Mō Ngā Taunahanahatanga ā Ngā Tūpuna,

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ed another tūāhu known as Te Tūāhu a Ngātoroirangi. 13 He offered karakia at both tūāhu. From Tapuaeharuru, he travelled south along the eastern shores of Taupō-nui-a-Tia, to Wharewaka, Te Māngungu, Rotongaio, Te Hātepe, Hāmāria and Motutere, before passing Pihanga on his way to Tongariro. All these places have a story. At Wharewaka is a tree in the water representing Kuwha the spear he threw from the summit of Tauhara to leave his mark on the whenua. 14 Te Māngungu is a very large rock in Waitahanui where he stopped to rest. 15 At Rotongaio, Ngātoroirangi erected another tūāhu called Hawaiki and another at Te Hatepe which he called Ihuporo. At Hāmāria he encountered his kin Tia who had placed a Pou (staff) in the ground and attached his cloak and gave it the name Taupō-nui-a-Tia. At Motutere, Ngātoroirangi spotted a range of mountains in the south and decided to head for those mountains.

THE SACRED MOUNTAINS OF TONGARIRO The journey from Motutere into the shadow of the Tongariro began at Haututanga o Ngātoroirangi. It was here that he lost sight of the mountains because of low cloud and karakia of other tohunga in the region. So he tilted his head up towards the heavens and sniffed the air thus sensing the direction he needed to head. 16 He arrived at Ohuanga on the slopes of Pihanga. Ohuanga refers to the abundance of food in the region. Here he placed his staff in the ground and called upon one of his gods, Rongomai, to come. The place became known as Te Pou o Rongomai or Pou o Rongo meaning The Staff of Rongomai, 17 Pihanga, Te Karika o Ngātoroirangi, Te Poutūtanga o 13

p. 61.

14

p. 61.

Grace, Tūwharetoa: The History of the Māori people of the Taupō District, Grace, Tūwharetoa: The History of the Māori people of the Taupō District,

Personal comments from Kaumatua of Tuwharetoa. Crown Forestry Rental Trust, Te Taumarumarutanga O Ngāti Tūwharetoa, p. 19. 17 Crown Forestry Rental Trust, Te Taumarumarutanga O Ngāti Tūwharetoa, p. 21. 15 16

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Ngātoroirangi, Te Ara o Tawhaki and Te Moana o Rotoaira are all places leading up to his ascent of Tongariro. 18 It was at Te Ara o Tawhaki on the southern slopes of Pihanga that he sought out the ancestors known as the Patupaiarehe Urukehu. These were the ancient guardians of the surrounding area who knew the pathway to the summit of Tongariro. Once he received counsel he headed across Rotoaira to begin his ascent. Rotoaira is a lake nestled between Pihanga and Tongariro; the full name Te Moana o Rotoaira was gifted by Ranginui (Sky Father) to the sacred mountain Tongariro. 19 On his ascent he was challenged by other tohunga including Hape ki Tuarangi, Tamatea pokaiwhenua and Kauika. He managed to delay their attempts to climb the mountains with a Ruruku (type of karakia). The land responded to his karakia in the following manner: the heavens darkened turning the day into night, and the sleet, snow and bitter cold descended threatening to engulf Ngātoroirangi. 20 This event is immortalized with the naming of three places in the area: Rangipō (to turn the Day Dark), Onetapu (Sacred Earth – meaning the place where this incident occurred and became sacred) and Tongariro (to be seized by the cold). 21

TE AHI TAMOU Despite the biting cold Ngātoroirangi continued to climb the mountain to breach the summit. He sought temporary shelter at Pare Te Tai Tonga (Protection from the Cold South Wind) before continuing on to the summit. He encountered the guardian Patupaiarehe again challenging him to reach the peak. Despite the intense cold he forged ahead finally breaching the summit. Once there, the saCrown Forestry Rental Trust, Te Taumarumarutanga O Ngāti Tūwharetoa, pp. 21–23. 19 Crown Forestry Rental Trust, Te Taumarumarutanga O Ngāti Tūwharetoa, p. 22. 20 Crown Forestry Rental Trust, Te Taumarumarutanga O Ngāti Tūwharetoa, p. 22. 21 Crown Forestry Rental Trust, Te Taumarumarutanga O Ngāti Tūwharetoa, p. 22 & Grace, Tūwharetoa: The History of the Māori people of the Taupō District, p. 61. 18

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cred mountains acknowledged his ascent; but he was weakened by the effort. He petitioned his sisters Kuiwai and Haungaroa to send the Ahi Tipua (sacred fire) from the ancient homelands of Hawaiki to warm his failing body. Kuiwai e! Haungaroa e! Ka riro au i te tonga, tukuna mai te ahi! O Kuiwai! O Haungaroa! I am seized by the cold wind from the south. Send me fire! 22

This plea gave rise to the name of the mountain Tongariro, to be seized (Riro) by the cold southerly wind (Tonga). Then he uttered this karakia: 23

E Para e para E titoko o te ao mārama Tukua au ki ngaa taawhangawhanga nui No Rangi, no Papa hei aio Tu ake te makariri Haeremai te wera wera E Hika ra taku ahi ki a Kautetetu E Hika ra taku ahi ki a Te Pupu E Hika rā taku ahi ki a Te Hoata Ki a Te Moremore O te Rangi eee

O Para! Support post of the world of light Let me come forth to the presence of Rangi, the (Sky Father), and Papa, the (Earth Mother) In safety! The cold is upon me, bring forth the fire Kindle my fire, the fire of Kautetetu Kindle my fire, the fire of Te Hoata Kindle my fire, the fire of Te Pupū The fire of Te Moremore o te Rangi

It is in this part of the story that Ngātoroirangi’s presence is widely felt within the region and acknowledged around the country; the legacy of the Ahi Tamou (geothermal fires) is permanently etched into the landscape connecting us back to the ancient homelands of Grace, Tūwharetoa: The History of the Māori people of the Taupō District, pp. 63–64. 23 Crown Forestry Rental Trust, Te Taumarumarutanga O Ngāti Tūwharetoa, p. 116. 22

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Hawaiki Pāmamao right through the corridor of land held intact by the anchors of the Arawa Waka and up to Tongariro. On hearing their brother’s plea, Kuiwai and Haungaroa (Kui and Hau above) appealed to Hine-Tapeka, the guardian of the Ahi Tipua, who resided in Hawaiiki Pāmamao, for the sacred fire to send to their brother. Hine-Tapeka consented giving the Ahi Tipua to Te Hoata and Te Pupū in three kete (containers). Te Hoata and Te Pupū left Hawaiki and came burrowing under Te Moana nui a Kiwa towards Aotearoa, surfacing at Whakaari where they came up for a breath thus leaving behind an active volcano. They burrowed underground and headed inland towards Tongariro. Wherever they surfaced to get their bearings, today you can see, smell and feel the mark of the Ahi Tipua in the form of Ngāwhā (boiling springs), Puia (hot geysers) and Waiariki (hot thermal pools for bathing). When they finally surfaced at Tongariro they only had one Kete of the AhiTipua with them as they had deposited two along their journey. Ngātoroirangi exclaimed, “Kotahi anō te kete” – “there is only one kit”; 24 Ketetahi, meaning one kit, is the name given to the healing pool of geothermal water on the northern slopes of Tongariro where Ngātoroirangi revived himself. There are many places within the Arawa region that felt the presence of the Ahi Tipua as it burrowed towards Tongariro including: Whakaari, Moutohora, Awakeri, Pukaahu, Onepu, Rotoitepaku, Okākaru, Rotoehu, Putauaki, Rotoma, Tikorangi, Waitangi, Ngarongoiri, Rotoehu, Matawhaura, Manapirua, the environs of Te Rotorua o Kahunatamomoe, Tikitere, Maraeroa, Te Rei, Tokorua ana Tuahine, Whakapoungakau, Mourea Paehinahina, Te Waihunuhunu, Maraeroa, Ohinemutu, Papaiouru, Whakarewarewa o Ngā Ope Taua o Tuhourangi, Te Pohutu, Tarawera, Te Waiotapu o Ngātoroirangi, Te Korokoro o Te Purewa, Rahurahu, Te Waiwhakaatua, Papakohatu, Orakeikorako,Te Ohaaki o Ngātoroirangi, Te Pua o Parariki, Rotokawa, Wairakei, Te Karapiti, Ngā Mahanga, Pirorerore, matarakutia, Wairakei te Kiri o Hinekai, Waipahihi o Tia, Onekeneke, Waitetoko, Te Puna Whakaata, Toretiti, Huru Kareao, Te Puia Nui, Te Korokoro o Poinga, Teretere, Atakokore, Te Korokoro, Porori, Te Tuki, Paraki Tuarua, Whakatara, Hipaua, Tihia, Rotokuri, Crown Forestry Rental Trust, Te Taumarumarutanga O Ngāti Tūwharetoa, p. 25. 24

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and up to Ketetahi on the northern slopes of Tongariro, Ngā Puna o Tamatea, Ngauruhoe, and Ruapehu. 25

NGĀ WAITAPU O NGĀTOROIRANGI (THE SACRED WATERS OF NGĀTOROIRANGI) Ngātoroirangi took great care in naming the waterways around the mountain; all of them without exception tell a story, for example: the chanting of karakia (Ohapane, Whangaehu, Te Unuunukapua Te Ariki) ritual was performed (Rahuituki); whakapapa was recited (Whakapapanui and Whakapapaiti, and Whakapapa); occupation rights were acknowledged or challenged (Omarae, Mangaehuehu, Makotuku, Manaturuturu, Mangateitei), representing a description of what he saw (Waihohonu, Te Pakiraki, Mangahouhounui, Puketerata, Waitakotorua, Mangahouhouiti, Mangatawai, Manatipua, One poto, Waimarino); or to describe an event that took place(Te Piripiri, Oturere, Paetutu). 26 All these waterways are known as Ngā Waitapu o Ngātoroirangi, The Sacred Waters of Ngātoroirangi. The real legacy of these waterways is described in the Tūwharetoa tribal lore revealing the interconnectedness of the tribe to Ranginui (Sky Father) and Papatūānuku (Earth Mother) and their offspring; in this instance the waterways. To understand this part of the Tribal lore we need to look back at the stories associated with Māui-tikitiki-a-Taranga who is credited with describing Aotearoa as a Fish known as Te-Ika-a-Māui. At the centre of the Fish is the Lake Taupō-nui-a-Tia and Tongariro. Tribal lore tells us that the lands surrounding the Lake and Mountains are known as Te Puku o Te Ika, the belly of the Fish; the Lake itself is Te Manawa o te Ika a Māui or the Heart of the Fish, the Mountain Range consisting of the peaks of Tongariro, Ngāuruhoe and Ruapehu is Te Pito o Te Ika a Māui, or Umbilical Cord of the Fish. Further, Te Manawa is called by our

Crown Forestry Rental Trust, Te Taumarumarutanga O Ngāti Tūwharetoa, pp. 28–29. 26 Crown Forestry Rental Trust, Te Taumarumarutanga O Ngāti Tūwharetoa, pp. 32–36. 25

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tribe Te Kopua Kanapanapa o Taupō-nui-a-Tia (The sparkling pool of water known as Taupō-nui-a-Tia). 27 The rain that falls upon Te Pito o Te Ika flows from Ranginui and feeds the rivers and streams; they make up the arteries of the Fish. There are two major arteries that flow from Te Pito: one known as the Whanganui and the other is known as the Waikato; both rivers play a major part in sustaining the Fish. The Whanganui river flows in a westerly direction before dropping south flowing out at Whanganui, while the Waikato flows east from Te Pito eventually turning north to flow into Te Manawa o te Ika. The Waikato exits at Te Hikuwai o Te Manawa o Te Ika a Māui, a northern part of the Lake, and flows north through the Fish to its exit into the Tasman Sea. 28 With respect to our ancestral landscapes and within our worldview, the rivers, streams and creeks are all connected by Whakapapa or genealogy. These waters represent the arteries, veins and capillaries that convey blood and thus sustenance to the Fish of Māui. Each waterway has a specific function; each has its own Mauri or Life-Force. The Mauri is what keeps the water alive. All these waterways provided sustenance for the Fish (the land), the living creatures that inhabited the region, and the Tribe. The wealth of names draped across the landscape under the shadow of Tongariro is a testament to the observant nature of the ancestors and their ability to listen to the voice(s) of the land. The place names and stories underpinning the names are some of the methods they used to store, retrieve and communicate this information; it was also how they created oral maps of their territories. The naming of place, and by extension the land, is a form of whakapapa, or genealogy, where we as humans establish our connections with the (heavens and) land. The names by themselves only tell part of the story and in some cases may not even make sense until they are put into context (who was involved, where it occurred and what events transpired) and connected to other names Crown Forestry Rental Trust, Te Taumarumarutanga O Ngāti Tūwharetoa, p. 48. 28 Crown Forestry Rental Trust, Te Taumarumarutanga O Ngāti Tūwharetoa, p. 48. 27

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which form part of that series of stories. If we want to understand the land in the same manner as the ancestors then we must stand in those same places; sniff the air, feel the surroundings, visualize and listen to the voices of the land and its environs with your wairua (spirit), get a sense of what occurred there and match the story up to the name(s). This is how we develop the ability to listen to the voice of the land. For example, if I think about Tongariro: every name, event and deed associated with Ngātoroirangi is connected with Tongariro and the spiritual nature of our (Tūwharetoa tribe’s) connection to the mountain and to the spirit of the land. The legacy of Ngātoroirangi’s footprints is still felt some 28 generations later. This is an important point. Cultural heritage is not defined by our worldview, rather we understand cultural heritage based on (or despite) our worldview; and in the case described above, it is the worldview described by the practices of our ancestors. Thus, if we (today) are able to recite the names left by Ngātoroirangi we will be able to demonstrate the knowledge retained of the boundaries of his occupation, the environmental knowledge he had gathered of the area and the intimate connection he had established with the land and with its guardian spirits. Our heritage is to grasp the heavens, as his name (Ngātoroirangi) suggests, and remember those names and, more importantly, everything about them. In other words, what did their meaning convey to him? And more importantly for me today: what does it now convey to me? How do I connect with the land?

THE RECLAMATION BY THE SONS OF TŪWHARETOA While Ngātoroirangi named many places and became intimate with the land and its guardian spirits, he did not remain in the area. He met his close relative Tamatea-pokaiwhenua at Te Poutūtanga o Ngātoroirangi who urged him to return to the coast. Ngātoroirangi had delayed Tamatea-pokaiwhenua for eight nights at a place called Pōwaru, meaning 8 nights, near Te Moana o Rotoaira while he continued to name the waterways and the sites surrounding the mountain. Eventually, Ngātoroirangi found his way back to Te Awa o te Atua and then headed north towards Tauranga where he settled on Motītī

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Island. There he set up his pā (fortification), Matarehua, his dwelling, Taumaihiorongo, and built his waka, Totarakaria, never again to set foot in Taupō. 29 Nine generations later, the sons of Tūwharetoa marched on Taupō to reclaim the legacy of Ngātoroirangi. Our tribal history tells us that Tūwharetoa (the man) sensed there would come a time when he would need to reclaim the heritage left to him by Ngātoroirangi. However, it was his sons, grandsons and others, in particular Rakeipoho, Rereao, and later Turangitukua, who led the reclamation of the Taupō lands, the legacy of Ngātoroirangi. While the reclamation of the lands dedicated by Ngātoroirangi in and around the Lake and Mountain required force of conquest in a number of battles, another important ritual took place; the retracing of the footprints of Ngātoroirangi’s original journey and the rededication of the original tūāhu established by him. 30 This task was completed by Rakeipoho and Taringa. Again, in the tradition established by their ancestor, the naming of events and places in commemoration of those events that took place during all the campaigns to reclaim Taupō added to the legacy left by Ngātoroirangi. The following names are attributed to the campaign led by Rakeipoho and form part of Tūwharetoa Tribal Lore: Te Umukuri a Rakeipoho, Tupatomatua, Okaturere, Matapupuni, Te Puna o Rotokuri, Mangamutu, Ngongoro, Otara, Oraukura, Mangaparuparu, Te Arakaipatangata a Rakeipoho, Te Ruahoata, Te Umu Taonui a Rakeipoho, Te Pukekaikiore o Rakeipoho, and Te Hokowhitu a Tū o Rakeipoho. All these names are distinguished by what occurred at these places and who was involved: retribution for insulting curses, battle sites, the heaping up of the dead, the cooking of dogs, battle cleansing rites, killing rites, the depiction of courage in battle, feasting on flesh, and the construction of tūāhu. 31 Crown Forestry Rental Trust, Te Taumarumarutanga O Ngāti Tūwharetoa, pp. 39–40. 30 Crown Forestry Rental Trust, Te Taumarumarutanga O Ngāti Tūwharetoa, p. 61. 31 Crown Forestry Rental Trust, Te Taumarumarutanga O Ngāti Tūwharetoa, pp. 61–63. 29

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The following names are attributed to the efforts of Rereao in his campaign to Taupō: Te Porere o Rereao, Puketapu, Moerangi, Kuharua, Pukekaikiore, Te Pukawatanga o Te Ahi a Rereao, Te Korowhiti o Rereao, and Te Rere o Waihi o Rereao. These are burial sites, battle sites, and battle cleansing ritual sites. 32 The distinguishing features of the Turangitukua led campaign in his time was the establishment of the tribal god Rongomai under his leadership and a particular battle known as Te Parekura o Turangitukua. At a place called Whakapoukarakia, a unit of Ngāti Hotu were encamped at their pā site which was built on three levels. Turangitukua placed his staff in the ground and recited a special karakia then sent his warriors into battle; the assault on the first level forced the occupants back to the second level. He repeated his karakia and again sent his forces in to assault the second level; the occupants were forced back to the third level. He repeated his karakia for the last time and for the last time he sent his forces forward where they completely wiped out their enemies; hence the name of the battle Te Parekura o Turangitukua, The Annihilation of Turangitukua. 33 Following this battle, the cleansing ceremonies were performed at a place called Te Hauai releasing them from the restrictions placed on them by battle. They also offered up karakia to their gods at a sacred site where the waka Totarakaria (built by Ngātoroirangi) lay. The last thing that occurred was the bestowal of custodianship over the tribal god Rongomai into the hands of Turangitukua, thus cementing his leadership. The reclamation of the Tūwharetoa tribal lands was now complete and back under their custodianship; that is of course until the Crown breached the principles of the Treaty of Waitangi. That is another story. The legacy established by Ngātoroirangi generations before was firmly established using similar patterns set by his descendants. Crown Forestry Rental Trust, Te Taumarumarutanga O Ngāti Tūwharetoa, pp. 63–65. 33 Crown Forestry Rental Trust, Te Taumarumarutanga O Ngāti Tūwharetoa, pp. 67–68. 32

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OUR CULTURAL HERITAGE Since Ngātoroirangi, numerous ancestors have lived and died in the Taupō region adding their footprints to the ancestral landscape. They established a familiarity with the environs of the region developing an intimate relationship with, and knowledge of, the lands, waters and geothermal fires essential for their survival. Moreover, they developed a spiritual connection to their lands akin to that of an umbilical cord that connects a baby to his/her mother and they listened to the voices of the land. Such a connection is well documented in the extant archives of mōteatea (classical song) and kōrero pūrākau (stories); it is this (re)connection that is essential to the survival of our cultural heritage. It is this (re)connection with the ancestral footsteps of Ngātoroirangi that provide us with a familiar pattern of behavior and observance of how we look after the heritage and legacy that is our whenua; Te Puku o te Ika a Māui, the Belly of the great Fish of Māui.

CONCLUSION It is with a tinge of sadness that I recall the voices of our Kaumatua (Elderly) who over many generations of leaders have raised their concerns with the Crown over the breaches to the Treaty of Waitangi with the raising of the lake levels that have destroyed significant sites and turned food areas into wetlands and swamps; the desecration of sacred sites; implementing policies that stripped them and their descendants of their language; the taking of lands and denying them their customary rights to the waterways, the geothermal areas, and fishing resources. There is a pervading sense of intrusion on our customary rights of practice within our tribal territories due primarily to the loss of land resulting from Crown breaches of the Principles of the Treaty of Waitangi. A loss of access to sacred sites within the ancestral landscapes contributes to a loss of cultural practices germane to our identity as Tūwharetoa and our connection to the legacy left by our ancestors. There is also a sense of shame associated, in no small measure, to the callous policies implemented by government agencies that have systematically stripped away our rights to our language; one way was by dishing out capital punishment on our mothers and fathers for speaking their own language at schools. Many of them abandoned their language and in so doing never spoke to their children in their native

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tongue. This mere act of punishment resulted in more than a loss of language but a loss of a huge body of cultural knowledge bound in the language of ancestral landscapes. It is at the intersection of ancestral practices and whakapapa connection with the land that our notion of heritage begins but does not end. It continues as we (today) (re)discover the language, voice and spirit of the whenua. While the Crown has interrupted our ability to fully practice our culture as our ancestors did, the Crown has not interrupted our whakapapa connections to the land; we were born of the land and we will die and return to the land of our heritage. Thus there is a conscious need for us to re-connect with the ancestral footprints left by Ngātoroirangi and his descendants Rakeipoho, Rereao, Turangitukua and many others that followed after them. Ngātoroirangi connected with the spirit of the land as soon as he arrived in a very unique way; in a similar fashion we need to reclaim the mauri, wairua (spirit) and tapu (sacredness) of our language so that we can understand the body of knowledge embedded in the ancestral landscapes by them. Then we can connect with our ancestral footprints by becoming intimate with the spirits and guardians that protect us and our lands just as our ancestor Ngātoroirangi did when he first arrived in Aotearoa and later in the Taupō region. For that is our legacy: to restore the mana of the whenua.

REFERENCES A. Ballara, Tribal Landscape Overview, c. 1800 – c. 1900 in the Taupō, Rotorua, Kaingaroa and National Park Inquiry District (report commissioned by the Crown Forestry Rental Trust, 2004). Te A. Davis, He Kōrero Pūrākau Mō Ngā Taunahanahatanga ā Ngā Tūpuna (New Zealand Geographic Board, 1990). J Te H. Grace, Tūwharetoa: The History of the Māori People of the Taupō District (Auckland, A.H. Reed and A.W. Reed, 1959). H. Hakopa, The Paepae: Spatial Information Technologies and the Geography of Narratives (unpublished dissertation, University of Otago, 2011). D.M. Stafford, Te Arawa: a history of the Arawa people (New Zealand, Rotorua, Holmes Printing, 1982). J. White, The Ancient History of the Māori: Mythology and Traditions Te Arawa, Vol VII, MS Copy, Micro 447, MS Papers75, B14 & B15 (undated).

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Ngāti Tūwharetoa WAI 575: Briefs of Evidence (Otukou, 2006). Te Taumarumarutanga o Ngāti Tūwharetoa: The Shadow of Ngāti Tūwharetoa. A Traditional & Oral History Report “Ngā Kōrero a Ngāti Tūwharetoa” (report commissioned by the Crown Forestry Rental Trust, October 2006).

ON THE AESTHETICS OF COMMUNITY: A CAPE BRETON VIEW LON DUBINSKY INTRODUCTION This chapter considers the aesthetic as a key concept in heritage studies by taking as its reference point the cultural life of Cape Breton Island, located in the Canadian province of Nova Scotia. It recognizes that the aesthetic is a contested concept owing primarily to its social and philosophical legacy. Yet of late the aesthetic is enjoying a renewal, if not a rehabilitation, in the visual and performing arts that may have application for heritage studies. This chapter initially looks at both the sources of contestation and renewal and then turns to a specific place, namely Inverness County in Cape Breton, to provide three cases to test the desirability and possibility of approaching heritage in a specific community from an aesthetic perspective. The analysis includes brief autobiographical observations as the author was born and raised in Cape Breton and is now a resident of the county for three months each summer. This is not meant to take away from academic considerations; the insertion of the personal seeks to further explore the aesthetic as a constituent of the interplay between heritage and community, including the extent to which one’s own cultural affiliations can be a factor of analysis.

THE AESTHETIC: LEGACY AND SHIFT The aesthetic has a long history as an idea that has received attention across the disciplinary spectrum. For philosophers as diverse as Aristotle, Kant and Schopenhauer the aesthetic is part of a larger conceptual framework, while Schiller and Santayana owe much of their notoriety to their particular concern with what constitutes an 25

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aesthetic experience. Many social, political and cultural thinkers regard aesthetic sensibility as bound up with ideological formations. Richard Shusterman provides a very useful summary noting that historically two matters have dominated the idea of the aesthetic: the preoccupation with beauty and what he calls ‘aesthetic disinterestedness.’ 1 An object or performance to be art has to embody some notion of beauty and be approached primarily, if not exclusively, through sense perceptions with little or no regard for any social or cultural import. This dominant position surely has its detractors going back to Plato who adversely regarded visual art as a form of mimesis. The most pervasive critique regards as indefensible the lack of context that comes with the disinterestedness so defined by Shusteman to the degree that the aesthetic is not only too synonymous with archaic notions of beauty but too aligned with elitist notions of taste and connoisseurship. Perhaps the most articulate observation along these lines comes from Raymond Williams who, in his indispensable text Keywords, traces the etymological history of the aesthetic. He claims that it is too confined with ‘sense activity as the basis of art and beauty’ and too distinct from social or cultural interpretation, leading him to conclude that ‘isolation can be damaging for there is something irresistibly displaced and marginal about the common and limiting phrase aesthetic considerations.’ 2 During the 1980s and 1990s Williams’ critique of the aesthetic provided adherents of post-modernism, the prevailing cultural orthodoxy, with plenty of ideological ammunition. It played directly into the movement’s dismissal of absolutes be it philosophical certainty, cultural hierarchy or disciplinary purity. Indeed, the postmodern blow is primarily responsible for relegating the aesthetic to near obscurity in many fields during the last two decades. This rejection also put aside the importance of the intrinsic in the making The author acknowledges support from the Concordia University Part-time Professional Development Fund for a conference presentation which led to this chapter. The author thanks Catherine Murray and Gemma Tully for valuable comments and suggestions. 1 Shusterman, ‘The Aesthetic’, p. 240. 2 Williams, Keywords, p. 32.

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and experience of art and a corresponding emphasis on instrumental matters, as if there was some neat divide, if not incompatibility, between the two. The emphasis on the instrumental itself is somewhat paradoxical. It is taken up, for example, with the critique of dominant institutional forms, such as national museums and their penchant for official historical narratives and canonical preferences to the exclusion of many other voices. Conversely, over the past two decades many museums and other institutional custodians of heritage have attempted to be more socially responsible and educationally useful – relevant is usually the operative word – and therefore, advocate, if not celebrate, the possibilities of the instrumental rather than critiquing it. 3 With the gradual decline of post-modernism over the past decade or more, there seems to be a corresponding renewed interest in the aesthetic, if not a significant rehabilitation in the visual and performing arts. It is now acceptable to talk about it in theoretical and critical circles to the point of becoming de rigeur with historians, artists, curators and critics increasingly making claims about the significance of affect and emotion using aesthetics as the principal concept for speculation and application. 4 Three developments are key to the renewed interest in aesthetics in the visual arts which are germane to heritage studies generally and to the particular Cape Breton cases to be explored shortly. First, the divide between the intrinsic and the instrumental is being debated on many fronts in which the principal move is to conjoin the two in an effort to address the whole experience of a work and the practice that leads to it and the context that informs it. Shusterman offers direction in a more recent work that attends to intrinsic and instrumental aspects of bodily experience across Initiatives, policies and critiques have been considerable ranging from community-based projects in major museums and local heritage organizations, to national cultural policy in the United Kingdom to examinations such as Janes ed. Museums in a Troubled World. 4 For a range of examples see: Shusterman, Pragmatic Aesthetics: Living Beauty, Rethinking Art, and most recently, Korsmyer, Savoring Disgust: The Foul and Fair of Aesthetics which examines the aesthetic aspects of the abject and grotesque. 3

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cultures and media which he terms ‘somaaesthetics.’ 5 He is very aware of the critiques of the aesthetic but claims that it does not follow that ‘the aesthetic dimension is inherently oppressive and parochially Western.’ 6 Second, there are concerted moves that recognize the aesthetic as the bridge that links the object and the viewer. For Nicolas Bourriaud, there is an interactive component which he defines as ‘relational aesthetics’ 7 and he sees it especially in works of visual art in which viewers become socially engaged. Lev Manovich also stresses the interactive component; his focus is on digital forms in which he argues persuasively that new or expanded perceptual experiences and the possibilities of usergenerated content make aesthetic considerations, to recall Williams’ term, not only now advisable but multi-faceted and therefore of necessity. 8 Finally, Jacques Rancière goes beyond specific works and individual experiences to focus on what he calls an ‘aesthetic community’ which he emphasizes is not a ‘community of aesthetes’ but ‘community of sense,’ or a sense communis (his italics). For Rancière, a community is capable of incorporating ‘a certain combination of sense data such as words, spaces and rhythms, different senses of sense, such as metaphor or media of communication, and what he terms ‘dissensus,’ a conflict or contestation of various sensibilities which underline what he identifies as the ‘politics of aesthetics.’ 9 The challenges to the divide between the intrinsic and the instrumental, together with the suggested interactive and communal dimensions of aesthetic experience, have obvious implications for both heritage making and making sense of heritage. As with artworks, artifacts and other expressions of heritage need not be approached with ‘aesthetic disinterestedness,’ as Shusterman notes above, or through notions of refined taste but as cultural constituents in which the aesthetic is bound up with or signifies various meanings and affiliations. This is not to suggest that museum Shusterman, Thinking Through the Body: Essays in Somaaesthetics. Shusterman. ‘The Aesthetic’, p. 260. 7 Bourriaud, Relational Aesthetics. 8 Manovich, The Language of the New Media. 9 Rancière, The Emancipated Spectator, pp. 57–58. 5 6

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and/or heritage studies, and more specifically the attention by both to audience responses, have not addressed these concerns. To cite one example, the extensive and influential work of John Falk and Lynn Dirking maintain that there are a wide range of levels of visitor experience, but even here there is little attention given to the aesthetic in name, though it is no doubt implied. 10 It may well be that the period of omission or aversion in the visual arts may have had an equivalent in museology and attendant fields.

FROM THE ISLAND With these matters and issues in mind, the chapter now turns to three cases to test out my claim that the aesthetic has renewed possibilities as a pathway and constituent in heritage studies. The focus is the evolving heritage experience of Cape Breton Island, especially in Inverness County. The choice is personal and local for as noted at the outset the author was born and raised on the island, and since 2000 returns each summer for three months. More specifically, some autobiographical observations are included in the cases presented. This is not to be solipsistic or self-indulgent but to engage in a brief exercise in auto-ethnography by offering a first-hand account of the aesthetic dimension of a community of which the author was a member in his early life and is once again. In this respect, there is recognition, as Atkinson puts it in his conception of auto-ethnography, that ‘the very possibility of social life and of understanding it ethnographically depends on an elementary homology between the social actors who are being studied and the social actor who is making sense of their actions.’ 11 1. ‘Tartanism’: A dominant aesthetic For more than a century, Cape Breton Island has been acknowledged internationally for its natural beauty. In the late 1800’s Alexander Graham Bell chose as his summer residence: Bein Breagh, a breathtaking peninsula jutting into the Bras d’Or Lakes directly 10

ed.

11

See, for example, Falk and Dierking, The Museum Experience RevisistAtkinson, ‘Rescuing Anthropology’, p. 402.

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across from the village of Baddeck in Victoria County which borders the county of Inverness. One of his daughters married into the Grosvenor family which was instrumental in starting the National Geographic Society which, among other ventures, publishes National Geographic magazine, still a very popular mainstay about lands and people across the globe and itself the subject of much critical analysis as to its reporting and visual depiction of world cultures. National Geographic has contained many stories about Cape Breton’s history, charm and landscape and it appears regularly near the top of the magazine’s ranking of islands to visit in the world, contributing to a global image of Cape Breton as an aesthetic destination. But it was Angus L. Macdonald, Nova Scotia’s Premier between 1933 and 1940, and again from 1945 until his death in 1954, who was primarily responsible for advancing the province as a tourist destination and Cape Breton occupied a defined role that was integral to this aim. For many years, and still today, Cape Breton is referred to in tourist promotion as ‘Nova Scotia’s Masterpiece.’ It is not only natural beauty that is the aesthetic basis that underlies the island’s history and lure. Macdonald, who was born in Dunvegan, Inverness County in Cape Breton, revelled in the features of the landscape, yet it was his belief that the province was ‘essentially Scottish’ 12 that dominated his vision. As Ian McKay and Robin Bates note: By the end of the 1950’s an official tartan, a piper welcoming visitors to the border, a newly renamed region called the ‘Cape Breton Highlands’ a host of Scottish themed historic sites and a Gaelic college all testified that the province clearly had become so. It would have become unthinkable without Angus L. 13

McKay and Bates describe the Premier’s many cultural accomplishments which he hoped would stimulate tourism and make the province less dependent on a resource-based economy. This was especially the case in Cape Breton which was driven almost entirely by coal mining and steel making. However, they also compellingly 12 13

McKay and Bates, In the Province of History, p. 275. Ibid., p. 275.

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point out that Macdonald’s dedication to all things Scottish went beyond economic considerations. It was to be the dominant ethnocultural identity that residents and visitors should celebrate, if not assimilate, what they appropriately term ‘tartanism.’ McKay and Bates also note that the Premier’s decidedly cultural identification is especially curious in light of his own ancestry for he was Scottish and Irish on his father’s side and French on his mother’s. Macdonald eventually acknowledged the contributions of certain other groups and five years after his death in 1959 a proclamation during a British Royal Tour recognized five founding peoples of the province: French, English, Scottish, Irish and Hanoverians. Noticeably excluded were aboriginal people and a very sizeable black community, both of which lived throughout the province, omissions so glaring that McKay and Bates suggest that Macdonald and the governments of the day not only championed Scottishness but in the process also privileged whiteness. Attendantly, McKay and Bates also regard the Premier’s vision and actions as antimodernist. While liberal in his economic and educational ideas, and committed to ensuring the general welfare of the population, he was very much a traditionalist who deemed that the Scottish heritage was the authentic culture that must be preserved but also revered and advanced. 14 The Scottish embrace permeates to this day though there is now substantial recognition of the heritage of a wide range of cultural groups through commemorations, other forms of public expression, and through study and documentation. Nevertheless, the Nova Scotia tartan remains a constant emblematic reminder and even more symbolic is Cape Breton’s own tartan. Created in 1957, its grey and green colour scheme proliferates in tourist advertisements, other promotions, as pattern for all manner of clothing, even as wallpaper and siding. Evident, therefore, is the establishment and perpetuation, of a dominant aesthetic with both intrinsic and instrumental elements that also functions as an ‘authorized heritage discourse,’ to use Laurajane Smith’s term. 15 14 15

Ibid., pp. 230–31. Smith, The Uses of Heritage.

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2. The Fiddle: A cohesive aesthetic Where Scottishness is most broadly felt is in the evolution of Celtic music during the past fifty years, but recently the dominance has given way to what might be best described as a cohesive aesthetic. The amount of music making, especially fiddling, is voluminous with local public consumption occurring year round in homes, community halls, official concert venues, pubs and restaurants throughout the island, and predominantly in Inverness County. The impact goes far beyond the island’s shores; performers such as fiddlers Natalie MacMaster and Ashley MacIsaac, songwriters such as Gordie Sampson, singers such as the late Rita MacNeil and singing groups such as the Rankin Family and the Men of the Deeps, a chorus of former miners, have received extensive national and international recognition. The Celtic music tradition is pervasive in reels, ballads and other instrumental pieces; significant too are lyrics which often refer to Cape Breton Island geographically, either with reference to a particular location and/or to ‘home’ which one has left or yearns to return. The decidedly Scottish influence also continues in the form of highland dancing, which frequently compliments playing and singing at many venues. The Gaelic word that best sums up the aesthetic experience for both performers and audience is ceilidh which means a social gathering involving playing, singing and dancing. An early local television program of the late 1950s and 1960s, which featured local talent, such as Winston “Scotty” Fitzgerald, and who are now remembered with reverence, was aptly called Cape Breton Ceilidh. Today, the island’s premier cultural event is Celtic Colours, a highly successful annual fall festival with an international following that includes concerts/ceilidhs in small and large venues throughout Cape Breton. All performances are usually sold out months in advance with audiences consisting of residents and visitors, making the festival the major tourist attraction of the year. 16 There is other evidence of the Celtic tradition’s pervasiveness in which music is either the primary focus or at the very least is a major feature. These include the Celtic Music Interpretation Centre 16

http://www.celtic-colours.com/

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in Judique, 17 the home or birthplace of many leading performers; the Gaelic College, 18 which was founded in the 1930’s due to Premier Macdonald’s efforts; the Highland Village 19 in Iona, a living history museum and cultural centre, as well as extensive study and research at Cape Breton University which devotes particular attention to the island’s intangible heritage. 20 Other significant local documentation over the past 30 years can be found in issues of Cape Breton’s Magazine, which was begun in the mid 1970’s by Ron Caplan, a native of Pittsburgh. 21 He was one of a sizeable group of Americans who chose to live in Cape Breton at this time due to their dissatisfaction with the political drift of the United States and/or due their countercultural inclinations. “Angus L.” would surely celebrate this evolution as the results of his passion and labours noted above; he would no doubt see it as the triumph, if not assimilation, of all things Scottish even though Celtic culture is not confined to this particular tradition. But, as suggested above, the effect is now cohesion with people – residents and visitors alike – engaging fully in and with music while maintaining an interest, if not pride, in their own heritage. Perhaps most significant is the convergence of Acadian and Scottish traditions. The island has several French-speaking communities; most vibrant is the village of Cheticamp in Inverness Country which sits at the entrance of the Cape Breton Highlands National Park. In addition to year round Celtic music making, there are pageants and revues that combine music, dance and theatre which celebrate moments of Acadian history that involve the community as both performers and audience. There is also Mi-Carême, puppet making rooted in Franco-Catholic traditions, which is on full display at the Centre Mi-Carêrme in the village of Grand Etang, just south of Cheticamp. 22 It may seem that there is nothing particular about the many cultural traditions that cover the island, especially in Inverhttp://www.celticmusiccentre.com/ http://www.gaeliccollege.edu 19 http://museum.gov.ns.ca/hv/en/home/default.aspx 20 http://culture.cbu.ca/ccbs/ 21 http://capebretonsmagazine.com 22 http://www.micareme.ca/ 17 18

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ness County, as many localities in many regions can point to similar instances where the heritage of a community is very much sustained by various cultural convergences. However, what seems significant about Cape Breton is the great degree to which the aesthetic and heritage combine. To elaborate on this point, I now provide some autobiographical observations to account for the significance of overlapping affiliations. I grew up in a close-knit family in Cape Breton in which music was a daily staple. There were family sing-songs, music lessons and participation in local choirs, bands, revues and festivals, in which my mother, an uncle and several cousins on my father’s side were especially engaged. Two of these cousins became music teachers and choral directors; another is Leon Dubinsky, a composer and performer who was very involved in many facets of music making on the island while gaining significantly wide acclaim. Yet our ethno-cultural roots are Eastern European and our religious affiliation is Jewish. This might seem odd for Celtic Cape Breton where Scottish, British and French settlement occurred hundreds of years ago but where during the first two decades of the 20th century the island had an influx of immigrants who came from eastern and southern Europe attracted by industrial development – an economy built on mining coal and manufacturing steel that today is nonexistent. My family was very much a part of an equally close-knit Jewish community which in the mid-twentieth century had four synagogues but was not hermetic as there were many links with numerous cultural groups. This is not to romanticize the immigrant beginnings of my upbringing for I was told about and experienced incidents of anti-Semitism and other prejudices. Religion also cut a large swath as schools were divided along Catholic-Protestant lines with most Jews attending the latter. There were also restricted social clubs and societies. However, there were cohesive aspects and the Cape Breton tartan, an emblem of the dominant aesthetic, had, at least in our family, particular intercultural significance. Uncle Newman, Leon’s father and my father’s eldest brother, was especially enamoured with it; he proudly wore a hat and shirts and carried a wallet, all of which had the green and gray pattern. We also wore, and still do, tartan ‘kippot’ (skullcaps) at synagogue services. Quaint as this might appear, it nevertheless signifies multiple claims of heritage, in our case strong Jewish identification and an equally strong pride of

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place in Cape Breton. Music further extended this connection. As noted above and consistent no doubt with the hollowing out of many primarily rural communities elsewhere, leaving and lamenting the island is a frequent theme found in lyrics. Notable is ‘Go Off On Your Way Now,’ by Ron MacEachern, which acknowledges leaving home by alphabetically invoking a diverse list of families as indicated by those for the letter D. And a different verse to the Delaneys To the Dicksons, Drohans, and Devereauxs, to the Doucettes and the Downings, To the Dubinskys, Dillons, Davidsons. 23

If I may be permitted another family link to underscore the cohesive aesthetic that has evolved, it is the song ‘We Rise Again,’ composed by cousin Leon. Written originally for the Cape Breton Summertime Revue in 1986, which featured all manner of songs and skits about island culture, the song was subsequently recorded by the group the Rankin Family and continues to be frequently sung locally and internationally. The song’s refrain is a testament to the island as a community by referencing its trying past but also its resolve with both the ‘we’ and ‘voices’, an evocation of the cohesion so described. We rise again in the faces of our children We rise again in the voices of our song We rise again in the waves out on the ocean And then we rise again 24

The song itself and the sentiments expressed are also bound up with a community of sense defined by Rancière, as noted earlier, thus confirming further the aesthetic as a pathway to, and constituent of, heritage in both intrinsic and instrumental ways. However, Emma Waterton and Laurajane Smith provide a caution by sugMacGillivray, The Cape Breton Song Collection, p. 124. I wish to thank my cousin Leon Dubinsky for letting me include this verse and for other pertinent information about music making in Cape Breton. 23 24

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gesting that the wholesale embrace of the term community in heritage-making ‘can paper over cultural and historical differences and contestations, all in the name of cohesion and collaboration.’ 25 Their point is compelling even in the case of my beloved Cape Breton. While the claim is that music has a cohesive role and impact, there are also cultural rivalries, political differences and economic debates, the history of which runs deep and for which heritage was, and continues to be, a frequent and salient issue. To recall the initial test case, there was no one more partisan than Premier Macdonald. A recent development in Inverness County in which an economic agenda and an aesthetic vision somewhat collided demonstrates the power of disagreement and in doing so becomes the third and final test case. 3. Golf and Gulf: A dissident aesthetic As noted earlier, Cape Breton has experienced economic decline for at least fifty years. The closure of many coal mines and a steel plant over ensuing decades, and the current precariousness of other resource-based industries, including a major pulp mill, met with constant attempts to diversify the economy. The list includes the initial creation of the Cape Breton Development Corporation, a federal crown agency, followed by several successive government funded authorities all of which were charged with economic diversification. Tourism has figured prominently in these initiatives with policies and programs implemented that are no doubt similar to those applied to other regions subject to de-industrialization. As attempts to economically buttress the island proceeded, outmigration also continued; the current wave is heading to Western Canada to work in a massive tar sands development and other mega energy projects. At ‘home’ there is always chatter about resuscitating a mine, yet small business development coupled with tourism seems to be the most realistic economic option. A sure sign is the recent ‘golfing’ of Cape Breton with eight courses now Waterton and Smith, ‘The Recognition and Misrecognition of Community’, pp. 4–15. 25

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dotting the island; the newest one is Cabot Links in the town of Inverness which officially opened in 2012. Since the coal mine closed in Inverness in the 1950s, the town has struggled economically. It is evident in boarded up stores on the main street and in several dilapidated houses which hark back to a time when the coal company owned most of the workers’ homes. These buildings are in striking contrast to a magnificent beach on the Gulf of St. Lawrence that stretches the whole length of the town, and to the rich vein of Celtic culture that never seems to abate. There was always hope that the town would revive economically and the prospect of a golf course on the site of the old mine was raised many times. But it took a chance meeting over five years ago between the Premier of the time, Rodney MacDonald, who is from Inverness County, and a golf course planner to make the course a reality. Cabot Links bills itself as the only authentic Scottish links course in North America, 26 thus capitalizing on the island’s Celtic legacy. The development and operation of the course has been met with enthusiasm by the majority of town residents, by others in Inverness County and throughout the island and by many ‘Cape Bretoners’ who live ‘away,’ the local parlance for people residing elsewhere. Nevertheless there was some understandable concern about whether the Links would succeed as a business given the town’s lengthy history of economic instability and about the possible consequences of development, such as rural gentrification, should the course become a major destination for locals and tourists. In any event, the principal investor is optimistic; he has built a second course a few kilometers north of the initial venture where he had acquired additional land. When construction was proceeding in the spring and summer of 2011, many opinions about the advantages and pitfalls of the golf course appeared in The Oran, the local weekly newspaper, in the form of feature stories, reports and letters to the editor. Among the issues of contention was access to the beach and the aesthetic was a mediating factor. A flashpoint was the loss of one of the two roads leading to the beach from the town’s main street as a result of the course layout. It was more than just an issue of convenience 26

Cabot links site: http://cabotlinks.com/

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for many citizens; public property had now become private space. A landscape had become restricted and, moreover, a clubhouse, parking lot and hotel were now part of the vista. To recall Rancière, there was a conflict of sensibilities as there were differences over who has the right to see but also what one is seeing and experiencing; in this instance a landscape which is an integral part of the heritage of Inverness. Indeed, debate on this issue and others pertaining to the town’s development became so partisan that one letter to the editor addressed the social fallout when individuals publically stated their views. Our tight communities provide many advantages, but being so closely connected handicaps the democratic process. If a person has a concern about anything going on in the community, they have to be careful in expressing it, because it may mean ‘embarrassing’ or ‘offending’ friends and relatives with different interests, or even threatening the job prospects or businesses of their own or their children or relatives. 27

This astute observation confirms the social complexity of any community. It strikes another personal observation as several friends and acquaintances were chastised for their dissent but their opinion was not necessarily the issue. It was their legitimacy to speak because several are regarded as ‘CFAs’ – Come From Aways, as opposed to those living away noted above. It is a somewhat pejorative definition for residents and visitors who were not born in the County even though they live in or make annual and lengthy visits to the area – some for fifty years or more! A vestige of the dominant aesthetic? I manage to escape this cultural category having been born in Cape Breton but this does not ease my comfort especially when conflicting views are bound up with who is really regarded as a member of the community. The reactions cast a further pall over the golf links about which I also had initial ambivalence, living just forty kilometers north of the development and coming to Inverness weekly to walk the glorious beach, to shop, to visit friends or 27

Cameron. ‘All questions welcome’, p. 8.

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attend a cultural event. The attachment goes back over twenty years; before buying our place my wife and children summered for several weeks in cabins on the beach. Thus the economic rationale is certainly a factor, as is the visual and spatial transformation, but so is the issue of who belongs here which gets to the heart of what constitutes community and whose heritage matters. To follow the economic rationale further, Inverness of course is not alone when it comes to benefiting from or resisting development that is tied to cultural considerations. Differences do not seem pronounced when compared, for example, to the razing of heritage buildings or, in extreme cases, the obliteration of entire streets or neighbourhoods as many cities throughout North America and elsewhere can attest. Nevertheless, the presence of the golf links visually and economically is all encompassing, just as the coal mine, its one industry predecessor, was for many decades given the relatively small population of the town and the surrounding county. The economic, social and cultural impact may well be considerable and is evidently now on the minds of residents. During the winter of 2012, a series of meetings were held to develop the town’s first ever ‘Community Conceptual Plan’. Discussions identified a range of challenges, opportunities and resources with frequent attention given to amenities such as the pristine beach, the golf links, the local race track, tourist services and the County arts centre. As reported in The Oran, deliberations generated five ‘Big Ideas’ for the town, and by extension Inverness County, that will form the core of the plan: 1. Attract families to the area and retain them 2. Showcase our natural environment 3. Celebrate our historical culture 4. Redefine and reinvent the main street of Inverness 5. Become an energy innovator 28

Heritage figures explicitly in the third; it is also implicit in numbers two and four to the extent that all three in one way or another seem aware of the aesthetic dimensions, if not the aesthetic potential of the community. Reading through accounts of the meeting, 28

The Oran, March 20, 2013, passim.

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there is much attention to future land use, prompted no doubt by the establishment of the golf links. There are many suggestions for what the town ought to look and feel like for residents and visitors, for example, a place that is user-friendly to cyclists and hikers and a town with ‘classic historical colours for signage new and old – the intention is to pay tribute to the history, past and present.’ 29 In summer 2013 the Plan was approved by the County government. Dissonance seems to be replaced by a vision for Inverness that is driven by cultural cohesion. In a similar vein, in March 2014 the final report of the Destination Inverness County Strategic Tourism Plan was released with Celtic heritage, the county’s many beaches and the golf links prominently featured.

CODA There are other ways to conceive of and account for the aesthetic dimensions of heritage within the context of Cape Breton as a community. By way of a conclusion, digital technologies are one illustration that applies to many instances of heritage-making whatever the geographical location. There is an aesthetic element to be sure and there is a range of data and media to again invoke Rancière’s idea of what comprises a ‘community of sense.’ Consider the obvious and pervasive impact of social media, in particular the intrinsic and interactive possibilities of user-generated content articulated by Manovich noted at the outset of the chapter. 30 The very conception of heritage is being transformed as people engage in Facebook and other on-line networks to present their personal pasts in the form of family photographs and other visual documentation that often become a component of the historical aggregate of a particular place. Such is the case in Inverness County’s Margaree Valley due to the initial effort of resident Simon Leblanc. There is a Facebook The Oran, March 20, 2013, passim. See, as well, Manovich, ‘The Practice of Everyday (Media) Life: From Mass Consumption to Mass Cultural Production?’, pp. 319–331 and, specific to heritage making, Adair et al., Lettting Go?: Sharing Historical Authority in a User-Generated World. 29 30

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page with over 1100 members from various hamlets in the valley and from elsewhere, including many people who now live ‘away,’ who have posted just under 3000 family photos and images of historical events and the local landscape. 31 A vernacular aesthetic informs this ongoing reconstruction of the community’s history to the extent that this project may qualify as a fourth test of the aesthetic dimension of heritage. There are no doubt countless examples of similar community-based documentation elsewhere that make use of digital vehicles with considerable ramifications especially for traditional sites of heritage, such as museums. Indeed, a further aesthetic development may lie in the dictum attributed to Marshall McLuhan, and others, almost fifty years ago that the media are making artists out of all of us. This chapter began by noting the renewed attention to the aesthetic in the visual and performing arts in which orthodox concerns such as beauty and connoisseurship are giving way to conceptualization and study that emphasizes aesthetic experience that is intrinsic, instrumental and interactive. The rethinking suggested possibilities for the aesthetic as a pathway to, and constituent of, heritage making and making sense of heritage by presenting three cases that are primarily rooted in the local culture and history of Inverness County in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. The three varieties of aesthetic experience are: a dominant strain that is deeply embedded in the county and the island’s Scottish legacy, a cohesive aesthetic that is bound up with Celtic music making and, thirdly, dissonant voices that arose in response to the transformation of a landscape.

http://www.facebook.com/#!/groups/30427193940/photos/. I wish to thank Del Muise, a colleague and resident of Margaree Valley, for providing this information and for several other valuable suggestions, insights and comments in the course of writing this chapter. As well, he and Leighann Neilson are currently examining the role and impact of genealogy in heritage making. See, for example. Neilson and Muise, ‘Genealogy: the Motivations, the Investments, the Rewards’. 31

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REFERENCES B. Adair, B. Filene, and L. Koloski (eds.), Lettting Go?: Sharing Historical Authority in a User-Generated World (Philadelphia, The Pew Center for Arts and Heritage, 2011). P. Atkinson, ‘Rescuing Auto-ethnography’, Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 35, 4 (2006), pp. 400–404. N. Bourriaud, Relational Aesthetics (Dijon, Les presses du réel, 2002). C. Cameron, ‘All questions welcome’, The Oran (Inverness, July 11, 2012), p. 8. C. Korsmyer, Savoring Disgust: The Foul and Fair of Aesthetics (Oxford New York, Oxford University Press, 2011). R. MacEachern, ‘Go Off On Your Way Now’. In A. MacGillivray (ed.), The Cape Breton Song Collection (Sydney, Sea-Scape Music Co., 1985). M. McLuhan, Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (New York, McGraw-Hill, 1964). L. Manovich, The Language of the New Media (Cambridge, MIT Press, 2001). ———. ‘The Practice of Everyday (Media) Life: From Mass Consumption to Mass Cultural Production?’, Critical Inquiry 35, 2 (2009), pp. 319–331. I. McKay and R. Bates, The Province of History: The Making of the Public Past in Twentieth-Century Nova Scotia (Montreal and Kingston, McGill-Queens Press, 2010). L. Neilson and D. Muise, ‘Genealogy: the Motivations, the Investments, the Rewards’, Anglo Celtic Roots 19, 1 (2013), pp. 22–29. J. Rancière, The Emancipated Spectator (London and Brooklyn, Verso, 2009). R. Shusterman, ‘The Aesthetic’, Theory, Culture and Society 23, 2–3 (2006), pp. 237–252. ———, Pragmatic Aesthetics: Living Beauty, Rethinking Art (London, Rowan and Littlefield, 2000). ———, Thinking Through the Body: Essays in Somaaesthetics (New York, Cambridge University Press, 2012). L. Smith, The Uses of Heritage (London and New York, Routledge, 2006). E. Waterton and L. Smith, ‘The Recognition and Misrecognition of Community’, International Journal of Heritage Studies 16, 1–2 (2010), pp. 4–15.

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R. Williams, Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society (London, Flamingo, 1981).

THE CHANGING ROLE OF HERITAGE PRACTITIONERS IN COMMUNITY-BASED HERITAGE

MAL RIDGES LYNN BAKER CLAUDE MCDERMOTT Australia has played an important role in the evolution of cultural heritage practice, as is reflected in the production of the Burra Charter. 1 However, since its initial inception, the nature of cultural heritage practice has evolved, and so has the role of heritage practitioners. This chapter looks at the situation in Australia where, for Aboriginal communities, heritage management has become a multidisciplinary and rapidly transforming space that heritage practice has not necessarily kept up with. Since the 1970s, most states in Australia have had legislative protection for the physical fabric of Aboriginal heritage. 2 However, it was not until the 1980s that assessments of Australian Aboriginal heritage rapidly expanded with the exponential growth of environmental impact assessment. 3 Much of this was driven by archaeology and archaeologists, although over time the importance of workICOMOS, The Burra Charter. The Australia ICOMOS charter for places of cultural significance. 2 Smith, Archaeological theory and the politics of cultural heritage. pp. 143– 154. 3 Byrne, et al., Social significance. A discussion paper. p. 24. 1

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ing closely with Aboriginal people 4 and respecting the dualities of how heritage is valued 5 came to shape the way Aboriginal heritage was investigated, assessed and managed. These developments in heritage practice became formalised in the Australian Archaeology Association’s code of ethics. 6 Developments in heritage practice during this time reflected the emergence of the Aboriginal political voice, which had highlighted heritage injustices. 7 As Smith has argued, 8 this reflected global discussions driven by emerging political pressure from indigenous people questioning the notion of universal heritage value. The result was recognition of the importance of cultural landscapes and their social value. 9 It also came to be reflected in the inclusion of Aboriginal community values as a criteria used for assessing heritage significance. 10 By 2000, the social significance of heritage came to be recognised, and not just as a criteria of assessment, but as an entire approach to heritage management. 11 At the same time, recognition by Australian archaeologists was emerging of the politicised nature of research, and that in the absence of many indigenous archaeologists working in Australia, the research agenda had been largely driven by western preoccupations with cultural evolution. 12 In response, archaeological practice in

Davidson, ‘Notes for a code of ethics for Australian archaeologists working with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander heritage’. 5 Sullivan, Visitors to Aboriginal sites: access, control and management. 6 Davidson, ‘Notes for a code of ethics for Australian archaeologists working with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander heritage’. 7 Langford, ‘Our heritage – your playground’. pp. 1–6. 8 Smith, Uses of heritage. pp. 99–100. 9 Harrison, Heritage: critical approaches. pp. 118–127. 10 Sullivan and Bowdler, Site surveys and significance assessment in Australian archaeology. 11 Byrne, et al., Social significance. A discussion paper. 12 Byrne, ‘Deep nation: Australia’s acquisition of an indigenous past’, McNiven and Russell, Appropriated pasts: indigenous peoples and the colonial culture of archaeology. 4

HERITAGE PRACTITIONERS IN COMMUNITY-BASED HERITAGE 47 Australia migrated towards community-based methods 13 and embraced post-colonial theory. 14 It has also promoted a growing league of Aboriginal archaeologists 15 who were increasingly looking to blend indigenous and western philosophical perspectives. 16 Despite gains in methodology, and in the face of increasing pressures driven by the resource sector, by the late naughties it was increasingly apparent that the heritage framework was still stacked against Aboriginal values. For example, heritage legislation and much practice ignored Aboriginal lore; community notions of significance; focused on traditional practices; and tended to overlook contemporary change and reinterpretation. 17 Studies of Aboriginal views of heritage also reflected this. 18 In response to these concerns, several Australian states have, or are in the process of, reviewing their Aboriginal heritage legislation in an effort to develop a framework that places Aboriginal communities in a more central role in guiding heritage assessments. Some states for example have published lists of registered Aboriginal parties 19 who are now the first point of contact for heritage Greer, et al., ‘Community-based archaeology in Australia’; Marshall, ‘What is community archaeology?’. 14 Smith and Jackson, ‘Decolonizing indigenous archaeology’. 15 Smith and Nicholas, Being and becoming indigenous archaeologists. 16 For example: Million, ‘Developing an aboriginal archaeology: developing gifts from white buffalo calf woman’. 17 Godwin and Weiner, ‘Footprints of the ancestors: the convergence of anthropological and archaeological perspectives in contemporary Aboriginal heritage studies’. p. 128; Hunt, Protecting Aboriginal heritage in New South Wales. 18 Open Mind Research Group, ‘State of Indigenous cultural heritage – A survey of Indigenous organisations, technical report for the Department of Environment and Heritage’. 19 For example see: Victoria: http://www.dpcd.vic.gov.au/indigenous/aboriginalcultural-heritage/Victorian-aboriginal-heritage-register Queensland: http://www.datsima.qld.gov.au/atsis/aboriginal-torresstrait-islander-peoples/indigenous-cultural-heritage/legislation-andguidelines/cultural-heritage-bodies 13

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assessments and coordinate all further engagement – whereas historically, the first point of contact was the heritage practitioner. Collectively, recent developments in Aboriginal heritage policy have produced some important changes to Aboriginal heritage management across Australia: • Aboriginal people have a much greater say in how their heritage is managed • There is a much stronger focus on the Aboriginal community in the heritage assessment and evaluation process • The breadth of Aboriginal heritage values is acknowledged and respected to a much greater degree

The brief history given above highlights some of the changes that have taken place with Aboriginal heritage practice in Australia. What is more subtle is the ‘flow-on’ affect these changes have had and how they are shifting the discourse that takes place between Aboriginal people and the heritage industry. As is explored below, this changed discourse concerns much less the dialogue between heritage professionals and Aboriginal communities, and much more the discourse that Aboriginal people now have with a wide variety of stakeholders involved in landscape management across the spectrum of their heritage values.

COMMUNITIES AND THEIR PROBLEMATIC One of the key changes in heritage practice in Australia is the greater emphasis now placed on involving Aboriginal communities in the whole process of heritage assessment, evaluation and management. As the heritage industry embraces community-based planning and management, 20 recent academic literature has focused on what is actually meant by the term community and what constitutes an appropriate discourse between communities and heritage practitioners.

Hodges and Watson, ‘Community-based heritage management: a case study and agenda for research’. 20

HERITAGE PRACTITIONERS IN COMMUNITY-BASED HERITAGE 49 …it seems safe to assume that as heritage professionals and policymakers, we have embraced the rhetoric of community because it makes us feel good about the work we do. Moreover, we use this rhetoric because it seems like the right thing to do, especially as we find ourselves increasingly in the midst of a political and social context rife with exclusion, intolerance and injustice. But it is simply that: rhetoric. 21

In their discussion about both the preoccupation and uncritical acceptance of the term ‘community’ by heritage practitioners, Waterton and Smith suggest that application of the term has been abused. They argue that communities are more complex than heritage practitioners generally give them credit for: involving shifting power and the constant struggle for minority voices to be heard. 22 Looking at communities this way, however, occurs from the point of view of the heritage practitioner because they must negotiate the complex spaces that communities comprise in order to achieve and/or facilitate heritage outcomes. The challenges for heritage practitioners are particularly pertinent when the referent for community engagement or consultation is defined by the heritage system itself. Often an issue concerning a heritage value, place or landscape – such as a site that requires management or will be impacted by a development, creates the instigation for community contact. The discourse in such spaces will be familiar to many heritage professionals: engagement must be made with various groups and representatives; alternative perspectives heard and incorporated; consensus reached and agreements made – all within deadline and budget. In this context, community is an issue worth defining academically because it is the problematic of heritage practitioners who have to deal with and reconcile the complexity and conflict created

Waterton and Smith, ‘The recognition and misrecognition of community heritage’, pp. 7–8. 22 Compare: Agbe-Davies, ‘Concepts of community in the pursuit of an inclusive archaeology’. 21

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by the process of consultation. 23 Academic discussion about community heritage therefore tends to focus on how engagement and consultation can be made more equitable and representative. 24 However, despite the rhetoric about authorised heritage discourse, 25 focusing on the problematic of community could be seen as heritage professionals’ continued self-absorbed preoccupation about their roles in leading or facilitating heritage processes so that the ‘greater good’ of heritage can be realised 26 – a greater good defined by the heritage industry. Community, despite the challenges of working with and representing it, is a ‘problem’ primarily because heritage practitioners define it to be. In contrast, the issue raised in this chapter concerns turning the community problematic on its head and exploring the changed discourse that takes place as a result. It therefore asks the question: what is the problematic for communities of working with the heritage industry? Communities, however defined and self-determined, are all too frequently discussed in the heritage literature as stakeholders who need to be engaged, understood, and represented equitably and ethically. So the key subject of discourse in these situations is the heritage issue identified or defined by the heritage practitioner that requires input from the community. What is much less frequently asked or explored is how the community requires the input of heritage expertise across the spectrum of their heritage objectives and how they solicit that kind of advice.

THE NATURE/CULTURE DIVIDE In our experience of working with Aboriginal communities in the state of New South Wales (NSW) in Australia, one issue that frequently arises is the controlling influence that heritage practitioners have in the heritage process, particularly archaeologists. Some of

Crooke, ‘The politics of community heritage: motivations, authority and control’, pp. 16–29. 24 Watson and Waterton, ‘Heritage and community engagement’, pp. 1–3. 25 Smith and Jackson, ‘Decolonizing indigenous archaeology’. 26 Leader-Elliott, ‘Community heritage interpretation games: A case study from Angaston, South Australia’. 23

HERITAGE PRACTITIONERS IN COMMUNITY-BASED HERITAGE 51 the reasons such views exist are historical and based in practice, but they also extend from alternative notions of significance and what constitutes heritage. One of the key arguments put forward here is that the notion of heritage, in an academic sense, was primarily defined by western philosophical concepts that emerged from modernity 27 and were subsequently embraced in heritage legislation that was written by archaeologists. 28 Relevant to this issue is the broader debate about the division between natural and cultural value. Despite arguments about how it represents an artificial and redundant divide, 29 the separation between natural and cultural heritage stubbornly persists. Its continuation may extend from tradition, 30 but nonetheless its roots are deeply imbedded in western thought. 31 Hence, much government policy, the structure and programs run by government and university departments, channels of funding, and even underpinning research and assessment methodologies are strongly divided between natural and cultural lines. For Aboriginal people however, no such distinction exists, 32 and its prominence in heritage practice has emerged as one of the key areas of epistemological conflict in comanaged landscapes. 33

Harrison, Heritage: Critical Approaches. Sullivan, ‘More unconsidered trifles?: Aboriginal and archaeological heritage values-integration and disjuncture in cultural heritage management practice’. 29 Lowenthal, ‘Natural and cultural heritage’, pp. 81–92; Olwig, ‘Introduction: the nature of cultural heritage, and the culture of natural heritage-northern perspectives on a contested patrimony’, pp. 3–7. 30 Olwig, ‘‘‘Time out of mind”-“mind out of time”: custom versus tradition in environmental heritage research and interpretation’. 31 Harrison, Heritage: critical approaches. pp. 207–213 32 Rose, Nourishing lands. Australian Aboriginal views of landscape and wilderness, Weir, Murray River Country: An ecological dialogue with Traditional Owners. 33 Ross, et al., Indigenous peoples and the collaborative stewardship of nature. knowledge binds and institutional conflicts. 27 28

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The connections that Aboriginal people recognise between culture, nature, and the landscape are well established. 34 As are the associated mechanisms needed to support living heritages, 35 which focus not just on the physical fabric of a landscape, but also the experience of heritage as expressed through language, hunting, the arts, and other cultural activities. Despite increased recognition that for Aboriginal people heritage combines natural and cultural values, along with a combination of conserving both the physical fabric of landscape and the activities that facilitate the on-going experience of living it, heritage practice remains deeply divided along categories of heritage value that are largely the creation of heritage practitioners. Additionally, as Chilisa 36 argues with the ‘captive mind’, an unfortunate outcome of such entrenched views is that they also affect indigenous people educated in western systems of learning, creating a self-replicating problem. One area where the nature/culture distinction is less prevalent is in the area of social significance. 37 By giving primacy to the way people express a connection with particular heritage values, and choose to self-define that expression, the divisions in heritage practice become less relevant. Focusing on social significance has therefore become a productive avenue for better understanding Aboriginal people’s sense of heritage value and its connection with a sense of well-being. 38 Despite this, there is a tendency for social significance to focus on the nature of heritage value as a means of heritage outcome in itself. The persistent divisions nonetheless tend to re-emerge at English, ‘An emu in the hole. Exploring the link between biodiversity and Aboriginal cultural heritage in New South Wales, Australia’; Lee, ‘Cultural connections to the land: a Canadian example’. 35 Prangnell, et al., ‘Power relations and community involvement in landscape-based cultural heritage management practice: an Australian case study’, p. 141. 36 Chilisa, Indigenous research methodologies. 37 Byrne, et al., Social significance. A discussion paper. 38 Goulding, ‘Operationalising social significance assessment. A new approach to integrating community values in NPWS cultural heritage investigations’. 34

HERITAGE PRACTITIONERS IN COMMUNITY-BASED HERITAGE 53 the point of heritage management. 39 In such cases the pragmatics of how to manage and maintain heritage values are not easily resolved because of entrenched practice, leaving Aboriginal aspirations for management in conflict with other [colonialist] perspectives. 40 For Aboriginal communities, the dichotomies and contradictions in heritage practice, as seen from their perspective, become a significant challenge for how they engage with, and are engaged by, the heritage sector. For many of the Aboriginal organisations we have worked with, it is not uncommon for them to be engaged on natural resource management projects, cultural heritage regulation issues, cultural resilience programs, and land management strategies concurrently in the course of their daily business. In each case, the heritage planning processes are driven by different funding avenues, policy and coordinating government agencies. Despite the rhetoric of those writing in heritage studies about how heritage practitioners achieve ethical, representative, and comprehensive assessment of heritage value, the reality remains a conflicted and confusing space for Aboriginal people looking at the process from their epistemological perspective. 41 Thus despite attempts to improve the current situation by undertaking a critical examination of how the heritage sector defines what its objectives are and should be 42, the challenges faced by Aboriginal people and communities present a quite different reality.

THE CHALLENGE FOR ABORIGINAL COMMUNITIES One of the fundamental issues argued for in this chapter is the need for greater recognition of, and engagement with, the nature of Kato, ‘Community, connection and conservation: intangible cultural values in natural heritage – the case of shirakami-sanchi world heritage area’. 40 Ah Kit, ‘Aboriginal aspirations for heritage conservation’. 41 Graham, ‘Some thoughts about the philosophical underpinnings of Aboriginal worldviews’. 42 Adams, ‘Foundational myths: country and conservation in Australia’, Smith, ‘Ethics or social justice? Heritage and the politics of recognition’. 39

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the discourse that the practice of heritage represents for Aboriginal people in Australia and indigenous people more broadly. As Rose contends: Aboriginal people bring a large bundle of issues into their conversations about environments 43

On one level, this represents a challenge for the way heritage practice engages with the scope and diversity of such issues and discourses. But equally it concerns the discourse that Aboriginal communities have with themselves when the pressure of heritage practice is absent. 44 Existing reviews of heritage practice do not generally engage with the problem from the perspective of how Aboriginal people are tackling the challenges they face with heritage practice through positive action. Instead, the focus tends to be on the nature of the heritage industry’s institutional problems; 45 how it can be fixed through policy evolution; 46 and/or through the intervention of heritage practice in creating new heritages, 47 all of which look at Aboriginal heritage from a negative starting perspective. Increasingly, Aboriginal communities are engaging in positive actions that collectively address the broad spectrum of their heritage interests that span the natural and cultural divide. For example, Aboriginal communities are becoming significant land managers across Australia, and they are achieving this through a wide variety of mechanisms: • purchasing land to manage for their own purposes 48 Rose, ‘Connecting with ecological futures’. Ridges, ‘Putting folklore in its place. Reflections on learning through story-telling and its connection with cultural heritage’. 45 Adams, ‘Negotiating nature: collaboration and conflict between Aboriginal and conservation interests in New South Wales, Australia’. 46 Hunt, Protecting Aboriginal heritage in New South Wales. 47 Ross, ‘Defining cultural heritage at Gummingurru, Queensland, Australia’. 48 Lane, ‘Buying back and caring for Country: institutional arrangements and possibilities for Indigenous lands management in Australia’. 43 44

HERITAGE PRACTITIONERS IN COMMUNITY-BASED HERITAGE 55 • •

• • • •

co-managing public land 49 turning land they manage into Indigenous Protected Areas that are recognised in the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) categories of reservation status 50 acquiring management of crown land through land rights 51 negotiating Indigenous Land Use Agreements over multiple tenures to maintain rights to resources and cultural practices 52 having land purchased on their behalf by government for the purpose of economic development 53 being engaged on a wide variety of land management issues through the establishment of Native Title. 54

As Altman 55 identified, collectively these mechanisms have created an Indigenous estate in Australia that is estimated to cover 1.7 million square kilometres, or nearly 23% of the Australian land mass. In NSW, 4% of land is either directly managed by or co-managed with Aboriginal communities, and involves over 5,000 parcels of land. NSW is also the state with the longest continuous history of Mulrennan and Scott, ‘Co-management – an attainable partnership? Two cases from James Bay, Northern Quebec and Torres Straight, Northern Queensland’. 50 Ross, et al., ‘Co-management and Indigenous protected areas in Australia: achievements and ways forward’; Szabo and Smyth, ‘Indigenous protected areas in Australia: incorporating indigenous owned land into Australia’s national system of protected areas’. 51 Altman, Sustainable development options on Aboriginal land: The hybrid economy in the twenty-first century. 52 Crooke, et al., ‘Implementing and monitoring indigenous land use agreements in the minerals industry: the Western Cape Communities Coexistence Agreement’; Smith, Indigenous land use agreements: the opportunities, challenges and policy implications of the amended Native Title Act. 53 Altman and Pollack, ‘The Indigenous Land Corporation: An analysis of its performance five years on’. 54 Bartlett, Native title in Australia. 55 Altman, ‘People on country as alternative development’. p. 9. 49

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colonisation and represents a complex array of tenures, jurisdictions and statutory arrangements governing land management. In NSW, Aboriginal communities have become very active in forming partnerships in management. This means that although directly managed land is proportionally less, the complexity of land management responsibility has resulted in a much more complex spectrum of mechanisms and partnerships engaged in by Aboriginal communities as part of their cultural obligations to care for their traditional lands. Possibly more than any other state in Australia, the dialogue Aboriginal communities have with all land management stakeholders has driven the evolution of their discourse with heritage.

DIVERGENT DISCOURSES Across Australia, management of the Indigenous estate is organised through a variety of Aboriginal organisation types. Within any single Aboriginal community, multiple interrelated organisations can be in operation such as: • Local Aboriginal Land Councils that are statutory bodies to administer land rights issues, support cultural heritage regulation and coordinate the management of community assets (land, housing, community centres) for an Aboriginal membership within a region • Aboriginal community sub-groups involved with native title claims, traditional owner status and registered Aboriginal parties with state governments • Indigenous Corporations that can be involved in running natural resource management teams, cultural tourism, or heritage management • Aboriginal Corporations that are cooperatives between various groups or communities set up to coordinate multiple Indigenous Corporations. These might provide capacity support or establish connections for local natural resource management teams or business ventures – e.g. NAILSMA 56 56

See: http://www.nailsma.org.au/

HERITAGE PRACTITIONERS IN COMMUNITY-BASED HERITAGE 57 Each of these groupings within a community may involve varying membership depending on affiliation with the region and the operational focus of the organisation. For example, Indigenous corporations may be formed as part of business ventures; 57 natural resource management teams supported by public funding; 58 and men and women’s groups that operate for cultural and health services. 59 Overlapping both the land management and community organisation arenas is the many and varied ways in which government engages Aboriginal people on heritage related matters. Most prominent is direct engagement for the purpose of regulating cultural heritage sites that are impacted by development. 60 This can be a conflicting and highly contentious space fraught with political controversy and protracted legal processes. 61 However, Aboriginal people are equally engaged on reference groups and advisory committees across a broad spectrum of heritage and landscape management jurisdictions, for example public land management; 62 water management; 63 and fire management. 64 Finlayson, Australian Aborigines and cultural tourism: Case studies of Aboriginal involvement in the tourist industry, Gorman, et al., ‘An analysis of the use of plant products for commerce in remote Aboriginal communities of northern Australia’. 58 Kerins, ‘Caring for country to working on country’; May, Indigenous cultural and natural resource management and the emerging role of the Working on Country program. 59 Smith, et al., ‘Community-driven research in cultural heritage management: the Waanyi Women’s History Project’. 60 Stoffle, ‘Cultural heritage and resources’. 61 Compare: Weiner, ‘Culture in a sealed envelope: The concealment of Australian Aboriginal heritage and tradition in the Hindmarsh Island Bridge affair’. 62 Pappin, ‘Pursuing autonomy and traditional owners’ aspiration: Management of the Willandra Lakes World Heritage Area and Mungo National Park’. 63 Weir, Murray River Country: An ecological dialogue with Traditional Owners. 64 Hill, et al., ‘Aborigines and fire in the Wet Tropics of Queensland, Australia: ecosystem management across cultures’; Sletto, ‘Indigenous 57

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All these activities involve fostering and maintaining partnerships with various organisations, particularly when meeting their cultural obligations to their traditional lands involves collaborating with land managers across various tenures. For example, it may involve forestry; 65 collaborating with non-government conservation organisations, mining companies, various levels of government, land owners and funding bodies. Each of these arenas comes with its own particular discourse, which Aboriginal communities must adjust to in order to communicate across the spectrum of issues occurring across their traditional lands. The nature of a conversation had with a fire ecologist for example, will be very different to that had with a social anthropologist or a government representative resolving a heritage regulatory issue. Heritage practitioners are well versed in some of these discourses, even actively creating some of them. However, it is unusual to see heritage practitioners working collaboratively with Aboriginal organisations across the full range of these discourses because they usually extend far outside what is normally considered as ‘heritage’. 66 Adding to the complexity of navigating the land and heritage management landscape is a plethora of languages and embedded corporate cultures. The conversation about cultural plants known to Aboriginal people by traditional language names with a botanist who knows them only by their common or scientific name is a case in point. However, the problem extends much further to include the way science is used to justify and verify land management decisions, whereas social science may be used to understand their cultural setting. Similarly, policy makers, researchers and those involved in on-the-ground implementation all communicate in dif-

people don’t have boundaries: reborderings, fire management, and productions of authenticities in Indigenous landscapes’. 65 DAFF, ‘The national Indigenous foresty strategy’. 66 Guilfoyle, et al., ‘Integrating natural resource management and Indigenous Cultural Heritage. A model and case study from southwestern Australia’.

HERITAGE PRACTITIONERS IN COMMUNITY-BASED HERITAGE 59 ferent ways, and their perspectives and investments in planning processes will be driven by varying reward systems. 67 Not surprisingly then, for anyone involved with offering support, Aboriginal people’s efforts to look after their traditional lands is a highly complex space (particularly in states like NSW with a long colonial history), and concerns far more than just ‘heritage’ as the discipline would define it. Consequently, particularly for Aboriginal communities and the organisations within and between them, it is common to be involved across a variety of jurisdictions, legislative frameworks, geographical boundaries, government departments and stakeholders. Although there are many funding opportunities to support Aboriginal organisations in these projects, there are just as many demands placed on them in terms of administration, reporting and management of such projects. Added to this is the expectation of in-kind contribution to many projects and programs that require input about Aboriginal people and their values in the landscape. Almost all Australian government bodies now have explicit policies to consult and incorporate Aboriginal values into their business; however it equally creates demand on Aboriginal communities to meet requests on such involvement. As a result, just managing involvement with so many competing interests has become a full time occupation for many directors of Aboriginal organisations.

INTEGRATED COMMUNITY-BASED HERITAGE PLANNING As the demands on communities continue to grow in terms of working across a wide variety of issues, jurisdictions, and management challenges, so does the need to become better organised and strategic in their approach to meeting that demand. Increasingly, the challenges faced by Aboriginal communities require a move towards community-based strategic planning. In the north of Australia, for example, a number of communities have embraced the Gibbons, et al., ‘Some practical suggestions for improving engagement between researchers and policy-makers in natural resource management’. 67

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development of land and sea plans. 68 These are strategic documents setting out how an Aboriginal organisation will manage their land or sea-based assets, secure community benefit, and drive economic development. These plans look to integrate across the spectrum of natural and cultural values, and make the coordinated management of Country the central focus of planning. 69 They can be based on practicalities of property management, 70 to strategically managing environmental issues for broader landscape and community benefits, 71 through to land asset management to meet statutory obligations. 72 Heritage practitioners are perhaps accustomed to developing management plans for particular places, selected heritage values, or defined cultural landscapes. However, the kind of planning undertaken by Aboriginal organisations in the contexts just discussed is of a different kind and scale. It is often set out to be inclusive of a broad spectrum of values (many of which may not be considered ‘heritage’ by heritage practitioners), and is defined at the scale of traditional affiliations (i.e. regional) rather than a scale of a heritage value, place, or cultural landscape. Community-based conservation planning is not new, 73 however it can be challenging. 74 The concepts developed for nonAboriginal groups in community-based conservation planning have found application in working with Aboriginal people on the manKerins, ‘Caring for country to working on country’. Szabo and Smyth, ‘Indigenous protected areas in Australia: incorporating indigenous owned land into Australia’s national system of protected areas’. 70 Compare: Walsh and Mitchell, Planning for country: cross-cultural approaches to decision-making on Aboriginal lands. 71 Donaldson et al., Land and sea country plan. For Aboriginal people with traditional, historical and contemporary connections to land & sea country within the Eden Local Aboriginal Land Council region, southeast NSW. 72 Darkinjung LALC, ‘Stategic land management plan’. 73 Berkes, ‘Rethinking community-based conservation’. 74 Lane and McDonald, ‘Community-based environmental planning: Operational dilemmas, planning principles and possible remedies’. 68 69

HERITAGE PRACTITIONERS IN COMMUNITY-BASED HERITAGE 61 agement of their traditional lands. 75 The approach has also been used to promote better communication between Aboriginal representatives and natural resource managers. 76 Although ideological differences remain and have proved difficult to resolve, 77 the important achievement is that these are producing changes in the way heritage planning is conducted, particularly in natural heritage. Change is also reflected in the nature of what constitutes evidence and knowledge in heritage planning. For example, the notion of representing Indigenous values on a map, when traditionally they never were, produces challenges for the way these values are conveyed in that knowledge form. 78 Such challenges have raised questions about the ethics of representing community knowledge and values through mediums like the map, which are not embedded in those knowledge systems. 79 The map, as a form of communication and hence discourse, has become synonymous with the heritage planning process, and is an important vehicle for facilitating and contextualising heritage discourse. 80 Utilised well however, the map can also be an enabler and driver of an alternative discourse, particularly when it is utilised

Pursche, ‘Aboriginal management and planning for country: respecting and sharing traditional knowledge. Full report on Subprogram 5 of the Ord–Bonaparte Program’. 76 Lloyd and Norrie, ‘Identifying training needs to improve Indigenous community representatives input into environmental resource management consultative processes: a case study of the Bundjalung Nation’. 77 Ross, et al., Indigenous peoples and the collaborative stewardship of nature. Knowledge binds and institutional conflicts. 78 Hakopa, ‘The Paepae: Spatial information technologies and the geography of narratives’. 79 Rambaldi, et al., ‘Practical ethics for PGIS practitioners, facilitators, technology intermediaries and researchers’. 80 Raymond, et al., ‘Mapping community values for natural capital and ecosystem services’. 75

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to raise the voices of those who might otherwise struggle to be seen or heard, as is espoused in proponents of counter-mapping. 81

EXPLORING NEW ROLES – THE CULTURAL CONNECTIONS MODEL

With the evolving self-empowerment and influence of communities; the way heritage is now conceived and described; the growing economic and social benefits of land management involving heritage; and the challenges of integrated planning, it is not difficult to see how complex the changing role of heritage practitioners has become. But what does such an alternative role look like? And how does it operate in the context of established heritage theory? To explore these ideas, the following section explores roles that have evolved with the development of the cultural connections model. 82 The model was developed in response to requests for assistance from Aboriginal communities wishing to be actively involved in caring for land that they owned or were involved with comanaging. The communities involved with the program identified that the process of engaging in land management was a cultural activity in itself and one that connected them with their responsibility to look after their traditional lands and heritage. However, achieving this integration of perceptions and processes was a complex task because of the multifaceted jurisdictional and statutory obligations surrounding land management. Each community faced unique challenges in this space, which were determined by the context of each patch of land being managed. In order to support the diversity of issues faced by communities, the cultural connections model developed a modular system of programs that could be packaged to meet the needs of each community’s suite of issues and their stage of growth in land and heritByrne, ‘Counter-mapping in the archaeological landscape’, Wainwright and Bryan, ‘Cartography, territory, property: postcolonial reflections on indigenous counter-mapping in Nicaragua and Belize’. 82 Baker, et al., ‘Cultural Connections. Indigenous communities managing biological and cultural diversity for ecological, cultural and economic benefit’. 81

HERITAGE PRACTITIONERS IN COMMUNITY-BASED HERITAGE 63 age management (see Figure 1). The design of each component addressed the range of issues related to each other component allowing a package of support to be provided by connecting the community with different expertise when they chose to move into each new area. The components are represented as a circular diagram where the communities could step into the model through any of the components, and progress to any of the other components as required. This flexibility was important for recognising both the uniqueness of each community’s situation, but also the unique trajectory each group took when developing their land management and heritage activities.

Figure 1. The components of the cultural connections model

The cultural connections model, at first glance, does not look much like a cultural heritage management model due to its emphasis on environmental land management. However, it is important to recognise that it represents a view of heritage management from the perspective of Aboriginal communities. It appears environmental because so much of Aboriginal culture and heritage resides in the landscape itself. The model evolved from looking at both what Indigenous communities see as their collective heritage, and the

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challenges they face in terms of discourse with the diversity of land management stakeholders that operate over their traditional lands. The focus, as Putnis, et al. 83 coined, is ‘Healthy Country, Healthy People’. It should therefore be no surprise that the model looks environmental. What is a surprise is that it should look so different to a management strategy that heritage practice would otherwise produce. The difference extends beyond the natural and cultural divide in heritage to address the focus of what living heritage is about. The key emphasis in the cultural connections model is about supporting people ‘doing’ things. It is therefore much less about ‘managing’ heritage in a form that is authentic or traditional. It embraces a philosophy that was apparent to many of the Aboriginal community partners, which is that heritage is a living thing that is based in experience. 84 The very strong desire in many communities to be active participants in their heritage – where caring for heritage is as much of the culture as the physical fabric of it – drove the strong focus on the practical components of the cultural connections model. It is important to stress that as Hokari 85 observed, heritage is valued by paying attention to it and being immersed in it. In this sense, active involvement is a key component of how Aboriginal people engage in discourse with their heritage. Wilson 86 describes how for many indigenous cultures knowledge, and hence heritage, exists independently of human agency, and in this way experience with heritage is a unique journey for every individual. There is no single heritage narrative that exists within that philosophy, which needs to be managed. Rather, the rich and varied discourse Aboriginal people have with their heritage is shared through the act of participating in it and living it. Putnis, et al., ‘Healthy country, healthy people: supporting indigenous engagement in the sustainable management of Northern Territory land and seas: a strategic framework’. 84 Compare: Holtorf, ‘Is the past a non-renewable resource?’. 85 Hokari, Gurindji journey. A Japanese historian in the outback. p. 91. 86 Wilson, Research is ceremony. Indigenous research methods. 83

HERITAGE PRACTITIONERS IN COMMUNITY-BASED HERITAGE 65

COMMUNITY-BASED HERITAGE DISCOURSE As the complexity of Aboriginal community-based heritage planning begins to emerge, and becomes better situated in the context of an intricate planning landscape, it is becoming apparent that the role of heritage practitioners is changing, as is the nature of discourses concerning Aboriginal heritage. The discourses that are now observed represent roles for heritage practitioners that are not simply one of leading and influencing discussions in a community, but equally involve listening and learning with a community. 87 Alternative conceptions of what is heritage and how it is lived and experienced in the contemporary landscape can be incorporated into approaches of heritage assessment and management facilitated by heritage practitioners, but mostly done by Aboriginal people themselves. It is perhaps fairest to say that in terms of Aboriginal heritage assessment and management, the role of heritage practitioners is rapidly changing from one of controlling the heritage process, to one that is a guide and advisor. In addition, it is beginning to emerge in the areas that we have worked that Aboriginal people are finding their own voice in this arena and facing the challenges of discourse well beyond those engaged with it via heritage studies. Equally, for us as practitioners, there becomes a point at which we stand back and enable the community to lead their own discourse in their own way. Of the changes that have been most significant in the evolution of heritage practice in Australia, it is the greater involvement, and increasing direction, by Aboriginal people in the heritage assessment and management process that has had the longest lasting influence on discourse. This is occurring in ways that are also largely out of the control of heritage practitioners. It might be suggested that heritage discourse within a community, for their interests, should still be subject to the kinds of discourse analysis espoused

Ridges, ‘Putting folklore in its place. Reflections on learning through story-telling and its connection with cultural heritage’. 87

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by Waterton et al. 88. However, we would argue that the ability of Aboriginal communities to engage in such questioning, internally, is in part dependent on the relationship between the heritage practitioner and the community. As Aboriginal people acquire greater awareness, experience and influence on heritage practice, it is producing new discourses within and between communities as well as with a wide variety of stakeholders – many of whom are not connected with recognised forms of heritage practice. These should be celebrated, as it supports a richer, local and personal heritage that we all can benefit from.

REFERENCES M. Adams, ‘Negotiating nature: collaboration and conflict between

Aboriginal and conservation interests in New South Wales, Australia’, Australian Journal of Environmental Education 20, 1 (2004), pp. 3–11. M. Adams, ‘Foundational myths: country and conservation in Australia’, Transforming Cultures eJournal 3, 1 (2008), pp. 291– 317. A.S. Agbe-Davies, ‘Concepts of community in the pursuit of an inclusive archaeology’, International Journal of Heritage Studies 16, 6 (2010), pp. 373–389. J. Ah Kit, ‘Aboriginal aspirations for heritage conservation’, Historic environment 11, 2 (1995), pp. 31–36. J. Altman, ‘People on country as alternative development’. In J. Altman and S. Kerins. Leichhardt (eds), People on country. Vital landscapes. Indigenous futures (The Federation Press, 2012) pp. 1– 22. J. C. Altman and D. Pollack, ‘The Indigenous Land Corporation: An analysis of its performance five years on’, Australian Journal of Public Administration 60, 4 (2001), pp. 67–79. J. C. Altman, Sustainable development options on Aboriginal land: The hybrid economy in the twenty-first century (Canberra, CAEPR, 2001). Waterton, et al., ‘The utility of discourse analysis to heritage studies: The Burra Charter and social inclusion’. 88

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Aboriginal Land Council region, southeast NSW (Southern Rivers Catchment Management Authority, 2010). A. English, ‘An emu in the hole. Exploring the link between biodiversity and Aboriginal cultural heritage in New South Wales, Australia’. In G. Fairclough, R. Harrison, J. H. Jameson Jnr and J. Schofield (eds), The heritage reader (London, Routledge, 2008), pp. 382–391. J. Finlayson, Australian Aborigines and cultural tourism: Case studies of Aboriginal involvement in the tourist industry, (Office of Multicultural Affairs, Department of Prime Minister and Cabinet, 1991). P. Gibbon, C. Zammit, K. Youngentob, H. P. Possingham, D. B. Lindenmeyer, S. Bekessey, M. Burgman, M. Colyvan, M. Considine, A. Felton, R. J. Hobbs, K. Hurley, C. McAlpine, M. A. McCarthy, J. Moore, D. Robinson, D. Salt and B. Wintle, ‘Some practical suggestions for improving engagement between researchers and policy-makers in natural resource management’, Ecological management and restoration 9, 3 (2008), pp. 182–186. L. Godwin, and J. Weiner, ‘Footprints of the ancestors: the cnvergence of anthropological and archaeological perspectives in contemporary Aboriginal heritage studies’. In B. David, B. Barker and I. McNiven (eds), The social archaeology of Australian Indigenous societies (Canberra, Australian Aboriginal Studies Press, 2006), pp. 124–138. J. T. Gorman, A. D. Griffiths and P. J. Whitehead, ‘An analysis of the use of plant products for commerce in remote Aboriginal communities of northern Australia’, Economic botany 60, 4 (2006), pp. 362–373. M. Goulding, Operationalising social significance assessment. A new approach to integrating community values in NPWS cultural heritage investigations (Goulding Heritage Consulting Pty Ltd, 2003). M. Graham, ‘Some thoughts about the philosophical underpinnings of Aboriginal worldviews’, Australian Humanities Review 45 (2008), pp. 181–194. S. Greer, R. Harrison and S. McIntyre-Tamwoy, ‘Communitybased archaeology in Australia’, World archaeology 34, 2 (2002), pp. 265–287. D. Guilfoyle, B. Bennell, W. Webb, V. Gillies and J. Strockland, ‘Integrating natural resource management and Indigenous

HERITAGE PRACTITIONERS IN COMMUNITY-BASED HERITAGE 69 Cultural Heritage. A model and case study from south-western Australia,’ Heritage Management 2, 2 (2009), pp. 149-175. H. Hakopa, The Paepae: Spatial information technologies and the geography of narratives (Doctor of Philosophy, The University of Otago, 2011). R. Harrison, Heritage: Critical Approaches (London, Routledge, 2012). R. Hill, A. Baird and D. Buchanan, ‘Aborigines and fire in the Wet Tropics of Queensland, Australia: ecosystem management across cultures,’ Society and Natural Resources 12, 3 (1999), pp. 205–223. A. Hodges, and S. Watson, ‘Community-based Heritage Management: a case study and agenda for research’, International Journal of Heritage Studies 6, 3 (2001), pp. 231–243. M. Hokari, Gurindji journey. A Japanese historian in the outback (Sydney, UNSW Press, 2011). C. J. Holtorf, ‘Is the past a non-renewable resource?’ In G. Fairclough, R. Harrison, J. H. Jameson Jnr and J. Schofield (eds), The heritage reader (London, Routledge, 2008), pp. 125– 133. J. Hunt, Protecting Aboriginal heritage in New South Wales, (New South Wales, Centre of Aboriginal Economic Policy Research, 2012). ICOMOS, The Burra Charter. The Australia ICOMOS charter for places of cultural significance, (Burwood, VIC, Australia, ICOMOS Incorporated, 1999). K. Kato, ‘Community, Connection and Conservation: Intangible Cultural Values in Natural Heritage – the Case of Shirakamisanchi World Heritage Area’, International Journal of Heritage Studies 12, 5 (2006), pp. 458–473. S. Kerins, ‘Caring for country to working on country’. In J. Altman and S. Kerins (eds), People on country. Vital landscapes. Indigenous futures (Leichhardt, The federation press, 2012), pp. 26–44. M. Lane, ‘Buying back and caring for Country: institutional arrangements and possibilities for Indigenous lands management in Australia’, Society & Natural Resources 15 (2002), pp. 827–846. M. Lane, and G. McDonald, ‘Community-based environmental planning: Operational dilemmas, planning principles and possible remedies’, Journal of Environmental Planning and Management 48, 5 (2005), pp. 709–731.

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R. F. Langford, ‘Our heritage – your playground’, Australian Archaeology 16 (1983), pp. 1–6. L. Leader-Elliott, ‘Community heritage interpretation games: A case study from Angaston, South Australia’, International Journal of Heritage Studies 11, 2 (2005), pp. 161–171. E. Lee, ‘Cultural connections to the land: a Canadian example’. In G. Fairclough and S. Rippon (eds), Europe’s Cultural Landscape: archaeologists and the management of change (Brussels, Belgium, Europae Archaeologiae Consilium, 2002,) pp. 193–200. D. J. Lloyd, and F. Norrie, ‘Identifying training needs to improve Indigenous community representatives input into environmental resource management consultative processes: a case study of the Bundjalung Nation’, Australian Journal of Environmental Education 20, 1 (2004), p. 101. D. Lowenthal, ‘Natural and cultural heritage, ’ International Journal of Heritage Studies 11, 1 (2005), pp. 81–92. Y. Marshall, ‘What Is Community Archaeology?’ World Archaeology 34, 2 (2002), pp. 211–219. K. May, Indigenous cultural and natural resource management and the emerging role of the Working on Country program (Canberra, CAEPR, 2010). I. J. McNiven and L. Russell, Appropriated pasts: indigenous peoples and the colonial culture of archaeology (Oxford, Altamira Press, 2005). T. Million, ‘Developing an Aboriginal archaeology: developing gifts from white buffalo calf woman’, In C. Smith and H. M. Wobst (eds), Indigenous archaeologies. Developing theory and practice (Abingdon, Oxon, Routledge, 2005), pp. 43–55. M. E. Mulrennan and C. E. Scott, ‘Co-management – an attainable partnership? Two cases from James Bay, Northern Quebec and Torres Straight, Northern Queensland’, Anthropologica 47, 2 (2005), pp. 197–213. K. R. Olwig, ‘Time Out of Mind – Mind Out of Time: custom versus tradition in environmental heritage research and interpretation’, International Journal of Heritage Studies 7, 4 (2001), pp. 339–354. K. R. Olwig, ‘Introduction: the nature of cultural heritage, and the culture of natural heritage-northern perspectives on a contested patrimony’, International Journal of Heritage Studies 11, 1 (2005), pp. 3–7.

HERITAGE PRACTITIONERS IN COMMUNITY-BASED HERITAGE 71 Open Mind Research Group, State of Indigenous cultural heritage – A survey of Indigenous organisations, technical report for the Department of Environment and Heritage (Canberra, Department of Environment and Heritage, 2006). G. Pappin, ‘Pursuing autonomy and Traditional Owners’ aspiration: Management of the Willandra Lakes World Heritage Area and Mungo National Park’. In D. Smyth and G. K. Ward, Protecting Country. Indigenous governance and management of protected areas (Canberra, AIATSIS, 2008), pp. 47–49. J. Prangnell, A. Ross and B. Coghill, ‘Power relations and community involvement in landscape-based cultural heritage management practice: an Australian case study’, International Journal of Heritage Studies 16, 1–2 (2010), pp. 140–155. K. Pursche, Aboriginal Management and Planning for Country: respecting and sharing traditional knowledge. Full report on Subprogram 5 of the Ord–Bonaparte Program (Canberra, Department of Land and Water, 2004). A. Putnis, P. Josif and E. Woodward, Healthy Country, Healthy People: Supporting Indigenous Engagement in the Sustainable Management of Northern Territory Land and Seas: A Strategic Framework (CSIRO, 2007). G. Rambaldi, R. Chambers, M. McCall and J. Fox, ‘Practical ethics for PGIS practitioners, facilitators, technology intermediaries and researchers’, Participatory learning and action 54 (2006), p. 106. C. M. Raymond, B. A. Bryan, D. H. MacDonald, A. Cast, S. Strathearn, A. Grandgirard and T. Kalivas, ‘Mapping community values for natural capital and ecosystem services’, Ecological Economics 68, 5 (2009), pp. 1301–1315. M. Ridges, ‘Putting folklore in its place. Reflections on learning through story-telling and its connection with cultural heritage’, Australian Folklore 27 (2012), pp. 149–161. D. Rose, Nourishing lands. Australian Aboriginal views of landscape and wilderness (Canberra, Austrlian heritage commission, 1996) ———, ‘Connecting with ecological futures’, Position paper prepared for the National Humanities and Social Sciences Summit (2001), pp. 26–27. A. Ross, ‘Defining cultural heritage at Gummingurru, Queensland, Australia’. In C. Phillips and H. Allen (eds), Bridging the Divide: Indigenous Communities and Archaeology Into the 21st Century

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(Walnut Creek, California, Left Coast Press, 60, 2010), pp. 107–128. A. Ross, K. P. Sherman, J. G. Snodgrass, H. D. Delcore and R. Sherman, Indigenous Peoples and the collaborative stewardship of nature. Knowledge binds and institutional conflicts (Walnut Creek, CA, Left Coast Press, 2011). H. Ross, C. Grant, C. J. Robinson, A. Izurieta, D. Smyth and P. Rist, ‘Co-management and Indigenous protected areas in Australia: achievements and ways forward’, Australasian Journal of Environmental Management 16 (2009), pp. 242–252. B. Sletto, ‘Indigenous people don’t have boundaries: reborderings, fire management, and productions of authenticities in Indigenous landscapes’, Cultural geographies 16 (2009), pp. 253– 277. C. Smith, and G. Jackson, ‘Decolonizing Indigenous Archaeology’, The American Indian Quarterly 30 (2006), pp. 311–349. C. Smith, and G. Nicholas, Being and becoming indigenous archaeologists (Walnut Creek, CA, Left Coast Press, 2010). D. E. Smith, Indigenous land use agreements: the opportunities, challenges and policy implications of the amended Native Title Act (Caberra, Centre for Aboriginal Ecomonic Policy Research, 1998). L. Smith, Archaeological theory and the politics of cultural heritage (Oxfordshire, Routledge, 2004). L. Smith, Uses of heritage (Taylor & Francis, 2006). ———, ‘Ethics or Social Justice? Heritage and the politics of recognition’, Australian Aboriginal Studies 2 (2010), pp. 60–68. L. Smith, A. Morgan and A. van der Meer, ‘Community-driven research in cultural heritage management: the Waanyi Women’s History Project’, International Journal of Heritage Studies 9, 1 (2003), pp. 65–80. R. Stoffle, ‘Cultural heritage and resources’, In G. Fairclough, R. Harrison, J. H. Jameson Jnr and J. Schofield (eds), The heritage reader (London, Routledge, 2008), pp. 363–372. H. Sullivan (ed.), Visitors to Aboriginal sites: Access, control and management (Canberra, Australian National Parks and Wildlife Service, 1984). S. Sullivan, ‘More Unconsidered Trifles?: Aboriginal and Archaeological Heritage Values-Integration and Disjuncture in Cultural Heritage Management Practice’, Australian Archaeology 67 (2008), p. 107.

HERITAGE PRACTITIONERS IN COMMUNITY-BASED HERITAGE 73 S. Sullivan, and S. Bowdler, (eds), Site Surveys and Significance Assessment in Australian Archaeology (Canberra, Australian National University, 1984). S. Szabo, and D. Smyth, Indigenous protected areas in Australia: incorporating indigenous owned land into Australia’s national system of protected areas’, Vth World Parks Congress (Durban, South Africa, 2003). J. Wainwright, and J. Bryan, ‘Cartography, territory, property: postcolonial reflections on indigenous counter-mapping in Nicaragua and Belize’, Cultural Geographies 16, 2 (2009), p. 153. F. Walsh, and P. Mitchell, Planning for country: Cross-cultural approaches to decision-making on Aboriginal lands (Alice Springs, IAD press, 2002). E. Waterton and L. Smith, ‘The recognition and misrecognition of community heritage’, International Journal of Heritage Studies 16, 1–2 (2010), pp. 4–15. E. Waterton, L. Smith and G. Campbell, ‘The utility of discourse analysis to heritage studies: The Burra Charter and social inclusion’, International Journal of Heritage Studies 12, 4 (2006), pp. 339-355. S. Watson, and E. Waterton, ‘Heritage and community engagement’, International Journal of Heritage Studies 16, 1–2 (2010), pp. 1–3. J. F. Weiner, ‘Culture in a sealed envelope: The concealment of Australian Aboriginal heritage and tradition in the Hindmarsh Island Bridge affair’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 5, 2 (1999), pp. 193–210. J. Weir, Murray River Country: An ecological dialogue with Traditional Owners (Canberra, Aboriginal Studies Press, 2009). S. Wilson, Research is ceremony. Indigenous research methods (Halifax & Winnipeg, Fernwood publishing, 2008).

TALKING WITH NATURE: SOUTHERN PAIUTE EPISTEMOLOGY AND THE DOUBLE HERMENEUTIC WITH A LIVING PLANET

RICHARD W. STOFFLE RICHARD ARNOLD ANGELITA BULLETTS INTRODUCTION This chapter assesses the current cultural, political, and legal positions of Native Americans in the United States in terms of having their voice heard and their suggestions used in the management and interpretation of what they define as their heritage resources. These resources include both places and organizations of places commonly referred to as heritage cultural landscapes. 1 Heritage management is understood as including natural and socially constructed places as they occur on federal lands and involves considerations of how these places fit into the heritage of ethnic groups. Heritage management also includes issues of public access to, or restrictions from, places and landscapes. Central to this analysis is the question whether or not recent increases in the frequency of consultation with tribes by US federal agencies (and the scientists who conduct relevant studies for these agencies) has facilitated the Native American goal of comanagement relationships and the federal agency goal of more appropriate and sustainable heritage management? Federal agencies 1

Aplin, ‘World Heritage Cultural Landscapes’, pp. 427–446.

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mandated by the US Congress to manage and interpret land-based heritage resources for the benefit of the nation as a whole are reluctant to share decision-making power. They remain reluctant to share even though other national laws 2 require that the power balance in heritage management be shifted so as to increase the involvement of culturally associated communities, such as Native American peoples. During instances when Native Americans are ‘talked with’ in what is legally defined as government-togovernment consultations, 3 Native Americans are commonly asked to identify resources that need protection, prioritize which cultural resources will be protected first, select the most appropriate management practices, and assist in the interpretation of the resources for the public. Consultation outcomes, including the willingness of Native Americans to share knowledge, depend on the degree to which federal land managers agree to share power over heritage management decisions. 4 At some unknown level consultation outcomes also are based on the extent to which federal land managers and Native Americans groups both understand their alternative epistemological positions and suspend disbelief. It is understood that consultation can result in various kinds of relationships which Canadian scholars long ago scaled from Cooption to Co-Management. 5 According to Arnstein (1969), any consultation process can be characterized as falling on a scale where participation without shared power is called ‘manipulation’ and where sharing power during participation is called ‘partnership’. According to scholars who study consultation, 6 the quality and success of the consultation process depends directly on the American Indian Religious Freedom Act; Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act; Executive Order 13007 Indian Sacred Sites. 3 Executive Order 13175 2000. 4 Stoffle, ‘Cultural Heritage and Resources’, pp. 191–232; Stoffle, ‘Cultural Heritage and Resources’, pp. 363–372. 5 Arnstein, ‘A Ladder of Citizen Participation’, pp. 216–224. 6 Cernea, Putting People First; Dobyns, ‘Blunders with Bolsas’, pp. 25– 32; Parenteau, Public Participation in Environmental Decision-making. 2

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degree to which decision-making power is shared and the advice of consulting partners is believed and used. One variable that has and will continue to influence the outcome of consultation is what western scientists and land managers personally believe and how these epistemological foundations are largely incompatible with Native American epistemological foundations. As a result of this epistemological divide, each party does not believe that statements made by the other party are even possible (thus neither true nor genuinely presented) much less useful guides to sustainable heritage management. The statements are perceived as so outlandish that they are interpreted as evidence that the other party has not taken the consultation exchange seriously. With this inability to accept the statements of the other party, there is little or no common ground, which of course is needed for successful comanagement. There are numerous Euro-American and Native American epistemological beliefs that are part of the epistemological divide and thus serve to limit cross-cultural communication. Here we analyze how the notion that the Earth is alive becomes a fundamental barrier to co-management. In earlier research, Stoffle and Zedeño 7 suggest that the best way to understand how Native American groups perceive the world is through the concept of a living universe. This is an epistemological foundation of Southern Paiute culture or what Rappaport 8 calls an ultimate sacred postulate. Simply put, the concept of a living universe is so basic in Paiute culture that one cannot understand most other aspects of culture and how they are interrelated without this concept. A living universe is alive in the same way that humans are alive and fully sentient. It has most of the same characteristics as humans including the capacity for falsity. The universe has physically discrete components that we call elements and an energy source that makes them alive that is called Puha in the Paiute language, or what we can translate as Creation energy or power. The Paiute concept of the living universe is surprisingly close to the concept élan vital or spark of life, which was coined by the 7 8

Stoffle and Zedeño, ‘The Concept of Power’, pp. 172–193. Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, pp. 263–271.

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French philosopher Henri Bergson in his 1907 book Creative Evolution. 9 According to Paiute epistemology, however, the Creator placed this spark of life in all elements of the universe in the beginning. As an ultimate sacred postulate the living universe simply is (that is it exists) and thus the concept is not open to debate. Needless to say, Western culture and science do not embrace this concept, maintaining instead that most of the universe is inert and only humans are fully sentient. Like their response to the élan vital concept of Bergson, western scientists and heritage managers scoff at the Paiute notion of the world’s elements being capable of having a spark of life.

THE DOUBLE HERMENEUTIC For a hundred years western science has been refining and defining its assumptions and methods. During this time it has become a scientific postulate that the earth is inert. 10 From this position it has been assumed that the inert earth is governed by natural laws that do not change. Once these laws are understood they can be used to predict causes and effects, thus making science as it is commonly defined, possible. Social science, during this same period, has been distinguished from natural science by the postulate that there are no laws that govern humans – it is assumed that people make the rules themselves – thus assessments of cause and effect are difficult or impossible. Consequently, it is also assumed that there is no ‘science of people’, despite the continued use of the term Social Science. The concept of the Double Hermeneutic was made popular by professor Anthony Giddens, 11 who noted that people under study can and often do become aware of human research and its purpose and subsequently can change in response to being studied. 12 This point of view builds on the notion that only people are Bergson, Creative Evolution. Goldman, Knowledge in a Social World, pp. 221–271. 11 Giddens, New Rules of Social Method, pp. 1–15. 12 Lynch, ‘What Does the Double Hermeneutic Explain/Justify?’ pp. 193–204. 9

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sentient and can respond to research from a native point of view. 13 The theory reaffirms the classical assumption that there is a divide between humans and nature, the latter being unaware and unresponsive to human research, or brute facts. 14 Science does not deal with knowledgeable agents even in the case of most animal behavior 15. Despite nature being socially constructed and subsequently represented by a scientific community who add their interpretation of nature to formulate and test theories, 16 no one suggests that the natural world can construct accounts of itself. 17 Most Native Americans hold a contrasting view that the world is alive, sentient, goal orientated, and has rights and emotions. It can represent itself, is alive and responsive, and does not have to rely on agents to build social constructions of it. The living world belief defines an alternate epistemological possibility – that humans can have a double hermeneutic relationship with nature. This analysis argues that the living world epistemology of the Southern Paiute people has been a source of cross cultural misunderstanding with heritage managers but if viewed as reasonable it can offer a new and appropriate foundation for heritage management.

THE SOUTHERN PAIUTE PEOPLE The Native American ethnic (i.e. cultural) group known today as the Southern Paiute people, who call themselves Nungwu in their own language, traditionally and aboriginally occupied more than 79,690 square miles of the western United States (Map A). This expansive territory, now informally called ‘the Southern Paiute Nation’, was divided up in to fourteen socio-political units, 18 which Ginev, ‘Rhetoric and Double Hermeneutics in the Human Sciences’, pp. 259–271. 14 Harbers & De Vries, ‘Empirical Consequences of the Double Hermeneutic’, pp. 183–192. 15 Giddens, New Rules of Sociological Method, p. 13. 16 Harbers & De Vries, ‘Empirical Consequences of the Double Hermeneutic’, pp. 183–192. 17 Giddens, New Rules of Sociological Method, p. 15. 18 Kelly and Fowler, ‘Southern Paiute’, pp. 368–411. 13

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are called Districts by anthropologists. 19 The traditional Paiute people who inhabited these Districts have been federally recognized as tribes, but their reservations only contain a small fraction of their traditional territory. Today Southern Paiute reservations have only 898 Square Miles, or about 1% of their traditional lands (Map B).

Map A. Traditional Southern Paiute territory before encroachment

Steward, Basin-Plateau Aboriginal Sociopolitical Groups; Stoffle et al., Native American Cultural Resources Studies, pp. 86–89. 19

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Map B. Current Southern Paiute lands

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As a consequence of Euro-American territorial encroachment, the Paiute people can at best become co-managers of their heritage resources, which are controlled by US federal and state land management agencies. National law and regulations provide little or no voice to Native Americans for heritage resources now located on private property. However, under new national laws and regulations tribes do have a right to a voice in terms of how agencies conduct heritage management. But this voice is only responded to if the federal land managers believe it does not conflict with their congressionally mandated mission. With this in mind, we now move to discuss the key epistemological features of Southern Paiute culture beginning with the notion that Southern Paiutes and their world are created together as alive, sentient and goal orientated, and thus have mutual rights and interconnected emotions. Following this premise, interactive protocols for talking with and listening to nature are addressed which frame the double hermeneutic, and from which conversational outcomes can act as foundations for defining appropriate human behaviors.

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TYPES OF CONVERSATIONS WITH NATURE This analysis uses field research derived examples of double hermeneutic conversations, which are presented as increasingly impossible from a western epistemological perspective, and yet which from a Southern Paiute perspective are both possible and commonly experienced. By definition, nature has to talk back and act in response to the information communicated for there to be a double hermeneutic. The two-way and mutually responsive conversations presented here include those with plants, animals (which are relatively acceptable interactions because at some level these are possible in western epistemology), to those with crystals and minerals, with the wind, ancient Native American mummies, and volcanoes. Most Paiute words and spellings used here come from the 1886–1880 ethnographic work of John Wesley Powell; 20 a few others are contemporary Paiute spellings. Conversations with plants and animals Native American conversations with plants and animals are somewhat understood in western epistemology because both are clearly alive and many people talk with their dogs and play music for their houseplants. Animals do understand and respond to humans and plants move in response to the sun and thrive with musical stimulus. What seems to be common ground soon falls away when the sentient level of the animals and plants in Paiute culture is discussed. For example, small birds have flown up to a person at a sacred site and conveyed understandings of the place and its history and birds participated in Creation events. In the Grand Canyon, along the Colorado River, Paiute elders spent most of a day talking with the local pink rattlesnakes (To-go’-avw) in an effort to better understand Sugarloaf, which is a world-balancing mountain. 21 Rattlesnakes are guardians of water sources and like to share their knowledge of places. During this particular Hoover Dam ethnographic study, Sugarloaf itself shared with tribal elders old ceremo20 21

Fowler and Fowler, Anthropology of the Numa. Stoffle et al., ‘Shifting Risks’, pp. 127–144.

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nial songs in order to explain to them the mountain’s active role in Native American culture. Every young Paiute child is told that they cannot take from a plant without talking to it to explain to the plant why there is a desire for its flowers to beautify hair or comfort people at ceremonies, or for its leaves, bark, or roots for medicine or food. The plant must know the reason for the request to share itself and be convinced that it is an authentic and necessary request. 22 The plant has known since Creation why it is on earth and the boundaries of its relationships with people. If requests are within those boundaries and the person requesting the pieces of the plant is sincere, then the plant will share its Puha (Creation power or energy). Plant parts picked or used without its permission will either not help or will harm the person who violated the use protocol. Mutual obligations between people and plants are permanent, lasting over each other’s lifetimes. A Native American woman may take a cutting from a willow and with its permission move it to a spring nearer her home. The willow will grow and the woman will regularly trim it so its branches are straight and strong. When the long branches of the willow are cut for baskets they are stripped of bark and split into three pieces before being soaked in water and woven into baskets. An Owens Valley Paiute women told of a time when as a young girl she had spent a day with her grandmother processing willows for baskets. 23 At the end of the day she got up to throw away the shavings and her grandmother chided her that they were still alive and wished to go home. She was instructed to take the shavings to the edge of the yard and place them on the ground with her thanks for helping to make the basket. A finished basket will be used until it begins to fall apart, at which time it is placed in a wetland where the willows grow to be with its people. There is no such thing as waste (that is worn out and thus useless materials) in Paiute culture. This notion is developed in the belief that the world is alive and thus combines with another ultimate sacred postulate that matter can neither be created nor destroyed. 24 Stoffle et al., Native American Cultural Resource Studies, pp. 153–154. Stoffle et al., Native American Cultural Resource Studies, pp. 135–166. 24 Stoffle et al., Native American Cultural Resource Studies, pp. 11–27. 22 23

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Together these two postulates have caused and will continue to result in unimaginable Native American heritage interpretations and management requests in the eyes of western land managers because they lead to the notion of reincarnation. One elder, for example, noted that often when a strong medicine person dies they return to life as a humming bird who becomes again a medicine person at their passing as part of the eternal recycling of matter. Conversations with crystals and minerals Rocks can neither talk nor respond to a human in western epistemology. Thus, when Paiutes talk with rocks and other minerals they cross an epistemological boundary that no ‘reasonable’ person in western culture can comprehend. The living universe, however, is filled with minerals and rocks all of whom (the correct tense given since they are alive in Paiute culture) have a Creation-established role in nature and a series of understood protocols for interaction with humans. This analysis could be entirely devoted to this subject, but instead it focuses on crystals and uranium. Crystals are among the most powerful, active, and vocal minerals. Crystals (To-ha-pi-ji-mu, white crystal) read people and make the first approach in the relationship by exposing themselves to a person. If the person accepts the invitation from the crystal and picks it up and takes it home then the crystal will bring luck (its Puha) to the person. Typically, there is an exchange when the crystal to be taken is replaced in its location by another attractive rock. Unfortunately this Puha both unites the person and the crystal and also drains Puha from others in the person’s surroundings. Most people eventually fear being too lucky (a socially problematic status) and so eventually they explain the problem to the crystal and take it back to where it was found. This must be done in such a way that the crystal understands and accepts the explanation: “Don’t make it mad at you – people warn.” When placed back on the ground, the crystal hides itself until the next time it wants to interact with a person. The best understood mineral conversations are with uranium. This relationship has been studied for decades because Paiute peo-

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ple have been involved in explaining to the US Department of Energy (DOE) the inherent cultural problems of making uranium angry 25. Like crystals, which are especially powerful, uranium is a potent mineral. Archaeological evidence documents that about 9,000 years ago two kinds of uranium were buried in a shaman’s medicine bag in a cave located well within traditional Paiute territory. 26 Contemporary ethnographic interviews with Paiute elders document that Paiute people understand where uranium occurs and how spiritual and other powerful persons can use it for healing and warfare. Paiute elders argue that taking uranium without its permission and using it in ways it does not believe are appropriate cause it to be a danger to animals, plants, and people. Uranium has been mined without its permission, processed into atomic bombs and nuclear reactors, and when ‘used up’ the Department of Energy transports it as waste. 27 Along these waste haul routes the angry rock tells plants and animals to stay away from humans and, even if taken by them, to provide neither nourishment nor healing. The now proactive angry uranium has a blue aura and can communicate to natural resources for up to one and a half miles on either side of the transportation highway, according to Native American elders. Although potential crystal relationships are common and uranium was used by specially prepared religious leaders in times such as during war, when extreme measures were required, both crystals and uranium are so powerful that they rarely figure in the lives of individual Paiute people. Very common, however, are interactions with materials for making tools. Even in this case rather complex protocols are required of young men who make stone tipped arrows and cutting tools used in medicine. One of the most powerful tool materials is obsidian (Pi’-ji-mu). There is at least one known place at the edge of Buckboard Mesa on the Nevada Test Site (the location is now inaccessible because it is on the NTS) where youth were brought specifically to interact and learn to use obsidian nodules that were produced by volcanic eruptions, which also proStoffle and Arnold, ‘Confronting the Angry Rock’. Lindsey et al., Survey and Excavations North and East of Navajo. 27 AITC, American Indian Transportation Committee Field Assessment; Austin, Native Americans Respond. 25 26

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duced a prominent volcanic cinder cone (At-sa-to-co’-ni-nub) mountain and a basalt (Tu-ca-po-go-tub) mesa. 28 In addition to being a specific place for teaching youth to use obsidian, the edge of the mesa and the cinder cone were culturally central places for vision questing. Below one edge of the mesa are hundreds of isolated basalt boulders that were blown out of the volcano and are now lying in flat soft earth. 29 Most boulders have a singular and unique pecking (Tumpituxwinap or storied rocks) and small grinding area for preparing paints and medicines used in either healing or vision questing. It is estimated that more than 90% of all rock peckings in the region (about 4,000 square miles) have been made at this place where Puha is especially concentrated. The Native Americans who were interviewed by our research team at this place heard the voices of the place and its resources as well as the songs sung over thousands of years by people conducting the ceremony. Making a bow and arrow When a traditional tool is made by a trained and personally prepared Paiute person it becomes clear how many conversations with natural resources are required and how many protocols are put into effect. Take the bow (Ats) and arrow (Kwi-o), for example, each requires the acquisition and use of a number of natural resources. Diagram A illustrates the relationships involved. Strong wood is needed for the bow and another kind of wood or hard cane is needed for the arrow. A sharp point is made of obsidian or chert from nodules and affixed to the arrow shaft by glue from pine pitch and wound with small animal sinew. The flight of the arrow is straight due to slightly twisted and split bird feathers affixed with pine pitch. The bow is strung with sinew from a large animal like a deer. Red paint made from minerals and animal fat is used to bless the finished arrow and bow. Fire is used to make the pine pitch into glue and heat the wood in various stages of processing. Water is used to wash and bless all natural resources.

28 29

Stoffle et al., Native American Graves Protection. Zedeño et al., Storied Rocks, pp. 246–259.

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Diagram A. Bow and arrow partnership

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Protocols require that before each resource is acquired it is talked with and told the purpose of being taken and used. Some acquisitions require the animal to lose its current life form, but prayers and ceremonies assure that it will be properly carried to the afterlife and reincarnated. These cultural patterns are common among related Native American peoples who live in areas surrounding the Paiutes. The Western Shoshone, who are Paiute cousins living to the west, cut the tail from a just killed deer and with prayers bury the tip of the tail where the animal was taken (personal communication Maurice Frank). The deer recognizes that one of his purposes since Creation is to feed humans and having completed this purpose will be reincarnated and appear for the hunter in the same location in the next year. The Hopi people, who are also Paiute cousins living to the south, sing songs when their hunters leave to acquire rabbits (personal communication Emory Sekaquaptewa). People remaining at the Hopi mesa homes send songs ahead to the rabbits telling them that they should not give themselves to a hunter who does not have pollen in his heart. People do not want the flesh, sinew, or fur from animals that have been taken without proper protocols.

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Conversations with the wind Although mutual conversations with plants, animals, minerals, and crystals are difficult for western trained scientists and land managers to understand, when Paiute people say they talk with the wind this certainly moves beyond the ken of most westerners. There are many kinds of wind – some are referred to in terms of the direction from which they come, while others are viewed as having homes in mountain caves or volcanic lava tubes where they are the breath of a living topographic feature. Still other kinds of wind include the whirling cones of deceased spirits (whirlwinds) who did not make it to the afterlife (Tu-ro’-ni-at). The possibility of mutual communication and agency with the wind was illustrated by the elderly Paiute woman working on an ethnographic study of Zion National Park in southwestern Utah. 30 During multiple days of interviews sitting on the ground in the pinyon pine forests the gnats simply became too much for her (as they were for others) to bear. So she called on Mother Wind (Nu’ur-ri Mau’-mats, wind woman) to help us by blowing the gnats away. The weather soon changed from a virtually windless day to a windstorm (Pa-nu’-ur-ri or fierce wind) 31 that blew away the gnats. Mother Wind was strong and persistent causing the research team and tribal elders to seek shelter in order to finish filling out the paper interview forms and to provide protection for the tape recorders. The next morning the elder expressed pleasure that the wind had come and resolved our gnat problems but was sorry and felt guilty that Mother Wind had turned over a number of high profile vehicles on the nearby US Highway 15!

IMPLICATIONS OF THE NATURE-PEOPLE DOUBLE HERMENEUTIC

It seems unlikely that understanding Southern Paiute epistemology will move western scientists and science-trained land managers to revise their approach to science, but they may reconsider how they respond to Native American heritage assessments. Interestingly, 30

Park.

31

Stoffle et al., Ethnographic Overview and Assessment Zion National Fowler and Fowler, Anthropology of the Numa, p. 143.

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the contemporary western science notion that the world is inert and that only humans are sentient is in contrast with European Traditional Environment Knowledge (TEK) that derived from societies whose members did talk with nature. Three examples are useful here. A first example involves cockle shells that have been gathered on the coast of Wales for thousands of years. 32 During this time, Welsh women have developed extensive TEK regarding what the cockles want and the appropriate behavior toward them by gatherers. Even quarrelling on the beach can cause the cockles to migrate immediately, thus denying their nutrition to the local community. A second TEK example is from the coast of western Brittany (now France), where for generations enormous stones called menhirs were identified, sometimes modified, transported, and ultimately stood upright both for their own wellbeing and that of the community. 33 The meaning of the stone to the people was inherent in the stone before being selected because of their colours, the constituent elements of the rock, the personal and intimate experience of touching their surfaces, and the aural experience of the sounds emitted when struck or the echo generated from people chanting or drumming in their vicinity. This is what Tilley and Bennett 34 call the stone’s own personality. Tilley and Bennett’s representation of these stones suggests that there were conversations between people and the stones that occurred throughout the process of them being selected and subsequently placed as cultural symbols. The menhirs are believed to have served to sustain social identity and even protect communities from the rising ocean. A third TEK example involves listening to the physical properties of objects, places, and landscapes. Paul Manning and Anne Meneley 35 prepared a special issue of the journal Ethnos on the relationship between material objects, places, and cosmological worlds in Europe. Their analysis is framed by a theory (earlier developed Jenkins, The Inshore Fishermen of Wales, 62–78. Tilley and Bennett, The Materiality of Stone, 33–86. 34 Tilley and Bennett, The Materiality of Stone. 35 Manning and Meneley, ‘Material Objects in Cosmological Worlds’, pp. 285–302. 32 33

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by Keane) 36 that objects (olive oil, dates, and places for mountain shrines) convey to humans their inherent role in ceremony. The quali-signs inherent in natural resources and places actually tell humans about their purpose and thus how they should be used. While human-nature interactions were common world-wide, pre-enlightenment, the last few centuries have seen Western scientists universally adopting the view that nature is inert and driven by forces that can be understood and predicted though scientific methodologies. Once identified by studies and understood, then these forces (or natural laws) can be measured at any point in time and used to predict the future behaviors of nature. Social scientists, on the other hand, now know that when people being studied become aware of the study they can change aspects of who they are and what they are going to do – this is what is called the double hermeneutic. Thus social studies are influenced by conscious shifts in the parameters being investigated, meaning that logically there cannot be social laws that are governing human behaviors. The ability to predict human behavior is thus limited to understanding what might happen rather than what will happen. With an understanding of the relationship Paiute peoples have with nature, perhaps the same flexibility allowed in social science needs to be extended beyond human subjects to nature? However, the challenge to science posed by the Southern Paiute epistemology of the living world is that nature too, like people, can change in response to being studied (i.e. talked with). Thus, logically neither humans nor nature have hard and fast laws that govern their behavior and one cannot be predicted more accurately than the other. From this standpoint, a western conception of science is not possible in Paiute epistemology.

SUSPENDING DISBELIEF: FOUR CASES The disjuncture between western science and Paiute epistemology does not mean that dialogue has not occurred across the divide. Southern Paiute people have been formally consulting with federal Keane, ‘Semiotics and the Social Analysis of Material Things’, pp. 368–411. 36

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land managers for more than 40 years, during which time epistemological debates often occurred. Some resulted in a modification of heritage management practices and others have been dismissed out of hand. Four cases illustrate the range of issues raised and some of the positive and negative responses made by federal land managers. The first case involved tribal elders who identified dead air pockets during consultations between 18 tribes of the Consolidated Tribes and Organizations (CGTO) and the managers at Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada. Elders recount that the air told them that both atomic and conventional bomb testing had left holes in the air. The holes result in the air being unwilling and unable to support planes thus causing crashes. The Air Force took the CGTO spokesman Richard Arnold up in an F16 fighter to see if they could find the dead air pockets and try to learn a way to mitigate the problem. By providing the fighter flight for Arnold the Air Force leadership honored the Paiute perspective, although there was neither agreement about nor resolution of the dead air problem. On the Nevada Test Site (NTS), a second case involved a series of volcanoes (U-na-ka-rir) forming a ten square mile valley which contains a prominent white sandstone butte, a large circle of stones used as a solar alignment, trees with scars from the removal of bows during youth initiation, and a canyon with a large natural rock tank at the foot of an intermittent waterfall. A traditional water bottle was placed as an offering under a massive stone at the top of the waterfall, 37 thus the name Water Bottle Canyon. On both sides of the canyon are dozens of flat tonal rocks whose sounds are modified by being perched on fist-sized stones. These tonal rocks were traditionally used for making music and singing with Water Bottle Canyon and other sentient elements of the valley. During the ethnographic site visits, conversations between elders and the various elements of the valley resulted in recommendations for the Nevada Test Site land managers to protect the whole area from development. The NTS managers agreed with the elders’ recommendations and declared the area eligible for placeStoffle et al., Paa’oatsa Hunuvi Water Bottle Canyon Traditional Cultural Property Study. 37

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ment on the National Register of Historic Places and thus off limits to further development. A third case involved Paiute elders who, during ethnographic studies on two federal facilities, visited traditionally used plant areas that they had been excluded from using for generations. During the study visits the elders recounted that the plants told them that they are not doing well because they are unable to complete their purpose. The plants said they want to be picked, pruned, transplanted, and prayed over as has been appropriate for them since Creation. Two federal agencies positively responded to these requests, even though both had restrictions that preclude non-agency persons from picking plants. Going against their own guiding principles and based on the elders’ recommendations, Zion National Park in Utah 38 and the US Air Force in Nevada 39 now permit Paiute plant gathering and ceremonial activities on lands under their management. In a fourth case, heritage managers were confronted with demands from Native Americans that western trained managers felt obliged by their own epistemology to reject. This example involves the debate over the remains of the 9,400-year-old Spirit Cave Mummy, who (correct tense) is currently being held at the Nevada Historic Society Museum in Carson City. After years of requests by tribal elders for the return of the remains, in 1997 the PaiuteShoshone Tribe of the Fallon Reservation and Colony formally asked under the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act 40 for the body to be returned to them. After their NAGPRA request was refused, a local tribal government asked that their elders have private access to the mummy (confidential personal communication with a participant). After a morning alone with the mummy the elders recounted a complex story derived from their conversation. The mummy recounted who he was, where he was from, how he died, what had happened to him since his body was removed from its resting place in Spirit Cave, and that he wanted to be returned to his people for reburial. A Native perStoffle et al., Ethnographic Overview and Assessment. Nellis Air Force Base, Gathering Devah. 40 Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act. 38 39

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son who was at the time a PhD candidate in archaeology at a good university conveyed for his elders this story to the museum managers. The story was rejected out of hand and the museum managers informally gossiped that the PhD candidate and the elders were mentally unstable. The mummy is still in the museum.

CONCLUSION Today traditional peoples all over the world have increased power to challenge past patterns of heritage management and history interpretation in order to, as Jenkins’ 41 book title recommends, Get Yesterday Right. Traditional people have more power due to new regulations, laws, their own shifting heritage identities 42 and world ethical positions. 43 Southern Paiutes, like other traditional peoples, are being consulted and listened to in new ways and with an unfamiliar frequency. The question remains, however, as to whether or not heritage managers and scholars are prepared to seriously consider understanding and using alternative epistemologies. One noted epistemologist 44 points out that the truth (veritistic reality) does exist. There is in fact a Grand Canyon and humans have acted on each other and their environments throughout the past. However, all of these truths are viewed through social epistemologies, which are constructed and held by cultural groups like Paiutes and by professional collectivities like scientists. No social epistemology, regardless of its holder’s power to claim the truth, is without distortion and incapable of infallibility. 45 Perhaps socially constructing nature and having scientists and heritage managers attribute to it feelings, 46 values, 47 and even rights 48 are steps towards understanding and accepting the possibilJenkins, Getting Yesterday Right. Mairal, ‘The Invention of a Minority’; Yovanovich and Huras, Latin American Identities After 1980. 43 Canaparo, Geo-epistemology. 44 Goldman, Knowledge in a Social World. 45 Goldman, Knowledge in a Social World. 46 Slovic, Seeking Awareness. 47 Foltz, Inhabiting the Earth. 48 Nash, The Rights of Nature. 41 42

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ity of having a western double hermeneutic relationship with nature and accepting as rational and potentially accurate the people who do have such relationships. Clearly bringing traditional people to the heritage management table as equal partners has and will bring new knowledge domains and epistemologies to bear on the preservation and presentation of the past. It is the experience of the authors that Native American groups and their tribal governments generally desire that western scientists and heritage managers suspend disbelief when they are confronted with alternative Native American knowledge domains and epistemologies. Commonly expressed by Native Americans involved in consultations is the notion “Let our voices be heard and responded to in ways that are appropriate to us” or as expressed in the title of the 1970 Vine Deloria, Jr. book We Talk, You Listen. 49 For example, during NTS consultations tribal representatives expressed a concern for the spaces between culturally significant places. 50 While the DOE never agreed to the notion that space could be a cultural resource, they permitted their heritage managers to record and map culturally significant Native American spaces between places. Eventually this decision contributed to the identification, agency acceptance, and protection of Cultural Landscape Trails especially those associated with Pilgrimages. 51 Native Americans certainly prefer that their TEK and epistemologies are given equal weight as veritistic reality along with (or parallel to) contrastive ones from western science and society, but for the moment most Native American groups simply want to exercise significant control over the preservation and use of their traditional heritage resources. It may or may not be important today whether heritage managers accede to Native American requests (1) out of respect for the truths of an ancient alternative cultural system, (2) in response to post-conquest mitigation ethics, or (3) in just adhering to emerging Deloria, We Talk You Listen. Stoffle and Zedeño, ‘American Indians and the Nevada Test Site’, pp. 139–152. 51 Stoffle et al., ‘Ethnology of Volcanos’; Van Vlack, ‘Paiute Pilgrimage and Relationship Formation’; Zedeño, ‘Journeys of Rediscovery’. 49 50

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legal and political pressures. One retired senior federal heritage manager 52 summed up his decades of professional consultation with tribes saying: Western science has become a religion; we do exhaustive studies to validate or invalidate Native claims, and the standards by which those claims are judged are always our own paradigms and models … Indian people who used to be the “objects of study” are involved in the discussion now and they have a right to be heard. More and more both sides have to agree … Both sides have to reach an understanding and be of the same mind. The tribes deserve to be heard. And we need to listen.

Harmon argues an ethical position for listening to tribal concerns, which is situated in a set of new federal rights, to be heard. From her experiences as a senior federal land manager, coauthor Angelita Bulletts observes that progressively there is a new breed of federal land managers who are listening to Native American groups. These managers are seeking ways to reunite traditional people with their aboriginal lands. Land managers today are looking at many contrasting knowledge bases. TEK has continued to exist because tribal people choose to exist in parallel worlds and refuse to abandon traditional understandings of the natural world. Federal land managers are collaborating with tribal governments to reengage tribal youth though traditional camps (involving elders and youth), which are designed to teach about traditional landscapes and sustainable resources and to lay a foundation for developing common goals with the federal land managers. In her authoritative synthesis of the issues laid out here, Zedeño 53 concludes that indigenous tribes may never recover lost land, but they now certainly have the right to tell their own story and to determine whether and how their past should be investigated and shared with the public. Laws support new tribal powers to sanction research in ancestral lands now managed by federal agencies and to veto projects that go against their cultural principles. The next step is for scientists and tribes to engage to produce new 52 53

Harmon, ‘Our Facts – Their Truth’, pp. 34–35. Zedeño, ‘Journeys of Rediscovery’, pp. 255–256.

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kinds of archaeological knowledge which builds on areas of common ground within existing frameworks to broaden and consolidate epistemologies.

REFERENCES

AITC, American Indian Transportation Committee Field Assessment of Cultural Sites Regarding the US Department of Energy. Environmental Assessment of Intermodal Transportation of Low-Level Radioactive Waste to the Nevada Test Site (Tucson, AZ, 1999). [www.nv.doe.gov/news&pubs/publications/envm/intermoda l.htm]. G. Aplin, ‘World Heritage Cultural Landscapes’, International Journal Of Heritage Studies 12, 6 (2007), pp. 427–446. S. Arnstein, ‘A Ladder Of Citizen Participation’, Journal of the American Institute of Planners 35 (1969), pp. 216–224. D. Austin (ed.), Native Americans Respond to the Transportation of Low Level Radioactive Waste to the Nevada Test Site. Report prepared for US Department of Energy, Nevada Operations (Tucson, AZ, 1998). H. Bergson, Creative Evolution (New York, 1911). C. Canaparo, Geo-epistemology: Latin America and the Location of Knowledge (Oxford, 2009). M. Cernea (ed.), Putting People First: Sociological Variables in Rural Development (Oxford, 1991). H. Dobyns, ‘Blunders with Bolsas: A Case Study of Diffusion of Closed-Basin Agriculture’, Human Organization 10 (1951), pp. 25–32. D. Fowler and C. Fowler, (eds.), Anthropology of the Numa: John Wesley Powell's Manuscripts on the Numic Peoples of Western North America, 1868–1880 (Washington, D.C., 1971). B. Foltz, Inhabiting the Earth: Heidegger, Environmental Ethics, and the Metaphysics of Nature (Highlands, NJ, 1995). A. Giddens, New Rules of Sociological Method, Second Edition (Stanford, CA, 1993). D. Ginev, ‘Rhetoric and Double Hermeneutics in the Human Sciences’, Human Studies 21 (1998), pp. 259–271. A. Goldman, Knowledge In A Social World. (Oxford, 1999). H. Harbers and G. De Vries, ‘Empirical Consequences of the ‘Double Hermeneutic’, Social Epistemology 7 (1993), pp. 183– 192.

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C. Harmon, ‘Our Facts—Their Truth’, The Applied Anthropologist 33, 2 (2013), pp. 30–35. G. Jenkins, The Inshore Fishermen of Wales (Cardiff, Wales, 1991). ———, Getting Yesterday Right: Interpreting the Heritage of Wales (Cardiff, Wales, 1992). W. Keane, ‘Semiotics and the Social Analysis of Material Things’, Language and Communication 23 (2003), pp. 409–425. I. Kelly and C. Fowler, ‘Southern Paiute’. In W. D’Azevedo (ed.), Handbook of North American Indians, Volume 11: Great Basin (Washington, DC, 1986), pp. 368–411. A. Lindsay, R. Ambler, M. Stein and P. Hobler, Survey and Excavations North and East of Navajo Mountain, Utah, 1959–1962 (Flagstaff, AZ, 1968). W. Lynch, ‘What does the Double Hermeneutic Explain/Justify?’ Social Epistemology 7 (1993), pp. 193–204. G. Mairal, ‘The Invention of a Minority: A Case from Aragonese Pyrenees’. In A. Boholm and R. Lofstedt (eds), Facility Siting: Risk, Power and Identity in Land Use Planning (London, 2004), pp. 145–159. P. Manning and A. Meneley, ‘Material Objects in Cosmological Worlds’ Ethnos 7, 3 (2008), pp. 285–302. NAGPRA, Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (1990). R. Nash, The Rights of Nature (Madison, WI, 1989). Nellis Air Force Base, Gathering Devah: An Ancient Pine Nut Harvest Tradition (Las Vegas, NV, 2007). R. Parenteau, Public Participation in Environmental Decision-Making, Federal Environmental Assessment Review Office (Ottawa, Canada, 1988). R. Rappaport, Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity (Cambridge, UK, 1999). N. Röling, ‘The Soft Side of Land: Socio-economic Sustainability of Land Use Systems’, ITC Journal 3 (1997), pp. 248–262. S. Slovic, Seeking Awareness in American Nature Writing, (Salt Lake City, UT, 1992). J. Steward, Basin-Plateau Aboriginal Sociopolitical Groups. Bureau of American Ethnology Bulletin 120 (Washington, DC, 1938, reprinted Salt Lake City, UT, 1970). R. Stoffle, ‘Cultural Heritage and Resources’. In L.R. Goldman (ed.), Social Impact Analysis: An Applied Anthropology Manual

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(Oxford, UK, 2000), pp. 191–232. ———, ‘Cultural Heritage and Resources’. In G. Fairclough, R. Harrison, J. Jameson, J. Schofield (eds.), The Heritage Reader (London, UK, 2008), pp. 363–372. R. Stoffle, and R. Arnold, ‘Confronting the Angry Rock: American Indian Situated Risk From Radioactivity’, Ethnos 62, 1 (2002), pp. 230–248. R. Stoffle, R. Arnold, M. Frank, B. Cornelius, L. Miller, J. Charles, G. Kane, and A. Ruuska, ‘Ethnology of Volcanoes: QualiSigns and Cultural Centrality of Self-Voiced Places’. In L. Scheiber and M. N. Zedeño (eds), Engineering Mountain Landscapes: An Anthropology of Social Investment (Salt Lake City, UT, 2015). R. Stoffle, D. Austin, D. Halmo, and A. Phillips III., Ethnographic Overview and Assessment: Zion National Park, Utah And Pipe Spring National Monument, Arizona, Rocky Mountain Regional Office, National Park Service (Tucson, AZ, 1999). R. Stoffle, D. Halmo, J. Olmsted, and M. Evans, Native American Cultural Resource Studies at Yucca Mountain, Nevada (Ann Arbor, MI, 1990). R. Stoffle, K. Van Vlack, and R. Arnold, Paa’oatsa Hunuvi Water Bottle Canyon Traditional Cultural Property Study. National Nuclear Security Administration (Tucson, AZ, 2006). R. Stoffle, and M. Zedeño, American Indians and the Nevada Test Site: A Model of Research and Consultation (Washington, D.C., US GPO., 2001). ———, ‘The Concept of “Power” in Numic and Yuman Epistemologies’, High Plains Applied Anthropologist 22 (2002), pp. 172– 193. R. Stoffle, M. Zedeño, D. Austin, and D. Halmo, Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act Consultation and the Nevada Test Site Collection (Technical Report no. 89, Las Vegas, NV, 1996). R. Stoffle, M. Zedeño, A. Eisenberg, R. Toupal, A. Carroll, F. Pittaluga, J. Amato, T. Earnest, and G. Dewey. Ha’tata (The Backbone of the River): American Indian Ethnographic Studies Regarding the Hoover Dam Bypass Project (Tucson, AZ, Federal Highway Administration, 2000). R. Stoffle, M. Zedeño, A. Eisenberg, R. Toupal, and A. Carroll, ‘Shifting Risks: Hoover Dam Bridge Impacts on American

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Indian Sacred Landscapes’. In A. Boholm and R. Lofstedt (eds.), Facility Siting: Risk, Power and Identity in Land Use Planning (London, UK, 2004), pp. 127–144. C. Tilley, and W. Bennett, The Materiality of Stone: Explorations in Landscape Phenomenology Federal Highway Administration (Oxford, UK, 2004). D. Toke and D. Marsh, ‘Policy Networks and the GM Crops Issue: Assessing the Utility of a Dialectical Model of Policy Networks’, Public Administration 81 (2003), pp. 229–251. K. Van Vlack, ‘Paiute Pilgrimage and Relationship Formation’, Ethnology 51 (2014), pp. 1–12. G. Yovanovich and A. Huras (eds.), Latin American Identities After 1980 (Waterloo, Canada, 2010). M. Zedeño, ‘Journeys of Rediscovery: Archaeology, Territory, and Legitimacy in Contemporary Native Nevada’. In N. Parezo and J. Janetski (eds.), Archaeology in the Great Basin and Southwest (Salt Lake City, UT, 2014), pp. 246–259. M. Zedeño, R. Stoffle, G. Dewey, and D. Shaul, Storied Rocks: American Indian Inventory and Assessment of Rock Art on the Nevada Test Site (Technical Report no. 93, Las Vegas, NV, 1999).

PRACTICES FOR VISUALIZING THE REGIONAL PAST: ARCHAEOLOGY, SOCIAL

COMMUNICATION AND EDUCATION IN PUERTO SAN JULIÁN, ARGENTINA

ARIEL D. FRANK MANUEL CUETO FABIANA SKARBUN DARÍO MARTÍNEZ RAFAEL S. PAUNERO INTRODUCTION Many international meetings, academic papers and national laws suggest that cultural heritage comprises both the material and immaterial resources that a society has created to guarantee its existence and social and cultural reproduction. 1 Furthermore, it has been stated that the members of a given ethnic group identify themselves according to their cultural heritage as it gives them a sense of belonging and historical continuity. Cultural heritage deUNESCO, ‘Convención sobre la Protección del Patrimonio Cultural y Natural’, p. 14; ICOMOS, ‘Charter for the Protection and Management of Archaeological Herritage’, p. 5; Ley-25.743, ‘Protección del patrimonio arqueológico y paleontológico’, p. 9; Endere, ‘La protección del patrimonio arqueológico en Argentina: dificultades y desafíos’, pp. 161–174. 1

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fines a group of ideas and ways of doing which guide the behaviour of societies. 2 However, that which is defined as the heritage of a community changes throughout time. By thinking of heritage as a process, which is facilitated by discourse, it is possible to understand not only which facts, moments or historical events are remembered and celebrated, but also which ones are being forgotten or neglected and why. 3 In many situations, such as the ones the native groups of Argentina have experienced, historical and social processes have been interrupted or altered by sudden and external factors. These factors limit the cultural transmission throughout generations and trigger the loss and replacement of cultural references. At the same time, the hegemonic groups in western society make the processes which generate these new realities invisible. 4 In Latin America, these processes have on many occasions taken place within civilising projects, during the construction of national states in the 19th and 20th centuries. 5 In Argentina, hegemonic projects, such as the one conceived by the ‘Generation of the 80s’ 6 by the end of the 19th century, tried to establish social and economic liberalism, had an idea of progress and development which was linked to foreign powers and were extremely positivist. Among its purposes, the project of the 1880s sought the annexaBarth, Los grupos étnicos y sus fronteras, p. 204. Smith, ‘El “espejo patrimonial”. ¿Ilusión narcisista o reflexiones múltiples?’, pp 39–63; García Canclini, ‘Los usos sociales del patrimonio cultural’, pp. 16–33; Prats, ‘Concepto y gestión del patrimonio local’, pp. 17–35. 4 Lumbreras, ‘El patrimonio cultural como concepto económico’; Valko, Pedagogía de la Desmemoria. Crónicas y estrategias del genocidio invisible, p. 413. 5 Funari, ‘Public Archaeology from a Latin American Perspective’, pp. 239–243; Bonfil Batalla, ‘El Concepto de Indio en América: Una Categoría de la Situación Colonial’, pp. 105–124; Martínez Sarasola, Nuestros Paisanos los Indios. Vida, historia y destino de las comunidades indígenas en la Argentina, p. 582. 6 Term which is used to define the ruling elite of Argentina between 1880 and 1916. 2 3

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tion and control of huge territories. Consequently, those in power needed to subdue, reduce and/or eradicate the native groups that inhabited those territories and active policies were implemented to achieve these goals. 7 These plans were justified by evolutionary discourses. Native groups were regarded as primitive groups which had to be eradicated so that the Nation could be developed. 8 The official discourse was based on a Eurocentric and racist narrative. This was consolidated through the public educational system which crystallized the indigenous peoples as ‘wild indians who lived before civilisation’ or ‘scarcely developed sedentary people’. 9 These policies were kept for many decades in Argentina. They created an hegemonic ‘invisibilization’ of the indigenous groups in the national imagination. 10 The antinomy ‘Civilisation or Barbarism’ is a synthesis which describes this historical process. This antinomy was proposed by Domingo Sarmiento (Argentine politician and thinker of the 19th century) and it condenses the cultural and social thought of a whole generation. It became an articulation point for the cultural policies designed by the state and it continues to operate as a residual tradition 11 in social representations. Because of this, successive generations lack many cultural and identity references related to the historical past. The elements which are usually identified as their heritage are in most cases those linked with the dominant historiography. There remain very few channels of dialogue with the social past; people become passive spectators in the production of knowledge with regards to history and heritage. Gordillo and Hirsch, ‘Indigenous Struggles and Contested Identities in Argentina. Histories of Invisibilization and Reemergence’, pp. 4–30. 8 Valko, Pedagogía de la Desmemoria. Crónicas y estrategias del genocidio invisible, p. 413. 9 Ibid. 10 Gordillo and Hirsch, ‘Indigenous Struggles and Contested Identities in Argentina. Histories of Invisibilization and Reemergence’, pp. 4–30. 11 Williams, Marxismo y literatura, p. 250. 7

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In this historical framework, we are developing our research and communication program at Puerto San Julián (Santa Cruz, Argentina). It is a city of around 10,000 inhabitants which is located next to the Atlantic Ocean (Figure 1). The region in which Puerto San Julián is situated was initially colonized around 13,000 years ago. Throughout the millennia, different hunter-gatherer societies lived in the area. 12 Since the 16th century, these groups came into direct contact with explorers, missionaries, traders and officials. These were initially Europeans, but since the 19th century there were also representatives of the National State. One example of this contact is the so-called ‘Campaign of the Desert’, a military expedition carried out between 1879 and 1885 by the rising Argentine State. The expedition killed thousands of indigenous people from Pampa and Patagonia; many others were forced to abandon their lands and surrender to the national power. The settlement of new productive and extractive enterprises, together with the division of the land into plots and the advancement of a new national border (symbolically marked by wire fences), created a novel social territory. 13 This process clearly had an impact on the way the city of San Julián evolved. Although local dwellers have often dealt with indigenous archaeological objects, the identity of this community 14 has Paunero, El Arte Rupestre Milenario de Estancia La María, Meseta Central de Santa Cruz, p. 80. 13 Páez, La Conquista del Desierto, p 116; Balazote and Radovich, ‘Indígenas y fronteras: los límites de la nacionalidad’, pp. 25–44. 14 This concept was initially defined by Tonnies in 1887. He referred to little, organic, native rural ensembles and opposed them to societies. By the mid-20th century the relationship between rural communities and cities was described as one of political dependence and economic exploitation, with the underlying idea of class structure (Williams, Keywords. A vocabulary of culture and society, p. 349; Villegas Vélez, ‘Campesinado y tipologías polares. El concepto de comunidad en la sociología clásica’, pp. 1–8; Cardoso de Oliveira, Etnicidad y estructura social, p. 259; Guber, La etnografía, método, campo y reflexividad, p. 146.). In this article we use the concept of community to define a group of people who share (or imagine that they share) a common geographic and social space, historical experi12

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been shaped mainly around two historical milestones: the arrival of Magellan to the area in 1520, and the foundation of the city in 1901 by the so-called ‘pioneers’, who were mainly Europeans. That is to say, among the ideas about the past there is a hegemonic position which tends to foreground Eurocentric perspectives. At the same time, those discourses which highlight the culture of the native groups seem to be ignored; part of the larger human past as well as the indigenous influence in the region have become invisible. The idea of ‘pioneers’ is linked to the European or Western dwellers that arrived to Patagonia by the end of the 19th century. This concept creates in the regional imagination a sense of empty territory (the ‘desert’) which became inhabited and ‘civilised’ a little more than one hundred years ago. Pioneers are usually regarded as those who brought life and development to the region and represent the ‘national being’. Their arrival is seen as an epic enterprise which enabled the settlement of people in a rough environment. Through this ideology, the humanity of the indigenous groups is being denied. 15 Taking these ideas into consideration, the goal of our project is to problematize notions concerning the first dwellers of the patagonic territory, through archaeology and social communication.

ences, cultural characteristics and interests. This does not mean we understand communities as homogeneous. On the contrary, it means that the conflicts, inequalities and contrasts which are visible occur within a (at least partially) shared trajectory. 15 Ramos, ‘No reconocemos los límites trazados por las naciones. La construcción del espacio en el Parlamento mapuche-tehuelche’, pp. 1–24; Rodríguez, De la “Extinción” a la Autoafirmación: Procesos de Visibilización de la Comunidad Tehuelche Camusu Aike (Provincia de Santa Cruz, Argentina).

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Figure 1. Location of Puerto San Julián and La Plata

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ARCHAEOLOGY AND COMMUNICATION Our work conceives science as a social practice. In it, communication is as important as research, 16 both are essential parts of the same process. Communication is inherent in every human activity and it is constitutive of every social process. 17 Nevertheless, when it is linked to science, communication is generally equated to the dissemination of results, journalism or scientific alphabetization. We try to problematize this patronizing idea which is so deeply rooted in certain scientific traditions, including the archaeological community. We believe that archaeological practice has a social sense because it generates long-term historical narratives. These stories help to perform critical analyses about ‘human nature’ and social reality. They highlight that there exists a wide variety of cultural productions, ways of doing, being and seeing the world. Archaeology can also show how cultures change throughout time and tries to explain how this happens. 18 Hence, our discipline enables the problematization of different ways of life and discussion on how people relate to each other, with the landscape and with the historical context. It is then possible to denaturalize ethnocentric, racist or essentialist perspectives. Thus, archaeologists can be important figures in the process of generating inclusive practices, based on a broader view of the social world. In order to accomplish this, we need to establish dialogues with other stakeholders. Without them, the archaeological practice loses its social meaning. Therefore, it is necessary to acknowledge Paunero, Li and Castillo, ‘El taller para niños: una forma de hacer Arqueología’, pp. 29–34; Freire, ¿Extensión o comunicación? La concientización en el medio rural, p. 109. 17 Martín-Barbero, De los medios a las mediaciones p. 300; Mattelart, La comunicación-mundo. Historia de las ideas y de las estrategias, p. 360. Chomsky, Reflexiones sobre el lenguaje, p. 387. 18 Paunero, Li and Castillo, ‘El taller para niños: una forma de hacer Arqueología’, pp. 29–34; Lumbreras, La Arqueología como ciencia social, p. 293. 16

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the political nature which is inherent in every scientific activity. 19 Through dialogue, archaeologists can reformulate the purely academic meanings which we assign to archaeological productions. We are then able to co-construct – together with other involved groups – socially interpellated 20 narratives about the past. Tightly related to this point is our firm belief that the construction of knowledge is achieved through the act of communication. 21 In other words, the meanings and interests that the communities assign to their past, spring from communicational processes. These ideas can clash with the concepts created through standard archaeological practice. That is why collaboration and dialogue are transformative moments for all the participants. 22 Taking into account the above, it is necessary as a starting point to reflect upon the construction of the communicational relationship between the archaeologist and the communities where the former develop their field research. In the communicational dimension tensions and asymmetric relationships are created. These are constitutive of social processes. 23 Archaeologists wield academic knowledge, which is institutionalized, hegemonic, and mediated by historical and social processes as well as by specific traditions of the discipline. Their voice becomes the authorized heritage discourse. 24 This is complicated by the fact that researchers do not usually live in the area where they carry out field work but in distant places, most commonly in big urban centres where the universities and investigation laboratories cluster. In our case, we must Leone, Potter and Shackel, ‘Toward a Critical Archaeology', pp. 283–302. 20 We use the concept of “interpellation” based on Althusser´s proposal ‘Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses’, pp. 86–111. 21 Paunero, Li and Castillo, ‘El taller para niños: una forma de hacer Arqueología’, pp. 29–34; Freire, ¿Extensión o comunicación? La concientización en el medio rural, p. 109. 22 McGuire, ‘Critical archaeology and praxis (Kritische Archäologie und Praxis)’, pp. 77–89. 23 Mata, Nociones para pensar la comunicación y la cultura masivas, p. 16. 24 Smith, ‘El “espejo patrimonial”. ¿Ilusión narcisista o reflexiones múltiples?’, pp. 39–63. 19

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travel more than 2000 km from the city of La Plata (where our research institute is situated) to Puerto San Julián. Distance makes the construction of bonds difficult; the arrival of the archaeologists can be irritating and suspicious for the locals. Academic discourses partly oppose those sustained by the communities. They hold a knowledge which is built based on their own meanings, interests and needs. But local discourses are also mediated by the historical and social contexts of production. In this particular case, the context is the construction of an ethnocentric narrative, in which history begins with the arrival of Europeans and in which the history of native groups is ‘invisibilized’. The fate of these societies which have been ‘erased’ physically, culturally and/or symbolically, as well as the struggles, tensions and resistances which were part of this process 25 are not a fundamental part of the historical discourse in Puerto San Julián – nor in the rest of Patagonia. We should add that even within the community there are a variety of opinions, interests and commitments with regards to heritage. For example, in San Julián there are those who have a specific economic interest, as there are historical sites which have become tourist spots. There are also those who defend a certain social status achieved within the community: they are known as ‘descendants of the pioneers’. Finally, there are those who have a leisure perspective and an individual interest in the archaeological artefacts: the collectors. For all these reasons, we are interested in creating educational moments and spaces which enable the interpellation of the subjects. This approach is a way of problematizing our practices as social beings in order to change them or to support them with a stronger basis. 26 We also search for the articulation between the archaeological tasks and the different views, meanings and uses of the past by the diverse social actors of the present. This approach Gordillo and Hirsch, ‘Indigenous Struggles and Contested Identities in Argentina. Histories of Invisibilization and Reemergence’, pp. 4–30; Quijada, ‘¿“Hijos de los barcos” o Diversidad Invisibilizada? La Articulación de la Población Indígena en la Construcción Nacional Argentina (Siglo XIX)’, pp. 469–510. 26 Buenfil Burgos, Análisis de discurso y educación, p. 32. 25

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to archaeology operates from the inside, with the people leading the course of action and triggering specific measures which are helpful in problematizing and strengthening identity-building processes. 27 Science can work on the perception and valorisation of the human past and it can become a means of building our heritage jointly. Archaeology is a discipline suited to this task. It can be used as a pedagogical tool which integrates social, historical and environmental aspects. 28 It can problematize stigmatizing perspectives and counter some ideas which describe the Latin-American native groups as primitive, static or passive. It also makes it possible to analyze the temporal depth of human life in the continent and examine the diverse modes in which the social space was/is used. This way of doing archaeology constitutes a complex and dynamic trajectory, full of changes and readjustments. Hence, working with communities cannot be thought of as a goal which has to be reached in a unique, definite or competent strategy. Quite the opposite, it is a multidirectional, open and flexible path. 29 We believe it is not the results which ought to be emphasized but the process itself, and the dialogue that goes with it.

OUR APPROACH TO ARCHAEOLOGY The investigations we have been carrying out seek to learn about the human past at the Central Plateau and the Atlantic coast of the province of Santa Cruz. Our goal is to understand the different ways in which the societies and the landscape relate to each other, in order to create models regarding socioeconomic structures, beCurtoni, ‘Acerca de las consecuencias sociales de la arqueología. Epistemología y política de la práctica’, pp. 29–45. 28 Paunero and Martínez, ‘La experiencia de leer el pasado remoto. Talleres de arqueología y comunicación en Puerto San Julián’, pp. 1–6; Del Giorgio et al., ‘Arqueología y Comunicación en la comunidad de Puerto San Julián, Provincia de Santa Cruz’, pp. 1–6. Fernández Ochoa, Gallego Guitian, Domínguez Suárez and Romero Massia, Arqueología: Enseñar desde las raíces de la Historia, p. 62. 29 Curtoni, ‘Acerca de las consecuencias sociales de la arqueología. Epistemología y política de la práctica’, pp. 29–45. 27

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haviours and constraints. Through research, we intend to achieve a deep understanding about the indigenous groups that inhabited this area throughout time, especially regarding topics such as technology, subsistence, resource exploitation and settlement systems. To achieve this, we analyze the occupational history of the landscape, the transformations it went through together with the changes that the societies experienced. We are interested in recuperating the peculiarities of each moment and of each society that inhabited this territory and in identifying those features which remained unchanged with time. 30 The results of our research show that this area was systematically inhabited for 13,000 years, although the intensity of occupation fluctuated. 31 Hunter-gatherer groups lived and used different sectors of the landscape. 32 Places near water sources were preferred, as this is the critical resource in the area. Other resources which also influenced the way the space was used were rocks, pigments and shells. The recurrent use of these spaces indicates that early societies in the region had a profound knowledge of the landCueto et al., ‘Prácticas postcolecta y material leñoso: análisis de residuos y huellas microscópicas de origen vegetal, sobre artefactos de roca tallada, utilizados en contextos experimentales’, pp. 1205–1210; Paunero, El Arte Rupestre Milenario de Estancia La María, Meseta Central de Santa Cruz, p. 80; Skarbun, La organización tecnológica en grupos cazadores recolectores desde las ocupaciones del Pleistoceno final al Holoceno tardío, en la Meseta Central de Santa Cruz, Patagonia., p. 213; Frank, ‘Los fogones en la Meseta Central de Santa Cruz durante el Pleistoceno Final’, pp. 145–162, among others. 31 Miotti and Salemme, ‘Poblamiento, movilidad y territorios entre las sociedades cazadoras-recolectoras de Patagonia’, pp. 177–206; Paunero, ‘La colonización humana de la meseta central de Santa Cruz durante el Pleistoceno final: indicadores arqueológicos, referentes estratigráficos y nuevas evidencias’, pp. 85–100. 32 Paunero et al., ‘Arte Rupestre en Estancia La María, Meseta Central de Santa Cruz: Sectorización y contextos arqueológicos’, pp. 147– 168; Paunero and Skarbun, ‘Reserva Península de San Julián: estudios arqueológicos distribucionales en una particular geoforma marina’, pp 253–264. 30

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scape: the archaeological record from caves and rock shelters suggests redundant periods of occupation throughout time. 33 The excavations showed that both extinct and modern fauna was consumed and that these groups were knowledgeable and skilful with regard to wild resources. Research also suggests that these groups had a broad technological knowledge, as they made a wide variety of tools with different production techniques. These tools were used to fulfil different tasks including processing and consuming prey, the production of leather clothes and the building of shelters. Field surveys and laboratory research has also unravelled a rich symbolic and artistic world, which is expressed mainly in the great variety of cave paintings found in the region. 34 The traditional practice of archaeology (at least in Argentina) considers the ‘field’ as the place from which archaeological remains are recovered; it is a sort of source which the scientists only visit when they need to get the objects they are going to study. Therefore, archaeologists have not felt the necessity or the responsibility to create stable and long-lasting bonds with the people who currently live in the territory under study. At the same time, academic institutions do not encourage these kinds of actions, which then depend solely on the ethical and political will of the researchers. Fortunately, we have noticed that in the last few years there are new methods and experiences which are becoming alternatives to traditional archaeological practice. 35 In our case, we want to overcome previous attitudes through collaborative work with the community. We have built a ‘non systematic’ action research strategy, with a fluctuating degree of formality. We have put into practice a perspective which is both anthropological and communicational. Paunero et al., ‘Arte Rupestre en Estancia La María, Meseta Central de Santa Cruz: Sectorización y contextos arqueológicos’, pp. 147– 168. 34 Ibid. Podestá, Paunero and Rolandi, El Arte Rupestre de Argentina Indígena: Patagonia, p. 271. 35 Curtoni, ‘Acerca de las consecuencias sociales de la arqueología. Epistemología y política de la práctica’, pp. 29–45; Salerno, ‘Trabajo Arqueológico y Representaciones del Pasado Prehispánico en Chascomús’, p. 349. 33

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Our theoretical and methodological framework has been influenced by previous projects of public or collaborative archaeology 36 as well as by proposals which have their roots in the Communication Sciences. 37 This approach has enabled us to acquire a deeper understanding of the way the past is regarded and recreated in Puerto San Julián. We are also interested in enquiring how the present community is shaped, in order to know how much previous cultures have influenced it. This latter aspect has usually been silenced/hidden by hegemonic groups both at local and national level across the whole country. At the same time, our practices with the community created a network of acquaintances which supports our research and triggers ideas for more systematic tasks. We have created bonds with different social actors in Puerto San Julián, each of them presenting specific interests and dynamics. We have sought to promote a long-term perspective in order to discuss issues related to memory, identity and heritage. A long-term approach means that these relationships experience different moments: initial dialogues, mutual acknowledgement, trust, collaboration and joint participation. This trajectory has enabled us to, in a certain way, become part of the community. Thus, our fieldwork involves the participation of local dwellers in many activities. They have helped us to identify archaeological sites and they participate in survey tasks. They decide with us which sites to excavate and collaborate in the digging. Among the stakeholders who have taken part of our field tasks there are ranch Moser et al., ‘Transforming archaeology through practice: strategies for collaborative archaeology and the Community Archaeology Project at Quseir, Egypt’, pp. 220–248; Barceló, ‘Arqueologia per a una emergència. Destrucció del passat, destrucció del present a Nicaragua’, pp. 113–117; Funari, op. cit. Curtoni, ‘Acerca de las consecuencias sociales de la arqueología. Epistemología y política de la práctica’, pp. 29–45; Salerno, Trabajo Arqueológico y Representaciones del Pasado Prehispánico en Chascomús; Hart, ‘Heritage, Neighborhoods and Cosmopolitan Sensibilities: Poly-Communal Archaeology in Deerfield, Massachusetts’, pp. 26–34. 37 Freire, Pedagogía del oprimido, p. 256; Martín-Barbero, De los medios a las mediaciones, p. 300; Hall, ‘Codificar/decodificar’, pp. 1972–1979. 36

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owners and caretakers, park rangers, collectors and state officials. As these stakeholders are those who have a more direct bond with the field, our link with them has been quite strong. Nevertheless, our goal is to reach, directly or indirectly, the entire community. Our relationship with other social actors (such as municipal employees, shop workers or elderly people) is created during the daily coexistence which takes place when we visit the city. In this context, the informal dialogues allow us to present them with our activities and goals, to nourish ourselves with their ideas and knowledge and, in certain cases, to involve these people in some of our tasks. Furthermore, on many occasions it is the people themselves who come to us with proposals or who are concerned about a specific issue. Hence, we would not say that these contacts are planned or aimed. On the contrary, they are a consequence of our presence in the town and our intention of exchanging ideas whenever it is possible. These collaborative practices are rich and valuable experiences for all. They enable us to create dialogic relationships in which we can learn from the local community. They favour the exchange of meanings on the social past and history; we achieve a greater understanding from their knowledge, ideas and interests. During these activities locals can also enquire about the archaeological practice, acknowledge the usual procedures of the research and come to better understand the strong and weak points of the discipline. Hence, the community begins to recognize how we build our certainties and why there are also uncertainties within the academic world. During the collaborative work, new research, conservation and exhibition ideas inevitably arise. Through these various activities, the community as well as ourselves assign value to those things and experiences (archaeological objects, cultural practices, life stories) which we gradually realize were part of our own historical path and which helped us to think and understand ourselves in the world. That is to say, values and meanings become a constructed, negotiated corpus. Our presence in the community involves, necessarily, relationships which go beyond the fieldwork. We articulate duties and activities with local authorities as well as with officials from other state bodies. Organizations focused on rural administration, university education and the promotion of local history (such as museums) also partner with us. Although many of the practices are not

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systematic, they have been performed for a long time: our team has been working in the area for more than two decades. We believe this continual presence is a key factor for our current status within the community, as it has made visible our work in local institutions which have educational, communicational and decision-making roles. For example, we have provided counselling to the local government on issues related to archaeological tourism. We have also collaborated in the design and production of didactic scripts and exhibition panels for the history museum. From a constructive point of view, these bonds and activities benefit and support our duties. We have received both material and symbolic support such as funding and lodging in the city, assistance editing books on regional archaeology and history, the facilitation of new contacts with local dwellers, as well as interdisciplinary collaboration with local academics and professionals. We have also participated in collaborative research in new spaces for dialogue, such as in group activities organized in the local museum, as well as in an annual celebration and exhibition known as ‘Expo-San Julián’. Taking part in these sorts of activities enables us to reach a larger spectrum of local society and to show our research/communication program. Other channels between our team and the community are our participation in radio shows, the development of research interviews and traditional visits to close families. Each of these experiences allows the movement and circulation of ‘The Word’, the mutual understanding of our perspectives and the establishment of agreements, consensus and projects, as well as the identification of possible conflictive issues. As a part of our work, we have organized a series of workshops on archaeology and communication. Since 2006, they have been both supported and funded by La Plata National University and the Municipality of San Julián. They have become an arena in which we try to systematize all of our previous experiences.

ARCHAEOLOGY WORKSHOPS IN PUERTO SAN JULIÁN Taking into account our goals and resources (material, logistic, human), we have defined part of the population with which we think it is very important to develop long-term, systematic approaches. Therefore, we have implemented archaeology workshops in every primary school of Puerto San Julián. These are aimed at continuing our survey on community knowledge about the first settlers of Pat-

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agonia within the regional imagination; but in this instance focusing solely on school-age children. Within the work we also seek to problematize with the children different topics relating to local, historical and cultural heritage, and to denaturalize perceptions about the human past which are strongly rooted in the community. We believe that working this way with local youngsters could provide a gateway to developing alternative and new ideas about the past which can then be transmitted to the rest of the Puerto San Julián society. This kind of educational approach is practical and multidirectional. Most importantly, workshops are participative ways of building knowledge. 38 Our epistemological perspective sustains that the social actors should “take on the word”. This concept stresses the interpretation of the historical world-view that is made by the subjects. In this context, what the learners say is more important than the ideas proposed or imposed by the educator. 39 In this sense, it is essential that they identify and express which representations of the human past are of significance for them. At the same time, the circulation of ‘The Word’ between the educators and the learners is inherent in every educational process. 40 The dynamics of the workshops demand the existence of a space for dialogue. The selected topics and the problems that arise must be of interest to everyone; the diverse actors should seek the integration and discussion of issues together. That is why it is necessary to begin activities/discussions from topics related to the here and now that the students recognize. We chose a strategy in which the members of the community take on ‘The Word’ because we believe in their commitment and self-affirmation as a human group which acts and performs in the world. At the same time, it reveals the way in which we define our social-political-strategic horizon with the local stakeholders and institutional referents from the society. González Cuberes, El Taller de los Talleres, p. 113; Paunero, Li and Castillo, ‘El taller para niños: una forma de hacer Arqueología’, pp. 29–34; Harste, ‘Prólogo’, pp. 164. 39 Freire, Pedagogía del oprimido, p 256. 40 Ibid. 38

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We have been doing these workshops for a long time, in an uninterrupted mode. Nevertheless, they change yearly as we reflect upon the previous results. Here we will present a brief description of the activities we do with the boys and girls from San Julián. We will introduce the content of the workshops so that we can show the kind of experience that can be achieved when social communication, education and archaeology are linked. We develop the workshops in every fourth grade class of the city, with ten year olds. We seek to problematize with them the indigenous presence in the region, when it began and how these cultures changed throughout time. We also aim to put these ideas into dialogue with prevalent notions within the community which suggest that native groups are not related to local history and identity. The topics we discuss are: the temporal and spatial location of the first settlers, the different human groups that lived in distinct periods of time in the region, and the identification of relevant events in local history. We also talk about different ways of life and try to evaluate how these generate diverse archaeological contexts. Alongside this, we explore ideas regarding technology, especially the production of tools and rock art. These activities make it possible to achieve a more complex perspective about the knowledge and capabilities of the native groups. Finally, we incorporate hints which are useful to reflect upon the way archaeologists study the past. The teaching of the topics begins by presenting ‘triggering questions’ and by letting the children express some of their doubts with regards to archaeological practice. The intention is to create an appropriate atmosphere in which information can be exchanged and in which discussions are generated, so that the students are able to place themselves as active subjects in the constitution of knowledge. This is a rich and rewarding experience both for the students as well as for the members of our project. In order to explore these topics, we develop group and individual activities, artistic and intellectual exercises, induction and deduction problems, among others 41. We believe that working with Del Giorgio et al., ‘Arqueología y Comunicación en la comunidad de Puerto San Julián, Provincia de Santa Cruz’, pp. 1–6. 41

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archaeological remains and resources used by the ancient inhabitants of the region holds great heuristic potential in solving some of the problems presented to the children. These objects are useful to create an affective bond between the students and the past. 42 In turn, this has an effect on the way the children represent the past and helps in the process of appropriation. In the following paragraphs we will present some of the conceptual cores and activity units in order to exemplify how the regional past can be visualized. We want to show how it is possible to establish dialogues with the students in order to create shared meanings about the past in the present and for the present.

Figure 2. Timeline: Exploring the antiquity of human settlement in the region Time line: This activity tries to problematize the antiquity of human settlement in the region. We stick a six meter long paper band González Marcén, ‘De la investigación a la educación y viceversa’, pp. 1–4. 42

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on the classroom wall, with a printed line which simulates a time line. The idea is that the students place in an approximate chronological order certain historical and natural processes and events. This helps to create a general panorama about the human past in the area. We use several images and phrases which are then also stuck on the line. The observation of a group of significant events enables the visualization of different ways of life, the identification of the dynamics of social and cultural change, and above all the recognition of how large a temporal lapse of 13,000 years can be (Figure 2).

Figure 3. Working with archaeological remains Activities with objects Some activities involve the use and manipulation of material elements. These are archaeological objects (bone remains, lithic artefacts, pottery and pigments) as well as some items which are used today (forks, batteries, DVDs and so on). Boys and girls gather in teams and are encouraged to try to group the objects in chronological order ‘from the very past to the very present’. They also have to search for correlations between different ways of life and mate-

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rialities. We also discuss together which steps are involved in the production of a tool and make interpretations about the social dynamics in which these objects intervened. These activities are articulated by triggering questions such as: who made these objects? What for? When did the societies that used these tools live? Through this kind of activity we want to propose alternatives which do not regard the object as a fetish. Instead, we believe cultural items are useful for the visualization of the human groups that made them, of their way of life and history (Figures 3 and 4).

Figure 4. Students work in groups and use archaeological remains to discuss about the life of previous societies from Patagonia Interpretation of rock manifestations and drawing We make some activities focused on the artistic expressions which are commonly found in the area. Many of the images are already set in the local imagination because many people have visited rock art sites and also because there are plenty of commercial signs promoting archaeological tourism. We screen some of the motifs, especially those which are abundant in the surroundings. Afterwards, we

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talk with the students and make a joint analysis about the possible meanings of the paintings and the way they were produced. Later on, we provide the students with red, yellow and black pigments (the same sort as were used by the first settlers to paint) and they begin to draw (Figure 5). Group and individual drawing encourage creativity, expression, understanding and observation. In this process, the participants make re-significations of the previously observed motifs. New meanings are assigned to the paintings, and these interpretations are mediated by the current symbolic context of the children.

Figure 5. Children drawing with pigments

FINAL REFLECTIONS The goal of our work with the people of Puerto San Julián is to put value on local social history and to encourage the visualization of

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many diverse cultural productions. However, even after many years of collaboration, it still seems like an ambitious project. The hegemonic narratives and representations which are set in the community have been transmitted and reaffirmed for many generations. This was achieved through many channels and mechanisms, including some practices from the formal education system. The adoption of a collaborative perspective makes us reflect upon the ways knowledge is produced in the social sciences, especially in archaeology. In this scenario scientific knowledge cannot be thought of as the only legitimate or authorized voice. We believe it is very important to give pre-eminence to qualitative perspectives and to have the dialogic work with communities as a horizon. It is necessary to respect the contradictions of the communities and their ways of solving conflicts. Hence, it is essential to emphasise the processes and articulations which each of the involved subjects develop, leaving as of secondary importance the outcomes or the products of the activities. Giving prevalence to the results would imply a crystallization of the significations about the human past that the men, women and children of a community make. It would reduce the potential for creating new meanings on the historical constructions of a given society. In our case, we believe that through a collaborative process it has been possible to reflect upon untold, forgotten or distorted parts of history. This strategy encourages debates; knowledge and experiences are expressed and reconsidered. The relationship of the individuals with the ‘ancient men’ 43 comes to the surface because these previous societies are part of our history and, to a certain degree, of our present. These practices make visible that which is hidden. They show that there are within the community alternative types of knowledge and discourse regarding the past, although at present they are usually neglected or disregarded because they do not correspond with socially accepted points of view. Another issue which we would like to discuss is the epistemological dimension of this approach. Our willingness to work aspires to build knowledge and content which should contact and be con“Los antiguos” is the common term which the creole dwellers from Patagonia use to refer to ancient, past native groups. 43

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fronted by other types of knowledge generated by other social actors. The production of knowledge should be put into circulation beyond strictly academic spheres, although this attitude is clearly a more comfortable and safe one. Researchers must be aware that working with communities complements other parts of scientific investigation and that it is a transformative activity for them, as it triggers new questions, doubts and interests. In this sense, collaborative work with the community enables us to question the conditionings and biases which affect our academic practice and in turn to reorient our research. In other words, from our point of view there is a constant back and forth between purely academic tasks and the work with the community. We think of our practice as a singular process and so it is not possible to identify clear limits between both moments. In this context, working with children is the perfect arena for the discussion of issues related to history and heritage. During the activities, latent realities arise; they are triggered by ‘visibilization’ mechanisms, by the generation of surprise, curiosity and doubt. This kind of situation activates the exchange of opinions, feeds new questions and makes debates richer. It promotes reflectivity and facilitates a critical position regarding ancient ways of life, productions, symbols and beliefs. This relates to the ethical and political dimension of our practice. If communication turns into a tool for the dispute of significations in the cultural sphere – as we are trying to express here – then there must be a commitment to generating existential horizons so that the whole of society can create its own political interventions and ways of denominating knowledge which can help to understand the causes of oppressive structures and to modify them. We believe that if we keep to this path we will have new representations of the past. The same will happen to the boys, girls and teachers who participate with us in the workshops every year. In time, these representations will probably reach the rest of the community. Thus, we are sure we are part of a collective construction of meanings, which updates, re-signifies and brings to the present culturally and temporally diverse manifestations of human societies from the region.

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J. Martín-Barbero, De los medios a las mediaciones (Bogotá, 2003). C. Martínez Sarasola, Nuestros Paisanos los Indios. Vida, historia y destino de las comunidades indígenas en la Argentina (Buenos Aires, 2005), p. 582. A. Mattelart, La comunicación-mundo. Historia de las ideas y de las estrategias (Buenos Aires, 1993). R. McGuire, ‘Critical archaeology and praxis (Kritische Archäologie und Praxis)’, Forum Kritische Archäologie 1 (2012), pp. 77–89. L. L. Miotti and M. C. Salemme, ‘Poblamiento, movilidad y territorios entre las sociedades cazadoras-recolectoras de Patagonia.’, Complutum 15 (2004), pp. 177–206. S. Moser, D. Glazier, J. E. Phillips, L. N. el Nemr, M. S. Mousa, R. N. Aiesh, S. Richardson, A. Conner and M. Seymour, ‘Transforming archaeology through practice: strategies for collaborative archaeology and the Community Archaeology Project at Quseir, Egypt’, World Archaeology 34 (2002), pp. 220–248. J. Páez, La Conquista del Desierto (Buenos Aires, 1970). R. S. Paunero, El Arte Rupestre Milenario de Estancia La María, Meseta Central de Santa Cruz (Puerto San Julián, 2009). ———, ‘La colonización humana de la meseta central de Santa Cruz durante el Pleistoceno final: indicadores arqueológicos, referentes estratigráficos y nuevas evidencias’. In M. C. Salemme, F. Santiago, M. Alvarez, E. Piana, M. Vazquez and M. E. Mansur (eds), Arqueología de Patagonia: una mirada desde el último confín (Ushuaia, 2009), pp. 85–100. R. S. Paunero and D. G. Martínez, ‘La experiencia de leer el pasado remoto. Talleres de arqueología y comunicación en Puerto San Julián’, Nodos 5 (2008), pp. 1–6. R. S. Paunero, E. Li and S. Castillo, El taller para niños: una forma de hacer Arqueología, II Jornadas- Taller: El Uso del Pasado (La Plata, 1992), pp. 29–34. R. S. Paunero, A. D. Frank, F. Skarbun, G. Rosales, G. Zapata, M. E. Cueto, M. F. Paunero, D. G. Martinez, R. López, N. Lunazzi and M. Del Giorgio, ‘Arte Rupestre en Estancia La María, Meseta Central de Santa Cruz: Sectorización y contextos arqueológicos’, Relaciones de la Sociedad Argentina de Antropología XXX (2005), pp. 147-168. R. S. Paunero and F. Skarbun, ‘Reserva Península de San Julián: estudios arqueológicos distribucionales en una particular geoforma marina’, Magallania 39 (2011), pp. 253–264.

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M. Podestá, R. S. Paunero and D. Rolandi, El Arte Rupestre de Argentina Indígena: Patagonia (2005), p. 271. L. Prats, ‘Concepto y gestión del patrimonio local’, Cuadernos de Antropología Social 21 (2005), pp. 17–35. M. Quijada, ‘¿“Hijos de los barcos” o Diversidad Invisibilizada? La Articulación de la Población Indígena en la Construcción Nacional Argentina (Siglo XIX)’, Hmex LIII (2003), pp. 469– 510. A. Ramos, ‘No reconocemos los límites trazados por las naciones. La construcción del espacio en el Parlamento mapuche-tehuelche’, 2004 Meeting of the Latin American Studies Association (Las Vegas, Estados Unidos, 2004), pp. 1–24. M. Rodríguez, De la “Extinción” a la Autoafirmación: Procesos de Visibilización de la Comunidad Tehuelche Camusu Aike (Provincia de Santa Cruz, Argentina), Faculty of the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences (Washington, DC, 2010). V. Salerno, Trabajo Arqueológico y Representaciones del Pasado Prehispánico en Chascomús, Facultad de Filosofía y Letras (Buenos Aires, 2011), p. 349. F. Skarbun, La organización tecnológica en grupos cazadores recolectores desde las ocupaciones del Pleistoceno final al Holoceno tardío, en la Meseta Central de Santa Cruz, Patagonia (Oxford, 2011), p. 213. L. Smith, ‘El “espejo patrimonial”. ¿Ilusión narcisista o reflexiones múltiples?’, Antípoda 12 (2011), pp. 39–63. UNESCO, Convención sobre la Protección del Patrimonio Cultural y Natural (París, 1972), p. 14. M. Valko, Pedagogía de la Desmemoria. Crónicas y estrategias del genocidio invisible (Buenos Aires, 2010). A. Villegas Vélez, ‘Campesinado y tipologías polares. El concepto de comunidad en la sociología clásica’, Gazeta de Antropologia 19 (2003), pp. 1–8. R. Williams, Marxismo y literatura (Barcelona, 1980). ———, Keywords. A vocabulary of culture and society (New York, 1983).

DEVELOPING ‘URBAN ENVIRONMENTAL LITERACY’: A PERSPECTIVE ON COMMUNAL RESOURCES FROM SUKAGAWA, FUKUSHIMA JUNKO TAGUCHI THE SUSTAINABILITY OF CITIES Cities are forced to experience relentless transformations as a result of their close connection to changes in national and global social and economic structures. The quantitative requirements of people, as represented by the free movement of large volumes of people, artefacts, capital and information as is seen for example when cities entice large-scale residential developments or commercial facilities, rob cities of their identity and render them more homogenous. At the same time, the impact of tourism and the qualitative demands of people in search of a ‘brand’ and of safety are causing cities to compete with each other. Against a backdrop of such external forces, cities cast about for a sustainable ideal for themselves. Those shaping Japanese cities in recent years have been slowly responding to people’s qualitative demands, and have also been enhancing their efforts to reconstruct a particular identity for different cities. Their methods in that regard have seen a shift from a ‘top down’ to a ‘bottom up’ approach, and emphasis placed on the role of local governance in areas including a city’s environment, landscapes, culture and disaster prevention. Focusing on heritage at a local level has also been tied in with a ‘bottom up’ approach because of links to local identity. The backdrop to this approach started to emerge in the early 1970s when some observers pointed out a weakening of community awareness amongst local residents 129

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in the wake of Japan’s increased urbanisation. This was met with an expansion in powers for local governments in the areas of urban planning and town design, the principal feature of which was the adoption under revisions in 1992 to the City Planning Act of a system of urban master plans that laid down core urban planning guidelines for Japan’s cities, towns and villages. Strengthening that backdrop were subsequent events and developments which generated a new awareness of the importance of local community through activities closer to people’s lives, such as the recovery efforts following the Kobe earthquake of 1995, the day-to-day crime and disaster prevention activities undertaken by communities, and people’s efforts to help and support the increasing numbers of elderly people living amongst them. 1 Out of these circumstances the regeneration of cities has been supported by the local community and organisations such as non-governmental organizations (NGOs) and non-profit organizations (NPOs) which make up the core of local governance, and by the local residents who constitute their members. In Japan today, however, being as it is a mature society facing economic stagnation and a shrinking population, the question of how to secure the sustainability of cities is a pressing one. The question implies that cities/those planning and managing cities ought to rethink ‘heritage’ within ever-changing social and economic circumstances. These issues became all the more urgent in the wake of the Tohoku earthquake of 11 March 2011. As many intelligent observers have pointed out, the events of that day laid bare at a stroke the whole range of risks confronting Japan, such as the increase in the size and frequency of natural disasters, the excessive faith placed in science and technology as symbolised by the accidents at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant, the moral failings of the relevant organisations connected with those accidents, and the dysfunction within the country’s societal systems. For these reasons, Japan’s cities are faced with a sense of urgency in terms of the need to steer a different course from the past by turning their focus towards achieving a sustainable ideal for themselves beyond the country’s recovery and rebuilding. Attempting to 1

S. Ohsugi, People and Local Government, p. 21.

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answer this fundamental question from a ‘bottom up’ approach is the starting point of this paper.

EDUCATION FOR SUSTAINABLE DEVELOPMENT At the 2002 World Summit on Sustainable Development in Johannesburg, South Africa, the Japanese government proposed a ‘decade of education for sustainable development’ (ESD), and that year the United Nations General Assembly declared 2005 – 2014 to be the ‘Decade of ESD’, for which UNESCO prepared an international implementation plan to spur countries to act. Japan’s own implementation plan states: …our government’s stance on ESD in our country is that Japan will promote programs that take into account the issues related to sustainable development on a global scale involving developing countries, whilst dealing with issues concerning environmental preservation that must be dealt with by developed countries, and addressing the integrated development of the environment, economy, and society. 2

In recent years, Japan has undertaken an extensive range of ESD initiatives both as part of the general curriculum at primary and junior high schools and in the context of the education of the broader community by companies and NPOs. Education about a built environment – that is, an environment built by people – such as buildings and streetscapes, which make up the major part of urban environments, can also be regarded as part of ESD. This particular area is centred on environmental education, education about World Heritage sites and local cultural properties, as well as education about international understanding. Built environment education is one means of spreading methods for better management of their ever-changing urban environment amongst a city’s local residents and community. However, whilst a range of built environment education initiatives are being carried out, both around the world and across Japan, those implementing

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the initiatives and leading education programs lack defined networks and a unified perspective.

DEFINITION OF ‘URBAN ENVIRONMENTAL LITERACY’ AND RELATED CONCEPTS

Based on the hypothesis that the local residents and community of a city have the literacy to understand, envision and participate in their urban environment (‘urban environmental literacy’: UEL), the purpose of this research is to identify what constitutes ‘urban environmental literacy’ and the process for acquiring it, as a goal of built environment education and in turn urban heritage management. For the purpose of this research, ‘urban environmental literacy’ is defined as follows: ‘the ability to observe and understand the various matters, objects and people in a city, to envision what a good city is, and to take responsible actions (the UEL ‘competencies’), and components related to that.’ Turning to the origin of the word ‘literacy’, whereas the first reference to it was made in 1883, its antonym, ‘illiteracy’, first appeared in the 17th century. 3 Whilst ‘literacy’ originally meant the ability to read and write, more recently it has been used to form a number of compound adjectives, such as ‘scientific literacy’ and ‘computer-literacy’, which has expanded the scope of its meaning. The expression ‘environmental literacy’ was first used in 1968 in an essay by the American education academic Charles. E. Roth, which he submitted as a response to the ‘environmental illiterates’ complicit in the incidents of pollution affecting the environment that appeared frequently in the media at the time. 4 Since the 1970s, with the spread of environmental education under UNESCO’s leadership and the goals set for environmental education under its UNESCO United Nations Environmental Programme (UNEP), environmental literacy research and education practice have become commonplace around the world. This is happening today to Harper, Online etymology dictionary. Roth, ‘On the road to conservation’, pp. 38–41; Roth, Environmental Literacy, p. 7. 3 4

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the point where an environmental literacy assessment framework has been developed for the OECD’s Programme for International Student Assessment (PISA) for 2015. 5 Related concepts are ‘ecoliteracy’ (ecological literacy), 6 which is linked to systems thinking, 7 a discipline which developed in the areas of organicism in biology, Gestalt psychology and ecology, and the ‘Knowing Eye’, 8 which comes from a background of Western philosophy and is linked to education and environmental design through a fusion of architecture and pedagogy. These concepts however will not be discussed in detail in this paper. What is important here is the element these concepts have in common. This commonality is that they do not describe an individual who merely ‘consumes’ what appears before him or her, be it something visual or a piece of information, but instead reveals an individual who thinks independently and forms a judgment about that scene or information, even deciphering what may lie behind the scene/data and their decision. ‘Environmental literacy’ and ‘ecoliteracy’, however, focus on the natural environment with the goal of discussing the environment at a global level, and the ‘Knowing Eye’ directs its attention to an education environment where design is the subject matter. Since this research will look at local residents’ relationships with their urban environment and heritage, ‘urban environmental literacy’ may be classified amongst these related concepts.

RESEARCH FOCUS AND METHODOLOGY The case study for this research was Sukagawa City, a city with 77,000 inhabitants (as of January 2013), in Fukushima Prefecture, Japan. Fukushima Prefecture is the gateway to the north-eastern region of Japan and is under 300km from Tokyo. Along with highly attractive rural scenery, Fukushima has a number of cities and Hollweg et al., Developing a framework for assessing environmental literacy, section 5, p. 29. 6 Orr, Ecological Literacy, pp. 85–95. 7 Capra, The Web of Life, pp. 36–50. 8 Taylor, Linking Architecture and Education, pp. xv–xviii. 5

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towns that served as prosperous castle towns and travel staging posts in Japan’s early modern period. Although its inland location meant it was spared from the tsunami generated by the Tohoku earthquake, the tremor itself destroyed many red-tile-roofed warehouses and traditional residences which added to the region’s scenic attraction, and Sukagawa did not escape from the repercussions of the accident at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant. The following two activities were studied for this research: 1. A campaign in 2005 and 2006 begun by local people and others to save a cocoon storage warehouse in Sukagawa which had been a symbol of the region; 2. A new project by local residents, which lasted between 2006 and 2010, to discover Sukagawa’s communal resources, which was launched in response to the demolition of the cocoon storage warehouse (the temporary suspension of the project due to the Tohoku earthquake in 2011 as well as the project’s resumption in 2012 will also be examined).

The following methodology was used: I) With reference to the framework of ‘environmental literacy’, a method was developed for what constitutes ‘urban environmental literacy’ and the process for acquiring it. II) ‘Urban environmental literacy (UEL) matrices’ were developed for particular contexts as tools for identifying what constitutes ‘urban environmental literacy’. III) Behavioural components in the following Contexts 1) ~ 3) were studied, and a UEL matrix prepared for each. Context 1) 1) The campaign to save the cocoon storage warehouse and 2) the project to discover communal resources were planned together with local residents. Following the campaign and project, interviews were conducted with the experts who provided advice from a viewpoint of raising awareness of the campaign and project (such as presenting previous examples and offering suggestions), and a matrix was prepared of the ‘intended behaviour’ for local residents. Context 2) The campaign in 1) and the project in 2) were conducted together with local residents. Using participant observation, interviews and ques-

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tionnaires, a matrix was prepared of the ‘behaviour in the campaign and project’ by local residents. Context 3) Following the campaign in 1) and the project in 2), follow-up research was conducted on the activities developed independently by local residents. Participant observation, interviews and questionnaires were conducted and a matrix was prepared of the ‘self-initiated behaviour’ by local residents. IV) The matrices in III) were arranged in time sequences to study the process of acquisition of ‘urban environmental literacy’. Methodology I) An ‘environmental literacy’ framework is characterised by the five goals of environmental education: ‘Awareness, Knowledge, Attitudes, Skills, Participation’ as recommended at the UNESCO UNEP 1977 Tbilisi Conference. 9 These goals were re-confirmed in the 2012 Tbilisi+35 Declaration, which incorporated ESD as a comprehensive topic rather than as environmental education. 10. On the basis of the Tbilisi Conference goals, the North American Association for Environmental Education (NAAEE) studied the initial frameworks that appeared in the second half of the 1970s 11 as well as the frameworks that followed in the 1990s, 12 and identified four mutually related environmental literacy components of UNESCO, Final report, pp. 26–27. The Tbilisi Communiqué, Educate Today for a Sustainable Future. 11 Harvey, ‘A conceptualization of environmental education’, pp. 66– 72; Harvey, Environmental education; Cook & Berrenberg, ‘Approaches to encouraging conservation behavior’, pp. 73–107. 12 Hungerford & Volk, ‘Changing learner behavior through environmental education’, pp. 11–13; Roth, Environmental Literacy, pp. 17–26; Simmons, ‘Developing a framework for National Environmental Education Standards’, pp. 54–58; Wilke, Environmental Education Literacy/Needs Assessment Project, pp. 5–6; Stern, ‘Toward a coherent theory of environmentally significant behavior’, p. 407. 9

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‘Knowledge, Dispositions, Competencies and Environmentally Responsible Behaviour’. 13 This research developed a framework for ‘urban environmental literacy’ framework with reference to the foregoing [Fig. 1]. By showing a definition of ‘urban environmental literacy’ using three key competencies, this research identified the cognitive components of Knowledge and Skills, along with affective components, which are all mobilised by the key competencies, as being mutually related. 14 The double-headed arrows connecting the components show the mutual relationships between the components that were studied in this research. The relationships between the components connected by a straight line were not identified in this research. The feedback loop indicated by the dotted arrow line used the NAAEE’s framework as a reference. 15 That is, the behaviour which represented expressions of the competencies, Knowledge, Skills and affective components built up in the form of experience and was returned to the other components. Through an on-going investigation of the residents’ activities, this research attempted to achieve an elucidation of not just the fragmentary content of ‘urban environmental literacy’ but also of its continued content, as well as of the ‘urban environmental literacy’ acquisition process. For that reason it is important to state at the outset that for this research, the concept of a feedback loop is important. Methodologies II), III) and IV) Based on this framework, by studying the behaviour of local residents in actual contexts involving the campaign and project by Sukagawa’s residents, ‘urban environmental literacy matrices’ [Fig. 2] were developed as tools for recording and organising the content of ‘urban environmental literacy’ (Knowledge, Skills and affective components). Separate matrices were prepared for the ‘intended Hollweg et al., Developing a framework for assessing environmental literacy, section 3, p. 15. 14 Spencer & Spencer, Competence at work, p. 11; Rychen & Salganik, Key competencies for a successful life and a well-functioning society, p. 2. 15 Hollweg et al., Developing a framework for assessing environmental literacy, section 3, p. 2. 13

- Detect the issue with five senses - Data gathering - Analyse the issue - Create problem solving - Evaluate consequences

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behaviour’ in 1) the campaign to save the cocoon storage warehouse and 2) the project to discover communal resources (Context 1), for the ‘behaviour in the campaign and project’ (Context 2), and for the local residents’ ‘self-initiated behaviour’ (Context 3). Lastly by arranging these matrices in time sequences, a feedback loop connecting these matrices was examined.

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Figure 2. ‘Urban environmental literacy matrices’

CAMPAIGN TO SAVE THE COCOON STORAGE WAREHOUSE The activities in Sukagawa that the author participated in developed out of events starting in 2005 concerning a building owned by a company called Kasahara Industry Co., Ltd. Kasahara built a factory in Sukagawa in 1917 for the silk production business that it operated. As part of this a 4-story wooden structure/warehouse was built in the same year to store dried cocoons [Fig. 3]. The original

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role played by the warehouse had come to an end when Kasahara stopped producing silk in 1996. Thus, by 2005, the Kasahara Industry Co. was feeling an increasing need to look into the question of what to do with the warehouse; demolishing the warehouse or converting it into a new company facility were amongst the options considered. The warehouse was recognised as a significant symbol of the company which had traversed the years since its founding and had been kept going with minimal maintenance. However, the warehouse presented many safety concerns and the costs of maintaining and managing it were building up. These factors led to the decision to demolish the building. 16

Fig. 3. The cocoon storage warehouse (as photographed in 2006 by the Muramatsu Laboratory, Institute of Industrial Science, the University of Tokyo) Voices were raised, principally amongst individuals connected to the company seeking to save the warehouse as part of the city’s heritage and give it a new lease of life, and in April 2006 volunteers within Sukagawa launched the ‘Society for Thinking About the Fu16

Kamei, ‘Activity Summary’, pp. 4–5.

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ture of the Cocoon Storage Warehouse and Sukagawa’ (the ‘Warehouse Society’), as a body for examining ways to make use of the warehouse. In July of that year experts and local residents got together to run a workshop entitled ‘Cocoon Storage Warehouse Surprise! Sukagawa Station Front Entrance Approach Remodelling Plan’. At this workshop, experts appraised the values of the cocoon storage warehouse as being its ‘rarity’, as one of only a handful of such buildings in the world; as part of, and as ‘witness to an era’ of Japan’s modernisation; as ‘memories and attachment’ involved in many people’s experiences of the warehouse; as its ‘beauty as architecture’; and finally as its ‘value as an asset’ in terms of its favourable location and large space. The experts put forward a plan at the workshop to restore the warehouse that took earthquake proofing and maintenance into consideration (Context 1). Furthermore, in the course of the creative time and space that the workshop represented, the value of an entity like the cocoon storage warehouse emerged lucidly through the narratives presented by local people at the workshop who had lived alongside the warehouse or who had a special place for the warehouse in a distant corner of their memories. As a result, the cocoon storage warehouse was recognised as a proper noun, namely ‘the Warehouse’, which would continue to be cherished and exist together with the local residents. 17 The proposals from that workshop were never realised and, despite an on-going campaign of public lectures to communicate the importance of saving the warehouse, in June 2008 a ceremony was held, to which interested parties including Warehouse Society members were invited, at which the warehouse was demolished (Context 2). Although the Warehouse Society, which lost its raison d’être with the warehouse’s demolition, did consider disbanding, it was through the loss of ‘their Warehouse’ that its members acquired a common awareness that if other components similar to the Warehouse existed in the wider space of the environments where they conducted their lives, they ought to turn their attention to those. So the Warehouse Society changed its name to the ‘Sukagawa Learns its History Society’ (the ‘History Learning Society’), 17

Muramatsu Laboratory, Cocoon Storage Warehouse Surprise!, pp. 1–12.

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and its members began a project of carefully tracking down the components in their living environment which contained an emotional attachment for them (Context 3).

PROJECT TO DISCOVER COMMUNAL RESOURCES In order for the people who belonged to the History Learning Society to discover other components similar to the Warehouse that probably existed in their living environments, or to first gain the assurance that such components ‘did probably exist’, they needed to add a new dimension to their activities and take the time to become physically accustomed to it. First, the geographical parameters for the project were limited to Sukagawa’s central district, which contains many historical vestiges from the medieval period onward. The members began implementing an inventory survey method (‘street-by-street walking’), which involved walking along every street within those parameters and writing down information not just about built structures but also about those things which intuitively provided an emotional attraction, whilst analysing their reasons for that attraction (Context 1). This project, which was called the ‘Our Sukagawa Discovery Squad’, was conducted eight times between July 2008 and October 2010, and each time around 50 local residents and keen participants from a wide range of ages enjoyed taking part in the street-by-street walking [Fig. 4]. With each occasion that the street-by-street walking was repeated, the components in the environment which were regarded as communal resources expanded from individual buildings to landscapes, water/green environments, phenomena related to each of the four seasons, signs of the achievements of past and earlier residents, vestiges of streetscapes, and cherished regional foods and artefacts. In addition, these components came to be perceived not as individual components, but as part of the urban environment as a whole. The History Learning Society incorporated respect and affection into the totality of those communal resources, and gave it the name ‘Sukagawa’s Treasures’. Then, with impatience from a sense of loss of control, as they could see that these components would disappear one-by-one whilst their value or even existence still remained unknown, in collaboration with the author and her colleagues the Society’s members embarked on a regional-based charting of communal resources as well as the preparation of a ‘heritage map’, for the purpose of raising the profile of those re-

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sources and educating people both within and outside Sukagawa about their existence (Context 2).

Fig. 4. ‘Our Sukagawa Discovery Squad’ (as photographed in 2009 by the Muramatsu Laboratory, Institute of Industrial Science, the University of Tokyo) Just as with cultural mapping, the process of preparing the heritage map had educational significance. 18 Precisely because they had experience based on discovering communal resources in their own fashion and making assessments of the current state of their town in order to investigate, share and participate in a better ideal, the people who took part in preparing the map were able to share their experiences with the people who ultimately received the completed maps. The History Learning Society called the finished heritage map ‘Machi-raku’, or ‘Enjoy Our Streets’ – that was the very idea behind the project to discover Sukagawa’s communal resources [Fig. 5]. Since 2010, when the map was completed, with the help of the History Learning Society and local residents, other ways to en18

UNESCO, Building Critical Awareness of cultural mapping, pp. 7–8.

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joy the town have been developed, including events such as walking tours based on the heritage map (Context 3).

Fig. 5. The Sukagawa heritage map ‘Machi-raku’ (as published in 2010 by the Institute of Transdisciplinary Research, ‘A Study on Conserving Communal Resources through Heritage Map Making’)

When the Tohoku earthquake occurred in 2011, the History Learning Society decided to officially suspend its activities for one year. Individual members continued to be interested and involved, how-

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ever, and the aftermath of the disasters proved to be a catalyst for a number of informal meetings. As time passed, the Society’s work came back to life, little by little. Then, in 2012, much effort was expended by local residents to restore local shrines and their grounds, which had become familiar from the earlier project to discover communal resources, following the earthquake and radiation damage. This work formed the basis of recovery activities drawing in the local community and led the History Learning Society to renew its structure and resume its official activities. Today, the History Learning Society continues its work by communicating to adults and children both within and outside Sukagawa. It does this by making full use of the detailed engagement with local residents that it built up through the street-by-street walking, and by carefully gleaning the lessons learnt from the disasters and from the still remaining charms of a town that has been so utterly altered.

THE CONTENT AND ACQUISITION PROCESSES OF ‘URBAN ENVIRONMENTAL LITERACY’ The content that constitutes the key to the ‘urban environmental literacy’ determined from the contexts discussed above is described as follows, along with an examination of the acquisition process of that literacy. 1) The campaign to save the cocoon storage warehouse: The ‘intended behaviour’ in this campaign involved the exercise of three competencies: (1) observing and understanding the value of the building; (2) envisioning uses for the building; and (3) making actual use of the building. Concerning the ‘behaviour in the campaign / project’, despite the affection for the building, as experts pointed out, it had largely not been possible to organise any uses or systems for the building through the efforts of the local residents, nor had the cocoon storage warehouse been saved. It goes without saying that with the loss of the cocoon storage warehouse, which had been loved by the community who wanted it to continue to exist alongside them, a change in the affective components took place. For the ‘self-initiated behaviour’, with the residents’ motivation now directed towards other components similar to the cocoon storage warehouse, the Knowledge and Skills employed to observe and understand the value of the building logically encouraged the

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implementation of the street-by-street walking, which led to the project to discover communal resources. 2) The project to discover communal resources: In this project the ‘intended behaviour’ involved the exercise of three competencies: (1) observing and understanding the communal resources; (2) envisioning the totality of and relationships between communal resources; and (3) making use of the communal resources. For the ‘behaviour in the campaign / project’, each time the street-by-street walking was repeated, the perspective of the local residents expanded away from individual buildings to the urban environment, and their Knowledge, Skills and affective components became more refined. In preparing the heritage map, the local residents acquired a strong sensitivity to the changing urban environment and were able to mobilise their Knowledge and Skills. Lastly, for the ‘self-initiated behaviour’, making use of the heritage map which they themselves had prepared, and introducing their communal resources and walking routes to others, became a source of joy for the local residents derived from their own Knowledge, Skills and efforts. Collating these circumstances, it can be seen that feedback did not function well from the ‘intended behaviour’ (Context 1) to the ‘behaviour in the campaign / project’ (Context 2) in 1) the campaign to save the cocoon storage warehouse. However, good feedback continued from the ‘behaviour in the campaign / project’ (Context 2) in 1) to the ‘self-initiated behaviour’ (Context 3) in 2) the project to discover communal resources. Finally, when positive feedback was encouraged, the affective components were considered to be the principal factors [Fig. 6].

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Institute of Transdisciplinary Research, 2010) (Context 1), 18 interviews and 63 questionnaires with local people (Context 2), and 12 questionnaires with local people (Context 3).

Samples in 2) the project : extracts from the articles in A. Ichioka (ed.) , A Study on Conserving Communal Resources through Heritage Map Making; Research report (Japanese; Fukushima:

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Fig. 6. Change in the ‘urban environmental literacy matrices’ for the activities researched

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AFFECT As a developmental discussion, in this research the author wants to attempt an examination of affect, which is expected to be one of the driving forces for the sustained fostering of ‘urban environmental literacy’. Although affect is interpreted in many different ways in different fields, including psychology and the science of the brain, it is a force that arises in the midst of in-between-ness: in the capacities to act and be acted upon between people and nonhuman artifacts 19 – that is, affect has aspects in the form of both positive and negative acting forces within a relationship. It is also a virtual synesthetic perspective anchored in (functionally limited by) the actual existence of particular things that embody relationships, 20 or, more precisely, can be understood as a form of thinking. 21 Affect being a preliminal, preconscious phenomenon, caution should be taken to distinguish it from emotion. 22 The event which should be given attention in this research is the History Learning Society’s suspension of its work as a result of the Tohoku earthquake. As discussed earlier, as time passed the Society’s work did come back to life, resulting in its formal resumption the following year. Sukagawa’s urban environment, however, has been greatly harmed, both visibly and otherwise, by serious earthquake damage and radioactive contamination. As a consequence, there has been a major change in the relationship between the local residents and the urban environment. Accordingly, the negative forces at work in that relationship are expected to feed back, in no small measure, into the cognitive/non-cognitive components of the residents’ ‘urban environmental literacy’. One day in 2011, one of the local residents said to the author: ‘My everyday environment no longer looks the same as it did before.’

Her statement, which could be described as intuition, made a vivid impression on the author. However, even if it were possible to Seigworth & Gregg, The Affect Theory Reader, p.1. Massumi, Parables for the Virtual: Movement, Affect, Sensation, p. 35. 21 Thrift, Non-Representational Theory, p. 175. 22 Watkins, ‘Desiring Recognition, Accumulating Affect’, p. 269. 19 20

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measure the change in her ‘urban environmental literacy’, it would not be possible to measure the acting forces ‘that arise just at that moment’ – in other words, affect. In Japan today, which faces many risks other than just earthquakes, the topic of this research was the observing in minute detail of the contexts in which the affective components of ‘urban environmental literacy’ give rise to positive or negative changes. The affective components themselves of sensitivity to one’s environment and a sense of place are forms of ‘heritage’ that ought to be passed down, and the author posits that this is essential in order to better manage our ever-changing urban environments.

CONCLUSION This research developed a framework and ‘urban environmental literacy matrices’ in order to identify abstract yet important competencies of ‘urban environmental literacy’. It also proposes that affective components are important for the sustained fostering of ‘urban environmental literacy’ and should be transmitted as ‘heritage’. Just as Sukagawa’s local residents were able to expand their perspective from individual buildings to the urban environment, ‘urban environmental literacy’ has the ability to raise local residents’ interest and participation in their local environment to a regional and even global level. In these times, with calls to take action on global environmental issues and their links to urban lifestyles, this ability could be shared more globally as a form of intangible heritage by urban residents who make up more than half of world population, and thus help sustain the urban heritage of an unstable world.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I wish to thank all the participants, members of the Warehouse Society/the History Learning Society, experts for their helpful comments, Ayako Ichioka, Shin Muramatsu and her/his laboratory’s members for developing the basis of the project and proofreading the text, and Rodney Ford and Noriko Suzuki in Diplomatt, Inc. for their brilliant translation work. This work was supported by the Institute of Transdisciplinary Research, ‘A Study on Conserving Communal Resources through

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Heritage Map Making’ (Project leader: Ayako Ichioka) and the Research Institute for Humanity and Nature (RIHN), ‘Megacities and the Global Environment’ (Project leader: Shin Muramatsu).

REFERENCES F. Capra, The Web of Life (New York, Anchor, 1997). S. Cook and J. L. Berrenberg, ‘Approaches to encouraging conservation behavior: a review and conceptual framework’, Journal of Social Issues 37 (1981), pp. 73–107. D. Harper, Online etymology dictionary (retrieved January 15, 2013, from http://www.etymonline.com). G. Harvey, ‘A conceptualization of environmental education’. In J. Aldrich, A. Blackburn, and G. Abel (eds), A report on the North American regional seminar on environmental education (Columbus, OH, ERIC Clearinghouse for Science, Mathematics and Environmental Education, 1977). ———, Environmental education: A delineation of substantive structure (unpublished dissertation, Southern Illinois University at Carbondale, 1976). K. S. Hollweg, J. R. Taylor, R. W. Bybee, T. J. Marcinkowski, W. C. McBeth, and P. Zoido, Developing a framework for assessing environmental literacy (Washington, DC, North American Association for Environmental Education, 2011, available at http://www.naaee.net). H. Hungerford and T. Volk, ‘Changing learner behavior through environmental education’, The Journal of Environmental Education 21 (1990), pp. 8–22. Interministerial Meeting on the “United Nations Decade of Education for Sustainable Development”, Japan’s Action Plan for the “United Nations Decade of Education for Sustainable Development” (Provisional translation, March 30, 2006). Y. Kamei, ‘Activity Summary’. In A. Ichioka (ed.), A Study on Conserving Communal Resources through Heritage Map Making; Research report (Japan, Fukushima, Institute of Transdisciplinary Research, 2010), pp. 4–9. B. Massumi, Parables for the Virtual: Movement, Affect, Sensation (Durham, NC, Duke University Press, 2002). Muramatsu Laboratory, Institute of Industrial Science, the University of Tokyo (ed.), Cocoon Storage Warehouse Surprise! A report on the inaugural workshop of Sukagawa Station Front Entrance Ap-

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proach Remodelling Plan (Japan, 2006). S. Ohsugi, People and Local Government: Resident Participation in the Management of Local Governments (Council of Local Authorities for International Relations, 2007, available at http://www.clair.or.jp). D. W. Orr, Ecological Literacy: Education and the Transition to a Postmodern World (New York, State University of New York Press, 1992). C. E. Roth, ‘On the road to conservation’, Massachusetts Audubon, (June, 1968), pp. 38–41. ———, Environmental Literacy: Its roots, evolution, and directions in 1990s (Columbus, OH, ERIC Clearinghouse for Science, Mathematics, and Environmental Education, 1992). D. S. Rychen and L. H. Salganik (eds), Key competencies for a successful life and a well-functioning society (Cambridge, MA, Hogrefe and Huber, 2003). G. J. Seigworth and M. Gregg (eds), The Affect Theory Reader (Duham, NC, Duke University Press, 2010). D. Simmons, ‘Developing a framework for National Environmental Education Standards’, Papers on the development of environmental education standards (Troy, OH: NAAEE, 1995), pp. 10–58. L. M. Spencer and S. M. Spencer, Competence at work: Models for a superior performance (New York, John Wiley & Sons, 1993). P. Stern, ‘Toward a coherent theory of environmentally significant behavior’, The Journal of Social Issues 56 (2000), pp. 407–424. A. Taylor, Linking Architecture and Education: Sustainable Design of Learning Environments (University of New Mexico Press, 2009). The Tbilisi Communiqué, Educate Today for a Sustainable Future (Tbilisi, 2012). N. Thrift (ed.), Non-Representational Theory: Space | politics | affect (Abingdon, Oxford, Routledge, 2007). UNESCO, Final report: Intergovernmental conference on environmental education (Paris, 1978). ———, Building Critical Awareness of cultural mapping: A Workshop Facilitation Guide (Paris, 2009). M. Watkins, ‘Desiring Recognition, Accumulating Affect’. In Z. Millei, T. G. Griffiths and R. J. Parkes (eds), Re-theorizing discipline in education: problems, politics and possibilities (Durham, NC, Duke University Press, 2010), pp. 269–285. R. Wilke (ed.), Environmental Education Literacy/Needs Assessment Pro-

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ject: Assessing environmental literacy of students and environmental education needs of teachers; Final report for 1993–1995 (Stevens Point, WI, University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point, 1995).

LEARNING FROM THE GUTHIS: AN INDIGENOUS COMMUNITY-BASED HERITAGE MANAGEMENT SYSTEM

NEELAM PRADHANANGA CHRIS LANDORF INTRODUCTION The number of sites inscribed on national and international heritage lists has grown substantially over the past twenty years. This growth has been linked in part to the expectation that inscription, particularly on the World Heritage List, will result in the growth of tourism and a corresponding strengthening of local economic activity. 1 The reality of this is, however, still subject to considerable debate. 2 While causal links between heritage listing and an increase in tourist numbers has been difficult to prove conclusively, even harder to demonstrate has been any consistent and widespread economic flow-on effect to local communities. What makes these links so difficult to validate is the complexity of interacting variables at any given point in time. This is especially so at heritage sites in cities and regions undergoing rapid development. Here, a combination of tourism, industrialisation, rural migration and stakeholder politics can have a series of unintended consequences while Pederson, Managing Tourism at World Heritage Sites: A Practical Manual for World Heritage Site Managers, p. 11. 2 Donohoe, ‘Sustainable heritage tourism marketing and Canada’s Rideau Canal World Heritage site’, p. 121; Landorf, ‘Managing for sustainable tourism: A review of six cultural World Heritage sites’, p. 53. 1

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the imposition of a Western management framework can significantly increase the challenges for those managing such sites. 3 World Heritage listing brings with it a number of constraints, particularly in relation to the use of a more top-down approach to heritage management, one that is guided by expert opinion and administered through bureaucratic systems and reporting obligations. As this chapter will show, such a framework can result in the sidelining of indignenous heritage management systems and the disengagement of local communities. This is problematic in regions of the world where a broad-based contemporary ownership of heritage continues to exist, places where the intangible aspects of culture that lend a currency of meaning to the more tangible aspects of a heritage site continue to flourish as an integral part of local community identity. 4 Current heritage thinking is yet to address the disjunction between accepted Western heritage principles and their application to communities still respecting pre-industrial traditions and community-based heritage management practices. 5 A better understanding of this disjunction is important in light of recent calls for the re-engagement of local communities in heritage conservation efforts towards greater recognition of cultural and material diversity. 6 Kathmandu, the capital of Nepal, provides one example of such a scenario. Since inscription of the Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site on the World Heritage List in 1979, the traditional community-led Nepalese heritage management system called guthis Aas, Ladkin and Fletcher, ‘Stakeholder collaboration and heritage management’, p. 31. 4 Wijesuriya, ‘Are we ready to learn? Lessons from the South Asian region’. 5 Wijesuriya, ‘Are we re-inventing the wheel? Archaeological heritage management in Sri Lanka under British colonial rule’; Baillie, ‘Conservation of the Sacred at Angkor Wat: Further reflections on living heritage’, p. 124; Tunprawat, Managing Living Heritage Sites in Mainland Southeast Asia; Weerasinghe, ‘Living sacred heritage and authenticity in South Asia’. 6 Jokilehto, History of Architectural Conservation; UNESCO, Investing in Cultural Diversity and Intercultural Dialogue, p. 238. 3

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has been progressively marginalised in favour of the top-down approach inherent in the World Heritage system. Guthis are socioreligious community groups unique to the Newar people of the Kathmandu Valley. Traditionally, guthis managed income derived from land endowments to finance the performance of rituals and ceremonies, and the maintenance of community property. While modern individualistic aspirations have had an impact on the strength of the community-based guthi system, the management of authenticity, one of the key principles of the World Heritage Convention, has also been particularly problematic. 7 Top-down directives, designed to retain authenticity by preventing change to the physical fabric of heritage sites in the Kathmandu Valley, have resulted in increasing conflict between conservation and modernisation, and tension between universal and local values. Such a focus on the retention of physical fabric, driven largely by contemporary Euro-centric values and understandings of heritage and historical representation, does not sit comfortably in the Nepalese context where change is an integral characteristic of cultural heritage. 8 The primary aim of this chapter is to examine the causes of this tension between the World Heritage system and the indigenous guthis heritage system in the Kathmandu Valley. The chapter examines the decline in the guthi system following a process of nationalisation in the 1960s and the designation of the Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site in 1979. With reference to archival research and interviews with heritage professionals, policy makers and community members, the paper provides a critical examination of the key characteristics of the guthi system, particularly in relation to the definition and participation of community in the conservation and management of cultural heritage. Following a comparative analysis of the community participation proposed when the Site was placed on the World Heritage Danger List in 2003, the chapter describes a framework for the integration of indigenous and nonindigenous heritage conservation systems. Toffin, ‘From kin to caste: The role of guthis in Newar society and culture’, p. 28. 8 Baillie, ‘Conservation of the Sacred at Angkor Wat: Further reflections on living heritage’, p. 124. 7

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THE KATHMANDU VALLEY WORLD HERITAGE SITE Kathmandu is the capital of Nepal and home to the Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site (KVWHS). The site consists of seven world heritage monument zones: the two Hindu sites of Pashupatinath and Changu Narayan, the two Buddhist sites of Bauddhanath and Swayambhunath, and the three Palace monument zones of Bhaktapur Durbar Square, Patan Durbar Square and Kathmandu Durbar Square. Architectural monuments in Kathmandu are predominantly constructed of wood, stone or brick, most frequently combining brick and carved timber load bearing frames with decorative timber and brick elements, tiled roofs, and metal, stone or moulded terracotta sculptures. These monuments, together with sunken water fountains, free standing stone or metal sculptures of donors placed on high pillars in front of the temples, mandala plaques and Bodhisattva images in the courtyard of buildings, form an integral part of a more extensive cultural landscape in the Kathmandu Valley. 9 Since the mid-1990s, Kathmandu has changed from the traditional capital of the Himalayan Kingdom into a developing ‘modern’ metropolis and significant international tourist destination with a population of more than 2.5 million. people. 10 Increasing levels of urbanisation and demands for modernisation have created pressure on the city’s infrastructure and historic settlement patterns. The result has been deterioration in the traditional character of the built environment and, subsequently, mounting pressure to meet the international obligations of the World Heritage Convention in relation to authenticity and integrity. It is this objective – to maintain the Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site as a true and genuine representation of history – that continues to sit uncomfortably alongside a Kathmandu with legitimate aspirations for economic, technological and social transformation. The encroachment of Sekler et al., Masterplan for the Conservation of the Cultural Heritage in the Kathmandu Valley. 10 Weise et al., Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site: Potential Areas for Cooperation. 9

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modern amenities, architectural forms and construction materials are evident in the structure at the rear of Figure 1.

Figure 1: Dattatreya temple in the Bhaktapur Durbar Square monument zone (Source: UNESCO Kathmandu Documentation Centre)

METHODOLOGY Case study research is appropriate to the investigation of contemporary and inter-related phenomena in changing real-life contexts, particularly where the boundaries between the phenomena being studied and its context are difficult to define. 11 A case study strategy was, therefore, considered appropriate for this research given the complex and multi-dimensional nature of heritage management in the KVWHS. Multiple sources of evidence were used to increase the research validity through triangulation of the data. The primary source of original evidence was a series of semi-structured and questionnaire-led interviews. Other sources included archival material and visual surveys of the urban environment. Data collection 11

Yin, Case Study Research: Design and Methods, p. 13.

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took place during three field trips to Kathmandu over a three-year period between 2008 and 2010. An initial field trip was used to assess the extent and availability of archival material on the guthis and to examine the state of conservation within the KVWHS. A second field trip conducted in 2009 was used to study primary and secondary archival material at university libraries, private, local and state government collections and the National Archives of Nepal. The material included original historical research, formal studies, reports, monographs and newspaper articles, as well as government legislation and policy. This provided historical evidence on the role of the guthi in heritage management specifically and Nepalese society more generally, as well as detail in relation to the inscription and ongoing management of the KVWHS. This stage also laid the foundation for the selection of public and private guthi for further analysis. The final stage of fieldwork involved sixteen semi-structured interviews and four questionnaire interviews. Semi-structured interviews were undertaken with representatives from the Department of Archaeology (DOA), UNESCO, local government, the Kathmandu Valley Preservation Trust (international non-government heritage organisation), German Technical Cooperation – Urban Development through Local Efforts (GTZ-UDLE), the Department of Architecture and the Centre for Nepal and Asian Studies at Tribhuvan University. Questionnaire interviews were conducted with two guthi heads from privately managed guthis and two guthi heads/priests from publicly managed guthis. Themes for the interviews were derived from the literature and the archival review stage. Participants in the semi-structured interviews were asked a set of questions on heritage conservation and management issues at the KVWHS. Each interview was completed in one to two hours. The guthi heads were required to complete a questionnaire interview addressing issues specific to the guthi and other aspects relating to collaboration and community participation. Each questionnaire interview took 45 minutes to one hour to complete. The questionnaire interview approach was used to focus the interview on specific contextual questions that informed understanding of the changes that had taken place in the guthi system. Content analysis of the transcripts was supported by NVivo 8 software for Qualitative Data Analysis. Repetitive keywords were initially sourced by manually scanning the transcripts.

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These were then used to define themes for the detailed NVivo analysis. The guthis were analysed for community participation, community values and attitudes, guthi characteristics, holism and inter and intra-generational equity. The integration of indigenous and western heritage systems were analysed for commitment, extent and outcomes.

GUTHIS – AN INDIGENOUS HERITAGE MANAGEMENT APPROACH

Newars, consisting mostly of Tibeto-Burman and some IndoAryan ethnicities, are the predominant linguistic and cultural community in the Kathmandu Valley. Among the Newars of the Kathmandu Valley, the term guthi is used to denote an organisation based on caste or kinship, or occasionally on geographical proximity, which insures the continued observance of the social and religious customs and ceremonies of a given community. 12 The guthi system has been responsible for the continuity of culture and the preservation of artefacts and monuments in the Kathmandu Valley dating back to the Lichchavi period in the 5th century AD. 13 Guthis were endowed with land donations from members and sponsors. A local community collectively farmed the donated land, which in turn provided local employment and generated income for festivals, rituals and the maintenance of cultural heritage items. The guthi system was, and continues to be, an organic part of the Newars’ social, cultural and religious life. The temples and monasteries of Kathmandu have little meaning without a connection to the spiritual and religious beliefs of the Newar people and the guthi that have existed for centuries to sustain them. Guthi functions vary from the physical maintenance of temples and observance of rituals to the assumption of key roles in Toffin, ‘From kin to caste: The role of guthis in Newar society and culture’, p. 3. 13 Bajracharya, Lichchavi kal ka abhilekh; Amatya, Art and Culture of Nepal: An Attempt Towards Preservation; Amatya, Monument Conservation in Nepal: My Experience with the World Heritage Sites of Kathmandu Valley. 12

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the rites of passage and cremation of the dead. 14 Guthis determine the rights and obligations of a Newar where the sanctioning of levies and forceful expulsion from a guthi would mean the loss of individual status and connection to essential social networks. 15 Psychologically, the guthi exert a strong influence over members in relation to taking their duties and responsibilities seriously. Politically, the guthi reflect a society in which the State has traditionally accorded considerable autonomy to local populations and rarely interfered in local guthi activities. 16 Figure 2 shows the cyclical nature of the heritage construction, maintenance and reconstruction process under the guthi system. The guthi heritage conservation and management system is uniquely holistic in that it integrates aspects of both tangible and intangible heritage in a self-perpetuating whole. For example, Bisket Jatra, a festival that heralds the start of the Nepali New Year, involves many people from a local neighbourhood all managed through the guthi system – people to make chariots, priests, devotees, musicians. The majority of tangible heritage items from various periods are still standing as a result of the repair and maintenance carried out by the guthis and the tendency to reconstruct monuments after they fall into a state of irreparable disrepair. An additional feature of the guthis has been a high level of community participation in their activities and decision-making processes. This has grown out of a strong attachment to religious and cultural beliefs and the development of social norms, embedded into the daily lives of the people, which enable a sense of attachment to, and belonging within, a community. Furthermore, participation is not restricted to guthi members; it often extends to other people associated with a given local community. Such access to participation and decision-making is strongly supported as a fundamental empowerRegmi, Land Tenure and Taxation in Nepal. Toffin, ‘From kin to caste: The role of guthis in Newar society and culture’, p. 23; Müller-Böker, ‘Spatial organization of a Caste society: The example of the Newar in the Kathmandu Valley, Nepal’, p. 27. 16 Regmi, Land Tenure and Taxation in Nepal. 14 15

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ment strategy for communities looking to take responsibility for solving their own problems. 17

Figure 2: The cyclical process of heritage management in Nepal The guthis are self-triggering and iterative in nature. By providing a consistent source of income and a continuous source of work, the guthi system has supported the transfer of traditional craftwork knowledge and cultural expertise from one generation to the next for centuries. The embedded nature of the guthis as an integral part of Newar society means that conservation does not rely on the generation of specific funding for heritage projects and management does not rely on the expertise of heritage professionals. The guthis have adapted over time and their ongoing functions, though somewhat diminished by western influence, are a testimony to their resilience. Colantonio and Dixon, Urban Regeneration and Social Sustainability: Best Practice from European Cities. 17

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WORLD HERITAGE – A WESTERN HERITAGE MANAGEMENT APPROACH

In 1951, Nepal’s foreign policy changed to support greater interaction with the rest of the world. The decades following this, and leading up to the inscription of Kathmandu on the World Heritage List, can be characterised by a series of historical studies and heritage reports undertaken by international organisations that eventually became the basis of the World Heritage nomination. In 1956, the DOA assumed responsibility for Nepal’s heritage through the Ancient Monuments Preservation Act (1956) (AMPA). The AMPA established a bureaucratic model for the management of heritage in Nepal founded largely on western precedents. Further impetus for the ‘westernisation’ of heritage management in Nepal came with the nationalisation of guthis through the Guthi Corporation Act (1964) (GCA) and establishment of the Guthi Corporation as the vehicle through which the GCA was to be administered. The KVWHS was inscribed on the World Heritage List in 1979. Its management has since been dominated by organisations such as the DOA and the Guthi Corporation. In addition to the adoption of bureaucratic structures, the DOA and Guthi Corporation were influenced by the introduction of archaeology into the public sector in South Asia by the British Colonial administration. The integration of western archaeological practices created an early dependence on foreign experts to oversee the heritage identification process and manage conservation projects. Driven by the principle of authenticity and focussed on significant monuments, this approach lacked the holistic, long-term perspective and culturally embedded nature of the guthi system. 18 While foreign experts have provided specialist training for DOA staff and channelled funds into much needed restoration projects, ultimately improving the state of conservation of important individual monuments, there has been a failure to address uncontrolled

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UNESCO, WHC 165 EX/44.

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urban development and a general deterioration in the underlying historic fabric of the KVWHS. 19 By 1994, concern had shifted from the maintenance and restoration of individual buildings to a much deeper anxiety about the need to implement an effective development control system before the World Heritage values of the site were irretrievably lost. 20 The KVWHS was eventually placed on the World Heritage in Danger List in 2003 due to the loss of traditional vernacular heritage values and character in six of the seven monument zones. 21 The 27th session of the World Heritage Committee summarised the key issues as urban pressure caused by rapid population growth, the lack of appropriate heritage management mechanisms (including protective legislation), poor enforcement of existing protective legislation, a lack of coordination between institutions and damage resulting from earthquakes. 22 By this stage, the local community had been effectively sidelined and responsibility for heritage conservation and management was increasingly assumed by the local population to belong to the government. There was also evident tension between the World Heritage Committee (WHC) and the DOA in relation to what needed to be achieved at the KVWHS. The lack of meaningful dialogue is highlighted in a 2006 State of Conservation Report from ICOMOS to the WHC in which attention was drawn to the fact that ‘the State Party did not possess the important documentation from many earlier missions carried out to the site during the 1990s’. 23 The lack of understanding is highlighted perhaps more sharply in a 2004 ICOMOS Mission ReWeise et al., A. Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site: Potential Areas for Cooperation. 20 Amatya, Monument Conservation in Nepal: My Experience with the World Heritage Sites of Kathmandu Valley. 21 Amatya, Monument Conservation in Nepal: My Experience with the World Heritage Sites of Kathmandu Valley; Weise et al., Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site: Potential Areas for Cooperation; Fontanari & Gianighian, Mission Report. Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site in the List in Danger; UNESCO, WHC-03/27.COM/07B; UNESCO, WHC-03/27.COM/24. 22 UNESCO, WHC-03/27.COM/07B. 23 UNESCO, WHC-06/30.COM/7A, p. 93. 19

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port that indicated the DOA did not understand that private dwellings within the KVWHS, together with the more identifiable temples and palace monuments, were also to be protected. 24 While the focus on restoration and repair works to major monuments during the International Campaign for the Safeguarding of Kathmandu Valley (1979-2001) may have played a role in this misunderstanding, the DOA ultimately failed to prevent the deterioration within the KVWHS that led to the site being placed on the World Heritage in Danger List in 2003. Perhaps more importantly, the DOA did little to address the disengagement of local communities from the heritage management process.

Figure 3: The marginalisation of indigenous heritage knowledge in Nepal While a western approach was adopted to streamline the heritage identification process and bring Nepal into line with international heritage management practice, it has subsequently failed to capture the rich experience and holistic approach inherent in the informal indigenous guthi system. Since the 1960s, the traditional role of the guthi has been challenged by the centralisation of power and conFontanari and Gianighian, Mission Report: Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site in the List in Danger. 24

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trol in the State. 25 While the Guthi Corporation continues to provide support for festivals and other intangible cultural heritage activities, it now has limited involvement in the conservation and management of physical heritage. 26 Nationalisation of the guthis has resulted in the disengagement of local people from the heritage management process and an evident degeneration in the sense of ownership and responsibility for community heritage. 27 This has led to the evident neglect of important heritage places and monuments within the KVWHS. The ultimate consequence will be a complete breakdown in a heritage system that has proven to be effective over a long period of time. 28 The process of marginalisation is shown diagrammatically in Figure 3.

KEY ISSUES IN THE RE-ENGAGEMENT OF COMMUNITIES Against this backdrop, this study found that the challenge to reengage communities in the KVWHS is considerable. The decline in the capacity of guthis to care for heritage items and sites is symptomatic of deeper issues currently being faced by heritage managers in the KVWHS. Key amongst these is the problematic concept of authenticity. There is little commonality between the community’s understanding of the term and the accepted understanding of authenticity within the international World Heritage framework. Authenticity, according to local custom, is not represented or reflected in the physical fabric of monuments or settings. There has been a long tradition in the KVWHS of reconstructing important heritage items and monuments when they reach a terminal stage of disrepair. However, as recently as 2006 UNESCO and the DOA had again stated that the ‘authenticity’ of the KVWHS had been comRegmi, Land Tenure and Taxation in Nepal; Amatya, Art and Culture of Nepal: An attempt Towards Preservation; Government of Nepal, Newa sanskritima dekhiyeko samashya samadhan ra guthi sansthanko auchitya. 26 PAHAR, An Independent Survey and Evaluation Report on the Present Status of the Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site. 27 Owens, ‘Monumentality, identity, and the state: Local practice, world heritage, and heterotopia at Swayambhu, Nepal’, p. 283. 28 Government of Nepal, Newa sanskritima dekhiyeko samashya samadhan ra guthi sansthanko auchitya. 25

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promised by rapid deterioration in the vernacular fabric that provided the setting for the monuments. 29 Three key strategies have been used to reduce further deterioration within the KVWHS. The first is to do everything possible to restore an existing ‘authentic’ building or structure. The second is to do so using techniques that cause minimal intervention. The final strategy is to reconstruct buildings or structures considered to be incompatible with the broader urban setting based on the use of inappropriate construction materials and architectural form. The DOA has enacted bylaws that specify building materials, heights and construction methods but these have not proven to be adequate for a community looking to modernise their lives on a budget. The bylaws are effectively ignored resulting in the imposition of penalties and other negative reinforcement measures that have further alienated the community. Local inhabitants are accepting of modern materials and methods and, because of the economic and functional benefits, continue to build structures that are out of scale and character. This has led to conflict between the needs of the people living in the KVWHS and the authorities responsible for its conservation and management. Reconstruction as opposed to restoration of significant monuments is also a debated phenomenon in heritage conservation due to the perception that it is inauthentic and deceptive. 30 In the Nepalese context, reconstruction is a fundamental principle of heritage management for several reasons. Firstly, the process of reconstruction sits within a broader philosophical belief in cyclical renewal and impermanence. Secondly, the Kathmandu Valley sits within an active earthquake zone that has necessitated the frequent restoration and reconstruction of damaged structures. Thirdly, the Kathmandu Valley is subjected to monsoonal rains that hasten the deterioration of the decorative and structural timber, brick and mud components that comprise the primary building materials in the city. Finally, there has been no clear, practical and acceptable heritUNESCO, WHC-06/30.COM/7A; Government of Nepal, Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site Request for Minor Modification. 30 Wei and Aass, ‘Heritage conservation east and west’, p. 8; Pickard, Policy and Law in Heritage Conservation. 29

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age policy to guide conservation activity and new interventions in the KVWHS. 31 For these reasons, material authenticity has never been a focus in Nepal. The translation of meta-physical philosophies through the orientation, composition, massing, proportion, scale and spatial organisation of temples has historically guided restoration practice. Refining the definition of authenticity as it relates to the KVWHS, and doing so within a clear guiding framework for development, suggests one approach to stabilising the character and values of the KVWHS. A further obstacle in community re-engagement in the KVWHS is the reduced sense of ownership caused by the nationalisation of the guthis under the Guthi Corporation. There were general expressions of resentment about the loss of a communityowned resource base and the subsequent reliance on government responses to heritage management. Community feelings of ownership of, and responsibility for, heritage items and activities have been replaced by a passive reliance on government intervention. Despite owning a majority of the heritage items in the Kathmandu Valley, however, the Guthi Corporation has had limited involvement in heritage conservation works. 32 Traditionally, the guthiyars (committee members of the guthi) were actively engaged in decision-making. There was a deep sense of ownership of the heritage management processes, not only in terms of the management of physical structures but also in terms of the management of activities related to that structure. The sense of ownership of, and responsibility for, heritage structures and activities has diminished since the nationalisation of the guthis. Re-engaging the guthi system is, therefore, suggested as a further strategy toward the stabilisation of KVWHS character and values.

PAHAR, An Independent Survey and Evaluation Report on the Present Status of the Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site; DOA Nepal, Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site Integrated Management Framework. 32 Government of Nepal, Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site Nomination Document. 31

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The placement of the KVWHS on the World Heritage in Danger List brought together all stakeholders to formulate a longterm management plan – the Integrated Management Plan (IMP). This was the first attempt at broad and systematic collaboration in the KVWHS. 33 A Coordination Working Committee was formed consisting of the Head of the World Heritage Section of the DOA and members representing each of the World Heritage Monument Zones. 34 The Committee was effective during the preparation of the IMP but the impetus for collaboration diminished once the IMP was in place. The challenges to effective collaboration are well documented. 35 A comparison of collaboration at the KVWHS following implementation of the IMP highlights the effectiveness and sophistication of the traditional guthis in this regard. Although the Guthi Corporation was involved as a stakeholder in the development of the IMP, its role was tokenistic and secondary to the DOA whose primary aim was to preserve tangible heritage within the KVWHS. Attitudes toward positive outcomes and power sharing were key issues. Ultimately, collaborators need to view each other as legitimate stakeholders in whatever problem is being addressed. They also need to believe that positive outcomes can be achieved through collaboration. 36 This was lacking at the KVWHS. A framework for re-engaging communities in the KVWHS This research indicates that a de-engagement of the community within the KVWHS has occurred and that this has contributed to a loss of heritage character and value. While a complex process, the research also suggests that a re-engagement of the community would have a beneficial impact on conservation within the Government of Nepal, Progress Report on State of Conservation and implementation of the IMP. 34 DOA Nepal, Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site Integrated Management Framework. 35 Huxham, ‘Theorizing collaboration practice’, p. 23; Huxham & Vangen, ‘Leadership in the shaping and implementation of collaboration agendas: How things happen in a (not quite) joined-up world’, p. 1159. 36 Gray, ‘Conditions facilitating interorganizational collaboration’, p. 917. 33

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KVWHS. Such re-engagement would require a re-conceptualisation of conservation through a process described by Sully as ‘decolonisation’ where the existence of alternative stories and parallel ways of understanding, utilising and caring for the material past are acknowledged. 37 Such a multiple perspective approach to heritage would focus attention on indigenous knowledge and community participation, and the integration of that knowledge and participation into a ‘looser fitting’ western heritage management framework. 38 The case of the guthis highlights the value in such an approach. The progressive change from an empowered community to a disengaged one revealed through this research has many causes, including the infiltration of western individualism, egalitarian aspirations and rationalist ideologies. However, a re-examination of the heritage management systems of World Heritage Sites so as to promote greater community empowerment offers one strategy for re-engagement. Delegating more decision-making power to the local community is one strategy toward gaining support for the concept of World Heritage and ensuring that conservation strategies are contextually grounded. Part of this structure is an acknowledgement that authenticity of the process of conservation is just as important as the authenticity of the product. A process for reengagement through empowerment is shown diagrammatically in Figure 4:

Sully, Decolonising Conservation: Caring for Maori Meeting Houses Outside New Zealand. 38 Tunprawat, Managing Living Heritage Sites in Mainland Southeast Asia; Smith and Waterton, Heritage, Communites and Archaeology. 37

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Figure 4: A community engagement approach for the KVWHS This research suggests that the integration of indigenous and western heritage conservation systems could be resolved through greater collaboration and power sharing. Using McCann’s collaborative social problem-solving model, and Gray and Waddock’s models for inter-organisational collaboration as a conceptual basis, and the outcomes of the processes initiated at the KVWHS as a practical guide, the four-stage framework for integrated collaboration shown in Figure 5 is proposed. 39 The first initiation stage involves the definition of a given problem’s dimension, in this case the integration of the indigenous and western heritage conservation management systems. Waddock suggests that, at this stage, one of six environmental pressures is required for collaboration to be considered desirable or necessary on the part of those with an interest in the problem domain: some form of external legal mandate; existing networks that introduce potential partners to each other and to McCann, ‘Design guidelines for social problem-solving interventions’, pp. 177–191; Gray, ‘Conditions facilitating interorganisational collaboration’, pp. 911–936; Waddock, ‘Understanding social partnerships’, pp.78–99. 39

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potential issues of common interest; the involvement of new third party organisations in a problem domain; a common community vision about a problem; and a crisis or some form of visionary leadership embodied in an individual rather than a group. 40 The KVWHS could be seen to embody several of these pressures. Status as a World Heritage Site provides a legal mandate for conservation, organisational networks exist with a common interest in conservation and there is arguably a crisis in relation to that conservation. What appear to be missing in this scenario are a common community vision and the involvement of an organisation or individual with the capacity to develop that vision. The Guthi Corporation and the local community have had limited involvement in collaborative initiatives so far, and what involvement there has been can be categorised as tokenistic in nature. 41 Guiding conservation principles for the IMP were developed by the DOA in collaboration with UNESCO and then disseminated for public comment through public meetings. Attendance at these public meetings was noted as participation but it did not provide two-way engagement. The results of this research suggest that the involvement of these stakeholders should have been given priority during the initiation stage as a means of raising awareness of the problem’s dimensions, engendering a common vision and reducing the possibility of political opposition later in the implementation stage. 42 During the initiation stage, the capacity of various stakeholders to contribute to the process would become clearer, possibly requiring further capacity building to allow each to participate equitably. 43 The initiation stage is shown as an iterative process that helps to focus attention on the problem dimensions Waddock, ‘Understanding social partnerships’, p. 81. Arnstein, ‘A ladder of citizen participation’, p. 217. 42 McCann, ‘Design guidelines for social problem-solving interventions’, p. 180; Gray, ‘Conditions facilitating interorganisational collaboration’, p. 919. 43 Gray, ‘Conditions facilitating interorganisational collaboration’, p. 922; Aas, Ladkin and Fletcher, ‘Stakeholder collaboration and heritage management’, p. 31; Jamal & Getz, ‘Collaboration theory and community tourism planning’, p. 194. 40 41

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rather than the differences between stakeholders. Also arising from the research is the importance at this stage of facilitators who are seen to be both legitimate and impartial. 44 For the proposed framework to succeed, heritage professionals and government agents acting in the role of convenors need to encourage a shift in power back to the community and the Guthi Corporation in a transparent and an equitable way. The second stage of the framework is the definition stage. Here heritage values for the site and assessment methods are stated and re-defined if needs be. To integrate indigenous and western heritage management systems, heritage values need to be determined based on detailed documentation. Key to this is encouraging the community documentation of items of local significance. This assists in the contextualisation of the values and provides heritage professionals and government agents with a local perspective. The next step is the identification of the significance of the site. This process has traditionally been an expert-led endeavour with limited community participation. A platform needs to be provided for community members to voice opinions on heritage value and those opinions need to be seen as having legitimacy in the process. Determination of the site’s significance provides a framework for discussion on the limits of acceptable change. The cyclical process should be equitably balanced, it should incorporate contextual detail, it should allow heritage to be embedded into wider urban planning frameworks, and it should allow change to evolve within pre-agreed limits. A statement of authenticity should be developed at this stage having regard to the practical implications of the concept.

Aas, Ladkin and Fletcher, Stakeholder collaboration and heritage management’, p. 41; Westley and Vredenburg, ‘Interorganizational collaboration and the preservation of global biodiversity’, p. 382. 44

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Figure 5: Framework for integrated collaboration The third decentralisation stage is the structuring phase where heritage management programs are operationalised. Items of historic significance need to be classified and responsibility decentralised to local stakeholders where appropriate. The emphasis in this framework is on developing accountability amongst community groups for the maintenance of locally significant items. This stage also involves the crafting of development legislation, bylaws and guidelines that work with the practicalities of the site at the same time as ensuring the conservation of historic values. Since the vernacular fabric has proven to be the most difficult to conserve, incentive schemes to encourage inhabitants to conserve their residences through restoration should be considered rather than penalties for non-compliance. The fourth and final implementation stage is characterised by the establishment of specific goals, tasks and roles for stakeholders. Programs formulated in the previous phase are implemented, lines of accountability are crystallised and monitoring mechanisms are established to evaluate and reformulate programs

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as required. This stage leads to the completion of a program (if all objectives are fulfilled and the initial problem is solved) or the reformulation and broadening of purpose over time.

CONCLUSION This chapter has explored the guthis, a historic system of governance indigenous to the Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site. It has examined the context that allowed the guthis to flourish and described their deeply embedded role in the management of heritage in Nepal. The integration of the guthi and the World Heritage management systems was then explored, specifically in relation to alternative approaches to community engagement and stakeholder participation. The research found that the indigenous guthi system possesses salient features that could inform a more inclusive and sustainable management approach to the World Heritage Site. However, nationalisation of the guthi in 1964 has had an adverse impact on heritage outcomes at the site as has the system of management implemented following inscription on the World Heritage List in 1979. While there are barriers to the integration of the indigenous and western heritage management systems at the KVWHS, this chapter has described a collaborative framework that could facilitate the process toward better heritage outcomes. While there has been an attempt to integrate the indigenous and western heritage management systems at the KVWHS, it has occurred in an ad hoc manner. The results are primarily due to a lack of mutual understanding at all levels. Where the World Heritage Committee sought to protect the outstanding universal value of a living historic city, the Nepalese Government was looking for international recognition and funding for a cultural asset of significance, and the local community were hoping to improve their authentic way of life though economic development and modernisation. Acknowledging how difficult this is to achieve given these circumstances, lessons that could have been learnt from the organisational structure and collaborative practices of the guthis have not been incorporated into contemporary heritage management at the site. The guthis appear to have been assessed from a modernist point of view, as part of a complex socio-religious system, ancient in origin and abstract in conceptualisation; a system that operated under a different set of circumstances, and therefore has limited relevance to heritage management today.

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However, if there are to be further attempts to integrate the indigenous and western systems in the KVWHS, this research has highlighted features of the guthis that deserve renewed attention. These are the emphasis on community level participation and decision-making, the holistic integration of socio-religious and material heritage, and the sustainable transfer of skills, resources and practices from one generation to the next, all of which work to engender a common sense of responsibility for heritage. These features also work towards a common understanding of heritage as a mobile, evolving and community generated practice. The research also uncovered a critical divide around understandings of complex concepts such as outstanding universal value, significance, authenticity and participation. While understanding amongst the World Heritage community in relation to authenticity has evolved with the Nara Document and Hoi An Protocols, there is still an expectation that the outstanding universal value of the KVWHS includes more than the key historic monuments as stand-alone items. At a national level, government understanding and legislation in Nepal still favours a more modernist view of the assessment and conservation of heritage significance. At the local level, however disenfranchised by the nationalisation of the guthis and the subsequent imposition of a World Heritage management framework, authenticity is seen to be as much about process as product, with the later impacting on the capacity to modernise and improve daily life. The KVWHS is unique. As one of the first sites in Asia and one of the first living historic cities to be included on the World Heritage List, it offers a rare insight into the effectiveness of alternative heritage management models. Given the complexity of the KVWHS, it is desirable to integrate the most appropriate aspects of both the indigenous and western heritage management systems. The research presented in this chapter provides some understanding of the authenticity, ownership and collaboration issues that form obstacles to this integration process. There is a need for an overarching framework that captures the community-empowering decision-making structures and sense of accountability evident in the bottom-up guthi approach, at the same time as it provides for the strategic overview and holistic insight evident in the top-down World Heritage approach. In areas where indigenous approaches as distinct as the guthis do not exist, research into traditional heritage management knowledge and practices could avoid the tensions

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found in the KVWHS. The issues impacting on the integration of indigenous and western heritage management systems will obviously differ between sites. However, developing a context-based conceptual framework for collaboration, similar to the model presented here, could provide a useful mechanism to facilitate that integration.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT A version of this paper was presented at Heritage 2012: 3rd International Conference on Heritage and Sustainable Development in Porto, Portugal in June 2012.

REFERENCES C. Aas, A. Ladkin and J. Fletcher, ‘Stakeholder collaboration and heritage management’, Annals of Tourism Research (2005), pp. 28–48. S. Amatya, Art and Culture of Nepal: An Attempt Towards Preservation (New Delhi, 1991). ———, Monument Conservation in Nepal: My Experience with the World Heritage Sites of Kathmandu Valley (Kathmandu, 2007). S. R. Arnstein, ‘A ladder of citizen participation’, Journal of the American Institute of Planners (1969), pp. 216–224. B. Baillie, ‘Conservation of the sacred at Angkor Wat: Further reflections on living heritage’, Conservation and Management of Archaeological Sites (2006), pp. 123–131. D. Bajracharya, Lichchavi kal ka abhilekh (Kathmandu, 1973). A. Colantonio and T. Dixon, Urban Regeneration and Social Sustainability: Best Practice from European Cities (Oxford, 2011). Department of Archaeology, Ancient Monument Preservation Act (Kathmandu, 1956). ———, Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site Integrated Management Framework (Kathmandu, 2007). H. M. Donohoe, ‘Sustainable heritage tourism marketing and Canada’s Rideau Canal World Heritage site’, Journal of Sustainable Tourism (2009), pp. 121–142. E. Fontanari and G. Gianighian, Mission Report. Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site in the List in Danger (Venice, 2004). Government of Nepal, Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site Nomination Document (Kathmandu, 1979).

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———, Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site Request for Minor Modification (Kathmandu, 2006). ———, Progress Report on State of Conservation and Implementation of the IMP: Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site (Kathmandu, 2008). ———, Newa sanskritima dekhiyeko samashya samadhan ra guthi sansthanko auchitya (Kathmandu, 2009). B. Gray, ‘Conditions facilitating interorganizational collaboration’, Human Relations (1985), pp. 911–936. C. Huxham, ‘Theorizing collaboration practice’, Public Management Review (2003), pp. 401–423. C. Huxham, and S. Vangen, ‘Leadership in the shaping and implementation of collaboration agendas: How things happen in a (not quite) joined-up world’, The Academy of Management Journal (2000), pp. 1159–1175. T. B. Jamal and D. Getz, Collaboration theory and community tourism plannin’, Annals of Tourism Research (1995), pp. 186– 204. J. Jokilehto, History of Architectural Conservation (Oxford: 2002). C. Landorf, ‘Managing for sustainable tourism: A review of six cultural World Heritage sites’, Journal of Sustainable Tourism (2009), pp. 53–70. J. E. McCann, ‘Design guidelines for social problem-solving interventions’, The Journal of Applied Behavioral Science (1983), pp. 177–191. U. Müller-Böker, ‘Spatial organization of a caste society: The example of the Newar in the Kathmandu Valley, Nepal’, Mountain Research and Development (1988), pp. 23–31. B. M. C Owens, ‘Monumentality, identity, and the state: Local practice, world heritage, and heterotopia at Swayambhu, Nepal’, Anthropological Quarterly (2002), pp. 269–316. A. Pederson, Managing Tourism at World Heritage Sites: A Practical Manual for World Heritage Site Managers (Paris, 2002). R. Pickard, Policy and Law in Heritage Conservation (London, 2001). Planners’ Alliance for the Himalayan Allied Regions (PAHAR), An Independent Survey and Evaluation Report on the Present Status of the Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site (Kathmandu, 2004). M. C. Regmi, Land Tenure and Taxation in Nepal (Kathmandu, 1963). ———, Land Tenure and Taxation in Nepal (Kathmandu, 1978). E. Sekler, R. Allchin, P. Borel, C Chayabongse, C. Jest, F. Kussmaul, H.S. Saba and C. Tunnard, Masterplan for the

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Conservation of the Cultural Heritage in the Kathmandu Valley (Paris, 1977). L. Smith and E. Waterton, Heritage, Communites and Archaeology (London, 2009). D. Sully (ed.), Decolonising Conservation: Caring for Maori Meeting Houses Outside New Zealand, (Walnut Creek, CA, 2007). G. Toffin, ‘From kin to caste: The role of guthis in Newar society and culture’, The Mahesh Chandra Regmi Lecture (Kathmandu, 2005). P. Tunprawat, Managing Living Heritage Sites in Mainland Southeast Asia (unpublshed dissertation, Silpakorn University, 2009). UNESCO, WHC 165 EX/44 (Paris, 2002). ———, WHC-03/27.COM/07B (Paris, 2003a). ———, WHC-03/27.COM/24 (Paris, 2003b). ———, WHC-06/30.COM/7A (Vilnius, 2006). ———, Investing in cultural diversity and intercultural dialogue (Paris, 2009). S. A. Waddock, ‘Understanding social partnerships’, Administration & Society (1989), pp.78–99. J. Weerasinghe, ‘Living sacred heritage and authenticity in South Asia’. In H. Anheier and Y.R. Isar (eds), Cultures and Globalization: Heritage, Memory and Identity (London, 2011). C. Wei and A. Aass, ‘Heritage conservation east and west’, Icomos Information (1989), pp. 1–8. K. Weise, B. Thapa, M. Shrestha and A. Subba, Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Site: Potential Areas for Cooperation (Kathmandu, 2004). F. Westley and H. Vredenburg, ‘Interorganizational collaboration and the preservation of global biodiversity’, Organization Science (1997), pp. 381–403. G. Wijesuriya, ‘Are we re-inventing the wheel? Archaeological heritage management in Sri Lanka under British colonial rule’. In S. Lawrence (ed.), Archaeologies of the British: Explorations of Identity in Great Britain and its Colonies 1600-1945 (London, 2003). ———, ‘Are We Ready to Learn? Lessons from the South Asian Region’. In N. Agnew and J. Bridgland (eds), Of the Past, For the Future: Integrating Archaeology and Conservation (Washington DC, 2006).

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FROM COMMUNITY ARCHAEOLOGY TO CIVILIAN ACTIVISM: THE JOURNEY OF CULTURAL

RESOURCE MANAGEMENT THROUGH HERITAGE DIALOGUE IN EGYPT

GEMMA TULLY INTRODUCTION Over the last two decades, Egypt has been the source of a number of ground-breaking collaborative heritage projects. The earliest endeavours of this kind took place in the south of Egypt on the Red Sea coast and saw the development of mutual exchanges between western archaeologists and local populations in the vicinity of Baranees (ancient Berenike) 1 and Quseir. 2 In Quseir, partnerships with residents in the modern town led to the production of the first explicit methodology for the practice of Community Archaeology with local and descendent populations ever produced. More recent research has explored the role heritage tourism can play in community-led economic, educational and cultural development in the Sinai; 3 started to integrate the multiple meanings Egyptian sites and objects hold to a wider remit of stakeholders beyond the simplistic Abdel-Qadar et al., ‘Giving voice to the Ababda’, pp. 399–416. Moser et al., ‘Transforming archaeology through practice: Strategies for collaborative practice in the community archaeology project at Quseir, Egypt’, pp. 220–248. 3 Hanna et al., ‘The documentation of the cultural heritage of the Bedouin of South Sinai: A pilot study in Serabit al-Khadim’, pp. 358–368. 1 2

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archaeologist/community dichotomy; 4 and moved towards Egyptian-led, grass-roots civil action. 5 This chapter aims to draw on the full breadth of case-studies to explore widening notions of heritage collaboration in Egypt. By considering the diversity of dialogues and the shifting practices surrounding the use and management of Egyptian heritage over time, inclusive of the January 25 revolution and its consequences, the research posits Egypt as an example of instinctively evolving heritage strategies which challenge traditional methods and hierarchies. Offering a more representative vision of the uses and meanings of the past in the present, this expansive vision of what collaborative heritage can entail provides useful insights into more sustainable strategies for future cultural resource management (CRM) in Egypt and beyond.

HERITAGE COLLABORATION AND THE LEGACY OF IMPERIALISM Egypt is far from a unique source of community/collaborative heritage projects. Many nations are experiencing similar movements, as evident from a number of the case studies in this volume and elsewhere. 6 However, Egypt is a special case because it has managed to remain a source of innovation in the heritage field while having to overcome the consequences of the country’s complex political history and often detrimental international attitudes towards ‘ownership’ of ancient Egyptian culture. Modern Egyptians, like many other peoples with a long history of multiple invasions and resettlements, have not been accredited with clear ‘prior habitation’ status and ancestral rites by their western colonisers in the same way as native peoples in North America, Australia and the Pacific islands have. 7 Even for ‘recogTully and Hanna, ‘One landscape many tenants: Uncovering multiple claims, visions and meanings on the Theban Necropolis’, pp. 362–397. 5 Salem, ‘Disappearing Heritage: Vanishing Identity’ http://timep.org/commentary/disappearing-heritage-vanishing-identity 6 See Frank et. al; Ridges et. al; Stoffle et. al in this volume. 7 E.g. NAGPRA 1990; WAC 1990; AAA 1991. 4

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nised’ indigenous groups, the movement towards legislation and co-operation on issues such as the return of ownership and control of sites, objects, human remains and associated cultural practices only started to come into force in the 1990s. 8 Change came about in response to various political actions by native groups, which coincided with the post-colonial ‘turn’ in both western politics and academia. 9 While we are still a long way from achieving a balance between diverse heritage interests in these situations, legislation and guidelines of ethics have at least begun to reposition heritage issues from the realm of professional ‘management’ to inter-cultural ‘negotiation’. 10 Non-western communities which are not considered to be the ‘biological descendants’ of the previous inhabitants of the landscapes and sites under study still tend to be ignored in the processes of Cultural Resource Management (CRM). 11 This is particularly evident in Egypt, a country which although technically independent of British Protectorate status since 1922, 12 continues to have its E.g. Davidson, ‘Notes for a code of ethics for Australian archaeologists working with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island heritage’, pp. 61– 64; Davidson et al., Archaeologists and Aborigines working together; Moser, ‘The ‘Aboriginalization’ of Australian archaeology: The contribution of the Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies to the indigenous formation of the discipline’, pp. 150–177; Swindler et al., Native Americans and archaeologists. Stepping stones to common ground; Dongoske et al., Working together: Native Americans and archaeologists; Watkins, Indigenous archaeology: American Indian values and scientific practice. 9 E.g. Gero et al., The socio-politics of archaeology; Pinsky and Wylie, Critical traditions in contemporary archaeology; Meskell, Archaeology Under Fire. 10 It is important to note that NAGPRA 1990 and other rigorously outlined political directives can sometimes be as much of a hindrance as a help to source communities as collaboration only needs to be taken as far as the law demands. 11 Singleton and Orser, ‘Descendant communities: linking people in the present to the past’, pp. 144. 12 1922 represents the official date for Egypt’s independence, but it was not until after the 1952 revolution that Egypt saw an end to the British constitutional monarchy, and only in 1956 did the new government 8

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ancient history monopolised by western researchers and tourism related industries. 13 The reason for this domination harks back to the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries when Egypt was a central pawn in the power games between growing European nations. 14 As explorers started to bring back increasingly curious tales, as well as valuable artefacts, from Egypt, it quickly became apparent to colonial powers that ‘ownership’ of the knowledge and cultural resources of this ancient civilisation could add stature to various European nations’ expansionist aspirations. Thus, it is from this period onwards that ancient Egypt begins creeping into European discussions as the root of Western civilization. 15 Through this connection, the European elite could justify further ‘scientific’ and political intervention in the country in the name of studying, preserving and managing their own legacy. 16 While western European nations were revelling in the magnificence of their rediscovered ancestry, living Egyptians were being increasingly defined by their Islamic heritage through Orientalist rhetoric. 17 This led to the assertion that the nation’s ancient past was neither cared for nor relevant to its present inhabitants. 18 Ungain full control of the Suez canal. See Botman, Egypt from Independence to Revolution, 1919–1952. 13 Reid, ‘Nationalising the Pharaonic Past: Egyptology, Imperialism, and Egyptian Nationalism 1922–1952’, pp. 127–315. 14 Mitchell, Colonising Egypt; Reid, ‘Nationalising the Pharaonic Past: Egyptology, Imperialism, and Egyptian Nationalism 1922–1952’, pp. 127– 315; Colla, Conflicted Antiquities: Egyptology, Egyptomania, Egyptian Modernity. 15 Reid, ‘Indigenous Egyptology: the decolonisation of a profession’, pp. 233–246. 16 See discussion in Ibid; Wood, ‘The use of the Pharaonic past in modern Egyptian nationalism’, pp. 179–196; Moser, Wondrous curiosities. Ancient Egypt at the British Museum. 17 Lane, An Account of the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians. 18 See discussions in Trigger, ‘Alternative Archaeologies: Nationalist, Imperialist, Colonialist’, p. 359; Reid, ‘Nationalising the Pharaonic Past: Egyptology, Imperialism, and Egyptian Nationalism 1922–1952’, pp. 127– 315; Reid, Whose Pharaohs? Archaeology, Museums and Egyptian National Identi-

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surprisingly, recent research has shown that Egyptian perceptions of their historical identity are mixed: individuals acknowledge their full range of ancestry from singular parts to the full palimpsest of cultural and genetic influences from prehistory to the modern day. 19 The possibility of such a complex negotiation of time periods and identities was ruled out by colonial forces. The contemporary consequences of these lingering orientalist ideas, which centre on the ‘diluting’ influence of the Arab invasion in the 7th century CE, are that notions of contemporary Egyptian descent from – or even feelings of affinity with – the ancient Egyptians are still frequently glossed over in representations of the country in international academia, media and travel. 20 Greece is another example of a country where its rich history has been claimed for a wider European/Western audience. Similar issues such as Greek incompetence, biological ‘impurity’ and a lack of concern for their heritage have led to the removal of precious cultural items. The most famous case is the highly politicised Parthenon/Elgin marbles which were removed from Greece in the early 19th century and currently reside in the British Museum where they have been on display since 1816. 21 While theories of disinterest and poor standards of care regarding heritage need to be challenged, the notion of a clear genetic link as an essential precursor to cultural affiliation in Egypt, Greece or other nations which have experienced an historical influx of multiple ethnicities is highly hypocritical. This double-standard is evident both in terms of accepted European ‘descent’ from the ancient Egyptians/Greeks and ty from Napoleon to World War One; Colla, Conflicted Antiquities: Egyptology, Egyptomania, Egyptian Modernity. 19 Tully, Answering the Calls of the Living: Collaborative Practice in Archaeology and Ancient Egyptian Daily Life Exhibitions in Museums. 20 Motawi, Egypt in the British Museum; Reid, Whose Pharaohs? Archaeology, Museums and Egyptian National Identity from Napoleon to World War One; Colla, Conflicted Antiquities: Egyptology, Egyptomania, Egyptian Modernity; Tully, Answering the Calls of the Living: Collaborative Practice in Archaeology and Ancient Egyptian Daily Life Exhibitions in Museums. 21 Hamilakis, The Nation and its Ruins: Antiquity, Archaeology and National Imagination in Greece.

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the boom in community heritage projects in Western countries, such as the UK, 22 where countless invasions would lead us to query whether anyone can possible be ‘qualified’ to comment or lay claim on the past in their locale. Biology has been unarguably essential in aiding some indigenous populations to regain control from historically recent colonisers, yet proven lineage is not a necessary credential to participate in heritage dialogues. The dominant cultural theories of the late 20th and early 21st centuries recognise that history and identity are fluid and changing depending on the semantic framework each individual, social group and nation places them in. 23 Community archaeology, often also referred to as collaborative, indigenous or post-colonial archaeology, first emerged in the1970s and 1980s as part of this more socially conscious heritage discourse. 24 The sub-discipline aims to work in partnership with local groups at every stage of the archaeological process – from planning to publication – to facilitate effective involvement in the ‘investigation and presentation of the past’. 25 But, for many nations bearing the weight of colonial and oriental legacies, acceptance of the need for open and integrated cultural heritage debate by those with vested economic/research interests in the past (archaeologists, tourist companies, administrators) remains a struggle. The Egyptian case studies presented here are the product of this struggle and reveal the tug-of-war between progressive heritage strategies and centuries of western and government-led models of intervention which traditionally exclude Simpson and Williams, ‘Evaluating Community Archaeology in the UK’, pp. 69–90. 23 Assman, The mind of Egypt: History and meaning in the time of the Pharaohs, p. viii; Shanks and Tilley, Social Theory and Archaeology; Tilley, ‘Reading material culture: Structuralism, hermenutics, and poststructuralism’, pp. 397–404; Hodder and Hutson, Reading the past. Current approaches to the interpretation of archaeology. 24 For discussion on wider history and theoretical developments see Smith and Waterton, Heritage, Communities and Archaeology, pp. 21–40. 25 Moser et al., ‘Transforming archaeology through practice: Strategies for collaborative practice in the community archaeology project at Quseir, Egypt’, p. 220. 22

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local traditions and interpretations of the past. As a result, Egypt can offer lessons to other countries and stakeholders striving to access heritage sites, practices and dialogues in the neo-colonial environment of expanding heritage tourism and ‘one-size-fits-all’ approaches to cultural assets by international organisations such as UNESCO. The examples also reflect what can be achieved in the face of adversity from areas of the academic, business and political community working in Egypt – both Egyptian and international – and highlight how greater collaboration can provide mutual benefits to site management and all interest groups.

THE VOICE OF THE ABABDA The first project which brought together local communities and foreign archaeologists through ‘mutual training’, 26 was the 19942001 excavation of the Graeco-Roman harbour town of Ancient Berenike on the Red Sea coast. 27 Led by the University of Delaware and the University of Leiden, archaeologists worked predominantly with the Ababda people, both settled and Nomadic, who inhabit an area from Quseir to Gebel Elba along the Red Sea Coast and inland in the Eastern Desert. The project resulted in the natural exchange of expertise: excavation techniques from the archaeologists to the Ababda workmen; local knowledge on aspects such as identifying different kinds of sand/soil horizons and recognising animal hair in textiles, as well as providing information on the local environment from the workmen to the visiting archaeologists. In 1996, formal recognition of the developing relationship between the archaeologists and the Ababda came in the form of two grants from Abdel-Qadar et al., ‘Giving voice to the Ababda’, pp. 399–400. Sidebotham and Wendrich, Preliminary Report Report of the 1995 Excavations at Berenike (Egyptian Red Sea Coast) and the Survey of the Eastern Desert; Ibid., Report of the 1996 Excavations at Berenike (Egyptian Red Sea Coast) and the Survey of the Eastern Desert; Ibid., Report of the 1997 Excavations at Berenike and the Survey of the Egyptian Eastern Desert, including Excavations at Shenshef; Ibid., Report of the 1998 Excavations at Berenike and the Survey of the Egyptian Eastern Desert, including Excavations in Wadi Kalalat; Ibid., Berenike 1999/2000. Report on the Excavations at Berenike, Including Excavations in Wadi Kalalat and Siket, and the Survey of the Mons Smaragdus Region. 26 27

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the Royal Netherlands Embassy in Cairo for the collection, documentation and presentation of contemporary Ababda material culture. 28 The plans included the construction of a centre to house the collection, 29 which was compiled and documented by a core group of 12 young Ababda men with the assistance of members of the archaeological team. Photography and art were used by the men, alongside text and objects, to reflect the context of activities from the home and other aspects of daily life. The project became intergenerational and promoted cultural exchange within the Ababda community as well as with the archaeologists because the history and use of some of the collected objects was unknown to the young men. 30 The work also led to discussions and the documentation of intangible Ababda heritage, such as stories, songs, traditions, natural medicines, knowledge of the landscape and reactions to encroaching tourism/changing ways of life. 31 The result of the collaboration was an Ababda authored publication in response to the loss of knowledge about their culture and history, 32 as well as 3 exhibitions in the restored fort in Quseir, the visitor centre in Berenike, and the Museum of Ethnology in Rotterdam. The project is significant for many reasons. Firstly, it is the earliest example of genuine collaborative heritage work in Egypt at a time when the sub-discipline was just beginning to establish itself in the areas of the world which gave rise to this kind of approach – North America and the Antipodes. Secondly, it documented intangible heritage long before UNESCO recognised the importance of this particular cultural resource. 33 Thirdly, it revealed how the sharing of skills between archaeologists and community members in the vicinity of an archaeological site could both enhance understanding about the past and be mutually beneficial in terms of deAbdel-Qadar et al., ‘Giving voice to the Ababda’, p. 400. Beyt Ababda was built in 2008 in Wadi Gamal National Park as a permanent home for the collection and exhibition. See Abdel-Qadar et al., ‘Giving voice to the Ababda’, pp. 403–404. 30 Ibid., pp. 399–400. 31 Ibid., p. 404. 32 Ibid., pp. 399–416. 33 UNESCO, Convention for the Safeguarding of Intangible Heritage. 28 29

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veloping skills for the present. In the case of the Ababda, the exhibition and documentation project grew out of the excavation to provide others – beyond the foreign archaeologists – with a glimpse of the lives of Ababda men and women from their own perspectives. This showed that their culture, like the archaeological site, is not ‘frozen in time’ but is part of a continuing and changing history which is affected by the modern world. 34 The Community Archaeology Project at Quseir (CAPQ) would build on these principles to further diversify the outcomes of heritage collaboration in Egypt and to formalise a methodology for the emerging discipline, which could be applied across the globe.

THE COMMUNITY ARCHAEOLOGY PROJECT, QUSEIR Quseir is located on the Red Sea coast, some 600 km south of Cairo and 150 km east of the Nile. The modern town, founded in the 16th century, is neighboured 8 km to the north by its ancient predecessor, which is known today as Quseir al-Qadim (Old Quseir). Archaeological excavations by the University of Southampton, between 1999 and 2003, 35 revealed the site to be the Roman and Ptolemaic trading port of Myos Hormos (1st century BC to 3rd century AD). Reoccupied in the 13th century, the later Mamluke ‘waqf’ port was a trade hub and crucial passenger route on the pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina (13th–15th century AD). 36 The archaeological site is present in current local life through folklore, local use/knowledge of the land, as well as through family connections to previous excavations carried out in the 1970s by the

Abdel-Qadar et al., ‘Giving voice to the Ababda’, p. 413. Peacock et al., Myos Hormos, Quseir al-Qadim: A Roman and Islamic port on the Red Sea coast of Egypt; Ibid., Myos Hormos, Quseir al-Qadim: A Roman and Islamic port on the Red Sea coast of Egypt; Ibid., Myos Hormos, Quseir alQadim: A Roman and Islamic port on the Red Sea coast of Egypt; Ibid., Myos Hormos, Quseir al-Qadim: A Roman and Islamic port on the Red Sea coast of Egypt. 36 Peacock, ‘The site of Myos Hormos: A view from space’, p. 232. 34 35

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University of Chicago. 37 Significant local interest in the site during the planning stage of the University of Southampton’s excavations led to the foundation of the Community Archaeology Project Quseir (CAPQ) in 1999. 38 The CAPQ was significant in terms of collaborative heritage practice in Egypt for numerous reasons. Not only was it the first project in Egypt to state explicitly that its motivation was ‘community archaeology’, but it also received the first academic grant awarded globally to a community archaeology project with a particular focus on developing a methodology for the sub-discipline. 39 Prior to the CAPQ, numerous community archaeology projects around the world made mention of their approach, but did not explicate specific methodologies. 40 This oversight, in terms of academic rigour, hindered acceptance of the work by many archaeologists and cultural practitioners who did not feel that community archaeology adhered to the core methodological principles of research. The innately dialogic, interactional and often cross-cultural nature of community archaeology means that the discipline needs to maintain flexibility. This does not rule out methodological direction, however, as the CAPQ proved by creating a 7 point methodology to guide practice and data collection. The methodology is still held up as a key resource, and has been developed further since its publication. The 7 key points include: 1. Communication and collaboration between the archaeological team and local representatives at all stages of the research process; 2. Employment and training of local people in all areas of the project remit; Whitcomb and Johnson, Quseir al-Qadim 1978: Preliminary Report; Ibid., Quseir al-Qadim: 1980: Preliminary Report; Ibid., Season of excavations at Quseir al-Qadim. 38 Moser et al., ‘Transforming archaeology through practice: Strategies for collaborative practice in the community archaeology project at Quseir, Egypt’, pp. 220–248. 39 Ibid., pp. 221. 40 Tully, ‘Community Archaeology: General Methods and Standards of Practice’, pp. 155–156. 37

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3. Public presentation to pass on information to the wider community and to visitors; 4. Interviews and oral history to see how local people respond to the archaeology and how this links in with academic ideas about the past; 5. Educational resources to introduce younger generations to the archaeological research results; 6. Photographic and video archives to create a record of the archaeological work and experiences of those involved in the project; 7. Community controlled merchandising considering the tourist market and offering quality alternatives to traditional tourist goods. 41

From this initial methodology, created and carried out during the excavation, a whole range of collaborative heritage projects developed in Quseir beyond the limitations of the excavation. For example, work into ‘object life ways’ promoted looking at the full lifehistory of objects from the site and considered other ways of ‘knowing’ artefacts which did not isolate them purely as things of the past. 42 Alistair Jones looked at local narratives, performances and memories from Qusier as a new means of driving elements of archaeological display to challenge traditional museological approaches to Egypt. 43 Interviews and oral histories examined relationships between the archaeologists, archaeological site and members of the community. 44 This work helped to build a fuller picture

Moser et al., ‘Transforming archaeology through practice: Strategies for collaborative practice in the community archaeology project at Quseir, Egypt’, pp. 229–242. See also Tully, ‘Community Archaeology: General Methods and Standards of Practice’, pp. 162–163 for a further breakdown of the sub-components of each point. 42 Phillips, Quseir al-Qadim: A short introduction to the ancient trading portof the Red Sea. 43 Jones, Do not Prefer the Son of a Somebody to an Ordinary Man: Collaborative Archaeology and the Representation of the Egyptian Past in Museum Displays, p. 69. 44 Glazier, We make the diamond shine. Archaeological Communities in Quseir, Egypt. 41

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of the socio-cultural side of excavation, and revealed personal stories and inter- as well as intra-group perceptions of different heritage stakeholders. Education projects were developed that focused on culturally relevant learning resources which allowed children to ‘swap’ stories with each other, community members and archaeologists and to develop their own creative means of understanding local history. 45 3-D modelling and online resources also shifted the dynamic of archaeological/local co-operation by making data widely available and participative. 46 Many of these projects ran well beyond, or were initiated after, the five year lifespan of the excavation and, perhaps most importantly, made a conscious attempt to bring together perspectives from all demographics of the Quseir community. 47 Creating a balance between past and present, and bringing together stakeholders with different interests in sites, artefacts and heritage narratives on an equal level remains a huge challenge. The CAPQ embraced this challenge in Egypt, and has been the catalyst for further cultural partnerships across the country which acknowledge that academic output is only one [small] part of a heritage process which can be enhanced by engaging with the interplay between multiple stakeholders, interpretations and uses of the past in contemporary life. 48 Helping pave the way for more expansive visions of heritage collaboration, beyond the restrictions of an archaeological dig, the CAPQ and its numerous sister projects reflect the dynamic and shifting nature of heritage. However, it is interesting to note that both the CAPQ and Berenike examples of collaborative heritage in Conner, Sharing Stories, Drawing on the Past: Strategies for Producing Educational Resources for the Community Archaeology Project at Quseir, Egypt; Conner et al., Salma and Samir in Roman Quseir; Ibid., Salma and Samir in Islamic Quseir. 46 Earl, Constructing Places: Roman Architecture and the Mind’s Eye. A Thesis on the Application of Spatial Theories and Computer Visualisation to Experience an Egyptian Red Sea Port around AD 120. 47 See Tully, ‘Ten Years On: The Community Archaeology project, Quseir, Egypt’, pp. 63–78 for a more detailed discussion of these aspects. 48 Ibid., p. 74. 45

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Egypt did not deal with Pharaonic sites. This may be a coincidence, or perhaps the pattern reflects the weight of colonial and orientalist ideology on the development of co-operative heritage strategies by western partners in the country. If the latter is true, it is no surprise that it took an Egyptian-led project to bridge this divide.

CULTURAL RESOURCE MANAGEMENT AT SERABIT AL-KHADIM Serabit al-Khadim, in the south west of Egypt’s Sinai Peninsula, comprises a Middle and New Kingdom turquoise mine, temple dedicated to the ancient Egyptian goddess Hathor, and 85 inhabited Bedouin households (approximately 300 people in total). Funded by the South Sinai Regional Development Project (SSRDP) and the Centre for the Documentation of the Cultural and Natural Heritage of Egypt (CULTNAT), Serabit al-Khadim was the source of a project which aimed to set a model for Cultural Resource Management (CRM) in a highly understudied region of Egypt. 49 Taking its lead from aspects of the CAPQ, the project which started in September 2007 worked in partnership with the local, permanently settled, Bedouin and had three core aims: the documentation of the archaeological site; development of a social map of the modern inhabitants; capacity building to enhance tourism and economic prospects. 50 Cultural heritage as the key to a sustainable development process was at the heart of the project and built on a World Bank report 51 which proposed development as a multidisciplinary method of cultural self-preservation, rather than an act of commodification, in regard to both tangible and intangible heritage. The development process in Serabit was designed to include a number of educational, economic and infrastructural aspects fostered in partnership with the Bedouin: training local men to carry out tourist guiding; trainHanna et al., ‘The documentation of the cultural heritage of the Bedouin of South Sinai: A pilot study in Serabit al-Khadim’, pp. 358–368. 50 Ibid., pp. 358–359. 51 World Bank Cultural Heritage and Development: A Framework for Action in the Middle East and North Africa, p. 4. 49

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ing local SCA (Supreme Council for Antiquities) 52 inspectors to recognise human and natural damage/hazards at the archaeological site; developing local women’s handicrafts to sell; developing accessible education programmes to engage children with the history of their area and community history; improving signage and marketing of the site; creating a tourist guidebook for the region; promoting the area through a website and printed tourist publicity; raising awareness of the site through exhibitions and public lectures; building a visitor centre with training facilities. 53 The ideal outcome from these developments would be the sustainability of the site as income from tourism for local populations would result in local protection of the heritage and growing awareness of both the tangible and intangible heritage of the region by inhabitants and visitors alike. The project was significant as it was initiated and run solely by Egyptians, thus breaking the 200 year old pattern of western led/partnered heritage work in Egypt. While the Egyptians working for the project were predominantly well educated and from Cairo, the process of co-operation and exchange was undoubtedly enhanced through greater shared cultural understandings and mutual language, and enhanced the integration of local women and children in the development process alongside local men. The work was well received by the majority of local community members and was making good progress in terms of documentation, training and publicity until internal financial problems within CULTNAT led the project to halt in December 2013. However, the archaeological team remain in contact with the community and hope to restart the project in the coming years. Regardless of the future, Serabit was important in moving collaborative heritage in Egypt away from the narrow confines of a physical archaeological excavation as the impetus for project development. Shared vested interest in the heritage of the area – ancient and contemporary – was enough of a catalyst for dialogue. This was an important ideological leap and also age).

52

The SCA is now the MOAH (Ministry of Antiquities and Herit-

Hanna et al., ‘The documentation of the cultural heritage of the Bedouin of South Sinai: A pilot study in Serabit al-Khadim’, pp. 358–368. 53

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led to the diversification of expertise involved and issues tackled. Whereas the projects at Berenike and Quseir considered the impact of tourism and the potential economic benefits of more integrated cultural heritage strategies, these aspects were secondary to collaborative interpretation of the archaeological site. At Serabit, the team drew together partners from tourism development, merchandising, business, local administration, politics, social welfare and so on, alongside the archaeologists and community members, to create a more holistic understanding of the economic, social, cultural and political dynamics of the area. This was an important step reflecting the evolving cross-disciplinary nature of emerging heritage processes. However, the location of the project in the Sinai means that it is not exposed to the same level of politicisation, tourist demand and heritage prestige as the heritage landscape of the Nile Valley, the area to which we now turn.

MULTIPLE STAKEHOLDERS AT THE THEBAN NECROPOLIS In 2011 I had the opportunity to work with Monica Hanna from the Serabit al-Khadim project. Uniting Egyptian and European experience of collaborative heritage work in Egypt, we wanted to extend further the remit of co-operation and face the colonial legacy of Ancient Egypt head-on in the Nile Valley. Funded by TOPOI Berlin and supported by Dr Claudia Näser of Humboldt University, we started to explore the multiple uses and perceptions of the UNESCO listed World Heritage Site of the Theban Necropolis 54 for a wide range of stakeholders – Egyptian and international, resident and visitor. The Theban Necropolis includes: temples dedicated to AmonRe, to Hathor, the funerary temples of Ramesses II and AmenoThe Theban Necropolis makes up half of the ‘Thebes’ World Heritage Site which is divided between the east and west banks of the Nile at Modern day Luxor. The east bank comprises the ‘Thebes of the Living’, including the temples of Karnack and Luxor. The west bank comprises the Necropolis, i.e. the ‘Thebes of the Dead’ and includes the tombs and mortuary temples. Ancient Thebes was at its height during the Middle and New Kingdoms of Ancient Egypt. See http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/87. 54

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phis III (the colossi of Memnon being the clearly visible remaining parts), and the cemeteries of al-Asasif, al-Khokha, Qurnet Mura, Deir al-Medina, the Valley of the Kings and the Valley of the Queens. Before the January 25 2011 revolution, around two million people were engaging with the site and each other every year. 55 This included local communities living and working in the vicinity, tourists/travellers, ex-patriots, local and non-local businesses (hotels, cafes, craft workshops, souvenir shops, taxis, tour companies/guides, camel/horse/donkey trekking groups etc.), Egyptian and international archaeologists/researchers, police officers, military personnel, government officials, employees of NGOs and heritage organisations and so on. In the winter of 2011–12, when fieldwork took place, the uncertain outcome of the revolution 56 meant that the numbers of people mixing within the World Heritage zone were down to the hundreds of thousands. 57 The aim of our work was to present a ‘snap-shot’ that would draw out the complex web of human interactions and relationships that shape and were shaped by the heritage landscape of the Theban Necropolis during this time. To achieve this, we wove together three strands of enquiry: historical information on the development of archaeology, local settlement and tourism at the Necropolis to put the modern situation into its historical context; perceptions of the site and of other site users by Egyptian and international nonresident visitors and those who work in the vicinity; local residents’ experiences and interactions in the area and their reflections on the social, cultural and economic repercussions of life in the shadow of a World Heritage Site. Formal and informal interviews, exploring how each stakeholder/stakeholder group was affected by their personal use and social experiences within the heritage space, formed the core data of the project and built on the cross-disciplinary, transcultural Theban Mapping Project, ‘Introduction, KV Masterplan’, p. 155. This was after the removal of Hosni Mubarak and before the election of Mohamed Morsi. 57 Tully and Hanna, ‘One landscape many tenants: Uncovering multiple claims, visions and meanings on the Theban Necropolis’, pp. 362– 397. 55 56

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ethos of our previous work in Egypt. 58 By presenting the first person narratives of those with whom we collaborated, we hoped to show agreement, difference and contradiction in terms of engagement with and within the heritage ‘space’. 59 This was important to do justice to multiple stakeholders’ perspectives without presenting a definitive answer to future CRM from a singular, authorial academic perspective as traditionally happens with this form of collaboration. Obviously, the research only represents a small sample of the total number of stakeholders engaging with the Theban Necropolis during the 4 month duration of the work, and the complexity of relationships revolving around the site means that not every quote or bias could be analysed. Nonetheless, by drawing together a diverse range of voices, current inequalities – as well as consensus – regarding the successful management of the heritage landscape were exposed, a taste of which is revealed in the excerpts of quotes below: I want everyone to come, tourists to come back to stay, drink tea, see families. The people love the tourists and want to be friendly with them, not just for business […] We also want Arab people to come and see the people, and for people from Alexandria and Cairo to come to Luxor as many people don’t know what temples we have […] We need to keep excavating and to work with Europeans. I want UNESCO and everyone to work together […] I don’t like to see the tombs like this. (Egyptian Excavator) Hanna et al., ‘The documentation of the cultural heritage of the Bedouin of South Sinai: A pilot study in Serabit al-Khadim’, pp. 358–368. Tully, Community Archaeology, Children and Culturally Relevant Learning: The Trial of a New Methodology, Quseir, Egypt. — ‘Community Archaeology: General Methods and Standards of Practice’, pp. 155–187. — “Answering the Calls of the Living”: Collaborative Practice in Archaeology and Ancient Egyptian Daily Life Exhibitions in Museums. 59 Tully and Hanna, ‘One landscape many tenants: Uncovering multiple claims, visions and meanings on the Theban Necropolis’, pp. 362– 397. 58

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GEMMA TULLY The current system does not foster relations between the SCA, communities and tourism. This is part of the reason why ancient Egypt and modern Egypt don’t relate. It explains why people can’t identify with the past and are not aware of connections (Archaeological Photographer). I am not opposed to mass tourism, but it falls down because there aren’t enough options, such as a niche for eco-tourism. There is little experience of Egyptian society. If there were more initiatives to encourage local operators to involve people more, this would help. The current system mimics colonial attitudes in an Egyptian Disneyland. You get what you expect! Stereotypes are formed on both sides, tourists of Egyptians and hassle, and Egyptians of tourists buying scarfs, taking photos, having the token experience […] Neither life the other group sees is reality. (Regular visitor/tourist) People who come to the hotel ask me where and why the houses and people have gone from the hill [Theban Necropolis]. 60 I tell them, because this is better for you. They tell me – NO – this is not better, this is not what we want. I say the government did it for you, just like around Luxor temple. The tourists look confused or sad, because it is not really what they want. (Egyptian hotel employee on the fringe of the necropolis)

The extracts provide examples of some of the issues facing CRM at the World Heritage site which will only be resolved when greater

Until 2007, approximately 20,000 people lived in 5 mudbrick villages on the fringes of the Theban Necropolis (World Monuments Fund, New Gourna Village: Conservation and Community, p 6). Many of the houses dated back countless generations. The people were removed and 4 of the 5 villages were demolished as part of a United Nations and Egyptian governmental cultural heritage management plan (Barsum (ed), The Comprehensive Development for the City of Luxor Project (CDCL)). By 2020, the plan aimed to make much of the east and west bank of Luxor into an open-air museum dedicated to tourism. The January 25 2011 revolution and its subsequent developments have delayed further house clearances and the progress of the 2020 plan. 60

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integration of the social order is incorporated into strategies to support the historic physical remains. Thus, the key values of the project were in revealing the diversity of stakeholders at the site and reflecting a more holistic vision for the Theban Necropolis rather than simply polarising the views of archaeologists and local communities. By representing a wider range of voices concerned with heritage landscapes, and by connecting ancient sites with their contemporary impact, the research revealed that while the needs of all stakeholders cannot always be reconciled, further democratisation of CRM is possible. It is only possible, however, through more integrated, dialogic management approaches that consider sites as ‘lived-spaces’, which evolve with their users, rather than as ‘openair museums’ which are limited to one time period and exclude less powerful stakeholder groups. The work is important both within and beyond Egypt’s borders as it shows that collaborative strategies for CRM can be developed even for the most complicated heritage contexts as long as the natural cross fertilisation between sites and stakeholders in terms of income, preservation, pleasure and the expansion of knowledge are encouraged rather than restricted.

COMMUNITY ACTION The work at the Theban Necropolis represents a formalised, research-led collaborative heritage initiative that emerged during the turmoil that ensued after the January 25 2011 revolution. However, it is the increasing number of locally defined, unfunded, Egyptian civilian heritage initiatives that have really ushered in a new era of collaboration regarding the interpretation and protection of Egyptian heritage in all its forms. 61 Many of these new movements have been spearheaded by Monica Hanna and the team from Serabit alKhadim, as well as other young Egyptian archaeologists, Egyptologists, architects and heritage professionals. As part of the Facebook generation, social media has been central to the growth of these movements, mobilising other supporters and facilitating civil action. The first group of this kind to emerge was the Heliopolis HeritSalem, ‘Disappearing Heritage: Vanishing Identity’, http://timep.org/commentary/disappearing-heritage-vanishing-identity 61

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age Initiative (HHI). Founded in 2011, just months after the revolution, the initiative aims to protect the architectural diversity and built character of an area called Masr al-Gedida (New Cairo). Members of the group have set up petitions and staged several protests in front of historical buildings which are under threat from government demolition orders to pave the way for new residential tower blocks, which the HHI feel are ugly and out of harmony with the area. 62 The project now has over 6000 ‘likers’ on Facebook and has extended both the level of dialogue and breadth of stakeholders/supporters from a local to an international scale. 63 Other groups followed the HHI in quick succession: Save Dashur, which was established in 2013 as a result of a particular incident at the site, 64 aims to protect the Pharaonic period pyramid fields at Dashur from looting and new building development, while Save Port Said, established in 2012, is a conglomerate of groups with an interest in Port Said’s built heritage, 65 Save Mansoura (established in 2013), 66 Save Cairo (estabolished in 2014) 67 and Save Alex[andria] Initiative (established in 2014) 68 all act to protect the historical identity and architectural heritage of these major towns and cities. Save Alex is one of the largest groups with over 15,000 Facebook ‘likers’. As with the other projects, the success of the Save Alex Initiative in the face of unstable governments and a lack of local consultation by public authorities has not been without risk. Sherif Farag, co-founder of the Save Alex Initiative has served time All Africa, ‘Egypt: Youth Form Initiative to Stop Demolition of Architectural Buildings’, http://allafrica.com/stories/201304150873.html 63 https://www.facebook.com/HeliopolisHeritageInitiative 64 El-Aref, ‘Egypt’s Dahshur ancient heritage under immediate threat’, http://english.ahram.org.eg/NewsContent/9/40/62323/Heri tage/Ancient-Egypt/Egypts-Dahshur-ancient-heritage-under-immediateth.aspx 65 Khaled, ‘NGOs and activists protest to save the architecture of Port Said’, http://www.egyptindependent.com/news/ngos-and-activistsprotest-save-architecture-port-said 66 https://www.facebook.com/SaveMansoura 67 https://www.facebook.com/SaveCairo 68 https://www.facebook.com/save.alex.9?fref=ts 62

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in prison and many other members of the various groups have experienced death threats, violence when confronting looters and police harassment. 69 However, belief in the multiple causes discussed above and the potential to make a real-time difference to attitudes towards Egyptian heritage through collaboration and civil activism with an international reach were recently made clear with regard to another group, Egypt’s Heritage Task Force (EHTF). The task force was founded in 2013 by four Egyptian female Egyptologists, Monica Hanna, Marwa el-Zeiny, Sally Soliman and Omneya Adbelbar. 70 With the help of civilians, many of whom are reached through social media 71 the group monitors and trys to prevent attacks/looting/damage to archaeological and historical sites from all periods of Egypt’s history. Though a voluntary unit without funding, in June 2014 the value of their work was recognition when Monica Hanna was invited to present the situation of Egypt’s heritage to the American State Department’s Cultural Property Advisory Committee. As an outcome of the meeting, the State Department now aims to develop a bilateral agreement between the USA and Egypt to protect Egyptian Cultural Heritage as the country reforms itself under the leadership of President Abdel Fatah AlSisi. 72 The fact that the American government approached members of a civil action group, rather than working directly with Egypt’s leaders shows the power and, most importantly, the sustainability (perhaps beyond that achievable by governments) of this new form of grass-roots, collaboration on heritage issues.

CONCLUSION The impact of recent heritage activism within Egypt in regard to work on CRM, legislation and the growth of sympathetic international engagement with Egypt’s heritage already overshadows the legacy of previous western and Egyptian academy-led heritage projects as evidenced above. However, that is not to say that previous Hanna, Personal Communication. Ibid. 71 https://www.facebook.com/EgyptsHeritageTaskForce?fref=nf 72 Elected 3 June 2014 69 70

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projects were without merit, they broke new ground and played a role in changing many local communities’ perceptions of their rights and relationships to heritage as well as to other stakeholders – Egyptian and international, resident and visitor – with an interest in heritage sites and landscapes. Dialogue has been the key to success and the growing democratisation of the heritage process at every stage in the development of collaborative heritage in Egypt. Thus all those involved, from the academics working with the Ababda to the founders of the EHTF can feel part of a shift towards the bottom-up, dialogic approach to CRM to which the discipline aspires and can offer lessons to other heritage stakeholders around the globe. With this in mind, I propose we scrap the old adage ‘less talk, more action’ and replace it with ‘more talk, more action’. Whether dialogue is on site or online, I certainly believe that greater discussion between all parties with a vested interest in heritage sites will be the direction successful CRM takes in the future.

REFERENCES

M. W. Abdel-Qadar, Z. Kosc and H. Barnard, ‘Giving voice to the Ababda’. In H. Barnard and K. Duistermaat (eds), The History of the Peoples of the Eastern Desert. Cotsen Institue for Archaeology Monograph 73 (Los Angeles, 2012), pp. 399–416. All Africa Website, ‘Egypt: Youth Form Initiative to Stop Demolition of Architectural Buildings’ http://allafrica.com/stories/201304150873.html (published 9 January 2013). J. Assman, The mind of Egypt: History and meaning in the time of the pharaohs (New York, 2003). Australian Archaeological Association, Code of Ethics. [Online] Available at http://www.australisnarchaeologicalassociation.com.au/code ofethics.html (1991). L. K. Barsum, The Comprehensive Development for the City of Luxor Project (CDCL), Sponsored by: Ministry of Housing, Utilities and Urban Communities (MHUUC) and The United Nations Development Program (UNDP) (Cairo, 2000). S. Botman, Egypt from Independence to Revolution, 1919–1952 (New York, 1991). E. Colla, Conflicted Antiquities: Egyptology, Egyptomania, Egyptian Modernity (Durham, NC, Duke University Press, 2007).

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A. Conner, Sharing Stories, Drawing on the Past: Strategies for Producing Educational Resources for the Community Archaeology Project at Quseir, Egypt (unpublished dissertation, Southampton, 2001) A. Conner, L. El Nemr, and M. Seymour, Salma and Samir in Roman Quseir (Southampton, 2002a) ——— 2002b. Salma and Samir in Islamic Quseir (Southampton, 2002b). I. Davidson, ‘Notes for a code of ethics for Australian archaeologists working with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island heritage’, Australian Archaeology 32 (1991), pp. 61–64. I. Davidson, C. Lovelle-Jones and R. Bancroft, Archaeologists and Aborigines working together (Armidale, 1995). K. E. Dongoske, M. Aldenderfer and K. Doehner (eds), Working together: Native Americans and Archaeologists (Washington DC, 2000) W. Doyon, Representing Egypt’s past: Archaeology and identity in Egyptian museum practice (Washington, University of Washington, 2007) ———, ‘The poetics of Egyptian museum practice’, British Museum Studies in Ancient Egypt and the Sudan 10 (2008), pp. 1–37. G. Earl, Constructing Places: Roman Architecture and the Mind’s Eye. A Thesis on the Application of Spatial Theories and Computer Visualisation to Experience an Egyptian Red Sea Port around AD 120 (unpublished dissertation, Southampton, 2002). Egypt’s Heritage Task Force https://www.facebook.com/EgyptsHeritageTaskForce?fref= nf N. El-Aref, ‘Egypt’s Dahshur ancient heritage under immediate threat’, Al-Ahram http://english.ahram.org.eg/NewsContent/9/40/62323/Heri tage/Ancient-Egypt/Egypts-Dahshur-ancient-heritage-underimmediate-th.aspx (published 13 January 2013) A. D, Frank, M. Cueto, F. Skarbun, D. Martinez and R. S. Paunero, ‘Practices for visualizing the regional past: Archaeology, social community and education in Puerto San Julian, Argentina’. In G. Tully and M. Ridges (eds), Collaborative Hertiage Management, (New Jersey, Gorgias Press, 2016), pp. 101–127. J. M. Gero, D. Lacy, and M.L. Blakey (eds), The socio-politics of archaeology (Massachusetts, 1983). D. Glazier, We make the diamond shine. Archaeological Communities in Quseir, Egypt (unpublished dissertation, Southampton, 2003).

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Y. Hamilakis, The nation and its ruins: Antiquity, archaeology and national imagination in Greece (Oxford, 2007). M. Hanna, F. Keshk and S. Aboubakr, ‘The documentation of the cultural heritage of the Bedouin of South Sinai: A pilot study in Serabit al-Khadim’. In H. Barnard and K. Duistermaat (eds), The History of the Peoples of the Eastern Desert (Los Angeles, 2013), pp. 358–368. Heliopolis Heritage Initiative. https://www.facebook.com/HeliopolisHeritageInitiative I. Hodder and S. Hutson, Reading the past. Current approaches to the interpretation of archaeology (Cambridge, 2003). A. Jones, Do not prefer the son of a somebody to an ordinary man: Collaborative archaeology and the representation of the Egyptian past in museum display (unpublished dissertation, Southampton, 2008). R. Khaled, ‘NGOs and activists protest to save the architecture of Port Said’, Egypt Independent http://www.egyptindependent.com/news/ngos-and-activistsprotest-save-architecture-port-said (published 21 September, 2013). E. W. Lane, An Account of the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians (Cairo, [1836] 2003). L. Meskell (ed.), Archaeology Under Fire (London, 1998). T. Mitchell, ‘The Invention and Reinvention of the Egyptian Peasant’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 22 (1990), pp. 129–150. ———, Colonising Egypt (Cambridge, 1991). ———, ‘Making the Nation: The Politics of Heritage in Egypt’. In N. AlSayyad (ed.), Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage: Global Norms and Urban Forms in the Age of Tourism (London, 2001), pp. 212–239. ———, Rule of Experts: Egypt, Techno-Politics, Modernity (London, 2002). S. Moser, ‘The ‘Aboriginalization’ of Australian archaeology: The contribution of the Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies to the indigenous formation of the discipline’. In P.J. Ucko (ed.), Theory in archaeology: A world perspective (London, 1995), pp. 150-177. ———, Wondrous curiosities. Ancient Egypt at the British Museum (Chicago, 2006).

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S. Moser, D. Glazier, J. Philips, L. N. El Nemer, M. S. Mousa, S. Richardson, A. Conner and M. Seymour, ‘Transforming archaeology through practice: Strategies for collaborative practice in the community archaeology project at Quseir, Egypt’, World Archaeology 34 (2002), pp. 220–248. S. Motawi, Egypt in the British Museum (London, 1998). D. Peacock, ‘The site of Myos Hormos: A view from space’, Journal of Roman Archaeology 6 (1993), pp. 226–32. D. Peacock, L. Blue. L. Bradford, N. and S. Moser, Myos Hormos, Quseir al- Qadim: A Roman and Islamic port on the Red Sea coast of Egypt (Southampton, 2000). ———, Myos Hormos, Quseir al-Qadim: A Roman and Islamic port on the Red Sea coast of Egypt (Southampton, 2001). ———, Myos Hormos, Quseir al-Qadim: A Roman and Islamic port on the Red Sea coast of Egypt (Southampton, 2002). ———, Myos Hormos, Quseir al-Qadim: A Roman and Islamic port on the Red Sea coast of Egypt (Southampton, 2003). J.E. Phillips, Quseir al-Qadim: A short introduction to the ancient trading port of the Red Sea (Southampton, 2001). V. Pinsky and A. Wylie (eds), Critical traditions in contemporary archaeology (Cambridge, 1989). D. M. Reid, ‘Indigenous Egyptology: the decolonisation of a profession’, Journal of the American Oriental Society 105 (1985), pp. 233-46. ———, ‘Nationalising the Pharaonic Past: Egyptology, Imperialism, and Egyptian, Nationalism 1922–1952’. In I. Gershoni and .J Jankowski (eds), Rethinking Nationalism in the Arab Middle East (New York, 1997), pp. 127–315. ———, Whose Pharaohs? Archaeology, Museums and Egyptian National Identity from Napoleon to World War One (London, 2002). M. Ridges, L. Baker and C. McDermott, ‘The changing role of heritage practitioners in community-based hertiage’. In G. Tully and M. Ridges (eds), Collaborative Hertiage Management, (New Jersey, Gorgias Press, 2016), pp. 45–73. N. Salem, ‘Disappearing Heritage: Vanishing Identity’, The Tahir Institue for Middle East Policy http://timep.org/commentary/disappearing-heritagevanishing-identity (published 24 February, 2014). Save Alex https://www.facebook.com/save.alex.9?fref=ts Save Cairo https://www.facebook.com/SaveCairo

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Save Mansoura https://www.facebook.com/SaveMansoura M. Shanks, and C. Tilley, Social theory and archaeology (Cambridge, 1987). S.E. Sidebotham, and W.Z. Wendrich (eds), Berenike 1995. Preliminary Report of the 1995 Excavations at Berenike (Egyptian Red Sea Coast) and the Survey of the Eastern Desert (Leiden, 1996). ———, Berenike 1996. Report of the 1996 Excavations at Berenike (Egyptian Red Sea Coast) and the Survey of the Eastern Desert (Leiden, 1998). ———, Berenike 1997. Report of the 1997 Excavations at Berenike and the Survey of the Egyptian Eastern Desert, including Excavations at Shenshef (Leiden, 1999). ———, Berenike 1998. Report of the 1998 Excavations at Berenike and the Survey of the Egyptian Eastern Desert, including Excavations in Wadi Kalalat (Leiden, 2000). ———, Berenike 1999/2000. Report on the Excavations at Berenike, Including Excavations in Wadi Kalalat and Siket, and the Survey of the Mons Smaragdus Region (Los Angeles, 2007). F. Simpson, and H. Williams, ‘Evaluating Community Archaeology in the UK’, Public Archaeology (2008), pp. 69-90. T.A. Singleton and C.E. Orser Jr., ‘Descendant communities: Linking people in the present to the past’. In L. J. Zimmerman, K.D. Vitelli and J. Hollowell-Zimmer (eds), Ethical Issues in Archaeology (Oxford 2003), pp. 143–152. L. Smith and E. Waterton, Heritage, Communities and Archaeology (London 2009). R. W. Stoffle, R. Arnold and A. Bulletts, ‘Talking with nature: Souther Paiute epistemology and the double hermenutic of the living planet’. In G. Tully and M. Ridges (eds), Collaborative Hertiage Management, (New Jersey, Gorgias Press, 2016), pp. 75–99. N. Swindler, K.E. Dongoske, R. Anyon and A.S. Downer, Native Americans and archaeologists. Stepping stones to common ground (London, 1997). Theban Mapping Project, Introduction, KV Masterplan (2004), pp. 27–51, http://www.thebanmappingproject.com/about/KVMasterpla n/KVM_CH1.pdf

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C. Tilley, ‘Reading material culture: Structuralism, hermenutics, and poststructuralism’, Journal of Field Archaeology 18, 3 (1991), pp. 397–404. B. G. Trigger, ‘Alternative archaeologies: Nationalist, imperialist, colonialist’, Man 19 (1984), pp. 353–370. G. Tully, Community archaeology, children and culturally relevant learning: The trial of a new methodology, Quseir, Egypt (unpublished Masters dissertation, Southampton, 2005). ———, ‘Community Archaeology: General Methods and Standards of Practice’, Public Archaeology 6, 3 (2007), pp.155–187. ———, ‘Ten Years On: The Community Archaeology Project, Quseir, Egypt’, Treballs Arqueologia 15 (2009), pp. 63–78. ———, ‘Answering the Calls of the Living’: Collaborative Practice in Archaeology and Ancient Egyptian Daily Life Exhibitions in Museums (unpublished dissertation, Southampton, 2010). G. Tully and M. Hanna, ‘One landscape many tenants: Uncovering multiple claims, visions and meanings on the Theban Necropolis’, Archaeologies 9, 3 (2013), pp. 362–397. UNESCO, Convention for the Safeguarding of Intangible Heritage (2003). http://www.unesco.org/culture/ich/index.php?lg=en&pg=0 0006 J. Watkins, Indigenous archaeology: American Indian values and scientific practice (California, 2000). D.S. Whitcomb and J. H. Johnson, Quseir al-Qadim 1978: Preliminary Report. (Cairo, 1979). ———, Quseir al-Qadim, 1980, Preliminary Report (Malibu, 1982a). ———, ‘Season of excavations at Quseir al-Qadim’, American Research Centre in Egypt: Newsletter 120 (Cairo, 1982b), pp. 24–30. M. Wood, ‘The use of the Pharaonic past in modern Egyptian nationalism’, Journal of the American Research Centre in Egypt 35 (1998), pp. 179–196. World Archaeology Congress (WAC), World Archaeology Congress first code of ethics (1990), available at http://www.wac.uct.ac.za/archive /content/ethics.html World Bank, Cultural Heritage and Development: A Framework for Action in the Middle East and North Africa, (Washington DC 2001). World Monuments Fund, New Gourna Village: Conservation and Community (2011)

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Personal Communications M. Hanna, (Cairo, 2014), September 23.

COLLABORATIVE DISCOURSES AND

INTERDISCIPLINARY RESEARCH IN HERITAGISATION PROCESSES: THE CASE OF THE PILGRIMAGE FROM SANTIAGO TO FINISTERRE

CRISTINA SÁNCHEZ-CARRETERO PAULA BALLESTEROS-ARIAS GUADALUPE JIMÉNEZ-ESQUINAS EVA PARGA-DANS INTRODUCTION The nature of scientific, technological and social problems frequently demands interdisciplinary solutions. It is held that integrating information, data, techniques, perspectives, equipment, etc. from two or more disciplines helps to advance the fundamental understanding of various problems and leads to their solution. For this reason, it is increasingly common for different academic disciplines to work together to foster the advancement of knowledge. 1 This article is part of the research project ‘Heritagisation Processes along the Camino de Santiago: Route Santiago-Fisterra-Muxía’ (INCITE09PXIB-606181PR) funded by the Xunta de Galicia; the network TRAMA3, funded by CYTED, Science and Society Area; and the project NEARCH funded by the European Commission CULTURE program, this publication reflects the views only of the authors, and the Commission cannot be held responsible for any use which may be made of the information contained therein.

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Specifically, heritage studies present a good example of this trend. Studies of heritage have traditionally been linked to the disciplines of history, art history, architecture and archaeology. However, the social significance of heritage, the role it has acquired in the recovery of collective memory 2 and the growing importance of heritage-related activities reflect the growth in cultural demand and the emergence of a prosperous and dynamic sector. 3 This situation has converted heritage into a subject of study for a range of disciplines, such as history, art, architecture, geography, economics, archaeology, sociology, anthropology, and so on. Furthermore, the growing interest in the subject leads to the formulation of new research questions and the development of a critical perspective towards the field of study. 4 The exploration of interdisciplinary approaches and methods with regard to heritage is a useful tool to understand/ identify/study the consequences of heritagisation processes and to interpret complex social phenomena. This chapter develops an interdisciplinary approach to the critical analysis of the processes of heritage formation. An understanding of the processes by which certain cultural practices are valued over others, or certain aspects of heritage over others, will enable us to grasp the foundation of one of Spain’s largest industries. The country is one of the world’s leading importers and exporters of cultural goods. 5 Following the Spanish Satellite Account of Culture, in 2009, the cultural sector contributed 2.9% of the Jacobs and Frickel, ‘Interdisciplinarity: a critical assessment’, pp. 43–65; Braun and Schubert, ‘A quantitative view on the coming of age of interdisciplinarity in the sciences 1980–1999’, pp. 183–189. 2 Ayán Vila, ‘El paisaje ausente: por una arqueología de la guerrilla antifranquista en Galicia’, pp. 213–237; González Ruibal, ‘Arqueología de la Guerra Civil Española’, pp. 11–20. 3 Vicente Hernández, Economía del Patrimonio Cultural y Políticas Patrimoniales. Un Estudio de la Política del Patrimonio Arquitectónico en Castilla y León. 4 Smith, Uses of Heritage; Prats, ‘Concepto y gestión del patrimonio local’. 5 Rausel and Marco, ‘El sector de la cultura como sector estratégico en el cambio del modelo productivo. Análisis de la productividad’. 1

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country’s GDP. According to data from the Spanish Cultural Statistics Yearbook, in 2010, some 508,700 people were employed by the cultural sector. This figure represents 2.8% of total employment in Spain for 2010, an increase of over 2000 jobs compared to 2007. Our analysis is based on the fieldwork conducted by a multidisciplinary team along the Camino de Santiago route to Finisterre as part of a research project that focuses on the effects that this route is having on the local populations and the heritagisation processes involved. This case study brings together several disciplines – anthropology, sociology and archaeology – with their different methods and techniques.

ON HERITAGISATION Paraphrasing Davallon, anyone looking at the notion of heritage today will notice the relative instability of such a notion as it designates realities which are largely contradictory: ‘this is the reason why the quest for the right definition of this notion has been replaced by the study of the concept of heritagisation’. 6 Heritagisation refers to the processes by which heritage is constructed. This concept has been widely used among scholars in the south of Europe, by contrast with the invisibility of this term in English. The terms ‘patrimonialización’ in Spanish, or ‘patrimonialisation’ in French, have been employed since the mid-1990s and its use was well established in the decade beginning in 2000. 7 In the English-speaking world, heritagisation was first used by Kevin Walsh in 1992, as a pejorative way to refer to ‘the reduction Davallon, ‘The Game of Heritagization’, p. 39. In Spain, see for instance Ariño Villarroya ‘La expansion del patrimonio cultural’; García García, ‘Del conocimiento antropológico y su patrimonialización’; Pereiro Pérez ‘Patrimonialización, museos e arquitectura: o caso de Allariz’; Prats, ‘Concepto y gestión del patrimonio local’. In France, see for instance Faure, ‘Patrimonialisation des productions fromagères dans les Alpes du Nord: savoirs et pratiques techniques’; Amougou, La question patrimoniale: De la ‘patrimonialisation’ a l’examen de situations concrètes; Davallon, Le Don du patrimoine: Une approche communicationnelle de la patrimonialisation; Drouin, Patrimoine et patrimonialisation du Québec et d’ailleurs. 6 7

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of real places to tourist space (…) that contribute to the destruction of actual places’; 8 focusing on the idea of the destruction of culture produced by tourism. This was in line with the idea of selling ‘culture by the pound’ that Davydd Greenwood developed in the 1970s. 9 This pejorative connotation marked the use of the term in English until very recently. For instance, in two articles written by Carmen Ortiz and Sánchez-Carretero for Ethnologia Europaea and for a book published by Sage, the word ‘heritagisation’ was rejected by both editors because it was not considered a common term in English. 10 However, in the last few years, the term ‘heritagisation’ has been employed in English with the same meaning as the equivalent terms in French, Portuguese or Spanish, referring to the processes by which heritage is constructed. 11 Nevertheless, these articles rarely cite earlier works on the subject from non-Anglo traditions; leading to the invisibility, in the English-speaking academic world, of work on ‘heritagisation’ conducted in the south of Europe. The term in English is now well-established, due, also in part, to the role of Canadian scholarship. For instance, the Encyclopaedia of French Cultural Heritage in North America, funded by the Canadian Heritage Department, the Quebec Government and LaWalsh, The Representation of the Past. Museums and Heritage in the PostModern World, p. 4. 9 Greenwood, ‘Culture by the Pound: An Anthropological Perspective on Tourism as Cultural Commoditization’. 10 Sánchez-Carretero and Ortiz, ‘Rethinking Ethnology in the Spanish Context’; Sánchez-Carretero and Ortiz, ‘Grassroots Memorials as Sites of Heritage Creation’. 11 See for instance Bendix, ‘Heritage between Economy and Politics: An Assessment from the Perspective of Cultural Anthropology’; Flesler and Pérez Melgosa, ‘Hervás, Convivencia, and the Heritagization of Spain’s Jewish Past’; Lung-Chih and Min-Chin ‘From Colonial Site to Cultural Heritage’; Margry and Sánchez-Carretero, ‘Rethinking Memorialization. The Concept of Grassroots Memorials’; Margry, ‘Memorializing a Controversial Politician: The “Heritagization” of a Materialized Vox Populi’. All offer examples of the use of ‘heritagisation’ in English. 8

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val University, describe their project using the word ‘heritagisation’ as a synonym of heritage building processes: …the Encyclopaedia’s editorial approach focuses on heritage building processes (heritagisation), whether through institutional, community-oriented or individual initiatives. Therefore writers are called to shed light on the cultural, social and political currents (movements and trends), as well as the contexts that lead to the building up of a heritage asset (heritagisation). 12

In addition, a Network of Researchers on Heritagisation was recently created to serve as a network of ‘critical researchers on the heritagisation of different countries and languages’. 13 Even though the term ‘heritagisation’ with this meaning has only recently been incorporated into English, the concept has been used since the 1990s. For instance, Kirshenbaltt-Gimblett, 14 Hufford 15 and Abrahams 16 stress the idea of heritage as a meta-cultural production and a social construction. Leaving aside Walsh’s pejorative use of the word, most of the definitions of heritagisation share common elements, for instance the emphasis on the aspect of process and its social construction. Roigé and Figolé define it as, ‘those processes of cultural production by which cultural or natural elements are selected and reworked for new social uses’; 17 Margry as, ‘the process by which cultural phenomena or cultural objects, old and modern, are labelled “cultural heritage” by the involved actors and, as a consequence, acquire new meanings, undergo transformative changes http://www.ameriquefrancaise.org/en/authors-instructions.html, [accessed October 2, 2012]. 13 http://respatrimoni.wordpress.com, [accessed October 2, 2012]. 14 Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, ‘Theorizing Heritage’; KirshenblattGimblett, Destination Culture: Tourism, Mseums, and Heritage. 15 Hufford, Conserving Culture. A New Discourse on Heritage. 16 Abrahams, ‘Powerful Promises of Regeneration or Living Well with History’. 17 Roigé and Frigolé, ‘Introduction’, p. 12. 12

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and become an instrumentalisation of the past for the future’; 18 and Davallon as, ‘the act by which a norm, a canon inherited from the past, is contested, subverted, submerged by a new categorization constructed from the present’. 19

THE FINISTERRE PROJECT The project ‘Heritagisation Processes along the Camino de Santiago: Route Santiago-Fisterra-Muxía’ (Xunta de Galicia) proposes a dual research question that addresses, firstly, the effect of the pilgrimage on the daily lives of those living in settlements the route passes through, and secondly, the heritage building processes (heritagisation) that are taking place. Implementation of the project involved data-gathering using surveys to analyse the socioeconomic impact of the pilgrimage on businesses along the route and in Finisterre, together with ethnographic studies in three locations along the route: Vilaserío (municipal district of Negreira), Olveiroa (municipal district of Dumbría) and Finisterre (municipal district of Finisterre). Specifically, the study was conducted on this section of the route because, although it has been used since antiquity, both as a historical thoroughfare and a route of pilgrimage, 20 the significance of this stretch for pilgrims is relatively recent. This is due, in part, to the fact that it is not recognized by the Church because it does not lead to the tomb of St. James, but rather begins there and ends, as M. Vilar puts it 21 ‘where the land ends and the sea begins’. Thus, it was not until the late 1990s that this part of the route began to be promoted. For this reason, its connection with the pilgrimage route is relatively recent, and as such the economic, social and cultural impact of the passage of the ever-increasing numbers of pilgrims Margry, ‘Memorializing a Controversial Politician: The “Heritagization” of a Materialized Vox Populi’, p. 336. 19 Davallon, Le Don du patrimoine: Une aproche communicationnelle de la patrimonialisation, p. 95. 20 Sarmiento, Viaje a Galicia (1745); Borrow, La Biblia en España; Pombo et al., O Camiño dos peregrinos a fin do mundo. A prolongación Xacobea a Fisterra e Muxía. 21 Vilar Álvarez, El camino al fin de la tierra, p. 9. 18

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on the places the Finisterre-Muxía route passes through is beginning to be noted, and economic policies are being developed and fostered in response to the rise in tourism. In the 20th century, the recuperation of the Caminos began as an initiative of the Associations of the Camino de Santiago and, later, various administrations contributed to the project. In 1993, the year of the Camino’s inclusion on the World Heritage List, the Government of Galicia initiated the ‘Xacobeo’ program. The Finisterre-Muxía Route was then included as one of the Caminos de Santiago. 22 This part of the Camino de Santiago is not officially recognized by the Catholic Church and pilgrims walking the route do not receive the compostela, the recognition granted by the Catholic Church to those pilgrims who have walked at least 100 km. For this reason, as well as its connection with the sun cult, many pilgrims call this route ‘the Camino of the atheists’. In fact, the Catholic Church is strong in the heritagisation processes of the rest of the Caminos, and maintains a clear ignoratio strategy in relation to the Finisterre route: officially, the Church does not oppose this route, but nor does it recognize it. This project stems from an imbalance observed in studies of the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. The high number of studies of the pilgrimage in itself contrasts with the near-absence of research into the effects of the pilgrimage on the daily lives of the populations who live along the route and the heritagisation processes that exploitation of the Camino for tourism purposes entails. As such, this project sought to contribute to a redressing of the balance by providing a dual perspective: that of the processes of heritagisation and that of the effects of the pilgrimage on local communities. The project takes a holistic approach to the subject and incorporates techniques and methods from the disciplines of anthropology, sociology, archaeology and history. Within this complex analytic framework, a number of different results have been reached. With regard to the heritagisation processes, from an ethnographic viewpoint it is worth noting the distance observed between institutional policies relating to goods that are declared ‘heritage’ and the 22

Ibid.

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opinions of neighbours concerning what belongs to everyone and what should be valued and preserved accordingly. 23 As for the effects on the local population, based on the sociological surveys the principal conclusion from the study is that there is a clear connection between the increasing number of pilgrims following the Santiago-Finisterre route and the transformation of the productive model of local communities, which in recent years has moved towards offering services related to the pilgrimage. These activities imply a social and economic boost to the local communities along the route of the pilgrimage. 24 While the data reflects growth and revitalization of local communities as a result of this phenomenon, the application of qualitative tools and ethnographic methodologies to the study leads to the conclusion that as well as the effects indicated by the data, this productive revitalization also causes local communities to confront other kinds of phenomena, such as the hidden economy, sharp increases in transient population at specific times of year, interpersonal conflict and the management of resources by other institutional bodies.

ON METHODOLOGY As indicated in the previous section, this study considers cultural heritage and, specifically, heritagisation processes from a holistic perspective. The project proposes a triangulation of different disciplines, especially anthropology, archaeology, sociology, and history. The use of different disciplines and methodologies to study a single phenomenon leads to consistency and the convergence of results. Interdisciplinary design applied to a subject can enable descriptive analysis, test theories and give rise to new theory. Each discipline made use of different – and sometimes shared – techniques and methods –, but they were complementary to the rest, leading to

See the conclusions to Ballesteros-Arias and Sánchez-Carretero, ‘En torno a las ausencias y presencias del concepto de “patrimonio”. Prácticas y discursos patrimonializadores en el camino de Santiago a Fisterra’; Sánchez-Carretero, ‘Heritage Regimes and the Camino de Santiago: Gaps and Logics’. 24 Parga-Dans, ‘The profile of pilgrimage on the way of St. James to Fisterra’. 23

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consistency and convergence of results. 25 This was especially important in the case of quantitative and qualitative data obtained from ethnographic fieldwork and sociological surveys. The study uses the approach of anthropology and its methodology based on participant observation and implementation of participatory action research. 26 This research method is based on collaboration with social partners at every stage, from the definition of the research problem to the implementation of the results, with the aim of promoting social change. 27 The application of this methodology in the field of heritage has been discussed by, among others, Prats, who proposes that heritage should be a social instrument at the service of the population, a resource to be enjoyed in the local area. 28 The number of studies of heritage from a sociological and economic perspective is increasing. The heritage field is seen as a creative sector that is experiencing growth; one that generates jobs and provides a boost to local economies. 29 In recent decades, new lines of research have appeared. These include Cultural Economics 30 and Heritage Economics, 31 disciplines that reveal the socioeconomic implications of decisions relating to culture and heritage. Another discipline employed in this study is archaeology. From an archaeological perspective, a range of techniques are used Eisenhardt, ‘Building theories from case study research’; Jick, ‘Mixing qualitative and quantitative methods: triangulation in action’. 26 Prats, ‘Concepto y gestión del patrimonio local’. 27 Greenwood, ‘De la observación a la investigación-acción participativa: una visión crítica de las prácticas antropológicas’. 28 Prats, ‘Concepto y gestión del patrimonio local’. 29 Cooke and Lazzeretti (eds), Creative cities, cultural clusters and local economic development; Vicente Hernández, Economía del Patrimonio Cultural y Políticas Patrimoniales. Un Estudio de la Política del Patrimonio Arquitectónico en Castilla y León. 30 Baumol and Bowen, ‘On the performing arts: the anatomy of their economic problems’; Throsby, Economics and culture; Frey, Arts and economics: Analysis and cultural policy; Towse, A Handbook of Cultural Economics; Goodwin, ‘Art and culture in the history of economic thought’. 31 Greffe, La valeur économique du patrimoine. 25

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that enrich the study of heritage in a broader framework. The conduct of the present study focused on a review of the existing archaeological heritage along the route, 32 taking into consideration its heritage status and evaluating the various heritage-related actions undertaken. The data for this study was gathered during a year of fieldwork based on a multiple-approach research design. The importance of combining techniques to gain access to different aspects of a complex social phenomenon such as the effects of the pilgrimage on Finisterre was laid clear, for example, in the economic impact study. In this case, the information from surveys of accommodation was built on, vastly explained, and completed by the data obtained from ethnographic fieldwork. The connections between the different areas of work and the results achieved are set out below. The ethnographic fieldwork made it possible to analyse the impact of the pilgrimage on the daily lives of the populations the route passes through. This research was conducted along the length of the route, making use of an ethnographic fieldwork methodology, according to which three locations were chosen for intensive work: Vilaserío, Olveiroa and Finisterre. In turn, the work was divided into three phases: phase 1, study of the entire length of the route and selection of sites; phase 2, fieldwork in the selected sites; and phase 3, interviews with representatives of institutions such as the municipal government, the Xunta de Galicia and the Catholic Church. A sociological approach was used to analyse the social and economic impact of the pilgrimage on the local communities along the Camino de Finisterre, as a result of a series of dynamic processes through which certain cultural and heritage practices are valued. The principal results of this study point to an increasing numThe archaeological studies of the area related to specific archaeological sites are Alonso Romero et al., ‘Sobre la orientación astronómica de la capilla de San Guillermo (Finisterre, Galicia)’; Naveiro López and Pérez Losada, ‘Un Finisterre atlántico en época romana: la costa galaica (NW de la Península Ibérica)’; Galovart, El Laberinto atlántico. However, there are no complete published archaeological studies of the entire route of the Camino to Finisterre. 32

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ber of pilgrims visiting this branch of the Camino de Santiago, which has begun to impact on the productive model of these local communities, with a move towards service-based activities, essentially geared towards offering services to those following the route. The results also show that this productive activity is generating employment for families living in these communities, and revitalizing other activities relating to the provision of goods and services. As far as archaeology is concerned, an assessment was made of the conservation status of the major archaeological heritage sites located in the vicinity of the route. The following conclusions were drawn: • The number of visible archaeological sites located in the vicinity of the route does not exceed the average number to be expected for Galicia, with less than one per square kilometre. In an area of almost 120 km2, the presence of 78 visible archaeological sites was recorded. • With regard to the sites observed, there is a slight downward trend in their heritage status. However, if the high percentage of missing sites from the group of unlocated sites is taken into account, this trend becomes more markedly negative. • To date, the existence of the Camino a Finisterre does not represent a significant cause of disturbance for the group of sites. • With the exception of the San Guillerme Hermitage (Finisterre), there is no deliberate management of archaeological heritage in the vicinity of the Camino a Finisterre, beyond the preparation of an inventory.

A second phase of work was planned to carry out archaeological activities at those sites where an outstanding significance for local people was detected. However, as there was no outstanding local interest in the sites – or such concerns were expressed neither by neighbours nor by local administrators in the areas where ethnographic fieldwork was conducted –, it was decided not to proceed with this plan. 33 33

With the exception of San Guillerme, in Finisterre.

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From a historical perspective, archive documents on the pilgrimage to Finisterre since Medieval times were analysed in an attempt to clarify its connection with Marian pilgrimages or the pilgrimage to Santiago.

THE DIVIDES BETWEEN HERITAGE POLICIES AND LOCAL CONCEPTIONS OF HERITAGE

One of the objectives of the Finisterre research project is to compare heritage policies at the regional and municipal level with the ideas that other local actors have with regard to what makes up their heritage. 34 The first conclusion of this analysis is the disjuncture that exists between those levels. In relation to this gap, we will concentrate on two aspects. First, the municipality constructs a sophisticated discourse on heritage. 35 For instance, in Dumbría – one of the municipalities that the Camino de Finisterre crosses – out of the three main lines of action taken by the municipal council, two of them are related to heritage: one deals with the conservation and promotion of the Camino and the other with natural heritage. This use of heritage contrasts with the lack of a term to name it at the local level. Our informants in some of the towns with pilgrim hostels (Olveiroa, in the municipality of Dumbría; Vilaserío, in the municipality of Negreira and Finisterre, in the municipality of Finisterre) have a clear idea of what they consider valuable and what belongs to everybody. At the same time, they do not use the term heritage. The absence of this term – which does not imply an absence of the concept – contrasts with the overwhelming use of the word ‘heritage’ by local politicians. The second aspect is related to the concept of heritage. While politicians and heritage managers have a limited idea of what heritage is, for some of our informants from the local populations it includes a broader range of possibilities. The former have a notion Ballesteros-Arias and Sánchez-Carretero, ‘En torno a las ausencias y presencias del concepto de “patrimonio”. Prácticas y discursos patrimonializadores en el camino de Santiago a Fisterra’. 35 For a more detailed analysis of these discourses see SánchezCarretero, ‘Heritage Regimes and the Camino de Santiago: Gaps and Logics’. 34

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of heritage as objects and buildings, to include churches, crosses and grain containers (hórreos). The latter suggest a wider variety of examples, also adding cultural practices, such as festivals, religious celebrations, or local ways of raising funding to organize community activities; and also other elements of heritage, which are more difficult to catalogue, such as ‘continuing working the land’, ‘the rural landscape’, or ‘our local water supplies’. 36 In this section, we will analyse the limitations of the concept of heritage used by those actors who are part of ‘the heritage regime’ and the naturalization processes that are taking place. By ‘the heritage regime’ 37 we refer to the institutions in charge of heritage policy-making; and by ‘naturalization of an idea’ we refer to the assumption that this idea is taken for granted as if it were the ‘natural’ way. In this case, the naturalization that is explored is related to the idea that developing local heritage industries is exclusively related to the development of tourism. Tourism and heritage are commonly linked; and the tourism industry is an essential part of understanding how heritagisation processes work. Anthropologist Llorenç Prats studies the links between heritage and tourism in an article entitled ‘Heritage + Tourism = Development?’. 38 However, the sign ‘+’, as will be explored below, is being substituted by ‘=’ with the naturalization process that assumes that tourism is the only productive sector affected by heritage. To develop this argument about the naturalization of the links between the tertiary sector and heritage, we will concentrate on the idea that heritage can mean, for instance, ‘continuing working the land’, as expressed by our informants. This idea is indeed anchored in nostalgia for a past that no longer exists, 39 but also in the demand to develop the primary sector, which in these municipalities remains the main source of income. 40 For our informants, working the land is one of their most precious heritage goods and they deExamples from project recording GR041. Bendix et al. (eds.), Heritage Regime and the State. 38 Prats, ‘Patrimonio+turismo=¿desarrollo?’. 39 Abrahams, ‘Powerful Promises of Regeneration or Living Well with History’, p. 79; Jameson, ‘Nostalgia for the Present’. 40 Río Barja, Diccionario Xeográfico Ilustrado de Galicia. 36 37

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mand their right to hold on to it; not as traditional knowledge confined to the museum, but as a productive source of income. Leaving aside the matter of whether this is possible, we want to stress the lack of naturalization of the link between heritage and the tourism industry for the local population. On the contrary, representatives of municipal and regional political bodies held a naturalized or un-questioned assumption that any possible economic benefit related to heritage is linked to the tertiary sector. In this case, the naturalization of the link between heritage as a resource and the tourist sector takes place among the institutional social actors. A plausible hypothesis that needs to be confirmed in future research is that the heritage regime and its institutionalization implies a limitation placed on other possibilities; for instance, the possibility for heritage to become an economic resource to develop the primary sector. Other social actors who are not involved in the Authorized Heritage Discourse 41 remain open to other possibilities, as explored in the above example. This idea does not seek to criticize the link between tourism and heritage, but to question whether it is the only way in which heritage can become a resource.

CONCLUDING REMARKS Among anthropologists, as well as many historians and archaeologists, the social construction of heritage is the departure point; however, this starting point is not always shared by other disciplines, policy-makers or professionals working in the field of heritage, for whom conservation and the activation of heritage as objects is their main objective. In fact, those who understand heritage as objects – or the so-called ‘substantialist position’ 42 – tend to control the Authorized Heritage Discourse. 43 Working on heritage needs to be a participatory endeavour. It implies the joint construction of processes among various stakeholders and not only among heritage specialists. Communities are asking to be part of these processes not only as a passive public but Smith, Uses of Heritage. Davallon, ‘The Game of Heritagization’. 43 Smith, Uses of Heritage. 41 42

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as co-creators of heritagisation processes. It needs to be a public heritage, in the sense that ‘the public’ is formed by those who have something at stake in a decision and, therefore, need to be heard and be part of the decision-making process. 44 The difficult questions remain in determining who these social stakeholders are, and who speaks on behalf of whom. An important fracture – or challenge – in heritage studies consists precisely in the separation among disciplines, which requires bridges to be established using a radical transdiciplinary approach, and also between academia and those actually working in the field of heritage (in museums, NGOs, community centres, or policy-makers, for instance). Moving beyond the criticism of these gaps will be enabled by conducting research into the divides themselves, in order to learn more about how the heritage regime instrumentalises those divides. Taking a holistic approach to the concept of cultural heritage, the different disciplines dissolve and merge towards a common goal. Their field of research is not defined by a specific object but by the questions asked of this sociocultural phenomenon. 45 Interdisciplinary collaboration is possible when attention is directed towards a common research problem, and the critique of heritage and the analysis of heritagisation processes offer a fertile metacultural field.

REFERENCES

R. Abrahams, ‘Powerful Promises of Regeneration or Living Well with History’. In M. Hufford (ed.), Conserving Culture. A New Discourse on Heritage (Urbana, 1994). F. Alonso Romero and M. Cornide Castro Piñeiro. ‘Sobre la orientación astronómica de la capilla de San Guillermo (Finisterre, Galicia)’, Anuario brigantino 22 (1990), pp. 83–90. ion’.

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Hammersley and Atkinson, Etnografía: métodos de investigación, p. 57; Jociles Rubio, ‘Las técnicas de investigación en antropología: mirada antropológica y proceso etnográfico’. 45

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E. Amougou, La question patrimoniale: De la “patrimonialisation” à l’examen de situations concrètes (Paris, 2004). A. Ariño Villarroya, ‘La expansión del patrimonio cultural’, Revista de Occidente 250 (2002), pp. 129–150. X. M. Ayán Vila, ‘El paisaje ausente: por una arqueología de la guerrilla antifranquista en Galicia’, Complutum 19 (2008), pp. 213–237. P. Ballesteros-Arias and C. Sánchez-Carretero, ‘En torno a las ausencias y presencias del concepto de “patrimonio”. Prácticas y discursos patrimonializadores en el camino de Santiago a Fisterra’. In FAAEE (ed.), Actas del XII Congreso de Antropología de la Federación de Asociaciones de Antropología del Estado Español. Lugares, tiempos, memorias (León, 2011), pp. 1583–1592. W. J. Baumol and W. G. Bowen, ‘On the performing arts: the anatomy of their economic problems’, American Economic Review 55 (1965), pp. 10–14. R. Bendix, ‘Heritage between Economy and Politics: An Assessment from the Perspective of Cultural Anthropology’. In L. Smith and N. Akagawa (eds.), Intangible Heritage (London, 2009). R. Bendix, A. Eggert and A. Peselmann (eds), Heritage Regimes and the State (Göttingen, 2012). G. Borrow, La Biblia en España (Barcelona, 2001). T. Braun and A. Schubert, ‘A quantitative view on the coming of age of interdisciplinarity in the sciences 1980-1999’, Scientometrics 58 (2003), pp. 183–189. P. Cooke and L. Lazzeretti (eds), Creative cities, cultural clusters and local economic development (Cheltenham, 2008). J. Davallon, Le Don du patrimoine: Une approche communicationnelle de la patrimonialisation (Paris, 2006). ———, ‘The Game of Heritagization’. In X. Roigé and J. Frigolé (eds), Constructing Cultural and Natural Heritage. Parks, Museums and Rural Heritage (Girona, 2010), pp. 39–62. M. Drouin (ed.), Patrimoine et patrimonialisation du Québec et d’ailleurs (Montreal, 2006). K. M. Eisenhardt, ‘Building theories from case study research’, The Academy of Management Review 14 (1989), pp. 532–550. M. Faure, ‘Patrimonialisation des productions fromagères dans les Alpes du Nord: savoirs et pratiques techniques’, Revue de géographie alpine 86 (1998), pp. 51–60.

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D. Flesler and A. Pérez Melgosa, ‘Hervás, Convivencia, and the Heritagization of Spain’s Jewish Past’, Journal of Romance Studies 10 (2010), pp. 53–76. B. S. Frey, Arts and economics: Analysis and cultural policy (Berlin, 2000). S. Funtowicz, J. Ravetz, I. Shepherd and D. Wilkinson, ‘Science and Governance in the European Union’, Science and Public Policy 27 (2000), pp. 327–336. P. Galovart, El Laberinto atlántico. Tórculo Artes Gráficas (Vigo, 2001) J. L. García García, ‘Del conocimiento antropológico y de su patrimonialización’, Política y Sociedad 44 (2007), pp. 159–173. A. González Ruibal, ‘Arqueología de la Guerra Civil Española’, Complutum 19 (2008), pp. 11–20. C. Goodwin, ‘Art and culture in the history of economic thought’. In V. A. Ginsburg and D. Throsby (eds), Handbook of the economics of art and culture (Amsterdam, 2006), pp. 25–68. D. J. Greenwood, ‘Culture by the Pound: An Anthropological Perspective on Tourism as Cultural Commoditization’. In V. L. Smith (ed.), Hosts and Guests: The Anthropology of Tourism (Philadelphia, 1977), pp. 171–185. ———, ‘De la observación a la investigación-acción participativa: una visión crítica de las prácticas antropológicas’, Revista de Antropología Social 9 (2000), pp. 27–49. X. Greffe, La valeur économique du patrimoine (Paris, 1990). M. Hammersley and P. Atkinson, Etnografía: métodos de investigación (Barcelona, 1994). M. Hufford (ed.), Conserving Culture. A New Discourse on Heritage (Urbana, 1994). J. A. Jacobs and S. Frickel, ‘Interdisciplinarity: a critical assessment’, Annual Review of Sociology 35 (2009), pp. 43–65. F. Jameson, ‘Nostalgia for the Present’, South Atlantic Quarterly 88 (1989), pp. 517–537. T. D. Jick, ‘Mixing qualitative and quantitative methods: triangulation in action’, Administrative Science Quarterly 24 (1979), pp. 602–611. M. I. Jociles Rubio, ‘Las técnicas de investigación en antropología: mirada antropológica y proceso etnográfico’, Gazeta de Antropología 15 (1999), pp. 1–15. B. Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, ‘Theorizing Heritage’, Ethnomusicology 39 (1995), pp. 367–380.

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———, Destination Culture: Tourism, Museums, and Heritage (Berkeley, 1998). ———, ‘Intangible Heritage as Metacultural Production’, Museum International 56 (2004), pp. 52-65. C. Lung-Chih and K. C. Min-Chin, ‘From Colonial Site to Cultural Heritage’, The Newsletter 59 (2012), [Online] www.iias.nl/sites/default/files/IIAS_NL59_2829.pdf [Accessed 18-9-2012] P. J. Margry, ‘Memorializing a Controversial Politician: The “Heritagization” of a Materialized Vox Populi’. In P. J. Margry and C. Sánchez-Carretero (eds), Grassroots Memorials. The Politics of Memorializing Traumatic Death (New York and Oxford, 2011), pp. 319–345. P. J. Margry and C. Sánchez-Carretero, ‘Rethinking Memorialization. The Concept of Grassroots Memorials’. In P. J. Margry and C. Sánchez-Carretero (eds), Grassroots Memorials. The Politics of Memorializing Traumatic Death (New York and Oxford, 2011), pp. 1–48. J. L. Naveiro López and F. Pérez Losada, ‘Un Finisterre atlántico en época romana: la costa galaica (NW de la Península Ibérica)’. In M. Wood and F. Queiroga (eds), Current research on the romanization of the Western Provinces (Oxford, 1992), pp. 63–90. E. Parga Dans, ‘The profile of pilgrimage on the way of St. James to Fisterra’. In Incipit, Incipit. Informes y documentos de trabajo. [Online] http://hdl.handle.net/10261/45922. [Accessed 3009-2014] X. Pereiro Pérez, ‘Patrimonialización, museos e arquitectura: o caso de Allariz’. In E. Fernández de Paz and J. Agudo Torrico (eds), Patrimonio cultural y museología (Santiago de Compostela, 1999). A. Pombo, X. Fernández Carrera and X. M. Yáñez. O camiño dos peregrinos a fin do mundo. A prolongación Xacobea a Fisterra e Muxía (A Coruña, 2000). L. Prats, ‘Patrimonio+turismo=¿desarrollo?’, Pasos 1 (2003), pp. 127–136. ———, ‘Concepto y gestión del patrimonio local’, Cuadernos de Antropología Social 21 (2005), pp. 17–35. P. Rausell and F. Marco, ‘El sector de la cultura como sector estratégico en el cambio del modelo productivo. Análisis de la

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productividad’. In F. Hernández-Pavón (ed.), Economía y empleo en la cultura (Sevilla, 2011), pp. 83–103. F. J. Río Barja, Diccionario Xeográfico Ilustrado de Galicia (Santiago de Compostela, 2009). X. Roigé and J. Frigolé, ‘Introduction’. In X. Roigé and J. Frigolé (eds), Constructing Cultural and Natural Heritage. Parks, Museums and Rural Heritage (Girona, 2010), pp. 9–26. C. Sánchez-Carretero, ‘Heritage Regimes and the Camino de Santiago: Gaps and Logics’. In R. Bendix, A. Eggert and A. Peselmann (eds), Heritage Regime and the State (Göttingen, 2012), pp. 141– 155. C. Sánchez-Carretero and C. Ortiz, ‘Rethinking Ethnology in the Spanish Contex’, Ethnologia Euroapea 38, 1 (2008), pp. 23–28. ———, ‘Grassroots Memorials as Sites of Heritage Creation’. In H. K. Anheier, Y. R. Isar and D. Viejo-Rose (eds), Cultures and Globalization 4: Heritage, Memory, Identity (Los Angeles, 2011), pp. 106–113. F. M. Sarmiento, Viaje a Galicia (1745), J. L. Pensado study and edition (Salamanca, 1975). L. Smith, Uses of Heritage (New York, 2006). C. D. Thorsby, Economics and culture (Cambridge, 2001). R. Towse, A Handbook of Cultural Economics (Cheltenham, 2003). E. Vicente Hernández, Economía del Patrimonio Cultural y Políticas Patrimoniales. Un Estudio de la Política del Patrimonio Arquitectónico en Castilla y León (Madrid, 2007). M. Vilar Álvarez, El camino al fin de la tierra (Santiago de Compostela, 2010). K. Walsh, The Representation of the Past. Museums and Heritage in the Post-Modern World (London, 1992). R. Williams, Cultura. Sociología de la comunicación y del arte (Barcelona, 1981).

ACCESS TO HERITAGE IN THE WESTERN BALKANS: DISABLED PEOPLE AND MUSEUMS DIANA WALTERS MICHÈLE TAYLOR INTRODUCTION This chapter describes an approach to cultural heritage and disabled people 1 in the western Balkans with a group of eleven museums in six countries. It provides the context of the project and explains how it contributes to broader initiatives of democratisation and human rights within the region. It describes how partnerships and working together on shared issues contribute to peace-building in post-conflict societies and societies in transition. It analyses the impact of cultural heritage approaches, both on the disabled participants and for the organisations and individuals involved. The work demonstrates the value and necessity of diversity and inclusion within cultural heritage approaches creatively applied and embedded in museum and heritage practice. It looks at the Both authors are actively involved in the programme of work described; Michèle Taylor as facilitator and disability and access expert and Diana Walters as project manager. 1 A Note on Language: we recognise that many Deaf people who are Sign Language users prefer to be considered as members of a linguistic minority rather than as disabled people. It is our usual practice, therefore, to distinguish between Deaf people and disabled people. Thus, when we talk of disabled people, we are using this phrase as a shorthand for D/deaf and disabled people for the sake of ease.

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specific value of working collaboratively and practically, using a hands-on, active learning approach to developing an understanding of inclusive practice in a region where little expertise had previously existed. The article concludes with outlining the challenges to sustainability for such interventions.

MUSEUMS IN THE WESTERN BALKANS AND BACKGROUND TO THE PROJECT

The region Conflicts in the former Yugoslavia were bitter, and widespread cultural and ethnic cleansing occurred as an aspect of aggressive nationalism. The destruction of cultural property contributed to a major migration of refugees and, in some cases, abandonment of whole communities. Museums and other cultural agencies were often appropriated and continue to be subject to the instability of a constantly changing and unstructured political landscape, bedeviled by corruption and dogmatism. In this landscape, positioning museums as agents of social justice is challenging, and could even be viewed by some as subversive. There is often a tension between surviving as part of the official structure (with all that implies) and engaging with inclusive practice designed to broaden and activate the museum as an agent in a move towards greater democracy. In Sarajevo, the inability of the state of Bosnia Herzegovina to agree on funding is part of an ongoing political crisis precipitating the closure of the National Museum. This serves as a warning for elsewhere: political instability and consequent financial uncertainty and opaqueness can threaten the functioning and visibility – even the very existence – of heritage and culture organisations. This has led to wry observations that the museum survived the wars but not the peace; itself a comment on the failure of western democracies to resolve the Balkan crisis. 2 Just as in other war-torn countries, such as Iraq, political conflict continues after the declaration of peace and hampers the conservation and restitution of cultural sites and http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2012/oct/03/bosnia-nationalmuseum-funding-crisis 2

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treasures. 3 One of seven institutions affected in Sarajevo is the National Library for the Blind and Partially Sighted, whose future remains unsure. In 2006, the Swedish Foundation Cultural Heritage without Borders (CHwB) began working with a group of eleven museums in Albania, Bosnia Herzegovina, Kosovo, FYR Macedonia, Montenegro and Serbia. For some museums this was the first crossborder contact since the break-up of Yugoslavia. The work is based on strengthening commonality in experience and need; for example through developing aspects of shared heritage, professional needs and capacity building, and a promotion of the value of working internationally. One area highlighted by all was the need to attract a wider visitor base to museums and to be more active within local society. The position of disabled people across the Balkans was recognised as an opportunity to engage with inclusive practice whilst avoiding problematic issues around ethnicity that might have been more politically inflammatory. That in itself could be seen as a commentary on the way disabled people are viewed in society: as marginalised and impotent. CHwB’s work on disability and access began in 2007. It is facilitated through the Balkan Museums Network and is funded by the Stavros Niarchos Foundation. Disabled people in the western Balkans According to the European Union, around one in six people have ‘a disability that ranges from mild to severe, making around 80 million who are often prevented from taking part fully in society and the economy because of environmental and attitudinal barriers.’ 4 High levels of discrimination lead to increased poverty and marginalisation, and demographic trends indicate that this pattern will increase. The position of disabled people means that many of them are denied access to basic services, and human rights are curtailed as duty bearers fail to integrate equal opportunities and antidiscrimination practices. The European Disability Forum is conSee, for example, Joffe, ‘Museum Madness in Baghdad’, pp. 31–43. http://eur-lex.europa.eu/LexUriServ/LexUriServ.do?uri=COM: 2010:0636:FIN:EN:PDF 3 4

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cerned, too, for specific groups of disabled people who face particular issues of discrimination and lack of opportunity. They cite disabled women, young disabled people, people with complex impairments and people with chronic illness. 5 In the western Balkans, on the fringes of the European Union, the situation is more acute. Disabled people are often marginalised, invisible, abused and neglected. Basic rights to education and health are limited or absent and social stigma is common, particularly around mental health. As records are limited, it is difficult to judge the numbers of disabled people in the region, and where statistics are available they are not always reliable. However, official estimates place the numbers of disabled people at, for example, around 800,000 in Serbia (11%) 6 and 110,000 in Albania (3.6%). 7 Blerta Cani Drenofci, Executive Director of the non-governmental organisation Albanian Disability Rights Foundation (ADRF), stated that the official estimate of 110,000 disabled people in Albania is almost certainly low. She says: Until 1993 no one talked about the rights of persons with disabilities… I think it is something culturally inherited from Soviet times. Many disabled persons only feel secure in their families and they fear that they will lose their social benefits if they stand up for their rights. 8

Aggregating the Serbian figure would mean that there are at least two million disabled people across the western Balkans region. Within that, the European Social Watch Report estimated that in Serbia 9 80% of disabled people are unemployed and that 70% live in poverty. 10 The report further outlined areas where institutional http://www.edf-feph.org/Page_Generale.asp?DocID=13351&id= 1&namePage=ourwork&langue=EN 6 http://www.socialwatch.eu/wcm/Serbia.html 7 http://www.civilrightsdefenders.org/uncategorized/human-rightsdefender-of-the-month-blerta-cani-drenofci/ 8 Ibid. 9 Note that Serbia is one of the more developed countries within the region and that the situation is likely to be more acute in other countries. 10 http://www.socialwatch.eu/wcm/Serbia.html 5

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discrimination against disabled women created conditions of domestic abuse, estimated to be four times higher than for nondisabled people. 11 Marginalisation from society means that many disabled people cannot access their right to culture. At a basic level, this means exclusion from formal cultural activity, such as visiting museums, theatres and festivals, but it also means that disabled peoples’ culture is not represented in the broader cultural landscape. Thus, absence of disability and disabled people is experienced as both nonparticipation and non-contribution. However, the countries of the Western Balkans are keen to benefit from European enlargement, and there is an impetus towards improving the status of disabled people for this reason. By 2013 the EU had recognised the FYR Macedonia, Montenegro and Serbia as candidate countries, and Albania, Bosnia Herzegovina and Kosovo as potential candidate countries. The UN Convention on the Rights of People with Disabilities explicitly recognises the value and importance of disabled people’s access to culture. 12 The Convention was negotiated with the direct involvement of disabled people and their families. The article places the responsibility of inclusion firmly on the state and outlines their responsibility to create opportunities for the involvement of disabled people, with recognition that this would benefit and enrich society. CHwB’s disability work in the Western Balkans is firmly established on these principles. It is worth noting that Albania, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Montenegro, FYR Macedonia and Serbia have all signed the Convention; all of these countries except Albania have also signed the optional Protocol and ratified both the Convention and the Protocol.

11 12

Ibid. http://www.un.org/disabilities/convention/conventionfull.shtml

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DEVELOPING A SOCIAL MODEL WAY OF THINKING FOR MUSEUMS

The Social Model of Disability is generally cited as having originated at the Union of the Physically Impaired Against Segregation, where the statement was made that: In our view it is society which disables physically impaired people. Disability is something imposed on top of our impairments by the way we are unnecessarily isolated and excluded from full participation in society. 13

The phrase, ‘Social Model of Disability’ was used by Michael Oliver 14 and became widely adopted by the Disability Rights Movement as an alternative to the so-called Medical Model of disability. The Social Model has been widely applied as a tool for inclusive practice. It is important to recognise that there is a great deal of recent thinking that is critical of the Social Model of Disability. 15 Much of the critique is based on the inadequacy of the Social Model to account for body issues faced by many disabled people. As Crow says: The experience of impairment is not always irrelevant, neutral or positive. How can it be when it is the very reason used to justify the oppression we are battling against? How can it be when pain, fatigue, depression and chronic illness are constant facts of life for many of us? 16

Other critics focus on the internal inconsistency of the Social Model, citing dualism and a lack of recognition of the individual in relationships as reasons for its inadequacy. Lang argues that the model should not be viewed as a ‘monolithic entity’ but more a ‘cluster of http://www.leeds.ac.uk/disability-studies/archiveuk/UPIAS/ fundamental%20principles.pdf 14 Oliver et al., Social Work with Disabled People. 15 Crow, ‘Including all our lives’, pp. 206–26. 16 Crow, ‘Including all our lives’, pp. 206–26. 13

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approaches to the understanding of the notion of disablement’. He continues:

17

However, common to all variants of the social model is the belief that, at root, “disability” and “disablement” are sociopolitical constructions. It is therefore the inhospitable physical environment, in concert with the negative social attitudes that disabled people encounter, which result in the systematic oppression, exclusion and discrimination of disabled people. 18

Even accepting these criticisms of the Social Model, our experience in working with museums is that a Social Model approach is the most fruitful and constructive since it is vital that museums (and other cultural and social institutions) behave as if it is obstacles in the environment that disable people, rather than focusing on medical issues. This is at heart a pragmatic approach. A museum can do nothing to alleviate the symptoms of a medical condition and therefore it is inappropriate for institutions to concern themselves with personal medical information. All a museum is able to do is to ensure that the environment it creates and sustains does not perpetuate disablement through obstacles that may be tangible and physical, sensory, cultural, intellectual, financial, social or attitudinal. The Social Model, whilst it is not a comprehensive philosophical explanation of disabled people’s experience, provides us with a foundation for a useful toolkit and vocabulary with which to approach issues of the inclusion of deaf and disabled people in museums. It has the following benefits: • it encourages a focus on the environment of the museum, i.e. aspects of the disabled person’s experience that are within the influence of the museum staff; • it has the effect of placing inclusion for disabled people at the heart of ordinary policy, protocols and practice, for example visitor care, interpretation, conservation or marketing; • it is a useful basis for heuristic problem-solving; 17 18

Lang, The Development and critique of the Social Model of Disability. Ibid.

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it is a fundamentally positive and confidence-building approach which provides a shared vocabulary and a basis for conversation amongst staff, between staff and visitors and between organisations keen to share good practice.

For these reasons, we built the initiative on our extensive previous experience with museums and explored what a Social Model approach might look like with our colleagues from the western Balkans. 19

APPROACH We began with a series of workshops looking at the basic Social Model approach, exploring starting points and possible pathways for the future with colleagues from across the region. Workshops were hosted locally and as far as was possible we met in museum buildings. This allowed us to work directly with collections, exhibitions and structures that form the reality of colleagues’ day-to-day challenges. From the beginning, we embedded the learning in practical work, using at-hand examples. We invited participants to offer their own critique of standards of access and inclusion in the very buildings we were working in, and we explored problem-solving ideas both as solutions to real, here and now situations and as case studies from which to develop generic strategies. An unforeseen benefit of having the Social Model as a clear theoretical framework for our approach was that it lent a professionalism to the area of working with disabled people that was new to many colleagues. This resonates with our understanding of the region in which work with disabled people has been largely invisible, originating in a charitable approach and with low status. The use of a vocabulary and structure based on empirical evidence gave it a gravitas that was innovative and that was exciting to those who Note that we do not see the Social Model as a ‘one-size fits all’ tool or as a trite approach. Even with the limitations outlined, we use it as a sophisticated and nuanced tool that can nonetheless be made meaningful to all areas of museums’ work as they seek to meet the needs of developing constituencies. 19

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had been working with access questions for several years. This is characterised by a quotation from a project leader. Participating in a research project, she said: I have noticed during several previous projects and this one, […] that many people in our museum […] are quite distanced to this issue and they tend to put some emotional impact on working with disabled people, some of them find it difficult to work with disabled people, they say it is up to emotional reasons […] The others say that [they] don’t know what they would do. So that is one of the things I want to do more about actually, [to] let others in our museum know what we are doing and organise some sort of education for my colleagues, especially those that are working with the public. 20

The project began with three workshops covering the basics of a Social Model approach, and included giving participants practice in assessing the access and inclusion elements of buildings and exhibitions. Following this, we instigated a process of small grants for disability-related projects and improvements in the participating museums. A third strand of activities was the ‘Museum in a Suitcase’, in which we gave museums quite specific guidance in creating a multi-sensory outreach tool that they could use to build relationships locally, and to tell the stories of the museum’s artefacts more widely. These were successfully piloted in a range of settings including disability organisations, special schools and with young disabled adults. Throughout the work we were thereby aiming to develop: • a network of museum practitioners operating within a collegiate, rather than a competitive framework: we encouraged criticism amongst participants, as a constructive tool for improvement rather than as a way of establishing superiority; • confidence in approaching access and inclusion for disabled people, bringing the solutions-based thinking into the realms of common-sense and heuristic thinking; Harrocks, Outside in: The effect of externally driven projects as a method of encouraging organisational learning in museums. 20

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a sense of practice-based learning and freedom to take risks.

The impact of these interventions is explored below. Many participants reflected that the clearest lessons came through mistakes. The group culture fostered a safe environment where reflective practice was encouraged, even though for many this was challenging. A colleague from Serbia wrote about an exhibition of tactile models; It did not go as well as we hoped or expected, but the exhibition we organised was well received by all of our blind and partially sighted visitors […] With limited resources we had to improvise a lot, but it has taught us a lesson. From our mistakes we have learned how to plan better and either make short term plans […] or to set up a wider cooperation with our Ministry and different institutions and organisations and work on something that is not limited with strict deadlines. 21

The same organisation used this experience positively to develop a more strategic approach to future work. Rather than relying on enthusiasm, the museum is working in a partnership model with disabled people and their organisations and adopting a more flexible approach. During the work, we identified a number of individuals who were emerging as champions of disability work in the region and who could be positioned as local resources for less experienced colleagues. Four individuals received training in how to train others, as well as specific technical knowledge, for example working with the Royal National Institute for the Blind in the UK to learn how to design and create tactile images using fusing machines and swell paper and the theory behind communication through touch. Throughout, the approach taken has been constructivist. The cultural and political context of disability and access within Balkan museums, particularly in contrast to the UK and other areas where inclusion and participation are commonly regarded as core business, meant that an iterative active learning approach was essential. 21

Unpublished report from the National Museum of Serbia.

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As outsiders with a different cultural experience and context of working with disability and access, we were guided totally by our colleagues’ experience whilst at the same time creating conditions for a shift in understanding and perspective. For example, working across several languages and traditions meant that definitions were never applied evenly and it was difficult to create norms within the group. Whilst we certainly had our experience, knowledge, information and skills, we were not the people working on the ground in museums that very often did not even have consistent supplies of electricity, never mind broadband or access to budgets and resources.

EMERGING ISSUES AND CHALLENGES Mediating the work across cultures Establishing a culture of accountability around the funded projects proved very difficult. Some of the individuals responsible for managing and delivering them did not seem to be familiar or comfortable with the notion of accounting for expenditure, putting grant funding into a wider budgetary context, or reporting impact. This in part reflects the legacy of many years of bureaucratic and centralised management systems that did not allow for individual responsibility. It is also a comment on how rarely resources are available for projects of this type. The management culture also created challenges in that we had to work hard to maintain some level of consistency in the people that were being sent from museums to the workshops. Our intention to build centres of excellence across the region was not really understood or respected by some Directors, and we knew this could not be achieved if every workshop had different participants and we had to go over the fundamentals again and again. We wanted to build knowledge and experience, whereas some museums were seeing the workshops as a privilege to be distributed amongst the staff. In the end, we had to either accept the situation and work with it as well as we could, or insist that certain people were allowed to attend workshops and thereby risk internal conflict that could potentially limit the impact of the intervention. Re-scoping our expectations was a continuous and iterative process, imposing professionalism and accountability alongside cultural sensitivity. The work of Hofstede was useful in providing a

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model 22 for understanding the differences between cultures and therefore the reasons behind some of the differences in behaviours and expectations. We were also mindful of models of Cultural Competency, such as the work of Cross, Bazron, Dennis, and Isaacs 23 who propose five elements that enable an agency’s ability to develop cultural competence. They are: valuing diversity, having the capacity for cultural self-assessment, being conscious of the dynamics of when cultures interact, having institutionalised cultural knowledge and having adaptations of service delivery reflecting an understanding of cultural diversity. Our own process of cultural competence exactly parallels the learning process we were inviting the workshop participants into as they developed new sensitivities and capacities around disabled people. Disabled people as recipients not partners We encountered an attitude towards disabled people that characterised them as people to be provided for, rather than as potential partners. Disabled people were to be delivered to, not to be worked with, in the minds of most of the individuals we worked with. This is a natural legacy of the social history of the region as has been outlined above and, given this recent history, what was remarkable was that colleagues were open to having their mindset changed. In this aspect, too, we were ourselves modeling a different approach since we were committed to working with colleagues in the region, engaging in active learning and pooling our expertise with their local knowledge, skills and experience to create something new. Many cited that the creation of partnerships with disabled people was the most important outcome of the projects. What this shows, at least in part, is that negative attitudes towards disabled people were the norm, and that the absence of disabled people from cultural life reinforced a deficit model of thinking. Walters (2007) found that the attitudinal barrier to disability within muse22 23

Hofstede et al., Cultures and Organisations, Software of the Mind. Cross et al., Towards a culturally competent system of care, volume I.

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ums was the most insidious and that other barriers were generally cited as reasons for inaction. 24 The points above relate strongly to the fact that one of us (Michèle) is a visibly disabled person. It proved extremely important and powerful that one of the people bringing expertise is a disabled person. Michèle writes: At the first workshop, a key member of the local professional community very deliberately and publicly snubbed me. This was a shocking experience for me personally, and was quite disturbing to me professionally as we were about to go into delivering our first workshop. In the event, it proved very positive, since it was witnessed by most of the workshop participants who were also shocked and embarrassed that I, as a fellow professional, could be treated in such a way.

IMPACT Some very significant work was delivered with what was, in fact, a small amount of money (grants ranged from €2,000 to €5,000 each). Museums reached new audiences and engaged in active audience development amongst disability groups; new partnerships were forged with organisations of and for disabled people; buildings were adapted to widen physical access for disabled people; consultancy relationships were created with disabled individuals and confidence grew to try out new ideas for exhibitions and projects. As one person commented, having managed a funded disability-related project: In short, we can say that it was a totally new experience for us […] But considering the advice received during the workshops, we focused on them and this helped us to realise the project […People] that have been have left very satisfied and have left Walters, ‘Approaches in museums towards disability in the UK and the US’, pp. 29–46. 24

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Another museum described how engaging in disability work had fundamentally altered their small organisation’s approach to collections and display. The project was concerned with developing tactile access to traditional objects. They wrote: Apart from having enriched the museum collection with three more handicraft products, this project changed the internal placement of the collection and hence the staff’s approach toward meeting the needs of people with disabilities. The museum started to expose its collection in open shelves for supporting the touching and communication of the collection’s value and history with people with disabilities. Apart from that, the exhibition will have both the existing and the new collection placed on the ground floor for supporting access of people with physical disabilities to the collection and our cultural heritage. 25

In effect, we supported the participants to create and critique their own case studies through which significant learning took place that could not have been replicated by theoretical teaching and study alone. We also brokered skills sharing between participants so that the expertise and experience in the region has been able to gather momentum. Project examples • A museum in Bosnia Herzegovina developed a project with disabled children, which involved interpreting objects through pottery and craft. The children came from several local organisations. Through meeting regularly in the museum, these small groups began to cooperate and support each other; thereby strengthening the voice of the children, their parents and carers under the same umbrella. The museum became a meeting place and is now seen 25

Unpublished report from Gjakove Museum, Kosovo.

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as a resource for local disabled people. Through becoming a trusted civic space the discourse within the museum is becoming more inclusive and diverse. The organisations involved also began to develop a business approach; selling the craft work to raise small funds for various projects and equipment. In Sarajevo, one museum project focused on visually impaired people. The museum is located on a busy street, and in the course of the project’s development, visually impaired participants commented on the difficulties of reaching the building safely. As a consequence, a bleeping crossing signal was installed. This example clearly illustrated for the whole group the significance of access and inclusion in the museum’s surroundings as well as within the museum’s own buildings. During the course of the projects, we found individual professionals bringing their own particular areas of expertise and interest and applying them to disability and inclusion issues. For example, one individual took their existing work on model-making and applied it to commissioning scale models of local buildings with historical significance so as to create exhibits which are meaningful to blind and partially sighted people. Another took their preexisting work with barcode technology and applied it to designing an audio tour. Museum pedagogues at the Museum of Republika Srpska built on their existing work and relationship with local disabled children’s groups to develop events and exhibitions that brought the children into wider contact with the community. Six workshop participants have contributed articles based on their experience with the project for the edited version of a Disability Toolkit (an open-architecture document produced early on in the work to support developments in the museums) that has been translated into the main Balkan languages. In addition, a number of those who have participated have begun to make wider partnerships locally, beyond their own museum and, in some cases, even beyond the area of cultural heritage, and have begun to share their

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Legacy Together this means that a significant legacy is being created for the work. This takes the form of: • skills within the museums; • confidence and creativity around access and inclusion on the part of staff who have been involved in the project; • expectations amongst disabled people of what the museums will do with them and for them; • buildings that can be more easily accessed and negotiated by disabled people; • museums that have become trusted civic spaces for disabled people, their families and associated professionals; • disabled children who are growing up believing that they have an entitlement to the stories and artefacts held in the museums; • partnerships between museums and civil society organisations, enhancing the role of the museum in society and creating conditions for disabled people to be contributors to cultural landscapes and creative production; • a body of professionals across the region who have worked with diversity and can confidently engage with work and conversation around issues of identity, difference and dissonant heritage.

CHALLENGES Despite the project’s value, which has been clearly demonstrated and experienced by colleagues in the region, challenges remain regarding the sustainability of this work. The fact that the post of Museum Director is often a political appointment means that changes at senior strategic levels can be frequent and sudden and staff can be left working under a new regime with different priorities and possibly a new structure in which they find themselves with unfamiliar responsibilities. Resource allocation is obviously an issue, and imperatives other than audience development and inclusion can take priority. There is a view amongst politicians that museums do not necessari-

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ly exist for visitors or for local communities but to safeguard artefacts – especially those with political and ethnic significance – for their own sake. In an environment where visitors are not a priority, inclusion is not going to be high on the agenda.

CONCLUSION The social stigma disabled people experience and the economic and practical realities of life for many of them in the region form a grim backdrop to this work and we are deeply respectful of the determination of colleagues who have actively and energetically participated in the programme. The outcomes to date demonstrate a social impact that goes beyond anything that can be achieved through legislation alone. Several writers have explored the potential of museums to affect social change and combat inequality, and these examples support the view that cultural institutions can be agents of this type of change. 26 Others have written that museums must include disability within their broader diversity agenda. If, as many professionals increasingly claim, museums are important because they promote understanding and respect between diverse communities then, we would argue, they are well placed to embed a commitment to accessibility and inclusion for disabled people at their core, playing a leading role in identifying and dismantling physical, intellectual and emotional barriers to culture. Creative responses to ensuring full access for all visitors and developing a nuanced understanding of the political and social significance of disability representation, history and culture should come naturally to organisations that claim a unique role in helping visitors understand their place in the world around them. 27

Our experience in the western Balkans also demonstrates clearly the value of an approach to sharing expertise that is practicallybased. We sought to give, and to model, confidence alongside soluSee, for example, Sandell, Museums, Society, Inequality. Smith et al., ‘Beyond compliance? Museums, disability and the law’, pp. 69–70. 26 27

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tions-focused thinking within a framework of practical application. The people we have been working with did not merely study disability issues and learn the theory of inclusive design and practice, they applied for funding to realise projects that implemented those theories in their own contexts; they learned ways of cascading their new-found skills and confidence to colleagues and they began to locate themselves as agents for change in their wider communities. It seemed that the focus on disabled people as an excluded and marginalised group within the region as a whole made it possible for individuals from a range of ethnic backgrounds to work together. We delivered training in mixed groups and facilitated peer-to-peer support, as well as requiring participants to share ideas and exercise accountability to each other for the projects they were delivering. Whilst this certainly presented practical challenges for us (not least working with multiple interpreters at any one time), it was important to achieve the underlying peace and reconciliation agenda of the work. Task-based collaboration was uppermost for most of the participants, along with their shared excitement at the knowledge and skills they were acquiring and putting into practice. We saw individuals’ attitudes towards disabled people shift from one based on – at best – provision for them to one based on a recognition of the humanity of disabled people, on their equality, their abilities, their rights and their own heritage. This was partly due to the fact that one of us is a visibly disabled person; it was very probably the first time many of the participants had knowingly encountered a disabled person as a fellow professional. In working practically with inclusive design for disabled people following the guidelines we presented, participants were required to meet with disabled people and consult them; they also began to see them come to their museums. Many of them began to make connections with other issues of diversity, including ethnicity and nationality; this was supported by the fact that they were working with colleagues who did not necessarily share their national or ethnic identities. The importance of this kind of practice-based approach is also that it creates relatively safe spaces whereby notions of what constitutes heritage and cultural rights could be challenged and extended. Introducing marginalized voices to heritage discourse in the Balkans could, in time, assist the deconstruction of monolithic attitudes around ‘national’ heritage and power and allow inclusive

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practice to contribute to the meta-narratives of this highly charged region.

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(eds), Museums, Equality and Social Justice (Routledge, Abingdon 2012). United Nations Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities, Article 30 – Participation in cultural life, recreation, leisure and sport http://www.un.org/disabilities/convention/conventionfull.sh tml, accessed 17th June 2014 Union of the Physically Impaired Against Segregation and the Disability Alliance, 1975, ‘Fundamental principles of disability’, http://www.leeds.ac.uk/disability-studies/archiveuk/UPIAS/ fundamental%20principles.pdf accessed Jan 21 2013 D. Walters, ‘Approaches in museums towards disability in the UK and the US’, in Museum Management & Curatorship 24, 1 (2009), pp. 29–46.