Multiple Mediterranean Realities: Current Approaches to Spaces, Resources, and Connectivities 9783770557400, 3770557409

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MULTIPLE MEDITERRANEAN REALITIES

MITTELMEERSTUDIEN

Herausgegeben von

Mihran Dabag, Dieter Haller, Nikolas Jaspert und Achim Lichtenberger

BAND 6

Achim Lichtenberger, Constance von Rüden (Eds.)

MULTIPLE MEDITERRANEAN REALITIES Current Approaches to Spaces, Resources, and Connectivities

Wilhelm Fink | Ferdinand Schöningh

Titelfoto: Constance von Rüden

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http://dnb.d-nb.de abrufbar. Alle Rechte vorbehalten. Dieses Werk sowie einzelne Teile desselben sind urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung in anderen als den gesetzlich zugelassenen Fällen ist ohne vorherige schriftliche Zustimmung des Verlags nicht zulässig. © 2015 Ferdinand Schöningh, Paderborn (Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh GmbH & Co. KG, Jühenplatz 1, D-33098 Paderborn) Internet: www.fink.de | www.schoeningh.de Einbandgestaltung: Evelyn Ziegler, München Printed in Germany Herstellung: Ferdinand Schöningh GmbH & Co. KG, Paderborn ISBN 978-3-7705-5740-0 (Fink) ISBN 978-3-506-76638-0 (Schöningh)

CONTENTS

Preface ............................................................................................................. 7 Introduction: Multiple Mediterranean Realities. Spaces, Resources and Connectivities ........................................................................................... 9 CONSTANCE VON RÜDEN and ACHIM LICHTENBERGER

Spaces Prehistoric Cyprus: A ‘Crossroads’ of Interaction? .......................................... 17 A. BERNARD KNAPP Making the Way through the Sea. Experiencing Mediterranean Seascapes in the Second Millennium B.C.E.................................................... 31 CONSTANCE VON RÜDEN Opportunity in Scarcity: Environment and Economy on Aegina .................... 67 GUDRUN KLEBINDER-GAUß and WALTER GAUß Multiple Mediterranean Forces: Guido von Kaschnitz Weinberg’s Mediterranean Art.......................................................................................... 93 ACHIM LICHTENBERGER Schizophrenic Urban Reality. The Changing Urban Landscapes of the Mediterranean Region and Developmental Influences ............................ 105 LORRAINE FARRELLY and ANDREA VERNINI

Resources Mineral Resources and Connectivity in the Mediterranean and its Hinterland ...............................................................................................121 THOMAS STÖLLNER The Trojan Palladion – Visual Expression of a pan-Mediterranean Identity in Antiquity?....................................................................................149 STEFAN RIEDEL Perpetration and Perpetuation: The Persistence of Reciprocal Stereotypes in the Geo-Politics of Mediterranean Cuture ..............................169 MICHAEL HERZFELD Mittelmeer-Blues. Musik und postkoloniale Melancholie ..............................185 IAIN CHAMBERS

Connectivities Crossing the Sea – The Translation of Relics to and from North Africa .................................................................................................207 STEFAN ALTEKAMP Some Thoughts on the Carolingians and the Mediterranean – Theories, Terminology and Realities .............................................................223 SEBASTIAN KOLDITZ The Return of Ulysses. Varieties of the ‘New Mediterranean’ between Mediterraneanism and Southern Thought .......................................259 MARTIN BAUMEISTER Transnational Mobilities, Digital Media and Cultural Resources...................273 HEIDRUN FRIESE

PREFACE

This collection of essays is the result of an international conference which took th th place at Ruhr University Bochum from April 26 –28 2012. It was hosted by the Zentrum für Mittelmeerstudien (Centre for Mediterranean Studies) which is funded by the Federal Ministry of Education and Research. We would very much like to express our gratitude to the Ministry for its financial support. One of the aims of the conference was to foster critical approaches to Mediterranean Studies and thus we invited several scholars of Mediterranean Studies with different disciplinary backgrounds to discuss current problems relating to spaces, resources and connectivities in the Mediterranean. During the conference we received much logistical support from the members of the Centre for Mediterranean Studies and we would particularly like to single out Eleni Markakidou, Christoph Kremer, Anne Riedel and Stefan Riedel. Editorial work of this volume was considerably supported by Anne Riedel to whom we are very grateful. Further, Matthias Bley, Andreas Eckl and Stefan Riedel contributed to the editing of this volume. We would also like to thank all contributors to the conference and all panel chairs and discussants, of whom we would especially like to mention Johannes Fabian who chaired the final discussion and gave stimulating input to the conference. Achim Lichtenberger and Constance von Rüden Bochum, October 2014

CONSTANCE VON RÜDEN AND ACHIM LICHTENBERGER

Introduction: Multiple Mediterranean Realities. Spaces, Resources and Connectivities Despite its arbitrary delineation of space, the idea of a unified and homogenous Mediterranean continues to be the subject of numerous historical, political and social constructions. A huge variety of images of the Mediterranean emerged during history and more are still being constructed today. In few cases, these realities might simply coexist, but mostly they are shaped and influenced by each other or are competing for interpretative hegemony. The well-known and often cited Roman expression “mare nostrum” is one of the earliest evidence in support of such an idea and can be regarded as an attempt to propagate in one or the other way imperial dominance in that area 1; a dominance whose material expression might be seen in an almost limitless amount of Roman architectural remains. 2 These ruins are even today used as a characteristic to define the Mediterranean landscape, for example by Takis Theodoropoulos and Rania Polycandrioti in their book La Méditerranée grecque: “il [la Méditerranée] s’ arrête là où je vois se dresser la dernière colonne dans le paysage nu, en partant de Baalbek au Liban jusqu‘ au Volubilis au Maroc“ (Theodoropoulos, 2000, pp.26-27)

Of course the concept of a ‘mare nostrum’ was gratefully taken up by imperial th th powers in the 19 /20 century. Both the Italians and the French referred to ‘their’ respective Roman heritage and attempted to ‘Latinize’ North Africa. This development can be seen as an alternative model to that of the central and western European colonial powers, but surely also as a means of distinction from the Arab population, which was considered to be non-local and whose right to live on these shores was challenged by this scheme (Altekamp, 2000). The almost exclusive excavation and display of Roman monuments during this period may be regarded as the Mediterranization of the Libyan landscape. When NATO put the protection of the archaeological sites in Libya on their agenda while they were 1 2

On the term ‘mare nostrum’ cf. Burr, 1932. Seeing Roman architectural styles in the Mediterranean as the expression of Roman imperial rule is of course misleading, since the processes through which such styles were adopted within the Roman empire were more complex and not simply a top-down phenomenon. There has been an abundance of scholarly debate about ‘Romanization’ in recent decades. Cf. e.g. Millett, 1992; Woolf, 2000; Schörner, 2005.

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bombing the country in 2011 – clearly to enhance the image of their military campaign – it was very evocative of the colonial history of Europe and its use of archaeological heritage in North Africa. Was the colonial period perhaps the moment when the concept of the Mediterranean – not in a geographical, but in a socio-political sense – entered the academic discourse? In any case the academic world seems to have been inspired by the term and the Mediterranean started to be considered more intensively as a possible category for social and historical study. Among the representatives of the L’École des Annales Fernand Braudel’s ‘Mediterranée’ had an immense impact: By advocating a distinctiveness of the Mediterranean geography, his concept of a longue durée entailed a deterministic image of its land- and seascapes (Braudel, 1949; 1958). To a certain degree he considered, for example, pastoralism as a lifestyle determined by arid regions of the Mediterranean, while seafaring and trade was seen by him as the natural mode of subsistence of coastal populations. Whether or not it was Braudel’s intention, his longue durée concept paved the way for an ahistorical understanding of the Mediterranean and of the sea itself as the main actor for interregional contact through the ages. Subsequent research such as that of Peregrine Horden and Nicolas Purcell modified Braudel`s general approach by emphasizing the diversity of Mediterranean landscapes and its different resources as important factors for the formation of interregional connectivity (Horden and Purcell, 2000). In spite of their interesting emphasis on the diversity of microregions, they maintain a certain environmental determinism by considering the high variability of food production and the danger of even complete harvest failures within the micro-regions to be a main reason for interactions with the outside world. This is an appealing idea that is certainly worthy of discussion, but as with Braudel’s opus, it entails the risk of diminishing the importance of human agency and of human choices. It is obvious that Horden and Purcell’s model of closely connected diverse Mediterranean microregions could only be developed in the age of globalization, and globalization is undoubtedly the subtext of Mediterranean connectivity (Morris, 2003). A recent book by David Abulafia on the other hand places very strong emphasis on human actions within the Mediterranean without adequately considering Mediterranean landscapes (Abulafia, 2011). He shows very nicely how connectedness and unity are manmade and subject to historical situations. His neglect of the environmental conditions of the sea and its landscapes however is striking. Thus the question remains: how can we incorporate space and landscape without falling into the trap of determinism? How can we sufficiently include daily activities and praxis and the generation of knowledge as a result of experiencing a specific landscape within people’s lifeworlds, without arguing in an ahistorical way? Yet another aspect is emphasized by Braudel, Horden/Purcell and Abulafia: trade and ‘connectivity’, whatever may be meant by connectivity (Malkin, 2011). In their concepts it is even crucial for survival in the Mediterranean. But in their desire to trace evidence for trade and contact they are not alone: for example, research of the Mediterranean Bronze Age has focused on this issue for several dec-

Introduction

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ades now. Although the emphasis on economic ideas was probably most prominent in the 1980s and 90s, it still remains en vogue today; its inspiration is sometimes not very difficult to spot: Here again, in the age of globalization and globalization theory academic research can perhaps be expected to follow a similar path. This approach has helped us to overcome traditional divisions in archaeological research. But to reduce exchange in the past to neoliberal economic ideas and functionalism probably does not help us understand its complexity and might even provide modern neoliberal politics with the legitimacy of an assumed long history. Research in the last few years shows that to understand the various forms of entanglement between the different regions of the Mediterranean the word ‘connectivity’ is far too broad and undifferentiated and can, therefore, easily imply a Mediterranean unity. Until we understand this complexity, we will be unable to say if the so-called ‘connectivity’ in the Mediterranean was a reason for the assumed similarities in later periods. Thus, we prefer to speak of ‘connectivities’ rather than of ‘connectivity’ because this widens the scope for discussion and helps to better understand the diversity of possible ways, extents and dimensions of connectivity within the Mediterranean. To the link between modern economics and academic research we of course have to add politics: In 1995 the EUROMED partnership was created. Initially and up to 2010 it seems to have focused on the establishment of a neoliberal free trade zone, behind the façade of noble aims such as the creation of a peaceful and stable Mediterranean. To understand the essence of this enterprise: 90 per cent of the programme’s financial means supported the economic and financial partnership, whereas other aims such as, for example, reciprocal understanding, human rights and democracy seem to have been given short shrift. The established free trade zone of course sets limits on North African products like olive oil (Sadiki, 2008, p.128), while in a later stage of the project, now known as Union for the Mediterranean, it paved the way for German and French interests to establish the project Desertec and the Mediterranean Solar Plan (European Commission, n.d.), to exploit mainly the North African sun to help resolve European energy problems. The sequence of the words ‘Euro-Mediterranean’ might unmistakeably spell out the aims of the undertaking. It will be interesting to examine who and what is allowed to cross the Mediterranean – and who and what is not, which leads us to the huge topic of migration and the so-called boat people. Here the question arises: for whom is the Mediterranean a border, and who took that decision? And why does historical research focus mainly on connectivity? – Is this what Walter Benjamin called “Historicism” and the “empathy” of the Historian for the victor (Benjamin, 1992, pp.141-154)? We should not forget that the Union for the Mediterranean emerged out of the election campaign of Nicolas Sarkozy in 2007, and it is thus not surprising that probably his biggest cultural prestige object is the Musée des Civilisations de l’Europe et de la Méditerranée in Marseille, which recently opened. It remains to be seen what impact this has on the cultural and academic reality and on knowledge production.

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Images of the Mediterranean as a homogenous cultural area have also been and th continue to be prominent in the popular imagination. Since the 18 century the bourgeoisie of Central and Western Europe has felt a longing for the Mediterranean, especially for Greece and Italy, to escape their strict and narrowing social world (Aldrich, 1993). Seemingly modern phenomena such as the penchant of homosexuals for this region usually associated with places like Mykonos seem to have their starting point in this period. Social and sexual freedom – an image of allure and desire which still sells in modern travel advertising. Furthermore, the western and northern life style is also undergoing Mediterranization: Mediterranean food (Helstosky, 2009), the desire for a more relaxed life and sensual pleasures are positive stereotypes to be found in nearly all urban areas of Northern and Western Europe. A Mediterranean ‘feel’ is expressed in things such as terracotta pots planted with herbs on the tables of ‘Mediterranean’ restaurants in the socalled Western world. In 2010 Mediterranean diet was even inscribed in the UNESCO list of Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity (UNESCO, n.d.). Mediterranean here means primarily Spain, Italy and Greece, while North Africa and Western Asia are less associated with it. Marocco alone is one of the four countries that applied for inscription in the list, the others being Spain, Greece and Italy. Is the Mediterranean thus a mainly European/Western construct? Is this the reason why it is so difficult to find researchers in Arab countries, not educated within so-called Western systems, who are interested in this topic? While the Mediterranean has a positive image in the cities of the ‘North’, it can quickly change to a series of negative stereotypes about the mentality of the ‘Mediterranean people’. Such stereotypes have recently experienced an unprecedented revival following the economic crisis in Spain, Greece and Italy, a development with strong cultural deterministic or even racist tendencies. In the light of all these difficult and at times politically dangerous realities of the Mediterranean we inevitably come to the question Christian Bromberger and Jean-Yves Durand asked at the conclusion of the conference L’anthropologie de la Mediterranée: “Faut-il jeter la Méditerranée avec l’eau du bain?” (Blok, Bromberger and Dionigi, 2001). In the end, they are rightly against such a radical measure by saying that the Mediterranean after all can be thought of as a space of dialogue (see also Albèra, 1999), where the identities of the one and the other are defined in a game of mirrors. But that is not the only reason the Mediterranean should be studied intensively. There is something specific about the Mediterranean; it carries a lot of historical and political weight as a research area. People have used and abused the Mediterranean in so many different ways both in modern politics and in history, and we should, therefore, not leave it to them, but rather apply a critical approach to it. We hope that the questions and the selection of different Mediterranean realities sketched in this introduction have made this obvious. And there is another important aspect in constructing the Mediterranean: It can serve as a model and counterpoint against nationalism, and against ethnic and religious cleansings. Thus, it is clear that constructing and deconstructing the Mediterranean is done with different intentions and with various – expected and

Introduction

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unexpected – results. Looking at different Mediterranean realities may contribute to an awareness of such processes. The conference aspired to shed light on this range of diverse and often conflicting or contradictory realities, some of which were produced materially and some non-materially. The essays in this volume aim at analyzing how these realities are interrelated, both in scholarly knowledge production and in the public imagination.

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Bibliography Abulafia, D., 2011. The Great Sea: A Human History. London: Lane. Albèra, D., 1999. The Mediterranean as an Anthropological Laboratory, Anales de la Fundación Joaquín Costa 16, pp.215-232. Aldrich, R., 1993. The Seduction of the Mediterranean: Writing, Art and Homosexual Fantasy. London: Routledge. Altekamp, S., 2000. Rückkehr nach Afrika: italienische Kolonialarchäologie in Libyen 1911–1943. Cologne, Weimar, Wien: Böhlau. Benjamin, W., 1992. Über den Begriff der Geschichte. Stuttgart: Reclam. Blok A., Bromberger C. and Dionigi, A., eds., 2001. L’anthropologie de la Mediterranée. Anthropology of the Mediterranean Collection. L'atelier méditerranéen. Paris: Maisonneuve & Larose-MMSH. Braudel, F., 1949. La Méditerranée et le monde méditerranéen à l’époque de Philippe II. Paris: Colin. Braudel, F., 1958. Histoire et Science Sociale. La longue durée. Annales. Économies, Sociétés, Civilisations. 13e année, no.4., pp.725-753. Burr, V., 1932. Nostrum Mare. Ursprung und Geschichte der Namen des Mittelmeeres und seiner Teilmeere im Altertum. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. European Commission, n.d. Energy from Abroad, European Commission [online]. Available at: [Accessed 2 July 2014]. Helstosky, C., 2009. Food Culture in the Mediterranean. Westport: Greenwood Press. Horden, P. and Purcell, N., 2000. The Corrupting Sea. A Study of Mediterranean History. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing. Malkin, I., 2011. A Small Greek World. Networks in the Ancient Mediterranean. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Millett, M., 1992. The Romanization of Britain. An Essay in Archaeological Interpretation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Morris, I., 2003. Mediterranization, Mediterranean Historical Review 18, pp.30-55. Pitt-Rivers, J.A., 1963 Mediterranean Countrymen: Essays in the Social Anthropology of the Mediterranean. The Hague, Paris: Mouton. Sadiki, L., 2008. Engendering Citizenship in Tunisia: Prioritizing Unity over Democracy. In: Zoubir, Y.H. and Amirah, H., eds., 2008. North Africa: Politics, Region, and the Limits of Transformation. London: Routledge, pp.109-132. Schörner, G., ed., 2005. Romanisierung – Romanisation. Theoretische Modelle und praktische Fallbeispiele. Oxford: Archaeopress. Theodoropoulos, T., 2000. La Méditerranée grecque. Paris: Maisonneuve & Larose. UNESCO, n.d. Mediterranean Diet, UNESCO [online]. Available at: http://www.unesco.org/culture/ich/RL/00884 [Accessed 2 July 2014]. Woolf, G., 2000. Becoming Roman. The Origins of Provincial Civilization in Gaul. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Spaces

A. BERNARD KNAPP

Prehistoric Cyprus: A ‘Crossroads’ of Interaction? Abstract The eastern Mediterranean island of Cyprus has long held a strategic position in the protracted prehistory and history of the Mediterranean world and throughout that time has had a major cultural and economic impact on the region. One result is that, in literature both academic and popular Cyprus is typically referred to as a ‘crossroads of civilisations’. This is especially the case for the period of time that encompasses the Middle and Late Bronze Ages (between ca. 1700 and 1100 BC). But how accurate is this essentially popular image, promoted as much by travel agents and merchandisers as by scholars? By assigning the island an intermediary role as a ‘crossroads’, archaeologists and ancient historians are prone to view political, economic and even artistic development and change on the island as linked to external forces – invasions, migrations, colonisation, diffusion – based in scholarly preconceptions that expect to encounter Aegean or Near Eastern cultural influences. Such an approach is not only inadequate but also tends to render mute the indigenous inhabitants of Cyprus. In this paper, I consider how mobility and connectivities between Cyprus and overseas polities – which have changed noticeably through time – impacted on the development of a more complex social system during the earliest stage of the Late Bronze Age.

Introduction Cyprus’s position in the long prehistory and history of the Mediterranean world has often been a strategic one. One consequence is that in literature both academic and popular, the island is frequently referred to as a ‘crossroads’ of interaction or of ‘civilisations’ (e.g. Karageorghis 1986; 2002). This is especially true for the period encompassing the late Middle and Late Bronze Ages (between ca. 1700 and 1100 BC), but it certainly holds true for the Iron Age, the Hellenistic and Roman th st eras, the Medieval period, even the 20 –21 centuries AD, albeit in very different ways. But how accurate is this generalising image, promoted as much by travel agents and merchandisers as by scholars? By assigning to the island an intermediary role as a ‘crossroads’, archaeologists and historians have tended to view political, economic and even artistic development and change on the island as linked to external forces – invasions, migration, colonisation, diffusion – based in scholarly

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preconceptions that (1) expect to encounter Aegean or Near Eastern cultural influences, and (2) see Cyprus only through Aegean- or Levantine-coloured lenses. Hector Catling (1979), for example, a British scholar who was closely involved with the archaeology of Cyprus as well as the complex political situation of British archaeologists on Cyprus during the 1960s, argued that – during the early second millennium BC – ‘revitalisation’ and ‘stimulation’ from overseas was crucial for reversing the ‘cultural stagnation’ that he read into the island’s material culture. Steeped in culture history, neither historically contingent nor politically sustained, and informed by an ‘ex occidente lux’ point of view (i.e., all good things come from the Greek world), such an approach seems entirely inadequate today and tends to render the indigenous inhabitants of Cyprus mute and invisible. In this paper, I question the passive and ahistorical role that Cyprus has been assigned as a ‘crossroads of culture’ and argue that certain people on Cyprus during the transition to the Late Bronze Age (between ca. 1700 and 1400 BC) became active agents in the interregional exchange systems that characterised this era. It was a time when increased mobility and connectivity between Cyprus and the Levant, Egypt, Anatolia and the Aegean impacted noticeably on a changing, increasingly complex society and an emerging elite identity, all reflected in new social practices and new materially-produced realities on Cyprus itself (Knapp, 2013a).

Cyprus: Identity and Connectivity th

th

During the 17 –15 centuries BC, people involved in both the internal and external aspects of production and trade on Cyprus established an elite identity based on their associations with foreign polities and on the consumption, use and conspicuous display of foreign goods. They constructed an ideology partly rooted in the localised production and exchange of copper, and partly based on concepts drawn from foreign, especially Near Eastern, sources (Knapp, 2013b, pp.428429). Webb (2005, pp.180-181) has argued that the luxury items Cypriot elites acquired from abroad, primarily in return for Cypriot copper, offered ideal sources for display, whilst foreign models of political ideology provided a ‘blueprint for domination’ that had never been developed in local iconographic traditions. The use of such prestigious goods and symbols would have reflected the pomp and circumstance of foreign potentates. In several instances they also demonstrate clearly the impact of hybridisation practices on the culture and material culture of Late Bronze Age Cyprus (Voskos and Knapp, 2008; Knapp, 2008, pp.252-280). Prestige-bearing foreign goods functioned as material markers of a new Cypriot elite identity: they helped to consolidate Cypriot power structure(s) and to integrate Cypriot merchants and their products into the iconographic and ideological koine

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that typified and motivated elites throughout the Late Bronze Age Mediterranean world.

Cyprus: Late Cypriot 1 (ca. 1700–1450 BC) Let us now look more closely at the materiality of Late Bronze Age Cyprus and how it may be related to an emerging elite identity and ideology. Pottery imports at this time include Tell el-Yahudiyeh ware, Syrian Black Burnished and Plain wares and Canaanite jars (Merrillees, 2007; Georgiou, 2009; Crewe, 2012). It is also widely acknowledged that certain Plain White and Bichrome Wheelmade wares exhibit a range of forms and features new to the Cypriot repertoire and are broadly similar to Middle Bronze Age Levantine-style pottery and wheel technology (Artzy, 2002). Nearly all Late Cypriot IA wheelmade vessels may be defined as either communal (kraters and large jugs) or individual (small cups and bowls) serving vessels (Crewe, 2007a, p.228; Steel, 2010, pp.108-109). Such vessels may well indicate an emulation of Levantine feasting and/or drinking practices. During the Late Cypriot I period, several prominent new settlements were established on or very near the coasts of Cyprus: Toumba tou Skourou, Kourion, Kouklia Palaepaphos, Enkomi and Hala Sultan Tekke (see fig.1 for locations). Excavations at these sites reveal a range of imports from the surrounding polities in Egypt, the eastern Mediterranean and the Aegean (Keswani, 1996; Knapp, 1997, pp.46-48). Along the north coast, east of Kyrenia, some limited evidence from sites like Kazaphani and Phlamoudhi indicates that foreign commercial traffic also touched these shores (Nicolaou and Nicolaou, 1989; Smith, 2008). Elsewhere, along the northern and eastern rim of the Troodos, evidence old and new reveals the productive sector of society in smaller agricultural settlements or mining sites – e.g. Ambelikou Aletri, Apliki, Politiko Phorades, Aredhiou Vouppes and Analiondas Paleoklisha (Webb and Frankel, 1994; Knapp and Kassianidou, 2008; Steel and Thomas, 2008; Frankel and Webb, 2012). In the south and southwest, new sites arose around Maroni and Kalavasos, and along the Kouris River Valley (e.g. Episkopi Phaneromeni , Alassa Palaeotaverna) (Knapp, 2008, pp.136-137 for refs.; see also Bombardieri, et al., 2011 for Erimi Laonin tou Porakou, and Vassiliou and Stylianou, 2004 for Erimi Pitharka).

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Fig.1: Map of Cyprus with sites mentioned in the text.

The overall constellation of sites and the array of imported and local materials found within them suggest that a maritime location, the intricacies of political alliances and an emerging overseas market orientation had become at least as important as resource orientation in social development and change during the Late Bronze Age (similarly Crewe, 2012). These sites – along with the rich and diverse types of material found in them – attest to the motivation of Cypriot elites in establishing political, economic and ideological alliances with more powerful polities or factions in the eastern Mediterranean.

Enkomi in Late Cypriot I Peltenburg (1996, pp.27-28, pp.36-37) long ago argued for the emergence during the Late Cypriot I period of a secondary state on Cyprus, at the same time qualifying his statement by adding that there may have been “regional control of its resource base” and “a period of centralized control, if not necessarily of the whole island”. He highlighted a series of fortified sites along the northern flanks of the Troodos and southern flanks of the Kyrenia ranges, which most likely had been established by Enkomi as part of a security system designed to procure copper and to prevent north coast sites from doing so. He regards Enkomi’s large (600 sq m) ‘fortress’, with its very early evidence of large-scale copper production (Dikaios, 1969, pp.21-24), as a major labour investment under the control of centralised authority closely concerned with copper production and distribution.

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Even Keswani (1996, p.222), no champion of centralised organisation on Late Bronze Age Cyprus, acknowledges Enkomi’s prominence and suggests it may have been involved in centralised exchange transactions. At least one mortuary deposit (Enkomi Tomb 1851, Late Cypriot I in date) just outside the fortress contained evidence – a balance pan, a rock crystal weight, an ‘exotic’ ostrich egg – that directly relates the production of metals to luxury imports (Lagarce and Lagarce, 1985, p.8, pp.47-48). Crewe (2007b, pp.65-66) questioned Enkomi’s primary role in exporting copper, suggesting that the distribution of the forts could signal a series of regional responses to both external and internal pressures. Such an interpretation supports her wider thesis that no single site (in particular Enkomi) established centralised control over the island’s production and distribution system(s) during Late Cypriot I. Based on her extensive reanalysis of handmade and wheelmade pottery from Enkomi, the eastern Mesaoria and the Karpass peninsula as well as imports into those areas, Crewe does allow that Enkomi may have served as a ‘gateway’ town for exports to and imports from the Levant and Egypt during the Late Cypriot 1 period (see also Bell, 2005, p.366, p.368). But she feels it could not have acted as a unifying force on the island before about 1450 BC. In fact, Crewe seems to question earlier viewpoints not just on Enkomi’s primacy but also on matters ranging from the emergence of social complexity to state formation. Her close reliance on pottery analyses to reach conclusions about social organisation, however, takes too little account of other relevant aspects of the material record. Contrasting opinions such as these (see also Webb, 1999, pp.305-308; Keswani, 2007, p.514) make it uncertain whether Enkomi’s authority or influence extended to the entire island at this time. Yet it is clear that whoever controlled the polity centred at Enkomi was instrumental in developing foreign trade during Late Cypriot I and played a key – even if not exclusive – role in the intensified mining, transport, refining and export of Cypriot copper. When we move beyond the material evidence of settlements, fortifications and pottery, a different picture of Enkomi emerges. Webb (2002, pp.139-140), for example, points out that with its more than 200 cylinder seals and many more stamp and signet rings, Enkomi has the only substantial claim to being a centre of glyptic production throughout the Late Bronze Age. As mobile devices produced by specialists and distributed by central authorities, such seals and the symbols imprinted on them served as mechanisms for ideological and organisational control (Knapp, 2013b, pp.433-447), whether centralised or regionally based. We might also note at this point the first use of the Cypro-Minoan script, also at Enkomi (Dikaios, 1969, pp.22-23; 1971, p.882, p.315 fig.10). As Ferrara (2012, p.53, p.64) points out, this earliest attestation of writing on Cyprus in a context of intensive metallurgical production is ‘intriguing’ and most likely indicates the existence of a highly specialised, decision-making organisation.

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Cyprus: An Archaic State? Despite recent as well as on-going concerns about the definition of a ‘state’ (e.g. Yoffee, 2004; Peltenburg and Iacovou, 2012; Redmond and Spencer, 2012; Urban and Schortman, 2012, pp.123-132), let us simply accept that there is no single factor that universally underpins the process of state formation, and that no matter how we define it, there is no doubt that a socially complex polity emerged on th th Cyprus during the 17 –16 centuries BC. The emergence of what I will term an archaic state on Late Bronze Age Cyprus was an abrupt process, triggered by profit-motivated long-distance trade in Cypriot copper and foreign exotic goods, including maritime transport amphorae and their contents (Knapp, 2013a; Crewe, 2012). Elites at Enkomi not only dominated the local production and overseas distribution of copper, but also had direct access to foreign markets, merchants and the luxury goods that began to trickle into the island at this time. Such direct interactions with overseas polities, communities or individuals helped to establish a distinctive new identity for the island’s elite(s) and to legitimise and enhance their authority. The increased interaction between Cyprus and other contemporary state-level polities has other material reflections. During the Late Cypriot I period, new social groups began to define themselves with elaborate and unprecedented types of military equipment and imported goods. Amongst them were metal weapons – e.g. bronze ‘warrior’ belts and narrow-bladed shaft-hole axes, both common in Levantine burials and found in mortuary deposits at various Cypriot sites. Such bronzes may have been produced locally but were clearly inspired by Near Eastern prototypes (Philip, 1991; 1995). Equid burials may also reflect the impact of Near Eastern ideas and ideologies (Keswani, 2004, p.80). Syrian and Old Babylonian cylinder seals, imported faience ornaments, worked bone and ivory, ostrich eggs, gold jewellery and other precious metal objects, and semi-precious stones first appeared during Late Cypriot I (Courtois, 1986; Keswani, 2004, p.136). Such objects served as (1) important markers of status, and (2) exotica used to negotiate new island identities. In terms of mortuary practices, some of the large extramural cemeteries of the Middle Cypriot period continued in use (e.g. at Deneia see Frankel and Webb, 2007, and at Katydhata see Åström, 1989), while several new ones were established (e.g. at Ayia Irini Paleokastro see Pecorella, 1977; Myrtou Stephania see Hennessy, 1964; and Akhera Çiflik Paradisi see Karageorghis, 1965a). Older practices of secondary treatment and collective burial persisted throughout the Late Bronze Age, but on a much larger scale (e.g. at Enkomi see Gjerstad, Lindos, Sjöqvist and Westholm, 1934, pp.491-497, pp.546-549), Ayios Iakovos Melia see Gjerstad, Lindos, Sjöqvist and Westholm, 1934, pp.325-355, and Pendayia Mandres see Karageorghis, 1965b). One definitive change from earlier periods is the multiplicity and variability in tomb construction, evident not only between sites, but even within sites, the latter best exemplified at Enkomi: chamber tombs, four or five tholos tombs, five rectangular ashlar-built tombs (Late Cypriot II in

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date), pit graves, infant burials in pots, and Late Cypriot III shaft graves (Keswani, 2004, and passim). Perhaps the most distinguishing feature of the Late Cypriot mortuary record is the use of intramural tombs in diverse residential, administrative or even workshop contexts (Keswani, 2004, p.85, pp.87-88). The prominence of luxury goods, imported or locally made, in Late Cypriot tombs all over the island indicates that mortuary practices continued to serve an important function for establishing social hierarchies, consolidating individual or group identity and maintaining the memory and power of ancestral groups (Keswani, 2005, pp.348-349, p.363, pp.388-389, p.392). From lavish arrays of gold jewellery to other metal goods and a range of exotica, we can understand how bodily ornaments, dress and serving paraphernalia enhanced elite images within society and served as an important means of constructing elite identity. In terms of monumentality (Knapp, 2009a), the overlay of later constructions makes it difficult to trace the full extent of architectural elaboration in Late Cypriot I buildings at sites such as Alassa Paleotaverna, Maroni Vournes, Myrtou Pigadhes or Kouklia Palaepaphos. The increasingly prominent use of ashlar masonry in monumental buildings, however, echoes its earlier usage in the Levant and Anatolia. The monumental, free-standing ‘fortress’ at Enkomi, erected at the Middle Cypriot III-Late Cypriot I transition, flourished throughout Late Cypriot I (Peltenburg, 1996, p.29; Pickles and Peltenburg, 1998) and served as an economic and administrative centre. To organise control over an island where authority had always been decidedly local in scope and purpose, emergent elites erected unprecedented, elaborate monumental structures and adopted diverse insignia (seals, Cypro-Minoan writing, metal goods) that enabled them to co-opt goods and labour for their own economic and ideological ends. During the Late Cypriot I period on Cyprus, elite identity and ideology were closely linked to monumentality, mortuary ritual and the consumption of exotica. Moreover, much of the symbolism we see – on figurines, seals, metal items and pottery – relates to the production and distribution of copper (Knapp, 1986). On the basis of the Late Bronze Age archaeological record as it exists today, th th most scholars have concluded that, during the 17 –16 centuries BC, a single pre-eminent polity emerged at Enkomi on the east coast of Cyprus, ideally situatth ed for foreign trade with the Levant and Egypt. Moreover, from the late 17 th through the mid-14 centuries BC, when cuneiform documents make clear that a single king ruled Cyprus (Knapp, 2008, pp.335-336), Enkomi offers sound and extensive evidence for intensified, uninterrupted copper production, and for the consumption and emulation of imported prestige goods from Egypt and the Levant. Having established, then, that Cyprus emerged as a powerful independent polity intimately engaged in international trade with both the Aegean in the west and the Levant in the east, what can be said of its purported role as a ‘crossroads of civilisation’?

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Discussion In a recent paper, Adams (2010) sought to determine how or if we might view the sites of Knossos on Crete and Enkomi on Cyprus as ‘capital cities’ of their respective polities. Viewing islands once again as ‘stepping stones, hubs, melting pots or crossroads’, the most apt question she asks (but fails to answer) is why the Minoans ‘advanced’ to statehood some 400 years before the Cypriots. Adams finds this situation peculiar, for two reasons: (1) because Cyprus is larger than Crete, with more natural resources (especially the copper so much in demand during the Bronze Age), and (2) because it is “located at the maritime crossroads of the Egyptian, Near Eastern and Anatolian civilizations” (Adams, 2012, p.4). Similarly, Panagiotopoulos (2011, p.37) states: “It’s rather hard to explain why Cyprus, a large island, very centrally located in the Eastern Mediterranean web of cultural exchange and possessing the richest copper resources, only made the decisive step to a high culture some centuries later than Minoan Crete.”

There is much to admire in both of these papers. Adams, for example, seeks to look beyond static economic models to consider ‘agency’ (although ‘urbanism’ seems to be the main agent). But there is also much to criticise, in particular the attempt to consider what happened on Late Bronze Age Cyprus by looking eastward from the Aegean, by comparing sites and cultures that are in fact incomparable, at least as far her questions are concerned (similar problems abound in some of the papers recently published in Cadogan, Iacovou, Kopaka and Whitley, 2012). In fact, one might well agree on some levels that certain aspects of ‘statehood’ or ‘high culture’ seen in the material culture of the Aegean, Anatolia, the Levant and Egypt (e.g. palaces, urban centres, developed systems of writing or intensive th involvement in long-distance trade) had little impact on Cyprus before the 17 century BC. However, material as well as social developments on Cyprus are too often seen as timeless processes, interrupted only by invasions, migration or even ‘stimulation’ from afar, all of which are seen as crucial for cultural innovation or change (as in Catling, 1979, already noted above). Consequently the material markers of social development and economic change are far too often associated with external forces in the eyes of scholars who anticipate Aegean or Near Eastern cultural influences. To respond to such views, it must be pointed out, first, that with respect to its abundant copper resources, Cyprus’s copper ore deposits are sulphidic (not oxidic) in nature. Thus their exploitation came late in comparison with, for example, Anatolia. Only when the technology of treating these sulphide ore deposits became more proficient during the Middle Cypriot period (Knapp, 2012) did Cyprus emerge as one of the most important sources of copper throughout the Mediterranean (Constantinou, 1982, pp.18-22).

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Secondly, throughout Cypriot prehistory and protohistory, the island’s material culture contrasts repeatedly and markedly with that of the surrounding regions. With certain exceptions during the Late Epipalaeolithic and Aceramic Neolithic (Knapp, 2013b, chapters 3 and 4), there is very limited evidence for foreign contacts until the Bronze Age, after about 2500/2400 BC. Thus it is crucial, in the first instance, to view Cypriot prehistory in terms of internal developments and change, rather than through expectations that follow from material and social changes in the surrounding regions. To emphasize this point, I give Iacovou (Peltenburg and Iacovou, 2012, p.352) the last word: “Trying to define Cyprus’s development by comparing it to the continental city states of the 3rd and 2nd millennia BC is an archaeological approach that has served its purpose well but has persisted for too long. Nowadays, it achieves little other than to underestimate the island by continuing to focus on what has come to be considered as Cypriot shortcomings. The time is ripe for the development of alternative approaches that attempt to understand Cyprus from inside and define its ‘robust island identity’.”

Of course, the discontinuities seen in the Cypriot archaeological record equally demand that we try to interpret internal developments within the context of the wider worlds of the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean. In this respect, we may take some inspiration from the paper by Panagiotopoulos (2011). In his view, encounters between foreign peoples, their beliefs and their material goods generate a new awareness that goes far beyond the purely economic. The interest in exotica and foreign products generally is highly conspicuous in archaeological, documentary and pictorial evidence. The material and cognitive aspects of foreign goods, and the ways in which they were experienced and used by all the people involved, demonstrate what he calls their ‘transcultural attitude’. Many of the goods exchanged in the Late Bronze Age eastern Mediterranean also reveal what art historians term a ‘hybrid imagery’ (e.g. Kantor, 1947; Vercoutter, 1956; Smith, 1965; Crowley, 1989). I see them, however, as the outcome of hybridisation practices, and I have written and discussed such practices and their meanings at length elsewhere (e.g. Voskos and Knapp, 2008; Knapp, 2009b). Suffice it to say that I see the materiality, and in particular the foreign goods that turn up on Cyprus during the earliest phase of the Late Bronze Age, as reflecting the meetings and mixings of people involved in situations of contact and connectivity, in the process transforming themselves, their material culture and their identity. The intermixing of diverse elements – human and material – from different cultural traditions, however, did not necessarily target a network of political elites seeking to share a common material culture or cultural identity. In my view, the rich harvest of material excavated in Enkomi and the other primary coastal towns of the Late Bronze Age demonstrates unequivocally that they were oriented towards the sea and to overseas connectivities. The acquisition and display of prestigious Levantine, Egyptian and Aegean goods on Cyprus not only helped elites

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to establish a distinctive identity within the island but also served (1) to enhance their status, (2) to secure their control over copper production, distribution, and other facets of overseas trade, and (3) to make their authority manifest through (often foreign) material and ideological constructs and ideas.

Conclusion For the first 8000 years of its prehistory, we certainly cannot talk of Cyprus as a ‘crossroads’ of interaction, civilisation or anything else. With respect to the earlier stages of the Bronze Age (Philia phase, Early-Middle Cypriot), if the number of goods imported to Cyprus is a ‘valid proxy’ (Keswani, 2005, pp.387-391 and table 13), the scale of long-distance trade can only be regarded as ‘more sporadic than systematic’. Even during the earliest phase of the Late Bronze Age, the remarkable increase in the amount of foreign goods and exotica on Cyprus cannot be seen as evidence that the island served as a ‘crossroads’ of interaction, or a fulcrum balancing an international artistic and iconographic koine. Instead, such goods represent the material expression of an elite desire to cross the borders of their own culture and their own identity, in the process fostering a new social and material reality. The material practices we see on Cyprus during the Late Cypriot I period and in particular at Enkomi – e.g. the use of seals and figurines, the adoption of writing, the output of metallurgical workshops, the erection of monumental buildings and ancestral tombs, the presence of faience ornaments, ivory, gold jewelry, semi‐precious stones – all point to a social desire to consume the materiality of different cultures in a local context. This is how people negotiated their differing interests, exchanged goods and ideas, and cultivated a cosmopolitan lifestyle. This is how they manipulated their social and spatial worlds, in the process formulating a uniquely Cypriot island identity. th Before the 14 century BC (Late Cypriot II), there is nothing in the archaeological record to suggest that any merchant or even monarch would have regarded Cyprus as a crossroads or even a stopover between their point of origin and their destination; it was, primarily and above all else, an irreplaceable source of the copper widely in demand throughout the Mediterranean. Indeed, beyond Mycenaean pottery in the Levant (Leonard, 1992; Steel, 2004) or the Babylonian cylinder seals that passed through Cyprus en route to Thebes (Porada, 1982), there is th th precious little material from the 14 –13 centuries BC that could substantiate such an intermediary role for the island.

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Bibliography Adams, E., 2010. Centrality, “Capitals” and Prehistoric Cultures: A Comparative Study of Late Bronze Age Crete and Cyprus. Cambridge Classical Journal 56, pp.1-46. Artzy, M., 2002. The Aegean, Cyprus, the Levant and Bichrome Ware: Eastern Mediterranean Middle Bronze Age Koine?. In: Oren, E. and Ahituv, S., eds., 2002. Aharon Kempinski Memorial Volume: Studies in Archaeology and Related Disciplines. Ben Gurion University, Be’er-Sheva 15. Beersheva: Ben-Gurion University of Negev Press, pp.1-20. Åström, P., 1989. Katydhata. A Bronze Age Site in Cyprus. Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology 86. Gothenburg, Sweden: P. Åström’s Förlag. Bell, C., 2005. Wheels within Wheels? A View of Mycenaean Trade from the Levantine Emporia. In: Laffineur, R. and Greco, E., eds., 2005. Emporia: Aegeans in the Central and Eastern Mediterranean. Aegaeum 25 (1), Liège, Austin: Université de Liège, University of Texas at Austin, pp.363-370. Bombardieri, L., Scirè Calabrisotto, C., Albertini, E. and Chellazi, F., 2011. Dating the Contexts (or Contextualising the Dating?): New Evidence from the Southern Cemetery at Erimi Laonin tou Porakou (EC–LC I). Cahiers du Centre d’Études Chypriotes 41, pp.87-108. Cadogan, G., Iacovou, M., Kopaka, K. and Whitley, J., eds., 2012. Parallel Lives: Ancient Island Societies in Crete and Cyprus. British School at Athens, Studies 20. London: British School at Athens. Catling, H.W., 1979. Reflections upon the Interpretation of the Archaeological Evidence for the History of Cyprus. In: Karageorghis, V., ed., 1979. Studies Presented in Memory of Porphyrios Dikaios. Nicosia: Lion’s Club, pp.194-205. Constantinou, G., 1982. Geological Features and Ancient Exploitation of the Cupriferous Sulphide Orebodies of Cyprus. In: Muhly, J.D., Maddin, R. and Karageorghis, V., eds., 1982. Early Metallurgy in Cyprus, 4000–500 BC. Nicosia: Pierides Foundation, pp.1324. Courtois, J.-C., 1986. A propos des apports orientaux dans la civilisation du Bronze Récent à Chypre. In: Karageorghis, V., ed., 1986. Acts of the International Archaeological Symposium: Cyprus between the Orient and Occident. Nicosia: Department of Antiquities, pp.69-87. Crewe, L., 2007a. Sophistication in Simplicity: The First Production of Wheelmade Pottery on Late Bronze Age Cyprus. Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 20, pp.209238. – 2007b. Early Enkomi. Regionalism, Trade and Society at the Beginning of the Late Bronze Age on Cyprus. British Archaeological Reports International Series 1706. Oxford: Archaeopress. – 2012. Beyond Copper: Commodities and Values in Middle Bronze Cypro-Levantine Exchanges. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 31, pp.225-243. Crowley, J.L., 1989. The Aegean and the East: An Investigation Into the Transference of Artistic Motifs Between the Aegean, Egypt, and the Near East in the Bronze Age. Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology, Pocketbook 51. Jonsered: P. Åström’s Förlag. Dikaios, P., 1969–1971. Enkomi. Excavations 1948–1958. 3 vols. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern. Ferrara, S., 2012. Cypro-Minoan Inscriptions 1: Analysis. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Frankel, D. and Webb, J.M., 2007. The Bronze Age Cemeteries at Deneia in Cyprus. Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology 135. Sävedalen: P. Åström’s Förlag.

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Cyprus in the Second Millennium BC: Studies in Regionalism during the Middle and Late Bronze Ages. Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Denkschriften der

Gesamtakademie 52. Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, pp.65-78. Gjerstad, E., Lindos, J., Sjöqvist, E. and Westholm, A., 1934. Swedish Cyprus Expedition I, II: Finds and Results of the Excavations in Cyprus 1927–1931. Stockholm: Swedish Cyprus Expedition. Hennessy, J.B., 1964. Stephania: A Middle and Late Bronze Age Cemetery in Cyprus. London: Bernard Quaritch Ltd. Kantor, H.J., 1947. The Aegean and the Orient in the Second Millennium B.C. Archaeological Institute of America, Monograph 1. Bloomington, Indiana: Archaeological Institute of America. Karageorghis, V., 1965a. Fouilles des tombes du Chypriote Récent à Akhera. In: Nouveaux Documents pour l‘Étude du Bronze Récent à Chypre. Études Chypriotes 3. Paris: E. De Boccard, pp.71-156. – 1965b. Une nécropole du Chypriote Récent à Pendayia. In: Nouveaux Documents pour l‘Étude du Bronze Récent à Chypre. Études Chypriotes 3. Paris: E. De Boccard, pp.2-70. – 1986. Acts of the International Archaeological Symposium: Cyprus Between the Orient and the Occident. Nicosia: Department of Antiquities, Cyprus. – 2002. Early Cyprus: Crossroads of the Mediterranean. Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum. Keswani, P.S., 1996. Hierarchies, Heterarchies, and Urbanization Processes: The View from Bronze Age Cyprus. Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 9, pp.211-249. – 2004. Mortuary Ritual and Society in Bronze Age Cyprus. Monographs in Mediterranean Archaeology 9. London: Equinox. – 2005. Death, Prestige, and Copper in Bronze Age Cyprus. American Journal of Archaeology 109, pp.341-401. – 2007. Beyond Emulation and Hierarchy: Diverse Expressions of Social Identity in Late Cypriot Mortuary Ritual. In: Antoniadou, S. and Pace, A., eds., 2007. Mediterranean Crossroads. Athens, Oxford: Pierides Foundation, Oxbow Books, pp.509-535. Knapp, A.B., 1986. Production, Exchange and Socio-Political Complexity on Bronze Age Cyprus. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 5, pp.35-60. – 1997. The Archaeology of Late Bronze Age Cypriot Society: The Study of Settlement, Survey and Landscape. Department of Archaeology, University of Glasgow, Occasional Paper 4. Glasgow: University of Glasgow. – 2008. Prehistoric and Protohistoric Cyprus: Identity, Insularity and Connectivity. Oxford: Oxford University Press. – 2009a. Monumental Architecture, Identity and Memory. In: Kyriatsoulis, A., ed., 2009. Proceedings of the Symposium: Bronze Age Architectural Traditions in the East Mediterranean: Diffusion and Diversity. Weilheim: Verein zur Förderung der Aufarbeitung der Hellenischen Geschichte, pp.47-59. – 2009b. Migration, Hybridisation and Collapse: Bronze Age Cyprus and the Eastern Mediterranean. Scienze dell’antichità: Storia archeologia antropologia 15, pp.219-239. – 2012. Metallurgical Production and Trade on Bronze Age Cyprus: Views and Variations. In: Kassianidou, V. and Papasavvas, G., eds., 2012. Eastern Mediterranean Metallurgy and Metalwork in the Second Millennium BC. Oxford: Oxbow Books, pp.14-25. – 2013a. Revolution within Evolution: The Emergence of a ‘Secondary State’ on Protohistoric Bronze Age Cyprus. Levant 45, pp.19-44.

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– 2013b. The Archaeology of Cyprus: From Earliest Prehistory through the Bronze Age. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Knapp, A.B. and Kassianidou, V., 2008. The Archaeology of Late Bronze Age Copper Production: Politiko Phorades on Cyprus. In: Yalçin, Ü., ed., 2008. Anatolian Metal IV: Frühe Rohstoffgewinnung in Anatolien und seinen Nachbarländern. Der Anschnitt, Beiheft 21. Veröffentlichungen aus dem Deutschen Bergbau-Museum 157. Bochum: Deutsches Bergbau-Museum, pp.135-147. Lagarce, J. and Lagarce, E., 1985. Alasia IV. Deux tombes du Chypriote récent d‘Enkomi. Tombes 1851 et 1907. In: Mission Archéologique d’Alasia 7. Recherches sur les Civilisations, Mémoire 51. Paris: ADPF. Leonard, A., Jr., 1992. Mycenaean pottery in Cyprus and Syria-Palestine. In: Åström,P., ed., 1992. Acta Cypria: Acts of an International Congress on Cypriote Archaeology held in Göteborg. Gothenburg, Sweden 22-24 August 1991. Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology and Literature, Part 2, Pocketbook 117. Jonsered, Sweden: P. Åström’s Förlag. Merrillees, R.S., 2007. The Ethnic Implications of Tell el-Yahudiyeh Ware for the History of the Middle to Late Bronze Age in Cyprus. Cahier du Centre d’Études Chypriotes 37, pp.87-96. Nicolaou, I. and Nicolaou, K., 1989. Kazaphani: A Middle/Late Cypriot Tomb at Kazaphani-Ayios Andronikos: T.2 A, B. Nicosia: Department of Antiquities. Panagiotopoulos, D., 2011. The Stirring Sea: Conceptualising Transculturality in the Late Bronze Age Eastern Mediterranean. In: Duistermaat, K. and Regulski, I., eds., 2011. Intercultural Contacts in the Ancient Mediterranean. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 202. Louvain: Peeters, pp.31-51. Pecorella, P.E., 1977. Le Tombe dell’Età del Bronzo Tardo della Necropoli a Mare di Ayia Irini ‘Paleokastro’. Biblioteca di Antichità Cipriote 4. Rome: Consiglio nazionale delle ricerche, Istituto per gli studi micenei ed egeo-anatolici. Peltenburg, E., 1996. From Isolation to State Formation in Cyprus, c. 3500–1500 B.C. In: Karageorghis, V. and Michaelides, D., eds., 1996. The Development of the Cypriot Economy: From the Prehistoric Period to the Present Day. Nicosia: Bank of Cyprus, University of Cyprus, pp.17-44. Peltenburg, E. and Iacovou, M., 2012. Crete and Cyprus: Contrasting Political Configurations. In: Cadogan, G., Iacovou, M., Kopaka, K. and Whitley, J., eds., 2012. Parallel Lives: Ancient Island Societies in Crete and Cyprus. British School at Athens, Studies 20. London: British School at Athens, pp.35-63. Philip, G., 1991. Cypriot Bronzework in the Levantine World: Conservatism, Innovation and Social Change. Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 4, pp.59-107. – 1995. Warrior Burials in the Ancient Near Eastern Bronze Age: The Evidence from Mesopotamia, Western Iran and Syria-Palestine. In: Campbell, S. and Green, A., eds., 1995. The Archaeology of Death in the Ancient Near East. Oxbow Monograph 51. Oxford: Oxbow Books, pp.140-154. Pickles, S. and Peltenburg, E.J., 1998. Metallurgy, Society and the Bronze/Iron Transition in the East Mediterranean and the Near East. Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus 1998, pp.67-100. Porada, E., 1982. The Cylinder Seals Found at Thebes in Boeotia. Archiv für Orientforschung 28, pp.1-70. Redmond, E.M. and Spencer, C.S., 2012. Chiefdoms at the Threshold: The Competitive Origins of the Primary State. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 31, pp.22-37. Smith, J.S., ed., 2008. Views from Phlamoudhi, Cyprus. Annual of the American Schools of Oriental Research 63. Boston: American Schools of Oriental Research.

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Smith, W.S., 1965. Interconnections in the Ancient Near East: A Study of the Relationships between the Arts of Egypt, the Aegean, and Western Asia. New Haven: Yale University Press. Steel, L., 2004. A Reappraisal of the Distribution, Context and Function of Mycenaean Pottery in Cyprus. In: Balensi, J., Monchambert, J.-Y. and Müller-Celku, S., eds., 2004. La Céramique Mycénienne de l’Égée au Levant. Tavaux de la Maison de l’Orient 41. Lyon: Travaux de la Maison de l’Orient, pp.69-85. – 2010. Late Cypriot Ceramic Production: Heterarchy or Hierarchy? In: Bolger, D. and Maguire, L., eds., 2010. The Development of Pre-State Communities in the Ancient Near East. Studies in Honour of Edgar Peltenburg. British Association for Near Eastern Archaeology 2. Oxford: Oxbow Books, pp.106-116. Steel, L. and Thomas, S., 2008. Excavations at Aredhiou Vouppes (Lithosouros): An Interim Report on Excavations 2005–2006. Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus 2008, pp.227-249. Urban, P.A. and Schortman, E., 2012. Archaeological Theory in Practice. Walnut Creek, California: Left Coast Press. Vassiliou, E. and Stylianou, E., 2004. Dropping in on Late Bronze Age Erimi, Erimi Pitharka, Preliminary Excavation Report. Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus, pp.181-200. Vercoutter, J., 1956. L’Egypte et le monde égéen Préhellenique. Bibliothèque des Études 22. Cairo: Institut Français d’archéologie orientale. Voskos, I. and Knapp, A.B., 2008. Cyprus at the End of the Late Bronze Age: Crisis and Colonization or Continuity and Hybridization?. American Journal of Archaeology 112, pp.659-684. Webb, J.M., 1999. Ritual Architecture, Iconography and Practice in the Late Cypriot Bronze Age. Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology and Literature Pocketbook 75. Gothenburg, Sweden: P. Åströms Förlag. – 2002. Device, Image and Coercion. The Role of Glyptic in the Political Economy of Late Bronze Age Cyprus. In: Smith, J., ed., 2002. Script and Seal Use on Cyprus in the Bronze and Iron Ages. Archaeological Institute of America, Colloquia and Conference Papers 4. Boston: American Institute of Archaeology, pp.111-154. – 2005. Ideology, Iconography and Identity: The Role of Foreign Goods and Images in the Establishment of Social Hierarchy in Late Bronze Age Cyprus. In: Clarke, J., ed., 2005. Archaeological Perspectives on the Transmission and Transformation of Culture in the Eastern Mediterranean. Oxford: Oxbow Books, pp.176-182. Webb, J.M. and Frankel, D., 2013. Ambelikou Aletri: Metallurgy and Pottery Production in Middle Bronze Age Cyprus. Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology 138. Uppsala: P. Åström’s Förlag. Yoffee, N., 2004. Myths of the Archaic State: The Evolution of the Earliest Cities, States, and Civilisations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

CONSTANCE VON RÜDEN

Making the Way through the Sea Experiencing Mediterranean Seascapes in the Second Millennium B.C.E. 1

Introduction Environmental conditions are widely assumed to justify considering the Mediterranean a spatio-temporal entity. Apart from the similar climatic conditions and vegetation in coastal areas, the sea itself is often seen as a driving mechanism or as an ‘artery of contact’ (van de Mieroop 2005, p.138) which has led to an outstanding high level of connectivity through the ages and to similarities in people’s behavior; an environmental determinism, which implicitly informs many archaeological, historical and anthropological approaches. In attempting to support this ahistorical assumption, researchers often refer to the Eastern Mediterranean of the second Millennium B.C. as the first period of Mediterranean long-distance exchange (for example, Abulafia, 2011; Horden and Purcell, 2000, pp.346-348) to support their idea with the justification of the longue-durée and with a certain authority that derives from antiquity. Hence the imagination of the Mediterranean as a spatial entity is even augmented by a temporal one, which removes not only its specific social but also its historical dimension. nd At a first glance the archaeological research on the 2 Millennium BC seems to confirm this idea of the sea as a unifying factor: a huge number of volumes and articles have been written about thalassocracies (for example, Säve-Söderbergh, 1946, p.41; Sasson, 1966; Lindner, 1981; Hägg and Marinatos, 1984; Wiener, 1989; for a critical discussion see Starr, 1955; Knapp, 1993), long-distance exchange (Kemp and Merrillees, 1980, pp.278-279; Lambrou-Phillipson, 1990; Gale, 1991; Cline, 1994; Knapp, 1998; Sherratt and Sherratt, 1991; Bevan, 2007), concepts of an ‘international koiné’ (Kantor, 1947; Smith, 1965; Sherratt, 1994; Feldman 2002; 2006) or even a ‘Mediterranean System’ (van de Mieroop 2005, p.138). But most of the studies have concentrated on the distribution of objects, chronological references, and attempts to reconstruct exchange systems or to identify cross-cultural influences on material cultures. They have focused mostly on the sources of raw materials (for example, Stos-Gale, 1989), the place and time of manufacture of worked 1

The expression “making the way through…” is borrowed from Ingold’s article “Footprints through the weather-world: walking, breathing, knowing” (Ingold, 2010). It is used by him to emphasize an improvisatory movement – of ‘going along’ or wayfaring – that is open-ended and knows no final destination (Ingold, 2010, p.122).

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objects (examples are Kemp and Merrillees, 1980, pp.278-279; LambrouPhillipson, 1990; Cline, 1994; Knapp, 1998) or the origin of technical and typological influences in the archaeological record (examples are Kantor, 1947; Smith, 1965; Buchholz, 1974; Crowley, 1989; Brysbaert, 2008). As ‘archaeologies of origins’ they essentially describe networks and flows within the Mediterranean which is of course a central issue understanding how people from different shores came into contact. But at the same time it often neglects the way these exchanged objects were used and thus to understand possible common practices, meanings or life styles within the Mediterranean, an aspect which still offers a huge field for future research. nd Written sources from the second half of the 2 Millennium B.C.E. might provide some further insight into common practices in the region: Cuneiform letters, written in Akkadian as the commonly used language of the time, have been found in palatial archives in Western Asia, Anatolia and Egypt describing trade, royal gift exchange, inter-marriage and diplomacy between the different rulers of the Eastern Mediterranean and beyond (Liverani, 1990). By addressing one another as brothers, fathers or sons the actors seem to have produced a kind of common imaginary kinship. 2 “Sa[y] to Nibmuareya, the k[ing of Egypt], my brother: Thus Tuišeratta, the king of [M]ittani, your brother. For me all goes well. For you all go well. For Kelu-Ḫeba may all go well. For your household, for your wives, for your sons, for your magnates, for your warriors, for your horses, for your chariots, and in your country, may all go very well.” (EA17, Moran, 1987, p.41)

One might consider this development to be the emergence of a common Eastern Mediterranean elite identity during the Late Bronze Age, an identity which was also materially expressed in several ways. To display a certain kind of togetherness these elites decorated their palaces with similar wall paintings (Niemeier and Niemeier, 1998; Niemeier and Niemeier, 2002; Bietak, Marinatos and Palyvou, 2007; Feldman, 2007; Brysbaert, 2008; Taraqji, 2008; Cline, Yasur-Landau and Goshen, 2011; Kamlah and Sader, 2010; von Rüden, 2011) and consumed hybrid luxury goods, often labeled as ‘international style’ or ‘international koiné’ objects (Kantor, 1947; Smith, 1965; Feldman, 2006). Both aspects, the design of their palaces as well as the use of these ‘international koiné’ luxury goods, can be seen as evidence of a similar kind of conspicuous consumption (Veblen, 1912) performing a high status vis-à-vis their peers, the rulers of the different political entities of the Eastern Mediterranean, as well as the local population; a similar, possibly transcultural praxis within the palatial environments of the various elites that possibly resulted in an affiliation to a transmediterranean elite identity. But these are not the central questions of this paper. Rather, I will discuss whether the observed development during the second Millennium can be ascribed to the sea as communication medium and if we can trace any difference 2

For a detailed discussion about the different denomination of kinship s. Franke, 1983.

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between the networks within the Eastern Mediterranean and the networks of non-marine regions, for example, along valleys or rivers such as in Mesopotamia or the Danube region? In other words: What makes the Middle Sea so special? Does the affordance (Gibson, 1979, p.16) of the all-connecting sea really have a specific impact on people’s life style and behavior and do the coastal populations necessarily feel the need to explore the sea and make contact with people beyond it? Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell consider instability of subsistence agriculture in the ‘micro-regions’ of the Mediterranean as a driving mechanism for an exchange by sea (Horden and Purcell, 2000, pp.342-400). Such instability can be found in most pre-industrialized societies, but does this threat essentially result in an affinity with the sea? To approach some of these questions I shall explore the way in which people in different Mediterranean regions related to the medium ‘sea’ during the second Millennium B.C.E.; I shall attempt to trace their experiences with the sea, how they generated knowledge by their entanglement with this medium, how the sea may be embodied through the practice of everyday life and how this entanglement was materialized in the archaeological record (Rainbird, 2007, p.46).

Seascapes in the Light of Transport and Wayfaring Tim Ingold’s research on the perception of landscapes results in a very interesting observation: the distinction between wayfaring and transport (Ingold, 2011). For him a wayfarer is “a being who, […], negotiates or improvises a passage as he goes along – in his movement his concern is to seek a way through”. Transport by contrast is a form of moving which “[…] carries the passenger across a pre-prepared, planar surface. […]. The passenger’s concern is literally to get from A to B, ideally in as short time as possible. What happens along the way is of no consequence, and is banished from memory or conscious awareness” (Ingold, 2010, p.120). An experience very close to this latter concept is maybe that of today’s underground trains – you enter it at a certain point of the city and you surface at another place in as short a time as possible, almost with no awareness of the trip. But even today pure transport is an ideal which is never completely achievable in practice. It is an ideal of a perfect infrastructure which is desired in our modern capitalistic world; a result of our aspiration to waste as little time and energy as possible in order to maximize profit. Certainly this concept of transport is deeply anachronistic for Bronze Age voyaging, but nonetheless it has crucially influenced our perspective on exchange. As described above, archaeological research concentrates mainly on the idea of transport of goods and its technical needs such as shipbuilding. This functionalist approach has often focused on the outcome and the use of exchange, surely influenced by the economic theories of 80s and 90s. In these rather modernist approaches, only the beginning and the end of a journey is of interest, everything which is in between is more or less a loss of time and resources. It is doubtful that

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this is the reality for any human and surely we cannot approach people’s experience with the sea during the Bronze Age with such a concept – a period when possible dangers, unexpected events and consequently time schedules were much less controllable than today. Even if journeys by sea might have reduced travel time (Carver, 1990) and allowed bigger volumes of goods to be transported, the question arises if the duration and efficiency of the journey was always the crucial factor in the Bronze Age? In his study about navigation on Puluwat Atoll in Micronesia Thomas Gladwin describes how the inhabitants of the islands continued voyaging by canoe and experimenting with new construction techniques even when more functional or convenient ferry boats had been introduced. Obviously there was more to travelling by canoe than mere functional considerations: it had a “psychological worth of its own” for these societies (Gladwin, 1970, p.35). Therefore we should try to understand the relation of humans with the sea more in the sense of Ingold’s wayfarer. In his reflections about the human relationship to landscape, he considers walking or in his words “making the way through” the landscape and the weather-world as “a process of thinking and knowing”. This knowledge is formed “along the paths of movement in the course of everyday activities” (Ingold, 2010, p.121). Based on Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenology (Merleau-Ponty, 1945) Ingold considers earth and sky not as components of an external environment with which the socialized or encultured body interacts, but as regions of the bodily existence without which knowledge and memory would not be possible - an approach that not only dissolves the body-mind dichotomy, but also includes the body-environment relationship. Even though Ingold does not explicitly refer to the sea or the medium water, his considerations hold true for seascapes too. Through daily activities and experiences with this medium the knowledge of the practitioner grows, and this knowledge in turn shapes the way she or he relates to the sea, the way she or he perceives it. So when David Abulafia states that his “‘Mediterranean’ is resolutely the surface of the sea itself, its shores and its islands, particularly the port cities that provided the main departure and arrival points for those crossing it” (Abulafia, 2011, xvii), then this is the perspective of a non-mariner or a person inexperienced with the sea . Only for them does the sea appear to be simply a flat, monotonous surface. When an experienced navigator such as, for example, a Puluwatan, “speaks of the ocean the words he uses refer not to an amorphous expanse of water but rather to the assemblage of seaways that constitute the ocean he knows and understands” (Gladwin, 1970, p.34). Therefore Rainbird rightly suggests that in the same way as landscapes have to be understood as visionscapes, soundscapes, touchscapes and smellscapes, the sea is a textured space and therefore knowable (Rainbird, 2007, p.47). Through human experiences, through the body’s sensory entanglement the sea becomes part of the wayfarer’s knowledge and personal lifeworld (Schütz, 1974; Habermas 1981, p.192). The sensivity to cues in the environment such as, for example, specific winds, reefs, waves or currents, increases with experience and with this knowledge the wayfarer becomes aware of the meaning and possible consequences of specific phenomena and acquires the abil-

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ity to respond to these challenges in an appropriate way (Ingold, 2010, p.134, p.136). Hence by the process of ‘knowledge growing’ the seascape ceases to be an undifferentiated mass, but is enriched by visual, haptic, audible and olfactory seamarks. Saul Riesenberg describes in his study about the navigators of the Atoll Puluwat the mnemonic devices and systems of classification for geography and star courses as a kind of navigational system. These descriptions 3 give us a precious insight about how the sea might be perceived by those living with and in it. For them there are not only distinct coastal features like islands, cliffs, peaks or a river mouth, but also underwater elements such as, for example, reefs, sandbanks and specific sea beds (Riesenberg, 1976, p.92, p.97, p.99). By the precise description of their shape, their specific vegetation or inhabitants such as, for example, seaweeds, shells or clams (Riesenberg, 1976, p.112, pp.114-115, p.119, p.122) it is evident that their observations are not restricted to the sea’s surface, but rather penetrate it. For their awareness a whole world exists below the surface, a world which does not exist for the inexperienced person. Besides it is not only the relatively stable ocean bead which is of importance, but also the seemingly unstable water surface, the currents and waves. A wave can indicate a distinct position in the sea, for example, the end of the wind shadow of an island, and in some cases waves are even named. The same holds true for places with special water qualities or locations where the currents collect floating objects (Riesenberg, 1976, p.107, p.111, p.113, p.116, p.126). Even more astonishing for non-mariners is the use of animals as orientation. Individual fishes, shoals or birds have very distinct habitats and can often be observed in the same area. Schools of bonitos, turtles or parrot fishes are known examples (Riesenberg, 1976, p.106, p.116) and in some cases also individual animals like sword fishes, sharks or whales are identified as seamarks. Like the above-mentioned locations and waves, they too can bear personal names such as, for instance, a very big whale with the name Máŕipeŕip, a large swordfish with the name Eherewór, and Apilú, a frigate bird in in the Puluwat Atoll (Riesenberg, 1976, p.98, p.103, pp.117-118, p.122). The importance of these animals for a mariner of the Pacific is best shown by a narrative entitled ‘Sea life’, whose specific aim is to pass this know ledge of the ocean on to the next generation (Gladwin, 1970, pp.204-207). Moreover the sea is not only visually perceived. The coral head Fayitárép whose name can be translated as the “coral of the Sound of Surf” (Riesenberg, 1976, p.100) shows the audible dimension of seamarks, while other aspects are perceptible mainly through our haptic sense. A specific wind compass known in the Pacific uses the latter sense for navigation (Lewis, 1972, pp.73-76): the direction of waves and swells can be sensed by the up and down movement of a boat and Gladwin points to the fact that Puluwatans “steer by the feel of the waves 3

While Riesenberg describes only 11 systems of classification, Peter Ochs reports later more than 70–80 groupings about which he has been told by only one informant (Riesenberg, 1976, p.91, Note 2).

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Fig.1: Stick chart with the representation of a reef (photo courtesy of the Völkerkundemuseum der J. & E. von Portheim-Stiftung Heidelberg).

under the canoe, not visually” (Gladwin, 1970, p.171; Lewis 1972, p.127). Not all the seamarks are “real” phenomena in our modern western sense; some of them seem to us to be located in the realm of myth. A two-headed whale or Ranúkuwel, the whale with two tails, a spirit who lives in a flame, a man in a canoe made out of ferns, or vanishing islands are examples of this (Riesenberg, 1976, p.101, pp.104-105, pp.108-109, p.112, p.121), but nonetheless they also have to be regarded as a part of the inhabitants’ reality of the seascape. Furthermore Ingold remarks that a wayfarer is less a surveyor than a narrator. She or he does not classify every experience, but rather relates every impression to the occurrences that paved the way for it. The wayfarer’s knowledge is not classificatory, as we are familiar with it in scientific approaches, but storied, ‘not synoptic but open-ended and exploratory’ (Ingold, 2010, p.128; 2011) – therefore the landscape becomes a story for those living in it (Ingold, 1993, pp.162-163). The same holds true for seascapes, an observation which is in line with the narrative maps of seafarers. In the above-described systems of the Puluwat Atoll the narrator often imagines himself in a canoe, following a path from place to place (Riesenberg, 1976, p.91). This individual wayfarer of the sea, the narrator of the navigational systems, draws his or her tale from the sea, a tale which also has meaning for other practiced mariners with whom she or he shares similar experiences

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and a similar lifeworld. Hence these individual experiences and knowledges are shared within their societies, they are passed on from generation to generation either through storytelling, through dancing (Lewis, 1972) or through song (Riesenberg, 1976, p.92; Rainbird, 2007, p.46) or by a materialized representation of this information such as, for example, the stick charts that we know from the Marshall Islands (fig.1) (Davenport, 1964). Therefore seascapes can also become part of communal narrations, myths and rituals and associated with collective memories (Tilley, 1999, p.177). By all these stories, by their collective production and consumption the individual sea experience of the wayfarer becomes part of the group’s lifeworld and the perception of the sea acquires a social and historic dimension; a dimension, which in turn has an impact on how the sea is experienced and expressed both materially and literally. With these insights into the sea-realities of practitioners, the question arises if such a complex awareness and narration might also be traceable in the archaeological and literal record of the Second Millennium B.C.E.

Relating to the Sea – Literally and Materially Produced Realities To shed light on people’s experiences and knowledge of Bronze Age seascapes, I want to trace sea-related practices and their implied knowledge as well as the way they represent the sea in the written and materially produced realities. I have chosen three regions: Egypt, the northern Levant and Crete, broadly during the midnd dle of the 2 millennium B.C. E. but of course I do not consider them as strict cultural and social units. Furthermore it is not my aim to draw a complete picture of sea-related activities and images in these regions and to compare them one by one - an impossible task within the frame of this article. Rather I want to highlight by comparison the diverse possibilities of relating to this medium and the integration of different knowledges in the respective local lifeworlds and to encourage further research in this direction. All three regions possess an extensive coast line and were involved in the vibrant exchange system of the Eastern Mediterranean during the second Millennium B.C.E. At least since the beginning of the Millennium big sea-going sailing ships were available to all of them (Casson, 1995, fig.39) and long journeys across the open sea, navigation at night and sailing at an angle to the wind were possible (Berg, 2007).

Egypt and the Nile Delta In Egypt relations with other Mediterranean regions had existed the latest since the Early Dynastic Period, but for the Old Kingdom we have the first evidence that Lebanese cedar wood was imported by ship from the city of Byblos in the central Levant. What is not made explicit in this source is whether these ships

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Fig.2: Depiction of a sea-going ship with Syrian crew in the tomb of Kenamun (after Aruz et al., 2008, fig.98).

were navigated by people from the Levant or from Egypt (Wilkinson, 2000, th pp.141-142). The depiction of a sea-going vessel in the sun temple of Sahura (5 Dynasty) might shed some light on that question. The crew members are depicted in an ‘Asiatic way’ with beards, which suggests that this is a ‘Byblos ship’ th (Vinson, 2009, p.3). The term ‘Byblos Ship’ (kbnt) is known to us through a 6 Dynasty inscription which tells us about the return of the corpse of an Egyptian overseer of the construction of ‘Byblos boats’ in Western Asia (Strudwick, 2005, p.335). Hence voyages across the Mediterranean were indubitably undertaken, but there is no evidence of the participation of ‘Egyptians’ as practitioners, that is, as sailors or navigators. The same lack of evidence holds true for the Middle Kingdom, even though travel on the Middle Sea was surely prevalent (Watrous, 1998). More information is available about ‘Egyptian’ navigation on the Red Sea. The Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor dating to the Middle Kingdom (Baines, 1990) and the archaeological findings in Marsa Gawasis (Sayed, 1977) reflect Egyptian efforts to find easy access to the mines of the Sinai by sea. There is more evidence for the New Kingdom. But despite the rich sources from this period and Torgny Säve-Söderbergh’s intensive search and desire for an th Egyptian navy or even Egyptian supremacy over the sea during the 18 Dynasty (Säve-Söderbergh, 1946, p.42), the data is scarce and often not very compelling. Among the most interesting sources are the dockyard annals of Thutmose III, which mention sea-going ships in the river harbor Perunefer. The vessels are called sk.tj, Byblos (kpn) or Keftiu/Cretan (Kftjw) ships and we can assume that their names reflect their origin in these regions (Glanville, 1931, p.116; 1932, p.36) and not in Egypt. This assumption is supported by the fact that one of the very few depictions of sea-going vessels 4 in the Theban tomb of Kenamun, the ‘Superintendant of Perunefer’, has a ‘Syrian’ crew (fig.2). Is this ‘dominance’ of non-‘Egyptian’ sea-going ships in the written or iconographic record only due to 4

See also the depictions of the expedition to Punt on the Red Sea (for example, Duemichen, 1868, pl.1).

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the scarce preservation? Does it only reflect Kenamun’s desire to emphasize the ‘international’ character of his responsibilities in Perunefer or does it simply represent a reality of daily life in the harbor town? From texts we know that Pec runefer, whether we identify it with Tell el Dab a or locate it in the area of Memphis, was a multicultural place. The population also included many people from Western Asia, and ‘Asiatic’ cults flourished (see, for example, Bietak, 2009; 2011, pp.22-23). At least we should take into consideration that the Western Asian presence might not only be attributable to the Hyksos’ heritage, but also to the multicultural character of the harbor town and its possible attraction for skilled navigators and sailors from the Levant – no matter whether they were hired by the city states of Western Asia or by the Pharaoh. A preponderance of Western Asian navigators and seamen within the ‘Egyptian’ sphere might explain why Säve-Söderbergh searched in vain for official titles for marine personnel of the th 18 Dynasty (Säve-Söderbergh, 1946, pp.93-94). 5 This assumption might even be supported by the much later ‘Tale of Wenamun’ (Third Intermediate Period) which describes Wenamuns’s sea voyage to Byblos and Cyprus with a non‘Egyptian’ crew (Lichtheim, 1976, pp.224-230). Of course we cannot view the tale as a historical report, and this detail might simply reflect the loss of Egyptian power over the sea after the Late Bronze Age, though it might also mirror a customary practice of hiring foreign crews. Furthermore the Mediterranean is referred to in this text as the ‘great sea of Syria’ (using the Semitic term yam, Lichtheim, 1976, pp.224-230); this is possibly not only a geographical denomination, but also an indication that the Mediterranean was regarded as an integral part of the ‘Syrian’ rather than the ‘Egyptian’ sphere. This is not to say that Egyptians were not able to build and navigate sea-going vessels during this period. We know from the Punt reliefs (Duemichen, 1868, pl.1) that they were capable of doing so, at least for voyages in the Red Sea, and a letter of Ramses II shows that distinct knowledge about ship building existed at the very end of the Late Bronze Age (Edel, 1994, pp.186-187). 6 Despite Egypt’s intensive Mediterranean exchange during the Second Millennium there is hardly any evidence for ‘Egyptian’ navigators or sailors in the Mediterranean in the written and iconographical sources. This lack of evidence is surprising, especially because we encounter several references to people from Western Asia practicing these skills. Either they were rarely practiced by Egyptians or those Egyptian practitioners were not considered to be of sufficient interest to warrant depicting or reporting about them. 7

5 6

7

Vandersleyen even argues that they do not exist at all (Vandersleyen, 2008, p.125). In this letter the Pharaoh refers to a ship he has sent to the Hittite king, so that the carpenters of the latter can copy it and produce a drawing. However, Ramses II might not have been primarily interested in the spread of information about ship building, but in using the famous skills of the Hittite carpenters for his own interests. Furthermore the Horus Way, the land connection from Egypt via Sinai to the Levant, was still the usual route for trade and military campaigns to the Levant.

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This was evidently not the only facet of the Mediterranean that was disregarded. For example, there is no explicit description of the animals native to this body of water. This is particularly surprising because fishing is a very prominent topic in Egyptian iconography though depictions of this activity are restricted to Nile or marsh scenes. In these contexts the fish were drawn in such detail that we can identify most of the species (Brewer and Friedman, 1989). The inhabitants’ knowledge of these species might mirror the interest and importance of these resource-rich regions for the population. The Nile had an abundance of fish, and Nile perch and fresh-water shells were even exported to the Southern Levant and Cyprus (Reese, Mienis and Woodward, 1986). The fact that these animals are depicted in detail in their natural habitat reflects the practitioner’s knowledge of underwater fauna, and obviously these riverscapes were an integral part of people’s lifeworld. Similar illustrations, but of Red Sea species, can be seen below the depictions of Hatshepsut’s Punt ships in Deir al- Bahari. Here, too, the animals are mostly identifiable with fish living today in the Red Sea (Doenitz, 1868, pp.46-47, pl.20-24) and therefore reflect a very good knowledge of the local sea life, while similar representations of the Mediterranean are unknown. Even though it is difficult to argue on this lack of evidence, it seems that the Egyptian convention of depicting, or one can almost say listing in detail, what is below the water surface is restricted to the Nile and the Red Sea. Again the question rises if it was simply not of interest to depict the Mediterranean Sea in such a detailed way or if this body of water and its dwellers were less known? The few available archaeozoological data seem to confirm the subordinate role of the Mediterranean Sea as a food resource, at least in the nearby Nile Delta. One of the rare examples of a sea fish is a mullet found in a storage jar in the pac latial district of F/I in Tell el Dab a on the Pelusiac branch of the Nile. But obviously only those sea fish which can adjust to brackish water and were therefore able to swim upstream have been detected in the archaeological record (Boessneck and von den Driesch, 1992, pp.42-43; von den Driesch, 1986). Hence they could have been fished in the brackish water of the Nile Delta and cannot be used as evidence for fishing activities in the Middle Sea. Also, there is little evidence of collecting in the littoral zone. A small number of murex shells (Murex brandaris) and some other marine shells (a few are pierced and used as jewelry, as c for example some Cerastodermae) are known from the site of Tell el Dab a (Boessneck and von den Driesch, 1992, p.44). Furthermore, there is evidence of sea shells and corals in a workshop of F/II, probably used as raw material 8, and crushed shells have also been detected as filler for the wall paintings of the palatial district of the Thutmosite period (Brysbaert, 2007, p.155). In limited amounts shells obviously entered different craft productions in the Nile Delta, but it is often hard to say whether they were imported from the Red Sea or the Mediterra-

8

Beneath corals, Tridacna, partly burned and some Pinna shells, which might hint at a sea silk production, also some cuttlebone from H/VI Karl Kunst, personal communication.

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nean. 9 Nonetheless some collecting activity in the littoral zone can be assumed, though unfortunately archaeozoological evidence from sites directly on the coast and therefore immediate evidence of activities in the littoral zone of the Mediterranean is very limited. Due to the alluvial deposits in the delta the ancient coast line and therefore coastal sites are difficult to trace. An exception might be the very small Late Bronze Age site of Marsa Matruh which is about three hundred kilometers west of modern Alexandria, hence west of the delta. Different species from the littoral zone and open-water fish like mackerel as well as marine invertebrates like Monodonta and Patella, the latter probably collected for food, have been documented. This evidence speaks for active interaction with the sea in terms of collecting in the littoral zone as well as coastal and even open-water fishing by the few inhabitants (Reese and Rose, 2002, pp.89-92, pp.97-101). But because of its remote location the site cannot be considered representative of the Nile valley. After looking at sea voyaging, fishing and collecting as possible sea-related practices and hence possible experiences for the inhabitants of ancient Egypt, we finally come to the topic of how the Mediterranean itself was described in the different sources. In recent research there has been intensive discussion about the term Wadj-Wer, ‘the great green’ (w3ḏ-wr), and which regions were named by this appellation (see, for example, Kitchen, 2000; Vandersleyen, 1999; 2008; Quack, 2002). The traditional identification of Wadj-Wer as primarily the Mediterranean Sea has been challenged by Vandersleyen 10, who proposes that the term should be used exclusively for places within Egypt. Among others he lists, for example, the Nile itself, the delta, the Fayoum oasis and generally the flood of the Nile, but he excludes the Mediterranean (Vandersleyen, 1999; 2008). Even if we do not follow his rather radical exclusion of the Mediterranean (for a discussion see Kitchen, 2000; Quack, 2002), his study has again drawn attention to the multiple meanings and contexts of the term and that it clearly also covers different lakes and marshes. It seems that there is no distinctive term, no specific characterization for the sea; we are merely confronted by a broad amalgam of several water-related areas. From the Hyksos period onwards the Semitic term yam enters the written sources of Egypt (Vandersleyen, 1999, pp.127-128) and converges with indigene narratives. This is consistent with the introduction of different Asiatic cults and gods as well as influences of Western Asian mythological narratives (Kaiser, 1959, pp.78-91; Stadelman, 1967), beneath the cult of Baal Zaphon. Manfred Bietak hints at the fact that the cult of Seth/Baal Zaphon conc tinued in Tell el Dab a from the Hyksos period until Ramesside times, fulfilling his role as the god of seafaring and sailing, a role which could not be assumed by any Egyptian god (Bietak, 2011, pp.23-24). His introduction into the harbor 9 10

Kunst, 2009, Karl Kunst personal communication. He considers the same for the term Yam, the Western Asian word for the sea, since the Second Millennium also used in Egypt. Vandersleyen sees it as an equivalent to Wadj-Wer (Vandersleyen, 1999, pp.87-128).

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town of Tell el Dab a probably due to a lack of an indigenous deity with these characteristics could be compared to the introduction of the Levantine term yam in the light of the rather unspecific or broad meaning of the Egyptian term Wadj-

Wer.

There is only sparse evidence in the archaeozoological, iconographical and written records that the inhabitants of ancient Egypt were actively involved in practices in and with the Mediterranean Sea such as, for example, navigating, sailing, fishing or collecting. This stands in stark contrast to the iconographical representation of riverscapes and marshes which show the inhabitants’ intimate knowledge of the river and fresh water fish. It gives the impression that the Mediterranean was a largely neglected sphere and that the knowledge acquired through everyday experience with this medium were relatively limited. If this indeed was the reality for most ‘Egyptians’, the rather blurred use of the term Wadj-Wer as an appellation for the Mediterranean is not very surprising.

Ugarit and Northern Syria From Egyptian texts and iconography we have already gleaned information about the active role of Levantine sailors and merchants voyaging in the Mediterranean Sea. But the written sources from Late Bronze Age Ugarit give us an even deeper insight into these practices on the Northern Levantine coast. Two administrative texts listed 75 ships categorized into several types (for example, anyt-mlk, anyalṯy, anyt yam). Linder proposes that they are based on a multi-purpose vessel that was transformed by modifications in construction and composition of the crew into merchant ships, troopers and warships (Linder, 1981, p.40). 11 The vessels were crewed by skilled seafarers, described as captains, commanders and sailors (malaḫḫe or mare malaḫḫe), and by unskilled crew members such as rowers and warriors (Linder, 1981, p.40). In contrast to the Egyptian sources there is no reason to believe that these people were not recruited from the city state of Ugarit, and the clear distinction between the different occupations reflects the administration’s awareness and knowledge of the skills involved as well as well as firsthand experience of them. It is also of interest that shipwrights were mentioned in the Ugaritic text (Linder, 1981, pp.40-41). Hence technical knowledge of ship construction and specialized craftspeople were available in the city. The skill of boat and ship building involves not only technical knowledge, but also a deep understanding of sailing practice; the ship builder needs to be intimately familiar with the strength of currents and winds and to know how these elements interrelated with the materiality of the ship. These aspects, the knowledge these craftspeople share with sailors, create a bond between the practice of sailing and ship building (Kirby and Hinkkanen, 2000, pp.99-100; Rainbird, 2007, p.63). The execution of the latter 11

UT 319, UT 2085.

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in the harbor, on land, brings parts of the sailor’s lifeworld to the sphere of the city, one possible way the broader community of Ugarit might have encountered this craft and the sea. On the subject of fishing there is only indirect evidence in a text that lists two thousand sardines and fifteen squid, the latter called “arrow-with-two-beautiful eyes” (Dietrich, Loretz and Sanmartín, 1995, No.4.247, pp.23-27), both species can be fished in the littoral zone, for example, by using nets cast from a boat. By practicing this method of fishing a certain interaction with marine life is almost inescapable. Such an experience might be reflected in the Baal Cycle, a series of mythological stories about the god Baal. Here the appetite of a dolphin is used to describe the hunger of Mot, god of the nether world. “My craving is the lion’s in the desert, The appetite of the dolphin of the sea, Buffalo (that) rushes to the pond, […]” (Pope, 1981, p.167).

To use a dolphin as a metaphor for appetite implies knowledge about the hunting technique of dolphins. This might be an unusual choice of description for a nonmariner, but not for a person who is familiar with the sea. Dolphins usually hunt in a group, encircling a shoal of fish before picking their prey at an enormous speed and swallowing them whole – a behavior which might be interpreted particularly greedy or hungry. Such a scene is easily observed by fishermen practicing net fishing from their boats. Both dolphins and fishermen are eager for the same prey and casual encounters are known to be common. The text passage therefore gives the impression that the personal experiences of fishermen have entered the myth, the communal narrative of the society. Obviously it was sufficiently present and relevant as a part of people’s life world, as an integral part of the communal knowledge for the metaphor to be understandable to the community at large. This is not the only instance where fishing at sea plays a role in the mythical sphere of Ugarit. It is mentioned a second time in the same mythological context, when the goddess Asherat sends fishermen out to sea to catch fresh fish for expected guests (Smith and Pitard, 2009, p.78, 1.4 II); apparently fresh fish was a much appreciated food. Even though the Ugaritic lists of offerings mentioned fish less often than meat (Dietrich, Loretz and Sanmartín, 1995, No.1.1906, pp.21-23), it nonetheless had a significant role in rituals. On a cylinder seal from Alalakh, just a few kilometers north of Ugarit, an offering table with a fish is depicted in front of a seated god (Collon, 1975, p.105). But fishing and fish are not restricted to the spheres of myth, rituals and gods; rather they were an essential aspect of daily life. This is evidenced by several findings of fishing equipment. For example, the fishing weights in the shape of a miniature anchor found at the Acropolis of Ugarit (Frost, 1991, p.365) can be interpreted as a fisherman’s votive, maybe offered in the hope of a safe journey or a good catch. Another very interesting observation has been made by Honor Frost.

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Relating to old descriptions and photographs by Claude Schaeffer she presents the find context of more fishing equipment. It was detected together with three different kinds of shells (beneath a triton, Cymatiidae Charonia Sequenze Linné, and a tun, Tonna Galea Linné) as an obviously intentional deposition in the socalled maison funéraire (Frost, 1991, pl.IX). Hence not only fishing equipment as a probable symbol for this practice was deposited in the city center, but also objects originating from the sea. Clearly somebody has chosen to bring them from depths of the ocean into the human ritual sphere. It will remain unclear to us whether these shells have an apotropaic quality or whether they might symbolize specific places such as, for example, important fishing grounds, but it is surely not too far-fetched to consider these rituals as an attempt to control the sea and secure fishing fortune with the help of the gods. From a practitioner’s perspective fishing by boat and trade by sea are not entirely different activities. Despite their different aims, the experiences of fishermen and traders in seeking their way through the sea are in many regards comparable and in some cases even interwoven. Fishing was often conducted on trade ships to secure a supply of food on board; this aspect is evidenced by the fishing equipment discovered on the Late Bronze Age shipwreck of Ulu Burun (Yalçin, Pulak and Slotta, 2005, pp.628-629, cat.-nos.184, 185). Whether one is travelling on a trade ship or a fishing boat the wayfarer has to be aware of the clouds, the wind and weather (Ingold, 2005), different sea beds, the movement of birds and fish as well as different currents. The boat and the sail are extensions of the body (Rainbird, 2007, p.53) through which one feels the rising and falling of the waves, the currents, wind and weather (Ingold, 2010). Such were surely sensual experiences of the sailors of Ugarit. Additionally we can assume an animal-human interaction which is even reflected in the dolphin metaphor, which entered the literally produced realities of the inhabitants of the city. In Minet el Beidha, the harbor of Ugarit immediately on the Syrian coast, countless fragments of crushed murex shells have been excavated (Schaeffer, 1929, p.290, p.293, p.296; 1938, p.38). This finding implies an intensive collecting practice in the littoral zone around Ugarit; an activity which is also substantiated by a text listing two hundred purple snails (Dietrich, Loretz and Sanmartín, 1995, No.4.247, pp.23-27). Murex can be used, for example, as food, as bait or as filler for wall paintings and pottery, but the immense mass of crushed shells in Minet el Beidha speaks for the very complex process of dye extraction. Its use as a color is also referred to in a mythological text from Ugarit, where the goddess Anat employed it as a cosmetic. “She beautified herself with mure[x] [Whose] extract from the sea [is a thousand fields]” (Smith and Pitard, 2009, p.71, 1.3 III, 1-2)

Huge amounts of murex are needed for dyeing textiles. They are usually caught in traps, a practice which implies a very good knowledge of their habitats and be-

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c

Fig.3: Cylinder seal with the depiction of Baal and the sea from Tell el Dab a (courtesy of Prof. Dr. Manfred Bietak).

havior (Karali, 1999, p.43). The sheer amount found here points to a very regular activity and therefore a habitual interaction with the coastal zone of the sea. One can hardly imagine that such an intensive coastal activity does not go hand in hand with an intimate knowledge of especially rocky coastlines and their animal and plant life, resulting in a much broader collecting activity on the shore, for example, for other kinds of shells, salt or sea urchins, which did not enter the archaeological record. The sea is also a mythical entity in Ugarit. It is extensively described as Yam in the above mentioned ‘Baal Cycle’ and later even introduced into the Egyptian myths. As a god Yam is the personified sea and river and in the ‘Baal Cycle’ his role as the raging and untamed sea is emphasized (Smith and Pitard, 2009, p.247). In order to become king, the weather god Baal has to subdue Yam who despotically ruled over the gods and is hence described as a threat. Against this background it is very interesting to note that in Ugarit it is not Yam who is wooed by sacrifices and prayers to ensure a safe sea journey. And in the lists of gods, too, he is one of the last and rarely receives offerings at all (Cornelius and Niehr, 2004, p.52). If an Ugaritian wants to exert influence over the sea Yam, she or he has to do so through the virtually omnipresent god Baal. According to the myths his role is to control and subdue Yam. A locally cut cylinder seal of the c th Hyksos period in Tel el Dab a (13 Dynasty) illustrates this constellation very nicely (fig.3): Baal is shown with each foot resting on a mountain and faces to the left (Bietak, 2011, p.22, fig.6). His right arm is raised and he holds a club in his hand as if threatening the sea, which is depicted with a ship on the left-hand side on a slightly lower level. A very famous Baal stele found at the acropolis of Ugarit shows a similar iconographical composition. Again Baal is portrayed with a club and is directly placed above two wavy lines: one probably represents the mountains, Baal’s home, the other the subdued sea Yam (Cornelius and Niehr, 2004, p.46, fig.71). Here, too, Baal controls the sea, a medium which seems to be regarded as dangerous and often hostile and which should not be trusted despite its manifold resources. Specifically the latter perspective is referred to in an incantation text, which describes how Yam should be tied to the mountains, the sphere of Baal, so that he is unable to rise again (de Moor, 1996, pp.155-157). Taming

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Fig.4: Plan of the Baal-temenos in Ugarit with the find spots of anchors marked in grey, after Frost (1991, fig.1b).

and controlling the sea means therefore to bring it into Baal’s sphere. We could speculate whether this control might also be expressed by bringing sea-related objects into Baal’s sphere. Does a fisher who deposits his or her equipment and extravagant shells within Ugarit, the city of Baal, seek to control Yam with the power of Baal? The deposition of shells in Ugarit stands in clear contrast to the above-mentioned rather functional use of shells as bait, food or raw material for c different crafts in Tell el Dab a or Marsa Matruh. Such an assumption is in line with the custom of offering anchors to Baal. Anchors have been found throughout the city, but they have been mainly erected within the district of Baal’s temple on the acropolis or incorporated in the latter’s temenos wall (fig.4) (Frost, 1991, pp.375-80). Similar practices can be observed at the obelisk temple at Byblos (Dunand, 1950, nos.13035, 13036; Frost 1991, p.359), at the temple of Kition on Cyprus (Karageorghis and Demas, 1985, plan II) and even in a shrine in Mersa Gawasis on the Red Sea (Galili, Sharvit and Artzy, 1994, p.94). The anchors found in Ugarit have no marks of wear and also their often tremendous weight suggests they were not actually used at sea (weight: 125-600kg) (Frost 1991, p.357, p.59, p.362), but nonetheless their relation to practices and perils at sea cannot be denied. As Frost writes, “anchors save ships in danger of being dashed to pieces” (Frost, 1991, p.367) and it is in the context of these existential experiences that the origin of their symbolism in this ritual

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might have lain. Did the sailors ‘anchor’ at the temple, to be materially connected to the harbor? To be anchored in Ugarit in case of storms or unsuspected currents? We can imagine that they produced an additional anchor as an offering before they set sail, before they ventured into the uncanny medium of the sea. This idea would also be consistent with the temple’s function as a seamark. The 20m high, almost tower-shaped temple could have been sighted by arriving ships long before the white rocks of the harbor at Minet el Beida (Frost, 1991, p.355). This material connection to the security of the coast can be also observed in other contexts. Frost hints at the fact that anchors were also placed at the head or bottom of wells (Frost, 1991, p.362) and, hence indicating that fresh water was one of the most urgent supplies for sea voyages. Obviously the Levantine sailors wished to symbolically bind their ships to the coast, particularly to the protective sphere of Baal who controls not only the sea, but as the storm god also the weather; both media are of immense importance to sailors and fishers. Despite the manifold uses of the medium sea and the diverse available knowledge considering currents, winds and animals, the Mediterranean and its personification as Yam is regarded more as an external hostile entity, as the “other”, which has to be controlled. Sailors do not appease Yam himself with their offerings; they rarely incorporate him in their own ritual sphere. 12 Their way of relating to the sea was largely guided by the attempt to control, to subordinate it with the help of Baal; anchors, fishing equipment and shells were brought to Baal’s city or even his temple rather as Yam was tied to Baal’s mountain in the above-mentioned incarnation text. It is interesting that there is no depiction of the god Yam and the rare representation of the sea shows it from the outside, as a surface; an aspect which is in clear contrast to what we can observe on Crete.

Crete In contrast to the Northern Levant and the Nile valley, Crete does not offer many readable written sources from the second Millennium B.C.E. Only at the very end of the Late Bronze Age do the Linear B tablets shed some light on life on the island. Nonetheless the archaeological record describes the inhabitants’ relation to the sea in such manifold ways that a comprehensive treatment of the topic is impossible within the frame of this article. Hence I will restrict the last section to some examples which might be of significance for a comparison with the regions treated above. ‘Minoan’ iconography supplies us with several hints about the different ways humans traveled on the sea. The various sea-going vessels displayed on seals of the

12

The same attitude becomes evident in a mythical text. The two marine monsters tunnanu and anharu should not be simply avoided or appeased with offerings. Instead the fishermen should catch and therefore control them (de Moor, 1987, p.306, p.308).

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Fig.5: Depiction of a sailing ship on a Minoan seal, CMS VIII, 106 (courtesy of Corpus Minoischer Siegel). nd

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Fig.6: Depiction of a canoe-like boat on a Minoan seal, CMS II,3 252 (courtesy of Corpus Minoischer Siegel).

2 Millennium B.C.E. range from large sailing ships (fig.5) (for example, CMS VIII 106, or CMS II, 2 100) to canoe-like boats (fig.6) (for example, CMS II, 3 252). Rather as Lindner proposes for Ugarit, one may assume that Cretan sailing ships might have served as multi-purpose vessels with which the Cretans were actively involved in long-distance voyages in the Eastern Mediterranean. The iconographical compositions in which the smaller boats are often embedded on gold signet rings hint at a ritual context (for example, CMS II, 3 252), but similar boats are assumed to have been in use for daily transport or fishing in the littoral zone. The latter activity is also traceable in the zooarchaeological record. The few available studies on fish bones show that at least littoral species were quite commonly fished. Fish vertebrae have been found in plain barrel-shaped pots in the South-West Basement of the palace of Knossos (Evans, 1921, p.555) as well as inside pots from various contexts in Kommos (Powell, 1996, pp.57-58) while the remains of cuttlefish have been detected both in Kommos and Pyrgos (Powell, 1996, p.47). More difficult to trace are fishing activeties on the open sea, a more complex and dangerous task than fishing in the littoral zone and which required special knowledge. Up to now the actual role of seafood in the diet of the coastal population sadly remains obscure. Isotope data are only available from the cemetery in Armenoi (LM III) in the Cretan heartland and it is not surprising that in this region seafood formed only a very small part of the diet (Reynard and Hedges, 2008). As in Ugarit, collecting in shallow waters and on the rocky shore was the usual practice. Murex shells have been found at several sites such as, for example, in Mallia, Palaikastro, Knossos and on the island of Kouphonisi, and their condition and number often speak for the extraction of purple dye (Reese, 1987; 1980, p.80; Papadakis, 1983, pp.58-65). This interpretation is supported by the references to purple dye and cloth in the Knossian Linear B texts of the later periods (Palaima,

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1992, list (7) p.474). As in the case of Ugarit, huge amounts of murex had to be collected for this purpose, necessitating the use of traps and a good knowledge of the animal’s habitats and food preferences (Powell, 1996, p.94). But these are not the only shells to be documented in the archaeological record. Large numbers originated from the Middle Minoan II/III kouloures in Knossos and can probably be considered as food refuse (Evans, 1935, pp.104-105). Further findings originate from Mallia (Karali, 1999, p.15), Tylissos, Phaistos, Palaikastro, Pseira, Mochlos and Kommos (Powell, 1996, pp.46-47; Karali, 1999, p.16). Species such as patellae were probably used as bait for fishing (Reese, 1987), while the cardium might simply have been eaten as it is nowadays. Thus it is very surprising that some of the latter, very common species were also deposited at the peak sanctuary of Mount Yuchtas and the well-known Temple Repository of the palace of Knossos (Evans, 1921, p.517, fig.378), an aspect to which I will return in the later part of this section. This intimate knowledge of the coastal area and its animal and plant life probably was not restricted to the gathering of clams. We have evidence for the collection of crabs in Knossos, while sea urchins have been found in Chania, in the Unexplored Mansion in Knossos and in Kommos (Powell, 1996, p.47). The way in which the latter might have been collected can be seen by the preservation of such a vessel filled with sea urchins from the site of Akrotiri in the Cyclades (Marinatos, 1972, pl.86). Furthermore while one was making his or her way through the rocky sea shore, sea salt might also have been gathered on the rocky shore either to season food or to preserve perishable food. Triton and conch shells have been excavated in settlements, tombs and sanctuaries of the palatial and postpalatial period (Evans, 1921, p.221, pp.580-581; Reese, 1990; Karali, 1999, pp.22-24,). These species are usually at home in deeper waters (Karali, 1999, p.22) and it can be assumed that such large shells are rarely washed up unbroken on the shore where they could be easily collected. This would support the thesis that they were also brought to the surface by diving, a practice well-known until recently from Cretan sponge divers (Papadakis, 1983, pp.58-65). If we consider this as a possibility, it would open another field of human experience on Crete. In the introduction I tried to contrast an inexperienced person’s perception of the sea with that of a navigator from Puluwat Atoll. While the former generally regards the sea as a flat surface, the latter is not only aware of the sea routes, wind and currents, but also the seabed, reefs and animals - the space below the surface. This space is experienced by a diver even more intensively and with more dimensions. As she or he makes her or his way through this medium a diver is not restricted to the visual aspects of this world seen from above, but actually feels the water and is able to touch the rocks and plants on the sea floor. Entering the medium, the diver cannot breathe - an essential difference to the world above the surface. Moreover, he or she experiences a virtual absence of gravity, feels the pressure increase while diving deeper and gains, in contrast to the medium air, the ability to move three-dimensionally. This very specific encounter with the sea might have an impact on the practition-

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er’s personal perception of the sea. But one might ask if this personal experience entered the communal knowledge and if this might be reflected in the community’s materially produced realities of the sea? There has been extensive discussion about the ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ representation of sea creatures in ‘Minoan’ iconography and whether they are based on people’s observations of and experiences with these animals (for example, Berg, 2011, pp.121-127 with bibliography). This is particularly true of the representation of the octopus and nautilus on the ‘Palace Style’ and ‘Marine Style’ pottery which brings us finally to a very important aspect -- the relation between representations in art and material production and the way people perceived their environment. Of course artistic expression cannot be considered a one to one translation of people’s perceived surroundings, but as we have already seen in the above referred example it is surely not completely disconnected from their life world. Therefore John Berger is very probably right to ask the ‘naïve question’ about what all painting from the Palaeolithic period until today has in common: “Every painted image announces: I have seen this, or, when the making of the image was incorporated into a tribal ritual: We have seen this. The this refers to the sight represented.” (Berger, 2001, 14)

He considers painting first as “an affirmation of the visible which surrounds us”. But he also emphasizes the characteristic of the visible to appear and disappear and suggests that the latter perhaps gives the impulse to paint. In his view it is the “surety (the permanence) which painting strives to find” (Berger, 2001, p.14) through an “encounter between painter and model - even if the model is a mountain or a shelf of empty medicine bottles” (Berger, 2001, p.15). This very broad and maybe too obvious relation between painter and model is often buried under modern art theory, but nonetheless it is a very intriguing aspect for our present challenge of understanding the relation between ‘Minoan’ iconography and the life world of the inhabitants of Crete, even though we will hardly grasp its exact nature. A closer look at the Cretan ‘Marine Style’ pottery allows us to observe some results of this encounter between the painter or the society producing the pots and the model, the seascapes and its dwellers. The depiction of different shells and sea urchins (Müller, 1997) is easily set into relations with the above above-described collecting activities which we can trace in the archaezoological and archaeobotanic remains of several excavations. They reflect not only the awareness of these animals by the inhabitants of Crete, but also their importance, even though its exact nature remains largely unknown to us. The same holds true for the representations of crabs in relief pottery or on seals and seal impressions (Evans, 1921, pp.521522, fig.380; CMS VII 030b [MM II]; CMS II, 8 154 [MM III-SMI]). More intriguing are the possible reflections of fishing activities on seal iconography. For example, the depiction of men and women holding fish cannot simply be dismissed as the scheme of a Potnia or Potnios Theron (CMS II, 3 327 [LM I]; CMS VI 333 [LM I]; CMS V 181 [LM II]); there must be a reason for the

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Fig.7: Depiction of a flying fish and a net, CMS III, 322 (courtesy of Corpus Minoischer Siegel).

choice of this animal in place of the more common goat or lion. Especially the depiction of a man or woman carrying a bundle of fish in one hand (CMS VII 088; CMS X 144; CMS VI 324 [LMI]) or in another case even an octopus and a fish (CMS VI 183 [MM III-SMI]) might have been inspired by the way people handled freshly caught fish on secular occasions. But a far deeper insight can be gained from the combination of two motifs on ‘Minoan’ seals: a net-like motif and several fishes. This composition might be an iconographical abbreviation for the depiction 13 of fishing with a net. The fact that it shows mainly flying fish is highly interesting (fig.7) (see, for instance, CMS I 457; CMS III 322; CMS III 335, 337; CMS V 486 [all LMI]). This species is generally seen on the open sea and rarely in the littoral zone, a fact which might serve as evidence of net-fishing in the open sea - even though we cannot know if this was a one-off observation which was reproduced again and again or if it was something experienced regularly by fishers. Similar experiences might possibly underlie the images of dolphins and tuna (CMS II, 8 160 [SMI]), both of which are usually at home in the open sea, or the combination of a dolphin and a cuttlefish (CMS X 247 [SMI]). While it is difficult to trace fishing of open-water species in the archaeozoological record, the iconography hints to the existence of this activity. Fishing in the open sea is a highly complex and dangerous task requiring far more knowledge than fishing in the littoral zone. This is not only due to the necessary exploration of the more perilous open sea, but also to the seasonal variations in the occurrence of fish like tuna. The depiction of flying fish on seals as well as the examples made of faience found in the context of the Temple Repository of Knossos (Evans, 1921, p.521) might be directly associated with this dangerous and skillful practice and might have even served as a symbol for this activity. The same holds for 13

For similar phenomena in later periods see Siftar (in preparation).

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the depiction of nautili in several media. In the discussion of ‘rightness’ or ‘wrongness’ of the ‘Minoan’ animal images the nautilus figures prominently (Berg, 2011, pp.121-127); the fact that it is depicted upside down has puzzled most archaeologists. Usually the nautilus lives in the open sea (Berg, 2011, pp.125-126) and can rarely be observed alive. From time to time fishers find them in their nets mostly not as living animals but as dead by catch which possibly explains their unexpected depiction. It is under similar circumstances that nautilus shells might have entered the ‘Minoan’ material world – either as a mnemonic device for the experience of fishing in the open sea or possibly for a specific location, maybe a fishing ground. With the help of John Berger’s reflection on painting we are able to analyze ‘Minoan’ images on the simple and maybe naïve level of “the inhabitants of Crete have seen this” and might therefore relate personal or communal experiences and knowledge with it. But Tim Ingold’s thoughts about the implications of craftwork might lead us a bit further. He points to the fact that we should not examine craft in the modern sense of art and therefore not as a reflection on a symbolic level. It should not be understood as a specific human capacity to disengage consciously from lived experience. Ingold rightly considers this approach to be a retrojection onto the entire field of pre-modern and non-Western societies, of notions of humanity and animality, of culture and nature, and of art as representation, that have their sources in Western modernity (Ingold, 2000, p.111). “The activities of hunters and gatherers that lead to the production of what we in the west call “art” should, I argue, be understood as ways not of representing the world of immediate experience on a higher, more “symbolic” plane, but of probing more deeply into it and of discovering the significance that lies therein.” (Ingold, 2000, p.112).

And furthermore he explains that: “their purpose is not to represent but to reveal, to penetrate beneath the surface of things so as to reach deeper levels of knowledge and understanding. It is at these levels where meaning is to be found. There is no division, here, between “ecology” and “art”, as though hunting were merely a matter of organic provisioning and carving and painting gave vent to the free play of the symbolic imagination. The division, along with the dualism of nature and culture on which it rests, is of modern provenance, and it lies behind the conventional notion of the work of art as proof of a uniquely human capacity for the creative thought and expression.” (Ingold, 2000, p.130).

It might be worthwhile to consider the earlier mentioned treatment and deposition of shells in tombs, settlements and sanctuaries from this perspective. Whether or not these shells were an important source of nourishment, they were obviously considered to be special. The deposits are reminiscent to some extent of the above-mentioned findings of shells and fishing equipment in Ugarit, but it would go too far to ascribe a similar meaning to both practices. While the myth of Baal and Yam allows us to glimpse at least one aspect of the community’s perception

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Fig.8: Different shells from the Temple Repository in Knossos (Evans, 1921, p.519, fig.378).

and ambivalence towards the sea and its dwellers, we can hardly understand what the inhabitants of Crete had in mind when they offered the shells in their sanctuaries. But the practices executed with them might help us to understand the way they were incorporated into the human life world on land. The shells were not simply transported through the Cretan landscape to find their destination in one of the deposits. They were handled, seen and touched along the way and through this already merged with the human life world even though they retained their ‘natural appearance’. Besides, some examples have been painted on their outside as for instance several Cerastodermae of the Temple Repository of Knossos (fig.8). The process of painting transformed them clearly into something new and made the human-nature entanglement very obvious. It reflects not only an intimate examination of the object but even its incorporation into the life world of the painter. Evans describes their find context as strewed on the floors and altar ledges of the shrine (Evans, 1921, p.517, fig.377, fig.378) enveloping ritual objects and embedding the rituals conducted in this context. But this is not the only way in which shells entered the crafts of the island. For instance, the application of clay shells (mostly whorl shells, cockles, murex and tritons) on Middle Minoan relief pottery from Knossos and Mallia (Evans, 1921, pp.521-522,

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fig.380; Detournay, Poursat and Vandenabeele, 1980, pp.124-130, fig.176-180) is a highly interesting example. In some cases the application is not simply a threedimensionally executed shell motif; it is a one-to-one reproduction of an original shell which served as male mould (Evans, 1921, p.522; Poursat, 1981, p.965). The collected shell became an integral part of the production, of the creative process of a human-environment entanglement. It underwent an intimate treatment which might also reflect the people’s quest for a deeper understanding of the element sea. 14 Thus, the producer embodied the shape in his own knowledge; he or she explores each individual whorl of the shell. This goes beyond a human-object interaction or a human-environment interaction, based on the Cartesian dichotomy between nature and culture, body and mind that was prominently criticized by Ingold. It should be considered more as a tight entanglement, maybe even a unity through his or her senses. This dissolves the dichotomy between painter and model supposed by Berger, an aspect which is not restricted to the manufacturing process but is also involved in consumption. Due to their three-dimensionality the shells not only offer a visual but also a haptic encounter in the course of using and touching it. Through these processes not only does the human merge with the object; there is also a merging of the terrestrial and maritime realities of human life worlds. Similar aspects might be observed in the production and consumption of nautili and tritons made of stone and faience such as, for example, the well-known examples from Mallia and Agia Triada (Warren, 1969, pl.497501). Hence the Cretan coastal zone is not simply a sphere of human experiences resulting in an intimate knowledge of its seascapes, the dwellers and their habitats. Elements of this area were extracted, reshaped and reproduced and, through this intimate handling explored and incorporated. In a very similar way images help us to understand the way the inhabitants of Crete approached the sea and aspired to a deeper understanding of the medium. Rather like the navigators of Puluwat Atoll the producers of ‘Minoan’ iconography seem to pay attention to what happens below the water’s surface. For example, the depictions of fish below a boat on a gold signet ring (CMS VI 280 [LMI]) and below sailing ships on a three-sided prism and on a seal from Platanos (CMS VS 1A 330a [MMII-III]; CMS II, 1 287b [FM III-MMI]) indicate this awareness of the underwater world. Even more intriguing are the depictions on seals of shoals of fish or of a whole seascape with a fish and an octopus (fig.9) (for example CMS IV 232 [LM I], CMS XIII 077, CMS II, 8 157, all MM III[LMI]) or the way in which octopuses are depicted in their natural environment, within rocks or sandbanks, on the ‘Palatial’ pottery of the island (Müller, 1996). It is not only that the people’s knowledge of the animal’s habitat and behavior shines through what we often consider the artistic filter, the stylistic rendering of the motif; the way these animals are depicted in their natural surroundings or within a specific seascape might point to specific locations or type of locations in 14

The same holds true for a later jug from Poros (Mountjoy, 1985, p.231) whose shell decoration is even applied on the handle and thus in the place where the user grasps the vessel.

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Fig.9: Depiction of a seascape on a Minoan seal, CMS II, 8 157 (courtesy of Corpus Minoischer Siegel).

which these animals can be found. These images reflect not only an intimate knowledge of the under-water world, but also a specific way of approaching the sea and by this of becoming more knowledgeable. The way in which seascapes are depicted demonstrates quite clearly that the Cretan wayfarer does not perceive the sea as a plain surface, but explores it as a three-dimensional experience, consisting in an awareness of its marine life and the composition and layout of the seabed. 15 If this perspective on the sea is mainly triggered by the experience of sophisticated navigators, by a habitual entanglement through collecting activities or even as the result of a sensual experience by submerging into the medium water is difficult to evaluate, but it seems to reflect a certain attitude and interest related to human experiences. This way of approaching the sea becomes even more evident in the later, postpalatial periods of Crete, such as, for example, in the seascape painted on the floor of a shrine in Agia Triada (fig.10) (Militello, 1998, pl.11B, p.13). 16 A person who is allowed to enter this room would literally step into the sea, a medium 15

16

Nicholson mentions in his study of Shetland fishermen that they even named their fishing grounds by referencing the seabed (Nicholson, 1983, p.105). Hirsch assumed that the so-called Dolphin fresco from Knossos was also a floor painting.

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Fig.10: The depiction of a seascape on shrine floor at Agia Triada (after Militello, 1998, pl.13).

associated with the intensive bodily experiences of a mariner, collector or possibly diver. Obviously it was this way of approaching, of experiencing the sea which has been ‘transferred’ to the ritual sphere of the settlement to be evoked by each repetition of the ritual practice. While before that time single objects had been brought to the terrestrial world, objects which could be easily handled and controlled, a whole seascape is now integrated into the architectural setting of a shrine. Rather as the navigator, collector or diver entered the medium sea, the worshipper would have entered the shrine and been completely enveloped by the seascape of the floor. Thus the worshipper commemorates or even re-experiences activities at sea and becomes an integral part of the pictorial program - the wor-

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shipper fulfills the role of the human actor of the land- and seascape in ‘Minoan’ wall and floor paintings. 17 This attitude to the sea is probably the most important difference vis-à-vis the more ‘external’, and perhaps controlling approach of the Ugaritians.

Conclusion The archaeologist’s focus on trade and interaction between the Eastern Mediterranean palatial elites of the second millennium covers only a very small segment of the human-sea relationship. It is the segment which focuses on the ideal of transport and therefore bears the risk of reducing the sea to a flat, homogenous surface, to an infrastructure which facilitates communication and trade for those very small groups of the respective societies. If we broaden our view it becomes obvious that there is no universal phenomenology of the sea. The sea has a social dimension, culturally and historically constructed, and therefore a whole spectrum of local phenomenologies results. Although the Mediterranean seems to link the different regions geographically and offers a certain affordance, the sea is not an ahistorical constant; there are multiple attitudes to the sea within every society, but also in its broader social dimension it differs from society to society (Rainbird, 2007, p.56, p.57). While in Egypt the sea is treated with a certain reserve and the focus clearly lies on the river Nile or the Red Sea, in Ugarit it is seen mainly as a threatening force which has to be subdued by the city god Baal and is preferably seen from the outside, the shore. Without falling into the trap of environmental determinism and the assumption that Crete as an island must be considered a sea-oriented entity, the inhabitants of Crete seem to have an entirely different and maybe also more intimate approach to the sea. Instead of seeing it from the outside, their perspective appears to submerge into the sea, below the water’s surface, aware of what lives in the water and how different seascapes might look. Different practices, the production and consumption of sea-related objects are testimony to an intimate knowledge of this sphere. By incorporating them through a sensual entanglement they even merge with the medium sea and its dwellers. There are probably many more sea-realities within the regions and societies under discussion, but the differences we have found between them will hopefully exemplify the manifold approaches, attitudes and interest in the sea that were ingrained in the societies of nd the Eastern Mediterranean in the 2 Millennium B.C.E.

17

It would also be interesting to relate this evocation to the sarcophagi of this later period, painted with octopuses and seascape.

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Acknowledgements I want to thank Yannis Hamilakis for the very first discussion of the paper hold at the conference in Bochum in 2012 and Karl Kunst for sharing informations in c regard of the fish and vertebrae remains of Tell el Dab a. For their very helpful advices and fruitful discussions on the final manuscript I am much obliged to Lucie Siftar, Andreas Hanöffner, Thomas Stöllner and Manuela Lehman. Furthermore I am very grateful to several colleagues and institutions for the permission to publish images of their courtesy: to Maria Anastasiadou and Diamantis Panagiotopoulos, ‘Corpus Minoischen und Mykenischer Siegel’, to Manfred Bietak c and the excavation of Tell el Dab a, to Robert Bitsch and the ‘Völkerkundemuseum der J. & E. von Portheim-Stiftung Heidelberg’ as well as to Pietro Militello and the excavation of Agia Traiada.

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GUDRUN KLEBINDER-GAUß AND WALTER GAUß

Opportunity in Scarcity: Environment and Economy on Aegina “Those who live with the seas may be regarded as having a keen perception of the elements, a willingness, at some level, to participate in the community organisation of labour and, most importantly, an expectation of continual encounter with otherness, at home or elsewhere. These histories of the sea are embodied in the individual and the community, and this embodiment is related to both perception and experience of the environment and the specifics of material culture linked to the sea.” (Rainbird, 2007, p.64)

The role of landscape (and also seascape) and environment respectively in shaping human experience has gained increased interest in archaeological research (e.g. Tilley, 1994; for seascapes, see, e.g., Broodbank, 2000; Berg, 2007; for ‘landscape’ and ‘environment’ as complementary terms, see Ingold, 1993, p.156; see also Jones, 1998, p.11). The interaction between the individual and his or her environment – in Jones’ (1998, p.11) words the “totality of the natural, cultural, historic, and economic contexts within which an individual lives” – is seen as a critical factor in influencing people’s actions. In this contribution we want to introduce the case of the Greek island of Aegina and analyse some aspects of its culture within the context of the given environmental conditions.

Aegina Today: Tourism, Pistachios and Archaeology Aegina is a small island, approximately only eleven kilometres from north to south and twelve kilometres from west to east. It is situated in the centre of the Saronic Gulf, in close proximity to the neighbouring Peloponnese, the Megaris and Attica with Athens in the west and north, while the eastern side of the island faces towards the Aegean Sea, with the islands of Kea, Kithnos and Serifos as nearest neighbours (fig.1). The island’s geographic position allows easy and direct access to neighbouring coastal areas of the Greek mainland and easy access to routes in the central Aegean and beyond.

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Fig.1: Geographical position of Aegina in the Saronic Gulf; © Anavasis with additions by the authors.

In geological terms Aegina is part of the so-called Aegean Volcanic Arc, and most of its landscape is dominated by volcanic rocks which cover the entire southern and north eastern part of the island (fig.2). Only the north western part is geologically different, with a less rugged landscape and richer vegetation (Livaditis, 1974; Dietrich, Gaitanakis, Mercolli and Oberhaensli, 1991; Kiriatzi, Georgakopoulou and Pentedeka, 2011, pp.72-74) (fig.3). It is also on the northwest coast that the modern capital of the island, Aegina town, is situated. On the edge of the town, a short distance from the harbour, the prehistoric settlement and the acropolis of the ancient city state are located on the Kolonna hill peninsula.

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Fig.2: The volcanic southern part of the island; photo by the authors.

Fig.3: The fertile northern part of the island; photo by L. Berger.

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Fig.4: The late Archaic temple of Aphaia; photo by the authors.

The island is rather poor in natural resources, and apart from clay deposits and andesite, exploitable natural resources such as metals or minerals are completely lacking. Aegina also has limited agricultural potential: larger and easily accessible areas for agricultural use exist only in the northwest, whereas in the volcanic southern and north eastern part, terracing was the only way to make the land arable. Thus, Aegina is largely dependent on imports, even fresh water is delivered by tanker from Piraeus. Nevertheless, the island is densely populated (ca. 13,000 inhabitants at the 2011 census). Today’s economy is based on tourism: because of its closeness to Athens Aegina is a popular destination not only for visitors from all over the world interested in Classical culture – one of the island’s highlights is without doubt the partly reerected temple of Aphaia (fig.4) – and for pilgrims visiting the monastery of Aghios Nektarios, but also for numerous weekenders escaping the mega city of Athens. The only important agricultural export product today is the pistachio nut, as the hot dry climate and soil conditions are almost ideal for growing this crop (fig.5). The pistachio industry, which accounts for a good deal of Greek’s total production, is a relatively new phenomenon on Aegina. Until some fifty years ago, another product of the island was well known and widely distributed throughout Greece: Aeginetan clay water jars, known as κανάτια, were much

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Fig.5: Pistachios, the most important agricultural product of the island; photo by the authors.

used for storing water in the days before the refrigerator was a common household appliance, as the highly porous fabric kept the water fresh and cool (Kiriatzi, Georgakopoulou and Pentedeka, 2011, p.74). But how did the ancient and prehistoric Aeginetans deal with the environmental conditions? A comprehensive reconstruction of the past environment is not yet possible. However, various philological, archaeological, and scientific analyses provide sufficient evidence, we believe, to make some observations on life on the island in the past. We will focus specifically on two periods that are of special importance in Aeginetan history: the rich ancient testimonia together with the archaeological evidence make it logical to first deal with the late Archaic and early Classical periods, when Aegina was for more than two centuries one of the major hubs in the central Aegean area. Afterwards, we will concentrate on the period from the end of the Early Bronze Age to the beginning of the Late Bronze Age, during which time Aegina developed into a site “without peer” in the prehistoric central Aegean area (Rutter, 1993, p.780).

Late Archaic and Early Classical Aegina: a Major Centre of Trade The two above-mentioned, most striking characteristics of the island – namely its prominent geographical position and the poverty and barrenness of the soil – are frequently stressed in the ancient testimonia. Strabon (8, 6, 16) in his detailed depiction of Aegina describes its location as surrounded by Attica, the Megaris and the area of the Peloponnese as far as Epidauros. The Aeginetan landscape is

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Fig.6: Prehistoric (left) and Classical (right) Aeginetan cooking pottery; photo by the authors.

usually characterized as ‘rocky’ and ‘barren’ (Weilhartner, 2010, p.383, s.v. Bodenbeschaffenheit). Local agricultural produce of considerable importance is not referred to in the ancient sources, and the only goods mentioned are either very special or of excellent quality, like saffron for the production of anointing oil (Theophrast, De odoribus 27), or mullet (Archestratos, ‘Ηδυπάθεια / Life of Luxury, fr. 43). Other well-known commodities from Aeginetan workshops in antiquity are a special bronze alloy and bronze candelabra (Pliny the Elder, Naturalis Historiae, 34, 11), the raw materials for which had of course to be imported. Most important in our context is the reference to unspecified clay vessels (Herodotus, 5, 88, 2; Weilhartner 2012, pp.207-211). However, pottery is thus far the only product that can today be attributed with certainty to Aegina: our stylistic and scientific analysis proves that there was large-scale, highly specialized local production of pottery, covering both local demand and the export market in the Archaic and Classical periods as well as in the Bronze Age (fig.6) (Gauß and Kiriatzi, 2011; Klebinder-Gauß, 2012, pp.197-198; Pentedeka, Georgakopoulou and Kiriatzi, 2012, pp.104-124). Strabo continues his description of Aegina as follows: “for the island [...] became a merchant centre, since, on account of the poverty of the soil, the people employed themselves at sea as merchants” (8, 6, 16; translation H.L. Jones; see also Reed 2003, p.32). This latter statement turns our focus to what characterized Archaic and Classical Aegina in particular, namely its prominent position as a naval and trading power and its resulting wealth – characteristics that are also frequently mentioned in other ancient testimonia. Already by the early seventh century Aegina’s reputation as a seafaring power that contributed considerably to the development of shipbuilding is stressed (Hesiod, Ehoien, fr. 6-7; Jennings, 1988, pp.23-25; Morris, 1984, p.93). Aegina is also mentioned as one of the few places to have thalassocracy over the Aegean at a certain period, which meant hegemony in the field of naval matters, including military dominance (Herodotus, 5, 83, 2; see Weilhartner, 2008, p.344; Weilhartner, 2010, p.371, s.v. Thalassokratie).

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Even if Aegina’s labelling as a thalassocracy is controversial (Jennings, 1988, pp.25-32), it at least reflects a certain reputation as a prominent seafaring power. Aegina’s military strength is also reflected by the fact that it received the highest honors of all Greeks in the battle of Salamis 479 BC (Hdt. 8, 93, 1; Weilhartner 2008, p.343). According to the ancient sources, Aegina was the only non-east Greek polis to be party to the trading post at Naukratis in the Nile delta (Herodotus, 2, 178). Furthermore, another Aeginetan trading post is mentioned in Kydonia in western Crete (Strabon, 8, 6, 16), as also are trips to the Pontos region (Herodotus, 7, 147, 2-3) as well as contact with Umbria (Strabon, 8, 6, 16), Sicily (Olympiodoros, Commentary on the First Alcibiades of Plato, intro-duction) and Illyria (Strabon, 8, 6, 16; see comment Weilhartner, 2010, pp.199-200 no. 885). Aegina’s enormous wealth in this period is proverbial and commonly associated with the successful trading activities of its inhabitants (see Weilhartner, 2010, p.384 s.v. Reichtum; Figueira, 1981, pp.166-170; Jennings, 1988, pp.5-8). Aristoteles (Politeia, 1291b), for example, mentions in his listing of various classes of people associated with the sea that on Aegina (and Chios) the merchant class is extremely numerous. Aegina’s prosperity is not only well documented in the ancient testimonia, but also displayed in its archaeology. The intense building activities, especially in the late Archaic and early Classical periods, when the sanctuaries in Kolonna (fig.7) and Aphaia (fig.4) and the city’s commercial harbour were embellished on a grand scale, are evidence of the immense monetary resources available for public projects (Felten, 2005, pp.182-187; Figueira, 1981, pp.280-281). The arts were also thriving on Aegina at this time, as is indicated by numerous references in ancient literature to Aeginetan sculptors and their works (Walter-Karydi, 1987, who also discusses works of art that may be connected with the Aeginetan school). The assumed high population in around 500 BC may be seen as another indicator of the island’s prosperity (for calculations of the population, see Figueira, 1981, pp.22-64; Horden and Purcell, 2000, p.119, p.381; see also Weilhartner, 2010, p.370 s.v. ancient remarks on the ‘Bevölkerungsreichtum’ of Aegina). Even the minimal calculations estimate a population many times larger than could be provided for by the island’s own agricultural production. It was thus necessary to meet the demand by large-scale import of staples. The perceived source of Aegina’s prosperity, namely its success in sea trade, is also apparent in the archaeological evidence. The wide distribution of Aeginetan coins in the Mediterranean and the rapid adoption of its standard by a number of other Greek poleis particularly indicate the island’s enormous economic importance in this period (Figueira, 1981, pp.125-144; Carradice and Price, 1988, pp.35-36, p.50, p.76; Jennings, 1988, pp.101-103; Osborne, 1996a, p.257; Hopper, 1982, p.86). The introduction of coinage was of huge importance because it meant that the value of goods could be assessed by a fixed standard, thus facilitating exchange at a distance and between strangers (Morley, 2007, pp.61-64; see also recently Papadopoulos, 2012, p.286). It is certainly not by chance that the trading power Aegina was one of the first Greek poleis to mint its own coins. The

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Fig.7: The prehistoric settlement of Kolonna and the remains of the late Archaic temple of Apollo; photo by M. Del-Negro.

raw materials needed had to be acquired abroad, as the island had no mines of its own. th th Apart from coins, another Aeginetan product could be found in the 6 and 5 century at various sites in the eastern and central Mediterranean as far as the Pontos region, namely cooking pots. At this time Aegina had evolved into a major centre of cooking ware production that supplied not only the local market, but also places far beyond with various items of high-quality cooking pottery (Klebinder-Gauß, 2012, pp.173-193, pp.198-199). Even though pottery was certainly not a vital trade commodity but rather was carried alongside other, quantitatively and qualitatively more important perishable goods, its usually good state of preservation omnipresent at all findspots makes it one of the most important indicators of contact (Gill, 1994, p.99, p.105, p.107; Erickson, 2005, p.644; Osborne, 1996b, p.39). The presence of Aeginetan cooking pottery is obviously closely linked to the routes of the Aeginetan fleet, as for most of the findspots also other evidence like literary sources indicate the existence of connections to that particular region or place (fig.8) (Klebinder-Gauß, 2012, pp.198-199). It is therefore safe to assume that Aeginetan cooking pottery was transported and sold by the Aeginetan traders themselves – an assumption that is also supported by the

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Fig.8: Distribution of Archaic and Classical Aeginetan cooking pottery (black) and ancient sources mentioning Aeginetans abroad (dark gray); © Anavasis with additions by the authors.

denotation of Aegina as ‘χυτρóπωλις’, ‘potseller’ (for the reading of this citation, see Weilhartner, 2012, pp.209-210). The diversity of the numerous and often exotic imports found in the city sanctuary at Kolonna and in the Aphaia sanctuary provides further evidence of Aegina’s wide-ranging contacts in this period: pottery, figurines, engraved tridacna shells, bronze vessels and jewellery as well as faience objects reached Aegina from various regions in the Aegean and from places as far away as Egypt, Cyprus and the Levant. In some cases Aegina is the only place in central Greece where these objects have been found at all or in considerable numbers (Margreiter, 1988, pp.19-20; Morris, 1984, pp.96-100). It is virtually impossible to surmise if these goods were acquired by Aeginetan merchants directly at their place of origin, if they reached Aegina via an intermediate port or if they were brought to the island by foreign traders; furthermore, it is not clear whether locals or foreigners dedicated these objects to the sanctuaries. In any case, the frequency and spectrum of these objects stress Aegina’s role as a main trading hub.

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Hence, written sources and the archaeological evidence present the picture of a small, rather barren island that flourished in economic, cultural and military terms in the late Archaic and early Classical period, and that accumulated extraordinary wealth through maritime trade. Naval capabilities were already highly developed at this time, and even long distances were not an insurmountable obstacle (Höckmann, 1985). However, little is thus far known about the structure of Aeginetan sea trade and the nature of the traded goods. Ancient testimonia and the almost total absence of natural resources indicate that the Aeginetans acted primarily as middlemen and carriers of goods acquired abroad by Aeginetans or shipped to Aegina by other tradesmen (see, e.g., Figueira, 1981, pp.231-236; Morris, 1984, p.98. p.100). The commodities in which the Aeginetans traded were probably mainly perishable or convertible goods, such as cereals and metals, but also slaves, and furthermore sundry items of all kinds, as the expression “Αιγιναία εμπολή” – translated as Aeginetan commodity – was metaphorically used in antiquity for junk (Jennings, 1988, pp.149-150; Morris, 1984, p.95; Weilhartner, 2012, p.207). The Aeginetans obviously utilized the favourable geographic position of their island in the centre of the Saronic Gulf close to the mainland coast and with easy access to important traffic routes: they successfully established themselves as trading middlemen between the neighbouring harbours in Attica, the Megaris and the north-eastern Peloponnese in regional terms, and in terms of long-distance trade between the Aegean, the Black Sea region, northern Africa, Italy and the western Mediterranean (Figueira, 1981, p.276; Jennings, 1988, pp.140-145, pp.151-155). Aegina’s economy in Archaic and Classical times is thus characterized by its function as “central clearing point” (Jennings, 1988, p.154, p.221), on the one hand, and by its widespread, regional and long-distance maritime exchange of commodities, on the other hand (cf. Osborne, 1996b, esp. p.31, pp.39-40, pp.43-44; Jennings, 1988, pp.139-140). Present evidence, as provided by the written sources and the distribution of local pottery, indicates that Aeginetan activities were concentrated on coastal regions easily accessible by ship. This fits well with the picture of a trading power carrying goods between different ports, thus linking existing cycles of exchange in a single interacting system (cf. Sherratt and Sherratt, 1993, p.363, p.374; Morley, 2007, p.10). The installation of trade posts and the constant occurrence of Aeginetan pottery at certain places suggest moreover that these connections were not short-term, but consistent and directed. Aegina’s rise to major trading and naval power since the early Archaic period coincided with its independence from Argos and Epidauros respectively in the course of the second half of the seventh century (for this, see, e.g., Figueira, 1983, p.9, p.28; Morris, 1984, p.94, p.98; Jennings, 1988, p.221; Weilhartner, 2008, p.343) and with the decline of Athenian and Euboean activity abroad (Morris, 1984, p.94, p.104, p.119). Moreover, Aegina obviously benefited from a general increase in the prosperity of the Saronic Gulf states during the late Archaic and early Classical periods (Jennings, 1988, p.142 note 121. pp.207-208) and from the decline of important trading states in the eastern Aegean at the end of the

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sixth century (Gehrke, 1986, p.173). Aeginetan supremacy in sea trade in the central Aegean was unchallenged until the third quarter of the fifth century BC. The subsequent decline goes hand in hand with changed political and economic circumstances in the Saronic Golf, especially the rise of Athens to a supra-regional dominating power. It culminates in the loss of Aegina’s maritime, economic and military power and in the expulsion of the local population in 431 BC (Weilhartner, 2008, pp.344-346; Klebinder-Gauß, 2012, p.197 with further references; Jennings, 1988, p.140. pp.211-212).

Bronze Age Aegina: a Hub of the Central Aegean Let us now turn to prehistoric Aegina (for references, see Rutter, 1993, pp.775780; Maran, 1998, pp.31-37; Gauß, 2010), in particular the time between ca. 2200 BC, the late Early Bronze Age, to ca. 1500 BC, the first part of the Late Bronze Age (for absolute dates at Kolonna, see Wild et al., 2010; on absolute and relative chronology in general, see Manning, 2010). Because of the lack of literary sources for this period the analysis of the island’s development has to be based exclusively on the archaeological evidence. Thus, only fragmentary information on the environmental conditions of Aegina at that time is available. It concerns mainly the material culture, such as pottery production, imported and exported non-perishable goods, building activity, etc. Moreover, the holistic approach of the 2002 to 2010 excavations at prehistoric Kolonna (annual reports in Jahreshefte des Österreichischen Archäologischen Institutes in Wien 2003–2011) also provides rich archaeozoological and archaeobotanical data that contribute immensely to our understanding of the population’s subsistence and the environmental conditions on the island (Forstenpointner et al., 2010; Galik et al., 2010; Galik et al., 2013). The constraints imposed by the mainly rough landscape and the limited arable land must have been decisive then, too. The settlement of Kolonna was the most significant site of the island throughout prehistory. Its importance already in the Early Bronze Age II period, around 2500 to 2200 BC, is attested by two succeeding large-scale buildings (‘corridor houses’), and by imports from various regions (for general information, see Rutter, 1993, pp.761-763; Maran, 1998, pp.31-35; for corridor houses, see Walter and Felten, 1981, pp.12-22; Shaw, 1987; for finds, see Walter and Felten, 1981; Berger, 2004; Berger, n.d.). However, the establishment of Aegina within an exchange and trade network is presumably much older and may go back at least to Neolithic times, when Aeginetan andesite millstones reached the Argolid and Attica (Runnels, 1985, p.36; van Andel and Runnels, 1988, p.236). Especially since the Early Bronze III period (ca. 2200 to 2050 BC), Kolonna underwent an unparalleled development: a regular planned and strongly fortified settlement arose on top of the ruins of the preceding Early Bronze II settlement (Walter and Felten, 1981; Felten and Hiller, 2004; Gauß and Smetana, n.d.). Particularly the newly built fortifications made the site a unique settlement in the

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Fig.9: Mediterranean-type stone anchors from Kolonna; photo by the authors.

central Aegean area (Rutter, 1993, p.776, p.780). Both the planned layout of the settlement and the fortifications indicate a well organized and perhaps even ranked society. Apart from being a prestigious building project, the fortifications point towards a constant need for security, presumably to protect the wealth and interests of the Kolonna people. In the Middle Bronze Age (ca. 2050 to 1650 BC) the fortifications were continuously strengthened and remodelled five times, and the settlement was extended twice, each extension again strongly fortified (Walter and Felten, 1981). The extraordinary wealth of the site is mirrored in two precious metal hoards (Higgins, 1979; Reinholdt, 2008), in the earliest known shaft grave for an elite burial in the central Aegean (Kilian-Dirlmeier, 1997), and in the construction of an exceptionally large building, which is most likely the mansion of the settlement (Gauß, Lindblom and Smetana, 2011). Based on the above evidence, Middle Bronze Age Kolonna is thought to be one of the earliest first-generation states outside Minoan Crete (Rutter, 1993, p.795 and note 210; Niemeier, 1995; Pullen and Tartaron, 2007, p.155). Throughout the Middle Bronze Age, a constant Minoan influence is traceable at Kolonna: it includes Minoan religious and prestige items found at the site that may even indicate the presence of Cretans living at Aegina (Reinholdt, 1992; Hiller, 1993; Gauß, 2006). The local production of Minoan-type pottery (Hiller, 1993; Gauß and Kiriatzi, 2011, pp.176-177), and of Minoan-style food preparation and consumption (Forstenpointner et al., 2010; Galik et al., 2013) is another important aspect of the strong Minoan influence on the local elite at Kolonna. It seems to be strongest in the life-time of the mansion and the approximately contemporary elite burial.

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Fig.10: Distribution of Middle Bronze Age (dark gray) and Late Bronze Age Aeginetan cooking pottery (black); © Anavasis with additions by the authors.

In the periods under discussion Kolonna had wide-flung connections that are mirrored in the numerous imports from various regions, and by Aeginetan pottery found outside the island. The imports reflect contact in particular to the Greek mainland and the island of Kea, and to a lesser extent to other Cycladic islands like Melos and Thera. Sporadic finds of Late Bronze Age south-east Aegean and Cypriote pottery found at Kolonna (Felten et al., 2008, p.72 fig.33,13-14, p.74 and note 78) even indicate hitherto unspecified ‘connections’ to more distant regions, as do a few east Mediterranean-type stone anchors, though the latter are without stratigraphic contexts (fig.9). Likewise, the distribution radius of Middle and Late Bronze Age Aeginetan pottery is remarkable. It reached, though in small quantities, Sicily and southern Italy in the West and Troy, Liman-Tepe

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and other sites on the Anatolian coast in the East. Aeginetan pottery from the Middle and Late Bronze Age is now known from more than ninety sites, with the main distribution area in the north-eastern part of the Peloponnese, Megaris, Attica and Boeotia (fig.10). Interestingly, comparatively little Aeginetan pottery has been thus far identified in the Cyclades, and on Crete it is almost absent (Rutter, 1993, p.776, p.777, fig.12; Graziadio, 1998, pp.45-47; Lindblom, 2001, pp.4344; Voutsaki, 2010, pp.105-106; Gauß and Kiriatzi, 2011, pp.241-247). Although we do not yet have any firm evidence, the distribution pattern of imported and exported pottery could indicate that Aeginetan ships undertook the longdistance trips to southern Italy or the Anatolian coast, the most distant regions in which Aeginetan pottery was thus far recognized, or even to Cyprus. The wealth and importance of the Kolonna settlement continued until the Late Bronze Age. The development towards the Mycenaean palace states in the th 15 century BC (Rutter, 1993, p.706; Wright, 2008; Ruppenstein, 2012) seems to go hand in hand with a gradual decline of importance at Kolonna (Gauß, 2007; Ruppenstein, 2012, p.57; regarding the development in the Argo-Saronic Gulf see in particular Siennicka, 2002; Pullen and Tartaron, 2007, pp.155-157). However, Aeginetan cooking pottery continued to be produced and exported even beyond the end of the Mycenaean palatial system (Gauß and Kiriatzi, 2011, pp.243-247). How can the extraordinary development and prosperity of Kolonna in prehistoric times be explained? As already stated for the Archaic and Classical period, the limited size of the island and the almost total lack of raw materials suggest (also for the period under discussion) that its wealth was most certainly not based on its natural resources, but was acquired by other means. Recently ‘trade’ (for the use of the term see Rutter, 1993, p.769 note 100; for general remarks on trade, see Steuer, 1999) in Aeginetan pottery and andesite millstones and mortars has been thought to be at least partly responsible for the prosperity of the island (Runnels, 1981; Rutter, 1993, p.795 and note 209). Indeed Aeginetan andesite stones (raw material and finished products) have been found outside the island since Neolithic times (Runnels, 1985, p.34, p.36; van Andel and Runnels, 1988, p.236; Rutter, 1993, p.795 and note 209). Research on the rich pottery production of Aegina furthermore clearly shows that fine table-ware and cooking pottery were already produced for export on a larger scale in the Middle Bronze Age, and cooking pottery continued to be made and exported even until the end of the Late Bronze Age (Rutter, 1993, p.776, p.777, fig.12; Graziadio, 1998, pp.45-47; Lindblom, 2001, pp.43-44; Lindblom, 2007; Gauß and Kiriatzi, 2011). At a number of sites the amount of Aeginetan pottery exceeds all other pottery imports by far (e.g., Asine and Kiapha Thiti; for references, see Gauß and Kiriatzi, 2011, pp.243-244). Additional evidence on what may have been produced at Aegina derives from recent excavations: archaeozoological research provides sufficient evidence for the assumption of a local purple dye production since the late Middle or early Late Bronze Age (Galik et al., 2010; Galik et al., 2013).

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However, even though the production and distribution of Aeginetan pottery and andesite stones is remarkable and in certain periods even exceptional, it seems hard to imagine that the flourishing development of the Kolonna site for more than five centuries is entirely based entirely on these products. Even a combined large-scale pottery and purple dye production and their exclusive distribution by Aeginetans could hardly explain the importance and prosperity of the Kolonna settlement for such a long period. Also, the assumption that piracy and raids are the main reasons for Aegina’s wealth is not satisfying (Basch, 1986). To explain the Aeginetan phenomenon in a more satisfactory way, we would like to assume that Aegina and Kolonna played an important role as node, transfer site and carrier of goods within the major communication networks of the central Aegean world, and that Aegina itself maintained a network system since the Early Bronze Age at the latest. To better understand the amazing development at Aegina and Kolonna, it has to be put into a wider context. As mentioned above, Kolonna was already an important centre in around 2500 BC. We believe, however, that the time after 2200 BC, the so-called “Wendezeit” / period of transition (Maran, 1998), when major cultural changes were taking place throughout the central Aegean area, is most important for the unparalleled development of Aegina. In contrast to the decline and abandonment of sites on the Peloponnese (Wright, 2008, p.234 fig.10.2) and also on the Cyclades (e.g. Aghia Irini on Kea), the Kolonna settlement flourished. Thus it seems to have benefited immensely from the period of transition by evolving into a major trading and distribution centre and a nodal point connecting mainland Greece with the islands of the Cyclades and Crete. One may suppose that Kolonna not only maintained its already existing relations, but that it also filled the gap by taking over the relations of declining or abandoned sites. It is thus plausible to assume that Kolonna not only ‘controlled’ the Saronic Gulf since the end of the Early Bronze Age, but that it was also in an active way responsible for the distribution and redistribution of goods arriving at Kolonna to the neighbouring areas in the Saronic Gulf and beyond, and vice versa. However, the development and extent of the ‘Kolonna network’ in prehistoric times is difficult to explain, as it relies heavily on recognized and published Aeginetan finds outside the island and imports to the site, and the body of material is constantly growing (Fimmen, 1924, p.77; Rutter, 1993, p.776. p.777 fig.12; Lindblom, 2001, pp.43-44). The evaluation of distribution patterns is a critical issue (for references, see Steuer, 1999, esp. pp.503-515). This is exemplified for the Aegean area, respectively Aegina by I. Berg (1999, pp.476-478 maps 2a-2c) and M.E. Alberti (2013, p.31, fig.3.4) and by C. Knappett, T. Evans, R. Rivers (Knappett, Evans and Rivers, 2008; Aegina is illustrated as no. 26 in figs. 4 and 5). In the Archaic and early Classical period alike, the significance of Kolonna in the area of the Saronic Gulf in the late Early to early Late Bronze Age is beyond doubt. Perhaps on a less grand scale than in the Archaic and Classical period Aegina gained its wealth and importance through maritime trade. The Aeginetan self-image of dominating the surrounding sea may also be recognized from the

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exceptionally rare figurative depictions of ships on Aeginetan pottery of the Middle Bronze Age. They show longboats with their crew, in one case even armed with spears (Basch, 1986; Siedentopf, 1991, pls.35-37, no.158. pl. 38, no.162; Rutter, 1993, pp.778-780; Wedde, 1999, p.49; Wedde, 2000, pp.41-45, p.316, cat-nos. 510-520, figs. 510-520). Nevertheless, some issues regarding the role of Kolonna still remain fuzzy; for example: How did the Aeginetan network interact with contemporary Cretan, Cycladic and mainland ones? Is it plausible to assume that the Cretan network did not penetrate into the Saronic Gulf, but used Kolonna as a nodal point to offload and upload cargo? Does Kolonna also control a hinterland, particularly in eastern Corinthia as suggested by Pullen and Tartaron (2007, pp.153-157, p.154, fig.14.3. p.156, fig.14.5)? Is the assumption of a controlled hinterland on the mainland – “Terraferma”, to use a term borrowed from medieval Venetian history – a necessary requirement to explain the development at Kolonna? Or again, could the lack of a (permanently) controlled hinterland on the mainland be seen as one of the reasons for Kolonna not developing into a palatial centre (like Mycenae), and furthermore for its subsequent decline in the Mycenaean palatial period? Was the Aegina network incorporated into the Mycenaean palatial network, and what happened after the collapse of the palace system? Some of the issues raised may not be clearly solvable, but we hope that continuous research and the application of theoretical approaches and models will contribute to the understanding of the significant role of Aegina and its network in the Bronze Age.

Opportunity in Scarcity: Conclusion Aegina evolved twice in its history to an exceptionally important hub within the Mediterranean, namely in the late Early to early Late Bronze Age and again in the Archaic-Classical period. In both periods Aegina appears as a thriving community which successfully established a sufficiently powerful position to protect its interests for a considerable length of time. In both periods the supposed source of its wealth and influence is its intensive engagement in large-scale sea trade. And in both periods this phase of prosperity was followed by a phase of decline, when changed political and economic circumstances drastically constrained Aegina’s opportunities to engage in trade and to maintain its salient position. Thus, a similar scenario arises for both of the periods discussed above. Both in the Middle Helladic and in the Late Archaic-Early Classical period Aegina’s wealth, the wide range of imports found on the island, the range of its contacts and the constant occurrence of its products at certain places beyond the island, all speak for regular, well organised trade connections. The Aeginetans of these periods apparently dealt mainly in foreign goods, but they also exported the few products provided by the island’s resources, namely table-ware, storage and cooking vessels as well as andesite millstones in the prehistoric period, saffron in the

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historic period, and, as most characteristic local product, cooking pottery which was exported also in this period throughout the Mediterranean. Thus, the Aeginetans developed in both periods under discussion a farreaching and well organised network of small-scale local and trans-regional exchange, using the sea as a means of communication. From the available evidence – especially in the Bronze Age, when written evidence is lacking – we can form only a rough idea of the quality of these Aeginetan networks, their duration, actual scope and functioning, and we can only assume how commodities and information were exchanged within them. However, for the establishment of a network the Aeginetans could in both cases certainly fall back on existing local maritime exchange cycles and routes of trade which had been in use since the Neolithic period, probably to meet the demand – or better: the desire – for goods that were not generally available within the Mediterranean world, such as specific stones (andesite, obsidian, etc.), metals, timber or grain (for this, see, e.g., Matthäus, 2005, pp.333-334; Morley, 2007, p.10; Sommer, 2009 for the important role the Phoenicians played in establishing a “full-fledged world system” in the course of the Iron Age; see also Morley, 2007, pp.37-43. p.90 and Foxhall, 1998, p.297 emphasizing the role of desire for the consumption and acquisition of commodities). The body of water and especially the Aegean Sea provide favourable conditions for moving goods, as open sea travelling is hardly necessary and the relatively short distances could be crossed quickly in good weather conditions (Casson, 1994, p.512; Matthäus, 2005, p.357). The sea is, in Rainbird’s (2007, p.64) words, “a space for movement”. Moreover, a fundamental physical advantage of Aegina is the fact that it is an island. Islands are clearly confined, well arranged and often enough self-contained spaces having, as stressed by Horden and Purcell (2000, p.225, p.227), all-round connectivity and are “uniquely accessible to the prime medium of communication and redistribution”. This, together with its geographic position in close proximity to the coasts of the eastern Peloponnese, the Megaris and Attica, as well as the existence of good harbours, gave Aegina a salient advantage that was utilised by the islanders who established themselves as middlemen between different spheres of exchange, making the island a centre of redistribution that attracted and channelled the movement of goods. The virtual absence of natural resources on the island, apart from clays and andesite, was thereby not an impediment but possibly even a motor for engaging in trade (cf. Lätsch, 2005, p.103 with note 18, pp.107-109). The Aeginetans recognized how to acquire the specific knowledge that was essential to manage the sea and to build up and maintain efficient and consistent patterns of exchange. Regarding this, not only an excellent knowledge of navigational and nautical techniques was necessary, but also knowledge of places to purchase and sell commodities. Just as essential to the success of trade were communication skills and the ability to establish and cultivate widespread relationships, which also presupposes some form of common language (cf. Morley, 2007, p.31, p.76). It was indispensable to keep in constant touch with trading partners, in

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order to acquire information on the availability of and the demand for particular commodities at particular places. Such widespread connectivity was particularly endangered by the length of the sea routes, and its maintenance required a reliable communication system and high investment of resources in distribution. In our paper we have tried to shed light on the emergence of comparable patterns on Aegina in two completely independent periods. Both in the late Early to early Late Bronze Age and in the Archaic-Classical periods the Aeginetans responded in a similar way to specific environmental conditions and given possibilities: both times they understood how to make the most of the island’s location, its favourable geographic position, and power structures in the Saronic Gulf. By engaging in trade, they not only gained prosperity and influence, but simultaneously compensated the almost total lack of natural resources on the island. However, the appearance of similar patterns on Aegina in two different periods shall not be explained in the sense of an environmental deterministic system of causation. The two major studies dealing with the island’s development in the ArchaicClassical period assess the emergence of Aegina’s prosperity and its historical role differently: Jennings (1988, pp.4-5, pp.119-120, p.142, p.209) stresses above all a causal connection between Aegina’s geographic position and its prominence in economic matters, whereas Figueira (1981, p.17. p.284) attributes the commercial success of Aegina in this period to the interaction of “environmental, political, military, and economic factors” and proposes primarily “the action of human volition” and “the activity of its inhabitants” as the driving force. In our opinion Aegina’s development in the two discussed periods, as described above, should be seen as the result of a mutual interaction between people and their environment. In both periods the Aeginetans obviously experienced their environment in a similar way: they realized its enormous potential but also the constraints imposed by it, and consequently acquired the specific knowledge to compensate or benefit from them (see Jones, 1998 for the concept of a ‘perceptual framework’ mediating between the environment and the individual). The prominent and very specific geographic factors were thereby a constant which the Aeginetans learned to take advantage of under the circumstances prevailing at the time (on the role of geographic factors, see Ballinger, 2011). Thus, the environment and the people both contributed to the development of Aegina in the Middle Bronze Age and in the Archaic-Classical periods. The involvement with the sea, the long-distance travelling and contacts with various people abroad probably also had an effect on the mentality of the Aeginetans: we would like to envisage a cosmopolitan society, willing to encounter other cultures, and perhaps quite open to innovations. P. Rainbird’s characterisation of people living with the sea quoted at the beginning might thus apply very well to the Aeginetans of the Middle Bronze Age and of the Late Archaic to Early Classical period.

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Acknowledgments For comments on an earlier draft of the manuscript, we would like to thank G. Forstenpointner, A. Galik, E. Kiriatzi, J. Palinkas, J.B. Rutter, D. Scahill and C. von Rüden. Errors or omissions are the authors’ sole responsibility.

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ACHIM LICHTENBERGER*

Multiple Mediterranean Forces: Guido von Kaschnitz Weinberg’s Mediterranean Art The classical archaeologist Guido von Kaschnitz Weinberg (1890–1958) is one of the founding fathers of archaeological Strukturforschung (structural analysis). 1 Strukturforschung tries to understand the inner principles of the production of material culture and attempts to describe its structure beyond aesthetic or individual stylistic categories. The attempt to grasp the Wesen (essence) of an entity by means of its expression in material culture is today a deeply unfashionable approach to ancient cultures and has found few followers even within German academia and hardly any reception and acceptance internationally. 2 Strukturforschung has been used mainly to define ‘Greek’ or ‘Roman’ and their inherent essence, but there has also been a notable attempt to define ‘Mediterranean’: It is the aim of this essay to draw attention to Guido von Kaschnitz Weinberg’s concept of Mediterranean art, which is of some interest as it is roughly contemporary with the first edition of Fernand Braudel’s fundamental work on st the Mediterranean (Braudel, 1972 [1 ed. 1949]), and von Kaschnitz Weinberg also has elements of longue durée and develops an idea of what is ‘Mediterranean’. He in fact uses a heuristic concept which applies the category ‘Mediterranean’ to an understanding not only of classical art, but of classical antiquity in general. At the same time, however, his concepts of Mediterranean cultures, which he published in 1944, have to be related to nationalistic, ethnic and racist approaches of the time, that have an underlying deterministic rationale. But this will not be the main focus of the essay. 3 Rather, the intention is to shed light on von Kaschnitz Weinberg’s ideas about Mediterranean art. Remarkably, his theories have played no role at all in the recent Mediterranean research ‘hype’ that culminated in the work of Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell published in * This essay profited considerably from discussions with Patric Kreuz (Bochum) to whom I am grateful. 1 On Strukturforschung cf. the collected essays of von Kaschnitz Weinberg (1965b) as well as Nodelman (1966) and Schweitzer (1969); Brendel, 1990, pp.110-113. On the life and research of von Kaschnitz Weinberg cf. Homann-Wedeking (1959/61); Kaschnitz (1965); Hofter (1995). 2 Cf. already Schefold (1949, pp.53-56); Homann Wedeking (1959/61, p.14). In the anglophone world Strukturforschung was hardly taken up, but cf. Nodelman (1966) or the study by Scully (1962). Thanks are due to John R. Clarke, Austin for pointing me to these studies. 3 Cf. for that the underlying ideology of Strukturforschung Bianchi Bandinelli (1978, p.153) as well as Hofter (1995) and Altekamp (2008). See also for German Classical Archaeology during the Third Reich: Brands (2012).

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2000 (Horden and Purcell, 2000). It is worth exploring von Kaschnitz Weinberg’s approach, since it underlines that there were other little known holistic approaches to the Mediterranean although one has to admit that his concept can hardly be applied as a new methodological approach to Mediterranean and classical art. The starting point of Guido von Kaschnitz Weinberg was his interest in Italische Kunst (“Art of Ancient Italy”) and Roman art. He was convinced that prehistory is the key to understanding classical art. He saw a direct structural link between prehistoric and classical cultures which transcends time and genre. In his opinion one could trace the same structural elements in Italian Early Iron Age burials as in a Roman republican portrait (von Kaschnitz Weinberg, 1965c). This inner structure determines its morphology and material appearance. To trace this structure von Kaschnitz Weinberg attempted to investigate the essence and the ingredients of ancient art. In 1944, von Kaschnitz Weinberg published two works. One was a small monograph called Die mittelmeerischen Grundlagen der antiken Kunst, the other was an article Über den Begriff des Mittelmeerischen in der vorchristlichen Kunst, which appeared in Marburger Jahrbuch für Kunstgeschichte (von Kaschnitz Weinberg, 1944a; 1944b). Both were prolegomena to a comprehensive book on Mediterranean art. This, however, remained a fragment which was published posthumously in 1965 as Mittelmeerische Kunst (von Kaschnitz Weinberg, 1965a). It is questionable whether von Kaschnitz Weinberg would have accepted this fragmentary work as his authoritative model and explanation of Mediterranean art. Von Kaschnitz Weinberg was well aware of the difficulty of the task he had set himself, to analyze Mediterranean art systematically in a general and basic way. Thus he wrote of the “provisory character” of his “attempt”, and stressed that it would be up to future research to prove whether his thoughts endured (von Kaschnitz Weinberg 1944a, 6-7). As indicated earlier, he never finished the comprehensive volume and Strukturforschung more or less died with the protagonists. It was not continued or developed further, but was replaced by methodological approaches with different research agendas and interests. The genesis of Mediterranean and classical art was reconstructed by von Kaschnitz Weinberg within two spheres: 4 (1) There is a Mediterranean sphere, within which von Kaschnitz Weinberg sees two basic principles or forces at work, which he explains by the character of two prominent classical buildings (von Kaschnitz Weinberg, 1944a, pp.6-8): the socalled temple of Poseidon in Paestum (fig.1) and the Pantheon in Rome (fig.2).

4

Cf. in the following von Kaschnitz Weinberg (1944a; 1944b).

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Fig.1: “Temple of Poseidon” at Paestum (von Kaschnitz Weinberg, 1944a, p.6, fig.1).

Fig.2: Pantheon in Rome (von Kaschnitz Weinberg, 1944a, p.7, fig.2).

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While in his opinion the temple in Paestum is a bright, emerging building, the Pantheon is a dark and cryptic, introverted building. The temple in Paestum is regarded as a typical Greek structure with plasticity of its individual elements; the Pantheon is seen as a typical Roman building which encloses vaulted space (Raumbau). The key to understanding the conceptual differences of the buildings lies for von Kaschnitz Weinberg in prehistory. The one trait derives from the megalithic cultures with erect, upright emerging stones (fig.3), the other trait derives from the chthonic cave cult of the earth mother (fig.4). Of course these two forces or principles also have gender connotations: upright stones are phallic and male, chthonic caves connote the womb and are female. Von Kaschnitz Weinberg sees both Mediterranean-prehistoric forces as the basis for Mediterranean art and culture. (2) Crucial to the constitution of ancient classical art is yet another force that comes from the Eurasian sphere (under which von Kaschnitz Weinberg summarizes the lands between the Rhine and the Urals). 5 While the Mediterranean sphere is autochthonous and indigenous, the extra-Mediterranean Eurasian sphere, which he deems especially dynamic, is the decisive factor for the constitution of classical art in the Mediterranean. Other forces are also considered and included by von Kaschnitz Weinberg, such as different ‘oriental’ influences. Of course today such generalizing ontological concepts do not find acceptance in the highly specialized and differentiated archaeological sciences. The image of essential cultures is overcome and replaced by much more complex models of the heterogeneity of small-scale cultural exchange processes which do not generate homogenous cultures but a multitude of social phenomena. However, it would be unfair and too simple to ridicule von Kaschnitz Weinberg’s ideas. For he was well aware that considerable differentiation is necessary and although his theory is of an essentializing character, he nevertheless did not lose the historical perspective when looking at different stages of development. 6 Thus, although von Kaschnitz Weinberg explained the two Mediterranean forces with a typical Greek and a typical Roman example, he did not claim that all Greek or all Roman material culture is shaped purely by one of the forces, but suggested that both forces are inherent and that one can sometimes be dominant over the other. Von Kaschnitz Weinberg regarded precisely this bipolar energy field as constitutive of Italian-Roman art. Clearly his evaluation of the forces is somewhat judgmental when he names the one bright and the other dark

5 6

Cf. e.g. the definition in von Kaschnitz Weinberg (1944b, p.29 with n.3). On the Eurasian sphere see in detail the posthumous work of von Kaschnitz Weinberg (1961). Cf. the typology in von Kaschnitz Weinberg, 1944b: “Mittelmeerisch Ia”, “Mittelmeerisch Ib”, “Mittelmeerisch II”, “Mittelmeerisch IIIa”, “Mittelmeerisch IIIb”, “Mittelmeerisch IV” and “Mittelmeerisch V”.

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Fig.3: Menhir, Saint Maccaire (von Kaschnitz Weinberg, 1944a, p.14, fig.7).

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Fig.4: Mnaidra, Malta (von Kaschnitz Weinberg, 1944a, p.42, fig.38).

and when he suggests that the dark side became more dominant in late antiquity. This corresponds to a paradigm of rise and decline which since then has mostly been disproved by modern scholarship. However, one has to acknowledge that von Kaschnitz Weinberg developed a system which also in chronological terms was very sophisticated, but which of course lacked an empirical basis and was driven by generalizing subjectivity and ontological impetus. It also has to be said that in fact von Kaschnitz Weinberg did not develop a coherent definition of what is Mediterranean or classical art, but that he was more concerned with its genesis and development. Another characteristic of von Kaschnitz Weinberg’s Mediterranean studies was that they were not Graeco- or Romanocentric. Apart from the prehistoric cultures he explored other Mediterranean regions, such as the Near East, Egypt, the Hethites and the Aegean Bronze Age cultures. 7 In fact, von Kaschnitz Weinberg saw in Egyptian monuments with their clear lines and pillars as well as the pillarlike statues the purest form of the bright Mediterranean (fig.5) (von Kaschnitz Weinberg, 1944a, pp.32-34; 1944b, p.39). Such monuments in his opinion could be contaminated by extra-Mediterranean influences.

7

This is done most exhaustively in von Kaschnitz Weinberg, 1965a, pp.22-242.

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Fig.5: Gizeh (von Kaschnitz Weinberg, 1944a, p.33, fig.29).

Indeed, von Kaschnitz Weinberg believed that the two Mediterranan forces were influenced by “extra-Mediterranean energies” (Die extramediterranen Energien) (cf. von Kaschnitz, 1944b, pp.53-58; 1961). The most important of these derived from the Eurasian sphere, with then prevalent ideas of assumed “Nordic” characteristics shining through strongest; (however, it has to be said that in his terminology von Kaschnitz Weinberg abstains from nationalistic or racist language). 8 In his opinion the Eurasian sphere is determined by dynamism, activity, irrationality, subjectivity, the energetic, abstraction and creative will. Such characteristics amalgamate in material culture, e.g., in the spiral motif which is characteristic of certain ceramic styles (fig.6). The acculturation of the ‘bright’ Mediterranean sphere with Eurasian energies is, according to von Kaschnitz Weinberg, fundamental for the genesis of Greek art. Of course such deterministic cultural narratives are completely outdated now and have been replaced by less generalizing and more detailed, small-scale models of interacting social entities. It is clear that these differentiated models come much closer to the complexity of the develop8

There are other contemporary German examples of approaching the Mediterranean as a whole, which are much more influenced by the terminology of the Third Reich. See, e.g., Wiesner (1943).

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Fig.6: Vessel from Šarka with spiral decoration, late 6th Millenium BC (von Kaschnitz Weinberg, 1944b, p.55, fig.29).

ment of ancient cultures as they emphasize the active part in the construction of cultural identities in opposition to claiming essential cultures. Although von Kaschnitz Weinberg uses the term ‘Mediterranean’ as a heuristic category for the understanding of ancient cultures, the concrete physical space is surprisingly absent in his work. Unlike his contemporaries Fernand Braudel (1972) or John L. Myres (1943) and current Mediterranean approaches, the geography of the Mediterranean and its physical conditions that determined human life in this particular region play no decisive role. 9 Thus the acculturation processes take place in a very abstract space and concrete situations of Mediterranean connectivity are never emphasized (although one can assume that von Kaschnitz Weinberg took them as preconditions [cf. e.g. von Kaschnitz Weinberg, 1944a, 9

Also the work of Newbigin (1924) combines Mediterranean geography with Mediterranean history (for that cf. Horden and Purcell, 2000, p.538). It should be noted that the fundamental study of the Mediterranean in the German language, the work of Philippson (1907) focuses mostly on geography and hardly touches upon history. Thus the combination of history and geography as done in the studies of Newbigin, Myres or Braudel did not seem to have a tradition in German academia.

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p.10]). But contrary to other contributions in Mediterranean studies, they were not a crucial part of the argument. A reason for this absence might be that von Kaschnitz Weinberg had such a deterministic and essential conception of cultures that the geography and space in which they evolved had little impact on cultural identities. Guido von Kaschnitz Weinberg’s concept of Mediterranean art is thus in most respects outdated and its results seem to be of little relevance for today’s classical archaeology. But why then be concerned with it? In the 1960s a significant paradigm shift in the interpretation of archaeological evidence took place, which is still very dominant: it is the focus on the social and ideological dimensions of the production of material culture. Material culture is now regarded as the product of the social acts of individuals or groups constructing their identities and demonstrating their roles within their social contexts. It is the analysis of the conscious and unconscious construction and/or affirmation of social values which has become the main focus of archaeological interpretation. Such an approach to material culture was an eye-opener which led to an incredibly productive phase in classical archaeology. It was the liberation from a methodology that hardly reflected on the social context of the production of material culture, and it was the liberation from approaches that mainly took into account relics of elite culture and of a high aesthetic quality. But the emphasis on social and ideological acts puts us at risk of limiting our perspective to a superficial and functionalistic level which prevents us from exploring less active and consciously strategic cultural dimensions in the production of material culture. This lacuna is also obvious in the study of religious monuments which are not only evidence of social representation but simultaneously of human religious beliefs and affections (that are of course also socially determined, but representation is only one dimension of these monuments). We clearly do not need a “Neo”strukturforschung, but it must be one of the aims of classical archaeology to also take into account the essential dimensions of the actors of the production of material culture and to take their intentions and actions seriously – not only as conscious representative or ideological social acts. Although the question itself is misconceived, thinking about what essentially is Mediterranean can be a heuristic tool for better understanding ancient societies in the Mediterranean as it helps Classics to reflect on its own terminology. We are accustomed to speaking in essential terms of ‘Greek’ or ‘Roman’ culture, art and archaeology, although we are aware that such terms are only auxiliary constructs of a much more complex past. One example of this is the discussion in Classics about ‘Romanization’. 10 The question of ‘Romanization’ could only be addressed after constructing and subsequently deconstructing what is ‘Roman’. Thus the reconstruction of a differentiated big picture of complex cultural phenomena requires a relational framework with essential terms. Something similar is the legacy 10

Cf. e.g. Schörner (2005).

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of the in effect essential concept of Braudel’s Mediterranean, which proved to be the starting point and stimulus for further much more differentiated studies 11. Thus awareness of von Kaschnitz Weinberg’s ‘Mediterranean art’ might therefore stimulate fresh thinking about the specific Mediterranean conditions, the multiple Mediterranean forces that shaped the production of ancient classical art.

11

Horden and Purcell (2000) and, e.g., the subsequent studies Shaw (2001) and Harris (2005) which both in turn took Horden and Purcell as starting point and stimulus.

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Bibliography Altekamp, S., 2008. Klassische Archäologie. In: Elvertand, J. and Nielsen-Sikora, J., eds., 2008. Kulturwissenschaften und Nationalsozialismus. Stuttgart: Steiner, pp.167-209. Bianchi Bandinelli, R., 1976. Klassische Archäologie. Eine kritische Einführung. Munich: Beck. Brands, G., 2012. Archäologen und die deutsche Vergangenheit. In: Brands, G. and Maischberger, M., eds., 2012. Lebensbilder. Klassische Archäologen und der Nationalsozialismus. Rahden: Leidorf, pp.1-34. Braudel, F., 1972. The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II. London: Collins. Brendel, O.J., 1990. Was ist römische Kunst?. Cologne: DuMont. Broodbank, C., 2013. The Making of the Middle Sea: A History of the Mediterranean from the Beginning to the Emergence of the Classical World. London: Thames & Hudson. Harris, W.V., ed., 2005. Rethinking the Mediterranean. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hofter, M.R., 1995. Die Entdeckung des Unklassischen: Guido Kaschnitz von Weinberg. In: Flashar, H., ed., 1995. Altertumswissenschaft in den 20er Jahren. Neue Fragen und Impulse. Stuttgart: Steiner, pp.247-257. Homann-Wedeking, E., 1959/61. Guido Kaschnitz-Weinberg. Paideuma 7, pp.11-18. Horden, P. and Purcell, N., 2000. The Corrupting Sea. A Study of Mediterranean History. Malden: Blackwell Publishing. Kaschnitz, M.L., 1965. Biographie des Verfassers. In: G. von Kaschnitz Weinberg. Kleine Schriften zur Struktur. Ausgewählte Schriften. vol.1. Berlin: Mann, pp.228-239. von Kaschnitz Weinberg, G., 1944a. Die mittelmeerischen Grundlagen der antiken Kunst. Frankfurt a. M.: Vittorio Klostermann. – 1944b. Über den Begriff des Mittelmeerischen in der vorchristlichen Kunst. Marburger Jahrbuch für Kunstgeschichte 13, pp.23-68. – 1961. Die eurasischen Grundlagen der antiken Kunst. Frankfurt a. M.: Vittorio Klostermann. – 1965a. Mittelmeerische Kunst. Eine Darstellung ihrer Strukturen. Ausgewählte Schriften. vol.3. Berlin: Mann. – 1965b. Kleine Schriften zur Struktur. Ausgewählte Schriften. vol.1. Berlin: Mann. – 1965c. Bemerkungen zur Struktur der altitalischen Plastik. In: von Kaschnitz Weinberg, G., Kleine Schriften zur Struktur. Ausgewählte Schriften. vol.1. Berlin: Mann, pp.38-83. Myres, J.L., 1943. Mediterranean Culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Newbigin, M.I., 1924. The Mediterranean Lands. An Introductory Study in Human and Historical Geography. London: Christophers. Nodelman, S., 1966. Structural Analysis in Art and Anthropology. Yale French Studies 36-37, pp.89-103. Philippson, A., 1907. Das Mittelmeergebiet. Seine geographische und kulturelle Eigenart. Leipzig: Teubner. Schefold, K., 1949. Orient, Hellas und Rom in der archäologischen Forschung seit 1939. Bern: Francke. Schörner, G., ed., 2005. Romanisierung – Romanisation. Theoretische Modelle und praktische Fallbeispiele. Oxford: Archaeopress. Schweitzer, B., 1969. Das Problem der Form in der Kunst des Altertums. In: Hausmann, U., ed., 1969. Allgemeine Grundlagen der Archäologie. Munich: Beck, pp.163-203.

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Scully, V., 1962. The Earth, the Temple, and the Gods. Greek Sacred Architecture. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Shaw, B.D., 2001. Challenging Braudel: A New Vision of the Mediterranean. Journal of Roman Archaeology 14, pp.419-453. Wiesner, J., 1943. Vor- und Frühzeit der Mittelmeerländer. vol.1: Das östliche Mittelmeer. vol.2: Das westliche Mittelmeer. Berlin: De Gruyter.

LORRAINE FARRELLY AND ANDREA VERNINI

Schizophrenic Urban Reality. The Changing Urban Landscapes of the Mediterranean Region and Developmental Influences .

Introduction Culture and tourism are strong characteristics of Mediterranean towns and cities. Creative responses to architecture and urban design are critical to ensure that the built environment reinvents itself to allow the cultures of the place to be dynamic, through buildings changing use or spaces adjusting to new conditions or possibilities. This adaptive change is not a challenge to the identity of places, but an opportunity, the historic identity can be maintained, the character of place can be developed as the spaces change. The idea of the palimpsest, the physical traces and layers of the history of the past being evident in the architecture of the present, is a consideration for the historic cultures of the Mediterranean, to respect the past and connect with the future. Architecture and urban design can play a role in urban modernization within this highly historic and locally precious, cultural context. Venice is an example that epitomizes this dilemma. The ’Dichotomy of Venice’ can be considered as a study for Mediterranean Regeneration. The city embodies a complex layered history of multifaceted trade between the west and east. Its future existence will undoubtedly remain orientated on culture and trade, linked to tradition, but also to cultural innovation (i.e. the Venice film festival or Biennale). This ‘urban museum’ overshadows the diverse problems existing within its socio-economic context. Its rising exclusivity forcing the local population out of its centre into the periphery. In a post-industrial European context, the reuse of once industrial or Brownfield sites can be a successful model of regeneration. A modern interpretation of genius loci (the concept of the spirit of the place) in combination with a developmental strategy targeting disused industrial land, can become a means of effective regeneration. The old and new can coexist harmoniously in a symbiotic relationship of mutual regeneration. There are examples of European industrialization which have had to respond to deindustrialization such as the island-city of Portsmouth, historically dominated by the Navy. Modernization through de-industrialization, could become a relevant model of regeneration within the emerging contemporary Mediterranean reality.

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Identity Cultural Reference Regeneration Context Palimpsest Genius Loci The contemporary city environment needs to deal with a range of challenges, it needs to cope with contemporary existence involving expectations of immediacy and flexibility. In addition there are limitations, such as planning restrictions or financial limitations the city can offer opportunities for development, but also there are cultures that need to be respected and maintained. These cultures are physical and represented in buildings architecture and public spaces reflecting social identity through built form. In the Mediterranean context this identity of the ‘place’ through the architecture is a key issue for consideration. Economies which are dependent on tourism need the connection to the romantic past which is part of the attraction of the archaeology, the ancient building ruins. Maintaining these physical structures as well as progressing contemporary cultures represents the dilemma of many historic contexts and city environments. Cultural heritage has stimulated the development and growth of many cities, there needs to be as sensitive balance to the investment of the future and the preservation of the past. There are a series of issues concerning the coexistence of the past present and vision for a future. The idea of the ‘palimpsest’ and the layers of past and present physically interconnected, the present allowing the past to inform new built form. There are many examples of settlements and cities internationally where a juxtaposition exists between the past and the present. Venice is an example of the historic past existing physically separately from the present. Portsmouth is an example of an historic naval city, which has had to cope with a changing industrial base. Regeneration to existing settlements offers a sustainable solution for contemporary towns and cities. Brownfield, inner city sites which have been reinvented. Industrial sites used for new activities in the city. In addition buildings of the past, which have been reinvented and adapted for contemporary functions offer an th example of reuse. An example of this in Venice is the 20 century architect Carol Scarpa. He is an Italian architect who has responded to a series of challenging historic contexts from Mediaeval castles such as Castle Vecchio, to Querini Stampalia Palazzo in Venice. His approach is to maintain the integrity of the past, whilst reusing the historic structure. The building still has the identity and character of its past which has been carefully and sensitively considered by the architect. One of the key themes in contemporary urban design debates is the redevelopment of Brownfield sites. It not only refers to the restructuring of specific sites and districts of post-industrial cities, but also to the redefinition of the urban form and its functions in different urban contexts. Despite being separate phenomena, these processes of spatial change fit within major global economic, financial and technological structural shifts. Whilst specialized sites were necessary for the capitalist industrial model of development with regard to production, distribution and transportation (Castells,

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2003, p.23); the development of the global economy and ways of communicath tion, particularly since the last quarter of the 20 century, led them to obsoleteness, frequent dissolution and abandonment. Not only these processes have affected former industrial plants and dockyards, but also significant historic sites associated with military use have been closed after having gone through periods of rationalization. The decay of these sites in many cities around the world and the economic pressure for their redevelopment is a clear fact, which offered the opportunity for re-shaping extensive urban territories. Amongst many interesting examples, the redevelopment of Gun wharf Quays in Portsmouth, is one of the recent interesting transformations in the United Kingdom. Not only is of interest to explore its role in the context of contemporary Portsmouth, but also its relevance into the wider debate on urban regeneration of Brownfield sites.

The Power of Architecture Catalyst for Change The intention of communicative architecture is not merely to create a recognizable image, communicative architecture tries not to visually represent the brand of a place or city. Instead it tries to translate brand values into the language of architecture. Because brands represent modern- day values, the architecture must also be modern representing the zeitgeist, but also with a vision for the future. Architecture can contribute towards distinctive design and a sense of place, creating cities that have character and identity. Determined by icons, using distinctive architecture, architecture can change the perception of a place: This is an extract from Museum News 2007: “In the 1990s a decaying industrial town in northern Spain decided to spend millions of $223 million on a new museum. It now attracts 800000 visitors a year compared with 100000 before. The city had problems with unemployment, as traditional industries became obsolete, there was a poor transport system and low investment in the region. The Guggenheim was part of a strategy, new airports, transport links, residential leisure and business complexes within the town centre. There was an ambition to regenerate and improve the quality of life for the cisterns of Bilbao. It has had over 8 million visitors and become a symbol of hope and vision for the City. Signature architecture such as this is expensive, and measuring its impact is difficult. In Bilbao it is the only museum so its affect can be measured. There have been various economic studies undertaken to determine if it has been successful financially. Has the initial capital invested to produce the development been surpassed by the economic activity generated from it. It has been calculated that the return on the investment of the building has been achieved within 7 years of completion of the project. With additional visitors to the area it has been collect-

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ed it earns around 40 million dollars a year for the Basque area. Where is the City who is the architect, does it matter?” (Plaza, 2006)

Architecture can have a measurable effect on economic regeneration, but also has become about brand recognition, and the phenomenon of the ‘Starchitect’ has also evolved. This phrase was first used to suggest that there is an architectural elite, if a Starchitect designs a building then it brings with it immediate press interest, and cache for the client and the city. However, this is not the normal expectation for architects. Starchitects have to be courted by the client, not the other way round, their product has become a commodity and there may be a waiting list for clients, that’s part of the celebrity culture. They bring with them a distinctive style of design. The client wants the building to be clearly and unequivocally associated with them and their practice, good design costs, but it can pay dividends. Architecture is about ambition and sometimes that ambition is not realistic, but stimulating a new way of thinking about a way of living or a place. Zaha Hadid has suggested a new future for a part of Istanbul, a world that is sculpted to look like a space age landscape. It is about ambition, but also about change and will require enormous economic investment to facilitate that change. This project represents a vision for the future of Istanbul, a new business district using former industrial areas and suggesting a new CBD (central business district, housing, cultural faculties, a real mixed use environment, a 24-hour city). Hadid describes the grid proposed as a ‘calligraphic script’ that can be used to define integrated streets and also free standing structures. Architecture is about clients, people’s buildings and spaces, but the vital measure of success of a building is how it relates to its site, its place, and the ground around it. Architects have a responsibility to address the discussion about the future of cities and not just be responsible for their site, building, and client. Architects who focus on buildings are missing the opportunity to connect with the bigger picture. The most successful cities people can describe through a set of buildings, but also places that somehow show that they are successful distinctive, confident and different. Architecture can be used in for many cities, to create new districts, encourage investment and have an impact on the economic regeneration of a place.

Venice & Mestre There exists a multiple truth to the Italian urban context. One concept speaks of unique cities and towns which have sedimented their global status through crystallizations of fine architectural and cultural traditions over generations. The other speaks of ugly sprawls of superceded, industrialized, newer additions to the urban heritage of the peninsula, which risk to overshadow the fascinating urban assets which have granted the nickname Il bel Paese (the beautiful country) to Italy.

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In many cases, the city can be said to be schizophrenic. On one hand, there is the th historic city, or historic city centres; on the other, it’s 20 century suburbs or periferia. This dichotomy can be best perceived through one of its most extreme example: the island of Venice and its mainland suburb Mestre. Through the case study of the Venetian region, it is easy to start to imagine what the role of regeneration could become within the Italian context in the immediate future. There is a compelling argument to be made, to treat the Italian city centre with respect, and develop the potential of the periferia fully with urgency. This duality of the urban can be celebrated, regeneration can serve the Italian identity. By focusing our attention to re-imagining a new, bold future for the periferia, innovation and modernization can be brought to the Italian city experience without compromising the city and safeguarding the historic core as a precious palimpsest of century old culture imbedded through heritage. The historic city core represents the fulcrum of daily life in Italy, and continues to be the pivotal point where both culture and economy meet at a daily basis. These areas of town are not adequately supporting the daily rhythms of social and professional life, but also represent examples of highly aesthetic urban orders. The town centres are the most desirable place to live in the Italian peninsula. There continues to exist a strong historic focus rooted with the Italian urban reality which dominates the way cities develop in their regions. Strong individual regional socio-historic realities, sedimented through time with a durable sense for tradition, form a highly tuned identity for individual cities and their population. For Italy, branding through a cultural image is a fundamental part of its existence. Italy ranked first for tourism and second for culture in the National Brands Index, and it has the seventh best national image in the world (Anholt, 2010). In fact, it has been noted in an in-depth study by the Korean Times, that over half of the world heritage sites (by that it is meant the world’s historic and artistic assets) belong to Italy (The Korea Times, 2009). If indeed one agrees with James E. Vance’s statement that, “cities are humans largest cultural artifact”, then the Italian city represents a prime example. In themselves, the Italian model of urbanism continues to grow with the notion of genius loci at its heart (Norberg-Schulz, 1980). As such, the urban is a reflection of the Italian tradition, which varies vastly region to region, and indeed city to city. Perhaps it is no surprise that the Italians refer to their historic cities with the name of ‘Città d’Arte’ (city of art); a living legacy from the Renaissance when the concept of urban as custodian of culture emerged throughout the peninsula. More surprisingly is that in Italian, there is no such word or real process for urban regeneration. This is explained by the fact that cites have been developed (slowly) over hundreds of years following, at their hearts, the same processes which they had always followed: a focus on local/regional customs and culture (in the broadest sense of the word), a focus for functionalism but also beauty, and finally by making the urban work for its particular social context of which the economy is an intrinsic part. Today, this process continues very much the same as

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it did historically, although a more global perspective is being considered to adapt itself to the globalization. Venice is the epitome of the Italian notion of Città d’Arte, genius loci, and Vance’s view on the city as cultural object – one just has to read Italo Calvino and walk through the city’s calle to appreciate this. Although many have criticized the city’s move towards ‘museumification’ and have responded drafting st drastic conceptual plans for taking the city into the 21 century. It is also perhaps rather weak to regard Venice as just another ordinary city. Truly it is not; Venice goes far beyond the notion of city as solely functional as it moves towards the view of city as unique piece of art. With cultural tourism being a fundamental part of the Italian economy, Venice plays an important role in raising richness to the region through showcasing its architecture but also through being the market place for its numerous world class industries such as glass, leather goods, arts and architecture. Through Venice, the ‘made in Italy’ continues to impact the global market. In fact, Karl Kupka (2012) stated that if the sole existence of Venice were its maintenance alone, then it would be a justified and sound plan of action in itself, as the city doesn’t need to be reinvented but simply allowed to exist. Thus, claims that Venice is only a shadow of its past self are to be disputed. What Venice truly represents is not a dusty glorification of the past, but rather a city which takes the role of champion for cultural excellence, innovation, and a global arena for ideas. After all, this is what Venice has always been: a merchant city heavily involved in trade; a bridge between east and west; an example of excellence in art

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and urbanism, but also social justice and governance 1. It does have a very strong historical plinth to base its existence upon, but its cultural impact on the world stage is not solely about its past identity. The Venice Biennale of both Art and Architecture is just one of the many features which showcase future vision and talent to the world with Venice being its host for debate and innovation. The Film Festival, the Guggenheim Art Gallery, and the prestigious University are just other amongst the multitude of cultural machines of Venice which look to the future with a healthy respect for tradition. Although the city itself might be historical and static (in terms of development), the lifeblood of Venice continues to flow; constituting, in a view dissimilar from Bernard Tschumi’s (Architect of the Parc de la Villete, Paris), an example of city as an perpetuating cultural event (Stoppani, 2011). The successes of the city also mask the truth that this unique city also poses some issues. In his detailed study of the city’s past and present, Mancuso (2009) highlights how the peculiarities of Venice (both in its physicality and in its role) mean that many locals have deserted its historic quarters, and move into the mainland to have a more traditional life. Furthermore, the city can be regarded as a world heritage site in the grandest of ways. By that it is implied that it belongs to the world as a unique cultural artifact, but it also means that its status distances it from its local population, who continue in their efforts to grant it unconditional support but are increasingly reluctant to dwell within it. This is a consequence if Venice is to be preserved not just as an ordinary Italian city, but as an extraordinary global cultural hub of excellence. The unique historical and cultural asset which thrives within the Italian historic city is just one reality of the national urban condition. The incessant focus on preserving the city centres in Italy has formed a tradition of neglect in regards to the second form of urban reality: the suburb, also known as the periferia. As the city expanded through industrialization, which in Italy occurred during the early decades of the 1900s, new urban clusters began to emerge around the historic cores. It is these areas of town which today need to be focused for renewal, as they 1

The Venetian empire, which at its peak spread from the snow covered Alps to the sun bleached island of Cyprus, was known as the ‘Serenissima’ (translated as the ‘most serene’) because of its advanced governance which promoted social equality. Indeed, it was the first empire to abolish slavery in 960 and in over 1000 years of its existence, there had never been an incident of social revolt or upheaval due to its social conduct (Norwich, 1983).

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signify an ugly counterpart to the otherwise fascinating, culturally rich, and functional historic core. Furthermore, this urban system can be said to be supersede in many ways, as its raison d’être was always focused around industrial. The reality that Europe has predominantly entered a post-industrial era have made vast areas of the periferia superseded and in need of a drastic redevelopment. Instead of focusing our attention on fixing the core of the city, we should look further afield and work on the industrial wastelands which surround it. It is these areas, not the historic, which need urgent investment as they hold a grand potential for future development. This is particularly relevant and urgent when we focus on the case study of Venice. Similarly from other Italian cities, Venice in itself is an island city which can be classified as being fully historic. In that respect, the periferia, which traditionally manifests itself as a belt or ring surrounding the older central cores of town, doesn’t exist (Mancuso, 2009). However, this does not mean that they do not exist. The periferia is focused on the mainland, in Mestre. Although this area does accommodate a historic city centre in itself, it is mostly characterized by vast industrial wastelands covering an area of nearly twice the size of Venice itself, which is called Porto Marghera. This area grew significantly in the 1960s, with the refinery industries booming in the area, and today is an attractive alternative to Venice for numerous locals which continue to decentralize from the old town to the new periferia, accommodating a fair nucleus of local population, Marghera is regarded as the large open wound of Venice (Mancuso, 2009). Interesting is its nature – so diverse from Venice – yet its geographical prime location. It acts as the physical link between the mainland and the island of Venice. Which provides a grand opportunity for the area, as it embodies enormous potential. Which in turn, is shared by the numerous other periferias which encircle the Citta’ d’Arte throughout Italy. As Europe is becoming increasingly de-industrialized, what could the future hold for this vast area of prime Brownfield site? A question comes spontaneous: st why not transform the periferia into a celebrated 21 century gateway to the historic city itself? This vision is tempting as being a legitimate proposal for positive change, however one must now ask a further question: how can this be done, in a way which complements the regional historic and cultural identity of place? Moreover, how can this be achieved in such a sensitive site such as Venice?

Portsmouth Case Study From HMS Vernon to Gunwharf Quays Cities and regions internationally are trying to define and redefine their identity, to encourage new economic investment, it’s a competitive global environment. For industrial centres and cities this definition is crucial. As the global manufacturing centres have shifted, city centres in Europe have had to look at whole areas and districts that have become empty, ready for redevelopment. The answer can

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be demolition. For some sites with character or cultural value, redefinition and redesign of these sites may be a possibility. Portsmouth on the South coast of the UK is a naval Port. Historically, it has been defined by its location to the sea. It is part of a natural harbour and its location adjacent to the Isle of Wight allows it to be easily defended so it developed a naval history, it is still one of the important strategic ports of the UK and is still the home for Naval ship building. Over the last few decades as the Navy has redefined itself needing less manpower and focusing on more sophisticated ships and weaponry, the Navy has rationalised, and as a consequence required less manpower and less space for storage of resources. In 1981 the Ministry of Defence undertook a review of the defence provision in the UK. ‘The Way Forward’ considered the future of the Navy. It recommended closure of naval sites within Portsmouth and adjacent Gosport. Gunwharf, which was originally HMS Vernon, was put on the open market. There are additional development sites in Priddys Hard and the Royal Clarence Yard which are located across the harbour adjacent to Portsmouth, which have developed subsequently. Whole areas of the city which once serviced the Navy, have needed to be redefined. The identity of the naval city and its future depended upon this redefinition. The Navy was a major employer in the area and there are associated industries which depend locally and regionally on the future of the city. This regeneration needed to deal with the site directly, but also needed to stimulate the area and create a new momentum for employment through mixed use of living leisure and retail. This was intending to build on the existing tourist base that relates to the region as a gateway to France and Spain, through its ferry connections. This site was a key part to the ‘Renaissance of Portsmouth Harbour’, a bid was put to the Millennium Commission, a major government funding body that supports regeneration projects, by the local business consortium. The Renaissance of Portsmouth Harbour had key aims, to transform Portsmouth Harbour into an international heritage arena and in doing so, create a world class attraction. Act as a catalyst for the economic regeneration of both Portsmouth & Gosport; also to create new, highly accessible amenities (e.g. Public open space/performance areas), to create five kilometres of new promenade to form a trail around the harbour mouth to open up land previously inaccessible. New facilities have been developed by this initiative, including the landmark Harbour observation tower, the Millennium tower, which have created new development opportunities. The renaissance of the harbour has been redefined, previously dominated by the defence industries, it is now leisure, commerce and defence together, which are the industries influencing local and regional identity. Within this proposal, Gunwharf was identified as a key development site. Gunwharf Quays was a Brownfield, disused naval storage area, on the sea edge, previously inaccessible, which has been transformed with the creation of housing, shopping office, leisure facilities and public space. Today it is more than a successful mixed-use scheme. It is a collection of experiences developed through a

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large collaborative process of collective work by public and private sectors, which has had a significant impact upon Portsmouth’s social, cultural, economic and physical contexts. It is important to highlight that site was developed through a range of projects executed by various architectural practices over a whole decade. Gunwharf Quays were formerly known as HMS Vernon, used as a naval ordth nance yard from the late 17 century onwards. It expanded to its current size in the 1870s. In 1981, the government’s defence review suggested closing several MOD sites, as the armed forces went through a process of rationalisation. The MOD sold the site to the Berkeley group in 1996, which started to envisage a redevelopment plan. Dealing with the dilemmas of permanence and change, the master plan tried to incorporate existing historic structures that had been part of the original storage area of Gunwharf, as the planning brief required its restoration as well as the boundary walls from the 1870’s. Older buildings on the site, which needed to be retained included the Vulcan Building, the Infirmary building and the Board of Ordnance offices. The development of the site was included in the local plan as a mixed-use residential, retail and office area. Further requirements listed in the brief, included a Millennium promenade, a Millennium boulevard, a City Quay and a 170m tower, which had a separate brief. An outline planning application was submitted in 1997, which included details of the proposed layout, siting and design of the main buildings. The mixed use nature of this development has been a key to its success, offering diversity in use and economic sustainability. It included housing, restaurants,

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a gallery and leisure facilities such as cinemas and health clubs. Its location – along Portsmouth Harbour – provides waterside views, a canal and a marina facility, which providing berthing facilities for boats, also allowing tall ships and pleasure boats to moor alongside. The centre provides a series of cultural events around the year for visitors, but also local residents. It has proved to be a catalyst for the area in terms of economic investment and cultural identity. It has had a measured impact on employment and also adjacent land values. Investors are now interested in adjacent sites to have advantage from the impact of this development, now in operation for a decade. The concept of the Brownfield site and its relationship to the industrial heritage is an important consideration across European cities and towns. Manufacturing and industrial sites are becoming available through global relocation to more economically viable production regions in emerging economies across developing countries such as India and China. This is creating ‘spaces’ in centres of buildings and districts that need careful consideration to create relevant places to live and work. The mixed use example, such as Gunwharf, can offer a solution, retaining buildings which have a cultural value, but also alongside, building contemporary modern buildings. The uses complementing one another to create a successful development, not just in economically, but also in terms of a successful vibrant place to live and work.

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Conclusion The idea that the city has many identities, is a critical point for politicians and investors to understand. Cities need to evolve, they need to retain their identity historically, but also adapt to the needs of present and future generations. Venice offers an example of a place that has maintained its historic identity, but has had to create an ‘annex’ physically and literally to survive. It needs to have a service space for its industry, it has a global identity that needs to be financially supported if it is to maintain its cultural heritage. Other examples of regeneration refer to ‘Brownfield’ renewal. To take sites which have become redundant, but still have buildings of historic influence or quality. These places need to be carefully considered, so that important buildings aren’t lost, but they can still be economically viable. To create relevant spaces for contemporary society, places for people to live work and play. Sensitively reusing old buildings is an important way to preserve our cultural heritage, but we need to ensure that this concept of preservation does not prevent proper use of the buildings. They need to be inhabited today in a way that allows future adaptation. There is a possibility that the reinvention of these buildings can allow their identity to be maintained and the layers of the past and present, the palimpsest of the architectural identity to be maintained as layers of form and function.

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The example of Venice as a city defined by its historic identity, unable to physically develop is one of the most extreme examples of historic preservation, whereas the brownfiled site of Gunwharf in Portsmouth demonstrates an area able to metamorphose physically into a new economic entity. The discussion about the use of our historic buildings and cities needs to be open and inclusive, to include, politicians investors, academics, historians, architects and planners. If we can have an open dialogue we can ensure the cultural identity complements the past and future success of the city.

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Bibliography Anholt, S., 2010. Places: Identity, Image and Reputation. New York: Paulgrave Macmillan. Benjamin, W.,1999. The Arcades Project. London: Belknap Press. Castells, M., 2003. The Process of Urban Social Change. In: Cuthbert, A., ed., 2003. Designing Cities: Critical Readings in Urban Design. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, pp.23-27. Crivello, S., 2012. Città e Cultura. Rome: Cariccu Editori. Ganser, R, 2012. Redeveloping the Redundant Defense Estate in Regions of Growth and Decline – Challenges of Spatial Planning. In: Ganser, R. and Piro, R., 2012. Parallel Patterns of Shrinking Cities and Urban Growth. Farnham: Ashgate, pp.225-244. Giedion, S., 1969. Mechanization Takes Command : A Contribution to Anonymous History. New York: Norton. Harvey, D., 1989. The Condition of Postmodernity. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing. Jacobs, J., 1961. The Death and Life of Great American Cities. New York: Random House. Kupka, K., 2012. Redevelopment by Tradition: Urban Renewal in World Heritage Cities. Venice: Libreria Cluva Editrica. Lang, J., 2005. Urban Design: a Typology of Procedures and Products. Oxford: Architectural Press. Lynch, K., 1960. The Image of the City. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press. Mancuso, F., 2009. Venezia è una Città: Come è Stata Construita e Come Vive. Venice: Corte del Fondego. MOD Ministry of Defence, 1981. The Way Forward, Defence review. Norberg-Schulz, C., 1980. Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture. New York: Rizzoli. Norwich, J.J.,1983. A History of Venice. London: Penguin Books Ltd. Plaza, B., 2006. The Return on Investment of the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao, International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 30 (2), pp.452-467 [online]. Available at: [Accessed 4 July 2006]. Portsmouth City Council Planning Service, 2006a. Gunwharf Quays [online]. Available at: [Accessed 01 March 2006] Portsmouth City Council Planning Service, 2006b. Renaissance of Portsmouth Harbour [online]. Available at: [Accessed 23 October 2013]. Scarpa, T., 2010. Venezia è un Pesce. Milan: Feltrinalli. Stoppani, T., 2011. Paradigm Islands: Manhattan and Venice. Discourses on Architecture and the City. London: Routledge. The Korea Times, 2009, Half of World Heritage Sites are in Italy [online]. Available at: [Accessed 15 April 2012].

Resources

THOMAS STÖLLNER

Mineral Resources and Connectivity in the Mediterranean and its Hinterland Summary In discussing the Mediterranean basin there are certain preconditions that led to specific patterns of access to mineral resources over time. The first part of the article provides an overview of the mineral deposits in Mediterranean coastal areas and their hinterlands. The region is richly endowed with mineral deposits, some of which are of trans-Mediterranean importance. For example, besides the abundance of sources at the Iberian Peninsula one should mention the obsidian sources of Northern Sicily and the Aegean islands. The copper deposits of Cyprus were of huge importance during many periods as were the resources in hinterland areas such as, for example, gold in the Eastern Desert of Egypt, copper ore deposits in the Wadi Arabah and the rich mineral deposits of the Balkans and Asia Minor/Anatolia. Their exploitation has provided an important foundation for a stable economic pattern within the various regions and led to the emergence of intercultural interaction during the different periods. Of great importance is also their usage either by non-agrarian communities like pastoralists or by special mining communities that evolved in certain time periods and cultural contexts. The prosperity of these communities was often linked to “intercultural” trading networks that boosted demand and in turn led to increased exploitation and cultural development These developments will be illustrated using the examples of the obsidian trade, the Tartessian trade of the “Phoenicians”, and the copper trade of nd the 2 millennium by Keftiu, Cypriot and Levantine traders as well as the Roman mining activities in Spain. The concept of connectivity will then be addressed in regard of resource-based networks. It seems that demand for these different raw materials not only increased connectivity between the different cultures but also triggered the evolvement of certain longue-durée processes within major resource areas. Various coastal towns in Cyprus, for example, became specialized in communicating with hinterland mining communities resulting in various influences in their materiality. The same holds true for the areas of Laurion, Melos, and El Argar culture. A final section will consider the economic developments which led to the extension of trading networks to further hinterland regions. The search for and the establishment of permanent access to resources turns out to be one of the main driving forces for establishing spheres of cultural and political influence in the Mediterranean.

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Introduction: The Mediterranean as a World System? When Susan and Andrew Sherratt published their famous “growth of the Mediterranean economy” nearly 20 years ago they put an explicit trader’s perspective nd on economic interaction and its constant intensification in the late 2 and early st 1 millennium BC (Sherratt and Sherratt, 1993). They argued in the frame of a World System that led to the formation of a series of clearly differentiated zones in which “transformation did not take place by the passive diffusion of “civilization”, but by active intervention and response” (fig.1). They wrote: “The geographical pattern which emerged was a primary zone of capital- and labour-intensive manufacturing…surrounded first by a zone of higher value agricultural products (oil, wine…) and then by a grain-growing belt in Cyrenaica, Sicily/southern Italy and the Black Sea. Beyond this, separate centres of manufacturing, with their own supply zones, came into existence in Etruria and Tunisia, again with a complex pattern of competition as the more heavily capitalized areas of the east Mediterranean tried to outflank their control of the rich hinterland of temperate Europe”. (Sherratt and Sherratt, 1993, p.375)

The Sherratts argued on the basis of a World System Theory that had become fashionable in archaeology at the time (Kümmel, 2002). It may be worth mentioning that Immanuel Wallersteins’s world system model developed since the 1970s is based on similar core-periphery concepts of interaction between heavily developed capitalistic cores and a fairly or nearly un-developed periphery whose raw materials have been exploited (Wallerstein, 1974); he particularly related his th descriptive model to the specific historical situation of the 16 century A.D. (Kümmel, 1998, p.145); a situation which cannot be transferred without difficulties to prehistoric societies of the Mediterranean, but it can give us helpful suggestions for understanding the archaeological record. For example, raw materials seem to have often played a decisive role within such trade exchanges. The abundance and diversity of raw materials in peripheral zones was often a driving force for expanding trade networks. That the complexity of such trade networks should not be underestimated is shown quite remarkably by the recent find of a Portuguese shipwreck on the Namibian coast (Oranjemund) (Chirikure et al., 2010): Besides goods that had obviously been acquired on the African coast (such as ivory tusks) the Portuguese Nao was carrying some 2159 gold coins (nearly 21 kg) and 1845 copper ingots (several tons) which it had acquired from the ThurzoFugger copper network in central and eastern Europe, most likely from the copper ore fields of the Slovak Ore Mountains. The copper was obviously being transported either to supply a Portuguese trading post in East Africa or it was to be exchanged with local peoples on the African coast. It should be added that most of the early modern period bronze objects in West Africa, for instance, were manufactured from European copper (Bartels, 2012, p.108). Raw materials were also transported to the “periphery” and not only acquired there. They were thus goods that were bartered for other raw materials and goods of value such as gold, ivory or slaves.

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Fig.1: The Mediterranean World-System after Sherratt and Sherratt, 1993, p.372, fig.1.

If we turn back to the Mediterranean it becomes apparent that raw materials played a decisive role. At first glance we may think that it is fairly easy to argue on the basis of well-defined trade goods and their allocation to deposits and mining districts: Laurion silver can be traced in the classical period in many parts of the Aegean (e.g. Pernicka, 1990), while lead ingots were found on vessels sailing from Spain to southern France and along the Rhone valley (Laubenheimer-Leenhardt, 1973; Bigagli, 2002). And talking of shipwrecks and their cargos, we should certainly mention those of Uluburun and Cape Gelydonia which provide the clearth th est evidence of the trade in copper and tin ingots between the 14 and 12 century BC. (Bass, 1967; 1997; Gale and Stos-Gale, 2005; Pulak, 2005) (fig.2). But if we look more closely at these cases there are many difficulties of interpretation with regard to their origin, value and the way they were exchanged. We may list examples of such difficulties sometimes also resulting from methodological biases: There has been a long-standing debate on whether or not the copper nd oxhide ingots found in 2 millennium Sardinia should be interpreted as imports from outside (Gale, 1999); as Sardinia possesses its own copper resources this was questioned repeatedly, although geochemical provenance studies provide evidence that they originated from Cyprus (Farinetti and Lo Schiavo, 2003; Lo Schiavo, 2005). Recent investigations have revealed another interesting aspect (Begemann, Schmitt-Strecker, Pernicka and Lo Schiavo, 2001; Atzeni, Massidda and Sanna, 2004): When examining late Bronze Age and early Iron Age Nuragic copper alloys from Sardinia and mainland Italy most of them were found to have been

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Fig.2: The distribution of Late Bronze Age Oxhide-Ingots, after Gale & Stoss-Gale, 2005, fig.1, quadrangles: ingots, red dots: ingot moulds, red rhombs: submarine ingots; 1 Kyme, 2 Keos, 3 Mykene, 4 Chania, 5 Tylissos, 6 Knossos, 7 Gournia, 8 Palaikastro, 9 Hagia Tiadha, 10 Kommos, 11 Kato Symi, 12 Zakros, 13 Skouriotissa, 14 Mathiati, 15 Enkomi, 16 Kalavassos, 17 Maroni, 18 Pyla, 19 Kfar Samir, 20 Hishuley Carmel, 21 Ho Hotrim (map: Deutsches Bergbau-Museum).

most probably made of local Sardinian ores. If there was no mixing of Cypriot copper with metal from Sardinia this would indicate a deliberate choice of local metal ores in order to produce ritually significant figurines. This also continues during the Early Iron Age, when the regional ore deposits became hugely important as copper suppliers (Valera and Valera, 2005; Valera, Valera and Revoldini, 2005). Is there a relation between the early import of Cypriot copper and the later abundant use of local resources? Does this mean that the transfer of raw materials triggered the appropriation of knowledge on how to mine and to smelt complex ores? Was there a certain ideological choice for the use of copper nd of a specific origin? Or was it simply the demand of late 2 millennium trading networks that forced an intensification of local exploitation activities? We will turn later to evidence of knowledge appropriation in regard to exploitation and metallurgical techniques. But there is much ambiguity in such data. The reasons for the expansion of complex production modes are manifold nonetheless and include the expansion of knowledge as well as foreign exploitation. A prominent example for the spread of production modes is lead-silver metallurgy which was first introduced in the Roman provinces at the Rhine in the Augustan period (Hanel, Rothenhöfer and Genovesi, 2005; various articles in Melzer and Capelle, 2007). In that period lead was a ubiquitous metal traded in

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Fig.3: The Pb-trading of Verucla and plumbum germanicum from the fringes to the Mediterranean (by courtesy of M. Bode; Bode et al., 2007; 2013).

large quantities in the Mediterranean and in the hinterland that came under Roman control (Boulakia, 1972; Schwerteck, 1997). And it also led to the opening of new exploitation fields in the provinces, such as in Germania Inferior and in Britannia. Roman activities in the North-Rhine Westfalian lead deposits of the Sauerland have recently been under discussion (e.g. Rothenhöfer, 2007): Roman military evidence and the activity of a trader named Verucla point to Imperial exploitation in the hinterland of the Roman province. Verucla himself is mentioned on lead ingots and thus seems also to have been involved in the trade with Germanic lead. But striking as it is, the geochemical record cannot prove a simplistic one-way exploitation of the Sauerland deposits (Bode, Hauptmann and Mezger, 2007; Bode, Hauptmann and Mezger, 2009; Bode et al., 2013) (fig.3). Obviously Roman and even Spanish lead was imported to the Augustan camps along the river Lippe at a first step, and this perhaps gave rise to regional small-scale production in the hinterland. Production was continued by Westfalian tribes even after the retreat of the Roman military forces as a consequence of the clades Variana. Perhaps this can find its reason in the usage of lead pans used for the salt boiling process in Westfalian salinas like Soest. Recent excavations there have in fact revealed pieces of lead pans (Pfeffer, 2012). Whether the extraction of silver from argent ferrous lead was originally intended is uncertain; at the Lüderich there is evidence of lead-silver exploitation in the first decennia after Christ which was operated by military forces near the Rhine valley; there is a clear indication of silver extraction (Körlin and Gechter, 2003). These examples demonstrate the transfer and transformation of Mediterranean economic and production modes

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to a peripheral sphere – although this peripheral zone was situated in an extremely remote hinterland of the Mediterranean Roman economic core. In the Sauerland there is epigraphic evidence on a piece of lead of a person with the cognomen “Pudens”, and scholars have argued that this may have been the name of an Italian craftsperson, who may also have been responsible for a transfer of technical knowledge (Hanel, Rothenhöfer and Genovesi, 2005, pp.57-58; Bode et al., 2013, esp. p.46). Although the Sauerland could never compete with the large ore fields in Spain, these resources were sufficiently important to warrant the local implementation of metallurgical knowledge. What we have learned from these examples is the complexity that is inherent in such exchange networks: It includes not only the trading of raw materials or goods or the transfer of technical solutions by crafts-persons it also had farreaching social consequences. Considering the ethnographic record as an analogy, it seems that such networks were often both social networks and information lines. They were built on special trust-based interaction patterns, which can be traced in some cases as foreign objects: Such goods can be interpreted as gifts which were important to memorize important and complex interexchange actions (but not forgetting other forms of exchange gifts being not palpable for archaeology). These gifts, such as, for instance, the famous Kula-ring-shells of the Trobriand people, are not directly linked to the actual economic transaction (Malinowski, 1922; Mauss, 1923 [1997], pp.40-56). While such gifts are prominently kept as prestigious goods and symbolic capital (according to Bourdieu’s concept), the economic transaction goods were viewed as something commonplace and not worth mentioning as such in Trobriand “gimwali” trade. With this or similar cases in mind, it has frequently been asked whether prestigious goods such as, for example, the manifold Greek and Oriental imports in Early Iron Age Italy (a general overview can be found in von Hase, 1995) should be interpreted as this kind of “entry” gift to establish a trustful relationship. Such prestigious goods were clearly given to or purchased by social elites for their tombs or temples. This kind of interaction consequently would have facilitated trade and therefore access to the mineral sources of these regions. But how might the small Egyptianizing figurines in the Western Mediterranean be interpreted? R. Fletcher (2004; 2007) has recently pointed to different distribution patterns in iconography and amulet types, thus strongly suggesting different groups of traders who might have used them as votive offerings in coastal trade hubs. But they may also have served as entrance gifts: The abundance of Egyptian material found in the graves of Early Etruscan elites also underlines their reception in local communities and their role within an “elite” communication: This speaks for interaction from both sides and perhaps even values shared by the trading partners. The reason for this kind of interaction, possibly between Sidonian or Greek traders and the elites of the Villanova culture, might have been the quest for mineral resources from Tuscany (e.g. Markoe, 1993; von Hase, 1995, pp.253-254, note 23). In the same regard the slightly earlier group of so-called Nuragic bronzes may be mentioned which also brought Sardinians into this trading network. According to their size and icono-

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graphy they may once also have served as votives or as entrance gifts offered and presented perhaps on special occasions. But how we may understand this intensive interaction pattern in the Central Mediterranean? Provenance investigations, however, suggest that the alloyed tin might have come from either Sardinia or Tuscany (in general articles in Lo Schiavo, 2005), so all this social interaction of sea-faring people could be ascribable to this. If we finally consider many of the debates, it seems that much debate can be summed up as a lack of evidence and of precise characterization of trade goods to reconstruct their embedding in trading and resource-demanding networks. A further constraint is our lack of knowledge about the ancient usage of deposits in various Mediterranean landscapes and their assumed connectivity: Apart from the well-known and large deposits in Cyprus, Laurion and Iberia there are many more whose ancient exploitation can only be presumed but is not evidenced.

Aspects of Connectivity: The Mediterranean Provides Access to Mineral Resources Connectivity has been debated as a category within social and cultural studies for a number of years now. Horden and Purcell (2000, p.123) described it as “…the various ways in which micro-regions cohere, both internally and also one with another - in aggregates that may range in size from small clusters to something approaching the entire Mediterranean.” But one may ask if the Mediterranean enables a higher degree of connectivity that in turn allows better access to trading and resource exchange than other regions such as the Eurasian steppe zones (the idea also has its critics: Algazi, 2005, pp.227-245). Horden and Purcell (2000) availed themselves of a kind of landscape connectivity. Landscape connectivity as applied in biodiversity research can be defined as “the degree to which the landscape facilitates or impedes movement among resource patches” (Taylor, Fahrig, Henein and Merriam, 1993, p.571). This application of connectivity can certainly be regarded as a structural arrangement of spatial entities that enables movement between them. On the question of resource procurement by human beings it would be of some importance to ask if the technologies of procurement and usage of resources enabled a higher transaction rate; does the appropriation of specialized knowledge favor such transactions: Social networks certainly created both the need and the desire for exchange. This could be more aptly termed functional connectivity as societies and their demands clearly influenced such processes to a high degree (Brooks, 2003). Thus, we should define resource connectivity first and foremost as a fluid entanglement that enabled transactions within networks of all kinds. We find a great abundance of landscapes rich in resources all around the Mediterranean. Some of these deposits were of trans-Mediterranean importance especially in antiquity, some of them are more restricted by size and economic com-

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plexity and were thus only of short-lived importance. 1 We may mention here the various precious metal deposits in the Aegean which were of regional importance in prehistory (e.g. Siphnos) or during the classical period (Siphnos, Thasos) (Wagner, Weisgerber and Kroker, 1985; Wagner and Weisgerber, 1988). The northern part of Tuscany was seemingly of greater importance in the Early Iron and Etruscan Age (Zifferero, 1991; von Hase, 1995) but lost its significance entirely during the Republican and Imperial Age (Domergue, 2008): The polymetallic ore fields were much too small to allow exploitation on a large scale as for example in the Iberian Peninsula or in Cyprus or Egypt. Although we will concentrate here on major deposits, we should note that small island deposits could have been enormously important simply by dint of their rather easy accessibility by ship. This is a principle that was particularly important during the earliest phases of Transmediterranean mineral resource networks when access to the hinterland was difficult for several reasons such as the lack of infrastructure and a possibly confusing political diversity. The exploitation of obsidian in Lipari (e.g. Pollmann, 1993; Tykot, 1996) and in Melos (Torrence, 1984) shows two principles of early “Neolithic” exploitation modes and intercultural communication: Obviously it was firstly foreigners and not the local population who accessed these islands to procure the desired raw material; in a second step the material was then distributed to surrounding islands and to the mainland by some sort of down-the-line trade. The high proportion of Melos obsidian in the Aegean has already been interpreted by Renfrew, Cann and Dixon as a sign of direct-access trade that led to reciprocal exchange (Renfrew, Cann and Dixon, 1965). The rd nd high point of such an exchange within the Cyclades in the 3 and 2 millennium B.C.E. is represented by the Early to Middle Bronze Age fortified settlement of Phylakopi on Melos (Renfrew, 2007). The site might possibly be interpreted as a “port of trade” in the sense of Karl Polanyi (Polanyi, 1969). The influx of foreign goods at the settlement displays perfectly the extensive trading and exchange netrd nd work. During the 3 and the 2 millennium Phylakopi can possibly be understood as the gateway to the highly desired obsidian by the surrounding groups of the Cycladic culture. Neither the trade models of Renfrew (“down-the-line trade” e.g. Renfrew, Cann and Dixon, 1965) nor the contradicting direct access trade model (e.g. in criticism of Renfrew: Bloedow, 1987) can be definitely deduced from the evidence (a combination of both has been argued by Torrence, 1984). But clearly our understanding of the exchange by sea at the time is still not sufficient to grasp its technical aspects, the routes and the related social interactions (e.g. Farr, 2006). Melos and other sites with unique resources also demonstrate the importance of mining districts and related trading activities for the first time 1

Economic complexity means that mineral deposits were not easy to exploit (e.g. accessibility) and their exploitation became more difficult in time: reasons are the change of predominant minerals in a deposit and its depletion, difficulties that arise in general when exploitation exceeds a certain level of intensity (infrastructure, subsistence and over-exploitation of natural resources [wood, soils, water, etc.]). For a general discussion see also Stöllner, 2003.

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Fig.4: The Cyprus Mining “enterprise”: Pre-medieval copper exploitation in the Troodos mountain range and Late Bronze Age sites near the shore and the Mesaoria plain, where chunks of raw copper were refined in large workshops often controlled by temples; large hoards with tools and metallurgical remnants suggest ritual activities and sacrificial offerings that were important for the economy and wealth of the island, after Stöllner, 2003, p.437, fig.12. rd

in all its complexity as early as the 3 millennium BC. It is also the time when metal first came into broader use in the Mediterranean.

Aspects of Landscape Connectivity: Mining Districts and Landscapes Although the Eastern Mediterranean saw a considerable increase in the demand for metal (a “metal shock” after Schachermeyr, 1955) already in the third millennium, the quantities mined remained on a rather low level (Renfrew, 1967; Branigan, 1974; Pernicka, 1990; Muhly, 1996a; Muhly, 2002). It is obvious that especially the Aegean and part of the Levant were still on the fringe of the Balkan and Near Eastern metal circulation systems. This changed at the end of the millennium: Metal, especially copper, refined silver and gold became the most dend sired mineral resources from the late 2 millennium on, thus enabling the evolvement of large producers in the Eastern part of the Mediterranean. The copper-rich island of Cyprus displayed for the first time an intensively maintained mining landscape (fig.4). But it was not the copper alone, which was of importance for this development. It also was the sustainable agricultural resource

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basis of the island that enabled an incomparable flourishing of copper production nd nd st during the 2 half of the 2 millennium and the 1 millennium B.C. (summarized e.g. by Knapp, 2013, p.406; Bartelheim, 2007, pp.151-183). Cyprus emerged as an intensively exploited landscape in which primary production (mining and smelting) was mainly located in the Troodos mountains (Given and Knapp, 2003; Knapp, 2003; Knapp and Kassianidou, 2008), while refining and manufacturing took place at coastal sites such as Enkomi or Kition on the south and east coasts (e.g. Muhly, 1989; Hauptmann, 2011; Kassianidou, 2012). It is still surprising how little evidence is available from the Late Bronze Age, the period, when the Uluburun ship was loaded with a huge amount of copper ingots from the mining area of Apliki at the northern Troodos (Gale and Stos-Gale, 2012). Although our knowledge of the organisation and technology of copper production is still relatively limited, there are some general questions faced by current research: In the Late Bronze Age the second part of the copper smelting process (re-melting, alloying and casting in smaller smelting hearths) was carried out in workshop centres, presumably after roasting and smelting the ores in the vicinity of the mines and transporting chunks of matte (copper rich in sulphides) or even black copper (workable raw copper) to those centres (a model proposed, for instance, by Keswani (1993), Webb and Frankel (1994) and recently by Knapp (2013, pp.406-416). But there are still many uncertainties concerning the size of black copper refining in sites like Enkomi and Kition: The workshops found there seem limited in a way and it may reasonably be asked if oxhide ingots were produced outside the urban centres in areas still undiscovered: Experimental work to establish how the ingots were cast shows that this working procedure might have regularly used sand moulds. 2 In the experiment the casting was carried out by four craftspeople pouring the liquid copper into each edge of the mould in smaller portions depending on the size of the melting crucibles (Hauptmann, Maddin and Prange, 2002; Laschimke and Burger, 2012). In the Iron Age the general characteristics of Agia Vavara-Almyras appear to indicate the continued existence of small and independent producing units, where copper was not only mined and smelted but also remelted (Fasnacht, 2005, pp.519-524). We may ask if this is also in line with the decentralised political organisation witnessed from the Early Iron Age onwards by several independent st kingdoms. However, as research at the 1 millennium town of Tamassos also shows (Buchholz, 1987, pp.171-173), metal craft (casting, forging, alloying) was still carried out in urban centres. We still do not know if there was a kind of political control over copper production either in the Late Bronze Age or in the Early and Middle Iron Age. What is of interest for us in regard to connectivity is the dependency of rural copper producers on urban centres where the final refining 2

It is questionable whether the stone mould found in Ugarit (Bounni, Lagarce and Lagarce, 1998, pp.48-50) really had been used for ingot production: however, it is the only stone example discovered so far; the open “casting” channel is surprising and does not tally with the archaeometallurgical results that they were cast by small portions of copper melts. The lack of casting moulds is also surprising considering the number of ingots and their trading importance.

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and trade took place. This traditional pattern remained virtually unchanged from nd st the middle of the 2 millennium to the middle of the 1 millennium BC and displays a basic functionalism in economic organisation. The sustained and uninterrupted development of Cypriot copper production is particularly striking. The rich copper deposits acted as an integrative economic element that was obviously supported by a number of favourable factors: The geographical “island location” that favoured a concentration of all production efforts and the central trading location in the eastern Mediterranean as well as the natural rich fertile soil, the favourable climate and large and “regenerative” forests as an important source of fuel for smelting. Much was written about the trade in Cypriot copper that is reported in different written sources. But what is of greatest interest to us here is the longue durée rd of copper production in Cyprus that continued uninterrupted from the 3 millennium till the Roman period and that resulted in a certain self-assuredness that is reflected in their cultural originality and religious practices (Matthäus and Schumacher-Matthäus, 1986; Knapp, 1986; Bartelheim, 2007, pp.178-180). It comes as no surprise that in Cyprus the abundance of copper, its processing and manufacturing also gave rise to ritual practices directly linked with metalworking. There is certainly a ritual connection between late Bronze Age ritual deposition (with craft tools, miniature ingots, slags or figurines of deities standing on ingots) and the metalworking in settlements and its organization by the temple administration – rites that were obviously considered central for the local population, the economy and wealth of the island during the Late Bronze Age. The mining landscape of Cyprus is also ideal for discussing aspects of connectivity between mining communities and surrounding trading partners. It also displays very clearly the economic impact of supply and demand: As with any raw material procurement there was a certain interdependency that bound producers and consumers to each other. The famous Amarna correspondence elucidates this: There we read that the pharaoh was forced to deal with the kingdom of Alashya (Cyprus?) on an equitable basis (Knudtzon, 1915; Muhly, 1996b, p.49; Knapp, 1996, pp.16-60). As the Uluburun shipwreck especially made apparent, there were special trading transactions although it is still difficult to decide who owned this vessel and who accoutered it. The famous story of Wenamun, although written down in a later historical context, illustrates this Egyptian dependency on Levantine seafarers but also tells us that Levantine vessels or even small fleets often had envoys on board to negotiate this peer-policy trade (e.g. Moers, 1995; Schipper, 2005, esp. p.328; on the literary aspects: Baines, 1999). The spread of goods such as the famous copper oxhide ingots emphasizes the role of maritime traders and seafarers: The exchange and trading of goods may have been done within diplomatic peer-policy patterns, independent trading or even piracy. One could assume that all these aspects were the case with Levantines, the Keftiu or, later, the Euboeans as intermediating traders between several neighbouring countries.

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The interregional demand for Cypriot copper however made the island extremely prosperous in the late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age and it favored far-reaching trading networks and close economic relations. Such interregional interdependency is typical of such mining landscapes: Cyprus and earlier the southern Levantine area of Fenan in Jordan (comprehensive overviews by Hauptmann, 2007; Barker, Gilbertson and Mattingly, 2008; Levy, 2009) allow us to trace the ups and downs of production in relation to social and economic development (Cierny, 2003). On a general level the Cypriot example is paralleled by other cases of similar importance in the Mediterranean: Mining landscapes are often subject to the same restrictions and factors that influence their development (Stöllner, 2003; 2008).

Aspects of Landscape Connectivity: The Temporal Dimension of Mining Developments The temporal development of a mining operation, especially within economic zones dependent upon exploitation, is considered to be an important approach for describing complex economic interrelations more generally. In reference to the environment being used and exploited, we may call this an “imprinting” process. Such a process usually continues for several centuries (if not longer) and can be understood as a transformative process by which a landscape is changed into a zone with a special social and economic role. This stratification can be described within a four-phase concept (Stöllner, 2003; 2008; 2010): • An initial or inventing phase (invention phase) sees the introduction of a new concept (new technology, new exploitation strategies) into a district with mineral deposits or into a landscape. It occasionally superseded the phase of parttime exploitation. • A phase of stabilization or consolidation (radiation phase) leads to the first successful exploitation and to the formation of successful working units (regional diffusion). Such activities have a notable influence on the local society and environment. For example, successful exploitation can result in a major improvement in living conditions, in the emergence of new professions and in the development of social hierarchies, but also in the degradation of landscape and the local environment. In the regional context, initial and consolidation stages are often difficult to distinguish, as is the case in Fenan’s Early Bronze Age copper production (Hauptmann, 2007). On a regional or even interregional scale, this stabilization (consolidation) was often the basis for the general “industrial” stage (e.g., in Fenan during the Early Bronze Age; in the Alps during the Late Bronze Age: Stöllner, 2008, pp.80-86). • An industrial phase (establishing phase, innovation phase) is characterized by a strong increase in exploitation in a regional context with considerable effects on society and the natural environment as well as the cultural landscape.

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Fig.5: Scheme of procession steps within a production sphere as an adaptive cycle system; after Holling et al., 2002, p.34 and Stöllner, 2008, p.77, fig.5.

The expression “industry” is not used in the sense of “industrialization” but indicates frequent and standardized mass exploitation. • This simplified scheme for the development of resource exploitation in a region can be concluded by a phase of collapse and reorganization. An industrial phase often carries within it the seeds for the subsequent collapse of an economic or ecological system either by greedy over-exploitation or by over-expenditure of technical or economic resources. Besides internal reasons for a collapse, external causes also have to be considered, such as the change in demand, the influence of historical events, or general economic crises that also affect the sphere of production. Crises are often caused by multiple reasons which make it difficult to reconstruct disaster scenarios. Archaeology has its own problems in detecting historical coincidences either because of incorrect synchronization of events or through the inability to accurately identify the question of “cause and effect”. Such adaptive cycles (from invention to collapse) are frequently used in sociology and history to describe long-term processes in society and economy. If we adopt, for instance, the adaptive cycles that have again been discussed in recent years (Kondratiev, 1984; Holling, Gunderson and Peterson 2002) we can attempt to estimate the usage of mineral deposits according to preconditions such as demand, trade or general technological capability (fig.5),. I want to emphasize that I consider cyclical modeling as somewhat ahistorical and would therefore regard such biologistic models with some caution. But I think one may use them as

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a first theoretical tool to describe economic and social change on a regional level and on an empirical basis. In the light of empirical data, we have to stress that cyclical economic development is not self-evident. Indeed, we often observe that after the collapse of an exploitation system, no phase of reorganization has followed simply because the collapse did not allow for a recovery. Although many mechanisms are similar in different regional settings and under different environmental preconditions one has to differentiate on the level of specific historical conditions during the rise of exploitation: We may compare two examples from more recent periods. Iberia is well known and often debated as one of the most important suppliers of mineral resources in the Western Mediterranean. The abundance of metal ore deposits is unique in the Mediterranean and attracted traders from the east over many centuries. We have only to mention the famous Tarshish ships to which the Bible referred (II Chronicles 21; I Kings 10,22; Jeremiah 10,9; Isaiah 60,9): As pointed out earlier, the origin of these rich commercial vessels and raw material expeditions was in the West, most likely in south eastern Spain where the realm of Tartessos is reported during the early Iron Age (Koch, 1984; Alvar Ezquerra, 2000). The situation in the Guadalquivir/Rio Tinto and Sierra Morena mining fields is most interesting as it provides much information for our discussion (summarized by Bartelheim, 2007, pp.109-150). We may roughly describe the long-lasting mining development there in three steps, which may also be understood as a complex adaptive cycle. It is interesting to note the impact of interregional trading demands in these rich mining areas: The first phase of mining can certainly be described as a mostly indigenous dominated one: As Rothenberg and Blanco-Frejeiro (1980; 1981) stated many years ago, it is the phase in which predominantly copper was won from rich sulphidic ores. It may be asked if the technological approach of smelting sulphidic copper was transmitted from the east: Although the smelting technique for larger quantird ty copper production was already established in the later 3 millennium (El Argar: e.g. Bartelheim, 2007, esp. pp.12-16), we do not know the origin of the slagtapping furnaces (as in Cyprus or in the Mitterberg-Eastern Alpine zone) that were introduced in the late Bronze Age. This needs more investigation: Up to now there is only evidence in southeast Spain of a metallurgy on a rather small, perhaps household scale (for Chinflon: Pérez Macias, 1996, pp.167-170; in general Bartelheim, 2007, pp.118-120). However, metallurgical innovation came in during the next phase of development that is dominated by contact with Phoenician traders in coastal areas: Indigenous settlements like Huelva and its hinterland clearly demonstrate the increased usage of ore deposits to produce silver applying the technique of cupellation known from the east Mediterranean. In the southern Iberian peninsula this technique is also evidenced in coastal metallurgical workshops that were somehow closely linked with Phoenician merchants or even

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funded by them 3 (e.g. Monte Romero: Pérez Macías, 1993) (fig.6,2). Copper was certainly still the dominant product but was now augmented by precious metals production and by the introduction of iron: Iron smithing features from Toscanos and Morro de Mezquitilla (Schubart, 1999; 2006) demonstrated some time ago that iron technology was likewise introduced from abroad – but as has recently been shown, there are different transfer routes that also led to the use of iron in the interior of the Iberian peninsula during the pre-colonial period (recently Ruiz Zapatero, Fernández-Götz and Álvarez-Sanchís, 2012; Mielke and Torres Ortiz, 2012, pp.274-275). Southeast Spain is an even better example than Central Italy because the hunger for raw materials resulted in contacts, technical innovation and even social change there. It seems that the local elites were able to practice a system of prestigious goods circulation, a system which was stimulated by the influx of goods from the east. This kind of conspicuous consumption (after Veblen 1899/1997) seemingly established social diversity and a ranked society. The “Tartessian princely tombs” in the Guadalquivir basin may also mark a high degree of territoriality that was linked with the more intensive usage of rural landscapes, both by agricultural production and by mining (e.g. Aubet, 1984; Torres Ortiz, 2002; Beba, 2008). The mining landscapes between the Sierra Morena zone and the Iberian Pyrite belt remained a major source of supply in the following centuries. What is also interesting in the third phase – Punic-Roman exploitation – is the intensive collaboration between indigenous groups and foreigners: Metallurgical workshops at Cerro Salomon (Pellicer, 1983; Pérez Macías, 1996, pp.101-106) (fig.6,1) and Castro Cerquillo (Tharsis, Rio Tinto: Pérez Macías, Schattner and Santos, n.d.) best demonstrate this already in the Early Iron Age by help of ceramic assemblages which show that people in central Iberia had joined the “gold rush” in the south. But the same pattern is likewise visible in the Sierra Morena in later Republican mining settlements like Fuenteobejuna La Loba (Blázquez Martinéz, Domergue and Sillières, 2002). This mining settlement was obviously populated mainly by indigenous people who enjoyed a high standard of living. This is evidenced, for instance, by imported Italian wines and Italian tableware. The observations in La Loba, as well as in other hinterland sites like Munigua (Schattner, 2003) and Linares (Sandars, 1905; Domergue, 1987, pp.49-51), clearly demonstrate that even in the fairly capitalistic economy of the late republican era there was still a somewhat traditional pattern of exploitation that was based on collaboration with foreign merchants. It is likewise interesting to see the rise of mining cities like Munigua and Linares, which do not imitate a Roman town but reflect more the self-confidence of these societies, who erected 3

There is possible evidence of lead-silver metallurgy/technology already in the Bronze Age, but neither dating nor the archaeometallurgical evidence is beyond doubt: the free-silica slags of La Parrita and of the Cerro de las Tres Aguilas (the latter contained a higher portion of lead) are the main arguments of J.A. Pérez Macías (e.g. 1996, p.56), but do not correspond with late Bronze Age silver artefacts of the Andalusian Late Bronze Age which are believed to be made from native silver as they contain no lead at all: comments on the discussion by Bartelheim (2007, pp.367368).

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Fig.6: The indigenous smelting settlement of Cerro Salomon of the Early Iron Age in the Huelva-Rio Tinto zone (picture: Deutsches Bergbau-Museum G. Weisgerber); lead-silver cupellation and the metallurgy of the Orientalizing Period in Southwestern Iberia, after Bartelheim, 2008, p.123, fig.II.48.

their temples and prestigious buildings in the center of the mining landscapes. The hinterland zone is therefore quite different from other foci of exploitation such as the coastal town of Mazzarón or the Imperial gold mining fields in Northern Spain and Portugal that were exploited under the direction of the Roman military (Ramallo Asensio and Arana Castillo, 1985; Ramallo Asensio and

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Berrocal, 1994). In Cartagena a colonial aristocracy emerged after the Roman conquest that was based on agricultural and mining production. It is no wonder that especially in the surrounding area economic activity reached its bloom in the nd st 2 and the 1 millennium so that chattel slavery was introduced in response to the labour-intensive exploitation mode. This military driven system seems to have become common practice later on, especially for imperial exploitation that was tightly controlled by the Roman fiscus (Domergue, 2008). The Dacian ore mining district around Alburnus Maior delivers a perfect example of this (Cauuet, Ancel, Rico and Tamas, 2003; Cauuet and Tamas, 2012): In a period when the Roman mining officials had learned to use better skilled workers and slaves, they transferred some of the workforce from the Dalmatian copper mining fields and from central Anatolia to Dacia in order to maintain the gold mining fields in the “Golden Quadrangle” in central Transylvania. As Noeske showed some thirty years ago by using onomastic sources, whole families were transferred to Dacia on a contract basis to establish a mining system that was different from the older and much smaller-scale gold production process of the late Iron Age (Noeske, 1977). What we may learn from these different patterns that are displayed in the Iberian peninsula and in Transylvania is the different extent to which technical and social connectivity evolved: Traditional mining systems remained unchanged over a much longer period than in labor-intensive exploitation in which Italian private entrepreneurs or the military employed foreign laborers and soldiers.

Aspects of Connectivity: Technical Compounds Technical compounds may shed light on the patterns of connectivity seen so far 4. Although it is difficult to determine whether new technologies were learned by locals abroad or from incoming foreigners, there are many examples of technical connectivity. For instance, improvements were made in various craft forms such as wall painting (fresco technique) in the Late Bronze Age or Early Iron Age by the use of granulation in fine gold metallurgy in Early Iron Age Italy. In this context Edilberto Formigli (Nestler and Formigli, 1993) and Constance von Rüden (2011; n.d.) have clearly pointed to the transfer of skills on the evidence of a complete chaîne opératoire. The anthropologist T. Marchand discusses examples of groups of masons that disseminated technical skills and knowledge by cooperating and learning from each other on building sites (Marchand, 2007). Such levels of observation are difficult to be achieved by the archaeologist: When discussing the objects themselves much depends on the perceptibility of a personal technical style, as has been discussed in regard to the gold torques of the Early La 4

The term “technological transfer” that is often used, albeit unreflectingly, by archaeologists conceals the real transactions more than it explains. I would prefer to use “transfer of information or skills”. In this respect we have to keep in mind that its explanation needs a careful and descriptive approximation to our archaeological sources, to objects and technical installations, for instance. I am very much indebted to Dr. Constance von Rüden for inspiring discussions.

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Fig.7: Roman water wheels from Dolaucothi (Wales: 1), Roşia Montana (Romania: 2), São Domingos (Portugal: 3) and a reconstruction of their mode of operation (4) as an example of the distribution of technologies within social and economic systems with high connectivity; after Weisgerber, 1979; Boon and Williams, 1966; Domergue, 2008, pp.125-126, fig.70,73.

Tène Erstfeld treasure (Guggisberg, 2000). A personal style is much harder to detect in the field of primary production: But as discussed earlier, the first influx of foreign materials, such as Cypriot copper ingots to Sardinia or lead to the Roman provinces in northern Europe, was like leaven in the dough that triggered the exploitation of mineral deposits and the implementation of mining activities there. Ore bodies are complex and only the exact knowledge of smelting and ore beneficiation in regard of the desired end product could enable successful implementation. In some cases a direct transfer of technology to the peripheral minefields is easy to trace: The water drainage techniques found in gold and copper mines between Rio Tinto, Wales and Dacia/Transylvania are a testimony to the technical knowledge of Roman military engineers (in general: Boon and Williams, 1966; Weisgerber, 1979; Domergue, 2008, pp.122-128; recent findings from Alburnus Maior: Cauuet and Tamas, 2012) (fig.7). The same is true of other techniques

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evidenced in different mines from the Roman period, such as, for example, ventilation shafts, hoisting systems and underground timber shoring principles. The Roman world especially enabled the vast expansion of technologies that had previously been restricted to single landscapes. The Greek mining techniques that have been researched most intensively in the famous Laurion mining district did not have such an impact outside of the Aegean world (Conophagos, 1980; Morin and Photiades, 2005). Even in the Aegean the technological knowledge which is evidenced by deep shafts, ore beneficiation and smelting is basically restricted to this specific mining landscape. There were obviously periods of knowledge transfer in mining and smelting and periods in which technical knowledge was not transferred into other regions. This most certainly has to do with the economic dominance that single mining landscapes had in their regional and economic setting. And we must not forget that advanced mining and smelting techniques had to be introduced where deeper layers of the deposits were to be accessed (when opening new mining fields that may not have been necessary initially). When looking at the transfer of Mediterranean mining techniques to the hinterland it is worth considering the intensification of gold exploitation in the Celtic mainst lands: Gold obviously acquired a more commercial role during the later 1 millennium BC after millennia of primarily ritual use in elitist graves and other ritual contexts (hoards, offerings). One reason may be the influx of gold coins during the Hellenistic wars in which Celtic warriors served as mercenaries. It is widely accepted that the influx of Hellenistic ideas and coinage stimulated the developrd ment of Celtic coinage from the 3 century on (Allen, 1980; Keller, 1996). When we look at the gold exploitation itself we find a certain reaction of the Celtic mainlands: While the earliest gold mining in the best known mining fields in Limousin was still on a rather small and traditional scale, more recent periods saw a sudden increase in exploitation and the application of Mediterranean techniques such as, for example, complex gold refining by fire assaying and water drainage systems (Cauuet, 2004). It is again the demands of the regional socioeconomic situation that led to the appropriation of foreign knowledge: Larger amounts of gold were required by the late Celtic aristocrats to gain ascendancy over their political rivals.

Conclusions: Raw Materials in Technical and Social Networks? Demand and Supply Systems and Their Extension to the Hinterland. Finally, let us return to the introductory question of wide-scale interaction networks that led to the expansion of economic activities in the Mediterranean world. The procurement of mineral resources certainly delivers arguments to support this. Although biases of knowledge still preclude a complete picture and a diachronic view, we are able to elaborate demand and supply systems in which technology

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and interaction patterns could evolve. I have necessarily concentrated on metals rd st and on certain examples between the 3 and the 1 millennia BC. We are only beginning to understand the connections between factors such as, for example, network building, the exchange of technical skills, and the establishment of economic activities. But what turns out again is the importance of raw materials for the development of technological and social networks. It seems that some periods were more susceptive than others to establishing such “raw material networks”. And here connectivity was possible to a high degree. Echoing Susan and Andrew Sherratt’s concept of a “growth of the Mediterranean economy” (Sherratt and Sherratt, 1993, p.375) we may add the input of raw material networks as well. Trans-Mediterranean trade and the establishment of elitist burial rites are visible results of a development that already started in the late Bronze Age and intensified in the Early Iron Age, specifically through the expansion of sulphidic copper smelting, iron processing and silver refinery techniques from the East to the West. The networks involved included several players such as Levantine citystates on the Palestinian coast and Cyprus as well as the early Greeks and the Italians. The raw material network that developed step by step over centuries was obviously in the mutual interest of all the partners. These interactions between societies thus had an economic logic that was somewhat different from those established during the expansion of the Roman Empire. As pointed out above, while indigenous partners still existed in the Mediterranean hinterland, the older, smaller and territorially developed networks were influenced by capitalistic attitudes. The Roman quest for raw materials, especially the Imperial fiscus, obviously had little interest in smaller-scale raw material networks and directed their attention especially to large-scale deposits. As in many networks some kind of technological harmonization took place but clearly in response to quite different economic considerations than in early prehistoric and protohistoric times.

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STEFAN RIEDEL

The Trojan Palladion – Visual Expression of a panMediterranean Identity in Antiquity? 1

Abstract The Homeric Epics, the Iliad and the Odyssey, are assumed to have been the ‘common ground’ of the ancient Greeks, who considered them to be the attested starting point of their history. Especially the Iliad and many of the narratives it subsequently inspired seem to have induced several poleis, states, and individuals to link themselves closely to these mythical events and therefore to what is often referred to as Greco-Roman culture. One detail from this context is examined in this paper – the cult statue of Athena in Troy, namely the Palladion. It appears in different episodes closely linked to the events of the Trojan War and in numerous depictions from Greek to Roman times. The wide distribution of narrations and depictions across the Mediterranean as well as the claims to possession of the statue from its presumed place of origin to Greece, Italy and Rome seem to be a good testing ground to illuminate a supposedly pan-Mediterranean identity based on Greek cultural supremacy. Therefore, the paper analyses the Palladion and the traditions and ideas attached to it in Greco-Roman times and questions its role as a substitutional symbol for such an assumed identity.

Introduction The often quoted statement of Plutarch (Phaidon 109B), which he attributes to his mentor Sokrates, that the Greeks live around the sea like ants and frogs around a pond, conveyed the image of the Mediterranean in Antiquity as a more or less homogenous region under Greek supremacy. To some scholars this assumption presaged the later hegemony of the Roman Empire as the only power which ever managed to subsume all shores of the Mediterranean basin under its control, thus creating an ostensible political unity. These ideas, among other things, led to the idealization of Greek and Roman culture which in turn resulted in their becoming the glorified ancestors of modern and pre-modern western so1

I am very grateful to Michel Amandry (Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris), Helle Horsnæs (Kgl. Mønt- og Medaillesamling, Nationalmuseet Copenhagen), the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford and the British Museum, London for their permission to reproduce pieces from their collections in this paper.

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cieties. Consequently, an assumed ancient Mediterranean identity should root in what is often referred to as a common Greek or Greco-Roman culture. The following paper aims to analyse some aspects of this assumed pan-Mediterranean identity in classical Antiquity. In doing so the literary and archaeological tradition surrounding the famous Palladion of Troy will be explored in order to determine whether such an identity is traceable and how the ancients themselves perceived it. Local narrations and motivations for assimilating the Palladion into indigenous traditions and repertoires of depictions will be considered as also will its political instrumentalization and changes of meaning.

The Homeric Epics as ‘Common Ground’ for Ancient Greek Culture and Identity? The Iliad and the Odyssey which are ascribed to the poet Homer were probably th created in the 8 century BC, and the events they describe are said to be the basis of a common Greek culture rooted in a common history. 2 It seems certain that at least parts of the narrations dealing with the Trojan War were accepted as historical facts by the ancient Greeks (cf. e.g. Patzek, 2006, p.57), and archaeological research in the city of Ilion since its rediscovery by Heinrich Schliemann in 1871 has revealed that during the times in which the Homeric Epics are set, there were th indeed acts of war which led to the destruction of the settlement in the 12 century BC. The Iliad especially suggests a common Greek identity in Antiquity which was rooted in a shared history closely connected with the Trojan War. And indeed Homer lists numerous Greek poleis and their famous sons who set out for Troy under the leadership of the Mycenaean Agamemnon. Thus, the later Greek poleis had abundant opportunity to embed their own history in a glorious panHellenic past. The impact of the Iliad on the self-image of the Greek poleis is evident in many ways. It is revealed, for example, in the rival claims of several poleis to be Homer’s birthplace (cf. Nodar, 2013, p.3284), in the narratives about different heroes of the Trojan War in polis-centred local backgrounds (cf. e.g. Prinz, 1979, pp.56-165) and in the role of various topics of the Trojan War in ancient Greek art (Muth, 2006). These testimonials indicate that the ancient Greeks effectively experienced the events described in the Homeric Epics as part of their history, thus sharing a pan-Hellenic past with their fellow countrymen. However, Homer became pan-hellenised by the Greeks themselves 3 and it is therefore reasonable to call his narratives the cultural common ground of a (certain degree of) pan-Hellenic identity, rooted not just in a past which was considered to be shared 2

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Herodotus 2,53,2 already expresses this opinion, saying that Homer and Hesiod were the ones who taught the Greeks of the descent of the gods and the gods’ names. This opinion is shared by most modern scholars and in a philosophical context was expressed by Friedrich Nietzsche as follows: “Die größte Tatsache in der griechischen Bildung bleibt doch die, dass Homer so frühzeitig panhellenisch wurde. Alle geistige und menschliche Freiheit, welche die Griechen erreichten, geht auf diese Tatsache zurück.“ (Nietzsche, 1878, p.262).

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by most Greeks but moreover in a common Greek canon of values based on Homeric heroism (cf. des Bouvrie, 1991, pp.34-39). From this assumption the question arises: to what extent did the Greeks and subsequently the Romans perceive and deal with such a superordinate identity and how did they display it.

Symbols as Expressions of Identity? This question transferred to the subject at the centre of this paper, the Trojan Palladion, entails the aspect of symbols and their role in creating and mirroring identity. Can a symbol be regarded as a substitute for any kind of identity? And is the Palladion itself a symbol of ‘Greekness’? These questions are intrinsically tied to the overarching topic of symbols themselves. A universal definition of the term symbol is not feasible since it is dependent on the perception of the individual and the understanding and therefore the definition of symbols differ. In the context of this paper the term will be used in the broader sense, i.e. a figurative depiction which is charged with meaning. It therefore does not just represent the depicted object but rather a wider context or idea. Thus, a symbol can serve as a substitute for something else and carry a broader meaning in the sense of a pars pro toto. Furthermore, it can stand for ideas, notions, concepts and the like which cannot themselves be figuratively depicted. In classical studies, especially the study of ancient arts, the question about the existence and functioning of symbols has often been raised and emphasized to a different degree. This is due to the scarcity of written sources compared to the mass of material remains which have come down to us from Greek and Roman times. Hence, scholars often tend to treat depictions and their details as a kind of visual text, which is somehow ‘readable’. In this context symbols play an important role, since they are taken to mean more than the object or person they actually depict. On the question what meanings are inherent in a symbol and therefore what knowledge the recipient at the time must be assumed to have had, the pendulum swings from one extreme position to the other. The mythical scenes painted on attic vases from the classical period might serve as an example here: Whereas John Boardman (1978) and others (e.g. Basile, 1999) try to trace depicth tions by the painter Exekias to specific circumstances and events in 5 century BC Athens, interpreting e.g. the heroes Achilles and Ajax who are shown playing a board game as the deedless Athenian aristocracy versus contemporary depictions of Heracles as a symbol of Peisistratos, Jan Bažant (1982) completely denies the existence of symbols in antiquity in the sense in which we interpret them today. As different as these two views are, they are both rooted in the desire to understand the ancients’ mind, either by transferring modern definitions and patterns to antiquity or attempting to understand it in itself, trying to extract meaning from different ancient sources. Although this latter approach may be scientifically correct, its limitations quickly become apparent when it is applied to the fragmentary tradition from antiquity. On the other hand the direct transfer of mod-

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ern patterns in most cases seems to be too specific to fit or explain ancient thoughts and depictions. Thus, on the issue of identity one has to rely on aspects of both approaches. It is beyond question that Greeks and also Romans saw themselves as being part of a wider entity sharing religious ideas, mythology, history, and cultural values which separated them from other people. 4 Besides, the Greeks themselves had different identities which they could display depending on political or social necessity. Accordingly, the inhabitants of the polis Lindos on the island of Rhodes could call themselves Lindians, Rhodians, Dorians, and Greeks (cf. Malkin, 2011, pp.65-95). Although the question of different identities in antiquity cannot be addressed comprehensively here, it is evident that some kind of panHellenism was experienced by the ancient Greeks themselves. This leads back to the question how and whether such a superordinate Greek identity could be visualized. In this context the wide distribution of depictions of different scenes connected to the Trojan War and its successive narrations in various media at least shows that they were perceived as commonly Greek and cannot merely be explained as pictures mirroring the taste of the times. Therefore, a single element out of these narrations like the Palladion might also be seen as a pars pro toto, expressing a common identity that culminated in the Trojan War as the starting point of a shared Greek history. But this alluring explanation is to be handled with care since in most cases it is not easy to trace whether specific images and depictions also had specific meanings at the time they were created and if they do, whether we are able to understand them correctly today (cf. Hodder, 1987, p.2, who differentiates between past/historical and modern/interpretative context). Therefore, each depiction, especially when it is connected to questions about identity and mind, must be contemplated in both its specific and wider context in order not to draw tempting but rash conclusions.

Setting the Framework – The Palladion in its Narrative Contexts and its Depictions Generally, the term Palladion designates a cult statue of the goddess Athena with her epitheton Pallas. According to the earliest written reference this name is not restricted to any specific cult statue of the goddess but was given to those statues which were of small scale and armed (Herodotus 4,189). Therefore, according to Lippold (1949, p.171) all depictions of an armed Athena might be called Palladion – a definition to which he adds the joined feet in order to set it apart from her

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Concerning the Greeks, the question of identity was last discussed by Malkin, 2011, esp. pp.5364.

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Fig.1: Drawing of a shield strap th from Olympia, first half of the 6 century BC (after Touchefeu, 1981, p.342, no.48).

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Fig.2: Detail of a volute krater, 460-450 BC – British Museum, London, Mus. no. 1865,0103.22 (© Trustees of the British Museum).

other depictions. But already in antiquity this general appellation was limited to the most popular cult statue of this kind, i.e. the Trojan Palladion. 5 In the literary sources a cult statue of the goddess Athena at Troy is already attested in Homer’s Iliad (2,88-92. 288-303). Since the offering of a peplos is mentioned, which is placed upon the knees of the statue, it is generally assumed that a seated statue is meant, which is not consistent with the Palladion 6. The latter first appears in two episodes of the Trojan War that were not part of the Iliad itself but of the lost narrations ascribed to the so-called Epic Cycle: The theft of the statue by Odysseus and Diomedes and the rape of Cassandra by the Lokrian Aias. The theft was included in the Ilias Parva, the so-called Small Iliad, which Proklos th in the 5 century AD attributed to Lesches of Mytilene (cf. Davies, 1988, p.52). The rape of Cassandra on the other hand was part of the Iliupersis by Arktinos of Miletus, also attested by Proklos (cf. Davies, 1988, p.62). On the issue of different Greek poleis linking their history to the Homeric Epics, the removal of the statue from the city is far more important than the rape of Cassandra. But the latter is nevertheless necessary to clarify the appearance of the Palladion since its earliest known depictions show the crucial moment of this episode, namely Cassandra being pulled away from the statue of Athena by Aias. The Palladion undergoes slight changes from its first appearance on archaic shield strap panels from th Olympia (fig.1) and Delphi, generally dated to the first half of the 6 century 5

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Thus, the Palladia from other cities were integrated into varying traditions surrounding the Trojan Palladion, in most cases claiming to be the original (cf. Lippold, 1949). Even the only known accounts using the plural Palladia (Ptolemaios Chennos 3,24 and Dion. Hal. ant. 1,69,3) refer to such a tradition, according to which an original and a copy existed. Graf, 1985, p.44; Mannsperger and Mannsperger, 2002, p.1089. Villing (1998, p.150) argues on the other hand that it might be meant as a metaphor which must not necessarily refer to a real statue.

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BC 7, until its depiction becomes somewhat canonical in the classical period. This canonisation is best seen in the Attic red-figured pottery, where the depiction of this episode was a popular topic. The changes basically concern the position of the statue’s feet: from standing in a stepping position with one foot in front of the other, the Palladion now has her feet together (fig.2). 8 This posture often goes together with a frontal depiction of the goddess. Furthermore, she is characterized by her attributes: She wears a helmet, holds a round shield in one hand and brandishes a spear in the other. In some cases the goddess is also equipped with the aegis. These are the most common attributes of Athena and by no means specific to a depiction of Palladion. They point to the most famous capacity of the goddess – her warlike character which led to her becoming the patron of many Greek poleis, generally referred to as Athena Promachos. In most depictions Athena Promachos strides out vigorously, appearing to attack an invisible threat (fig.3). But occasionally she is presented with her feet together just as the Trojan Palladion. According to Lippold (1949, p.171) all depictions of a fully armed goddess with joined feet might be called Palladion and from this opinion the term ‘Palladion-style’ emerged, e.g., for the image on the reverse of Pergamene gold (fig.4) and silver coins from the early Hellenistic period. 9 These images, which I call Palladion-like, seem to be meant to evoke a more venerable picture of the goddess. This is often intensified through the use of archaistic features which must already have been perceived as old-fashioned at the time they were used. 10 Whether or not these images of the goddess might depict local statues shall not be touched upon here, but it shows that not all of these very similar appearances of Athena depict the Trojan Palladion. This is certainly the case if the context in which it appears is unambiguously related to the narrations about the Palladion or the Trojan War. Therefore, a brief overview will now be given of the various narrations surrounding the Palladion in order to identify the different places around the Mediterranean that are connected to these narrations or claim possession of the statue. The cities known from the ancient written sources which most emphatically claimed to possess the original Palladion in Greek and Roman times are Troy itself, Argos, Athens, and Rome. Furthermore, Strabo mentions that the Italian 7

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Kunze, 1950, pp.161-162; Bol, 1989, pp.73-74; Mangold, 2000, p.39. On the contrary, Marith natos (2001, p.107) dates those from Olympia to the early 7 century BC. Mangold (2000, pp.35-36) defines three groups in the Attic red-figured pottery which succeed each other. For the Pergamene coins this term was introduced by von Fritze, 1910, pp.35-38. It was later transferred to similar depictions of Athena. In the late Classical/early Hellenistic Period such examples can be found on coins from Amphipolis (Price, 1991, p.99 no.105), Phaselis in Lycia (Heipp-Tamer, 1993, pp.92-101), Antiocheia at the Orontes (seen from the side, not facing; Newell, 1977, nos.911-915. 918. 920; Houghton and Lorber, 2002, nos.15-17.), and Argos (cf. Poole, ed., 1964a, p.140 nos.48-50). The main aspects and characteristics of archaism are briefly summarized by Fullerton (1983, pp.1-3).

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Fig.3: Panathenaic amphora, 500-490 BC – British Museum, London, Mus. no. 1836,0224.193 (© Trustees of the British Museum).

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Fig.4: Gold stater from Pergamon, th rd 4 -3 century BC – Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris, scale 2:1 (SNG France 5, no.1557).

cities of Siris, Lavinium, and Lukeria claimed to possess archaic statues (ξόανα) which they, in Strabo’s opinion, pretended to have been brought to their cities by the Trojans themselves and therefore were called (statue of) Athena Ilias (Strab. 6,1,14). 11 To these one may add Sparta since a single source mentions the Spartans’ claim to the Palladion, too (Plut. qu.Gr. 48), while the Italian cities of Albania (Ioh. Mal. 6,25) and Silva (Ioh. Mal. 6,29) are known from one version of the Roman tradition where they appear together with Lavinium as stations through which the statue passed before it finally reached Rome (Ioh. Mal. 7,1). The citizens of Troy countered the claims of other cities to possession of the Palladion with the tradition that the cult-statue had never left the temple on top of the city’s acropolis. This is consistent with the local history of Troy according to which, in contrast to the tradition of its total destruction at the end of the

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Although it is not explicitly named Palladion, the fact that Strabo talks about these traditions as being reckless (ἰταμός) suggests that they might have been thought to be the original statue in question. For a brief overview of the traditions and additional sources concerning these three cities cf. Wörner (1902-1909, pp.3431-3435).

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Fig.5: Silver tetradrachm emitted by the koinon of nd Athena Ilias, 2 century BC – British Museum, London, Mus. no. BNK,G.1153 (©Trustees of the British Museum).

Trojan War, the city was never completely destroyed and abandoned (Strab. 13,1,40). The statue of the Palladion in her temple at Troy is described in the sost called Bibliotheke of Apollodorus from the 1 century AD. The source describes it as a small statue of three cubits in height with joined feet, brandishing a spear in her right hand but holding a distaff in the other hand (Apollod. 3,143). This last detail differs significantly from the appearance generally ascribed to the Palladion. Since it is depicted on many Hellenistic and Roman coins of Troy and the so-called Koinon of Athena Ilias (fig.5; cf. Bellinger, 1961), it is, along with other evidence such as the above-mentioned literary description, indeed most likely that it reflects the cult statue of Troy in Hellenistic and Roman times. Furthermore, the literary sources as well as the archaeological record show the continued supraregional prominence of the cult and its sanctuary from Persian to Roman times (cf. Hertel, 2003, pp.94-122). However, there is no definite evidence that the Trojans believed this statue to be the original Palladion, because it is never explicitly named but simply referred to as the cult statue of Athena Ilias. Moreover, a depiction of what generally seems to be perceived as the Palladion appears on several coins of the city in Roman times, but in fact in a political context which will be explained later. The claims of Argos, Athens, and Rome to possession of the Palladion are all related to the removal of the statue from Troy during the Trojan War. But the traditions differ, depending on who was believed to have taken the statue. Argos relied heavily on the episode of the theft by Diomedes and Odysseus since Diomedes was the city’s most famous hero. As Pausanias tells us, the Argives reported to him that the Palladion from Troy was kept in their city (Paus. 2,23,5), most probably brought there by their local hero Diomedes. To celebrate this event, the crucial moment of the theft is depicted on the reverse of Argive silver coins (fig.6) th dated to the 4 century BC: Diomedes is seen sneaking away with the small statue standing on one of his palms (cf. Lacroix, 1949, pp.112-114). Under the reign of Antoninus Pius and Septimius Severus the city even minted a few bronze

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Fig.6: Silver coin from Argos, th 4 century BC – British Museum, London, Mus. no. 1880,0503.3 (© Trustees of the British Museum).

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Fig.7: Felix gem, 1 century AD – Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, AN 1966.1808 (© Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford).

coins, which showed a facing Palladion in a temple upon a hill, most probably that of Athena Oxyderkes on the mountain Aspis (Grigorova, 1999, pp.83-85. 92 nos.8-11. p.94 no.21). It should be mentioned that the image of Diomedes stealing the Palladion was a popular motif in several forms of Greek and Roman art, most notably engraved gems (cf. Moret, 1997). But the image simply refers to the theft from Troy and does not imply any destination of the statue, since the scene is in some cases supplemented by the waiting Odysseus (fig.7). Quite different traditions were narrated in Athens. The one which mentions Athens as the new home of the Palladion has been passed down to us only fragmentarily. In this narration Diomedes and Odysseus stole two statues, the original and a copy of it. Afterwards both statues were brought to Athens by the sons of Theseus, Akamas and Demophon. 12 However, Athens’ claim to possession was, as far as we know, never as strong as that of other cities. Only two brief notes are known from literary sources which mention two Palladia. 13 Nevertheless, there are also depictions that corroborate the Athenian narration. Two Athenian red-figure vases and another one from Apulia from Classical times as well as a Roman clay mould show Diomedes and Odysseus each carrying an identical statue (Boardman and Vafopoulou-Richardson, 1986, p.401 nos.23-25. 402 no.41). Furthermore, a fragment of another red-figure vase from Athens shows two frontal Palladia in a temple, probably the place in Athens where they were supposed to have been kept (cf. Tiverios, 1988). A temple with a nearby law-court existed in 12

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For the different sources and the Athenian tradition in general cf. Wörner (1902-1909, pp.34173426) and Krumme (1993, pp.222-223). The latter differentiates between varying traditions about who brought the Palladion to Athens. But all the traditions involve the sons of Theseus. st Ptolemaios Chennos 3,24 at the end of the 1 century AD and Dion. Hal. ant. 1,69,3 who mentions a real statue and a copy.

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Athens from the 5 century BC onwards up to the Roman period. The temple and the court were referred to as being at the Palladion, thus the statue itself probably stood nearby. From inscriptions it is also known that there were priests who had to take care of the statue. 14 Literary sources furthermore indicate the role of the Palladion for Athens in the struggles with the Persians, since different kinds of Palladia were dedicated to sanctuaries and attached to the Athenian ships’ bows. But here the Palladion was embedded in the general context of the Trojan War which was used by the Athenians to emphasize their role in the fight against the Persians. The same probably holds true for different scenes of the sack of Troy which were depicted on the Parthenon’s north metopes. These showed at least two, probably even four depictions of the Palladion but without tangible connections to the Athenian claim to possession (cf. Schwab, 2002). Therefore, the Athenian narrations and depictions might have been a tentative endeavour to link the city’s history to the famous Trojan War, but they were ostensibly rooted not in direct links to Trojan heroes but in the utilization of the general topic of Greeks fighting Orientals/Persians. The last case in this context is the city of Rome. Due to its historical importance and the fact that many more literary works from Roman times have come down to us than Greek ones, the available information about the Palladion and Rome is by far the more extensive. The Roman tradition is intrinsically tied to the flight of Aeneas from the sacked Troy. He was believed to have escaped to Etruria from where he or his descendants were the driving forces in the foundation of the city. 15 The narration of Aeneas’ departure to Italy was told in antiquity th th probably from the late 7 or early 6 century BC onwards. 16 But the literary sources consistently do not mention the Palladion in this context except for two th late references from the 6 century AD according to which Aeneas met Diomedes at Beneventum in Campania who handed the statue over to the Trojan (Ioh. Mal. 6,23; Prok. BG 15,9). Depictions of this event first appear on denarii of Iulius Caesar from 48/47 BC 17 (fig.8). The hero Aeneas carries his father Anchises on his shoulders and the small-scale statue of Athena on his outstretched right hand. But despite the lack of earlier depictions the Palladion was thought to be in Rome where it was kept in the temple of Vesta at the Forum Romanum. Therefore, many Roman writers mention the Palladion and most notably its salvation 14

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Krumme (1993) argues that the so-called temple by the Ilissos are the remains of this sanctuary. He also discusses the different literary and epigraphic sources related to the Athenian temple and the Athenian traditions surrounding the Palladion (Krumme, 1993, pp.220-227). The foundation of Rome was ascribed to different heroes, but they were all connected to Aeneas (either it was Aeneas himself or his descendants who also included Romulus and Remus. cf. Dion. Hal. ant. 1,72-73). The different founding myths connected to Aeneas are mentioned by Wörner (1884-1886, pp.182-183). It was most probably first mentioned in a lost work of Stesichoros which also influenced the depiction of the embarking Aeneas on the so-called Tabula Iliaca Capitolina (cf. Simon, 2001, pp.159-161). For the dating of the denarii and the location of their mint in Asia Minor cf. Woytek (2003, pp.218-225).

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Fig.8: Silver denarius of Iulius Caesar, 48/47 BC British Museum, London, Mus. no. 1867,0101.1264, scale 2:1 (© Trustees of the British Museum). rd

from the burning temple in the 3 century BC by Metellus. 18 In this context the Palladion is often depicted throughout the time of the Roman Empire as an attribute of the goddess, mainly on coins. 19 Furthermore, in the time of the Roman Empire it appears in connection with the personified city of Rome, Dea Roma, and the emperor. All of these connections to Vesta, Dea Roma, and the emperor, are strongly linked to the ascribed values of the Palladion and thereforesuggest that political considerations might have led to its depiction.

The Political Instrumentalization of the Palladion’s Ascribed Values Beside these four most famous cities and the other southern Italian cities mentioned above, many others claimed a connection with the Palladion. However, these relations were not directly linked to the claim for possession of the statue but were rooted in political considerations. The mere possession of the cult statue was thought to bring considerable advantages due to the values ascribed to it: The Palladion was believed to guarantee the existence of Troy as long as it remained in the temple of Athena on the acropolis of the city. 20 This feature could easily be 18

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Dion. Hal. ant. 2,66,4-6; Cic. Scaur. 48; Plin. nat. 7,141; Ov. fast. 6,439-454; Liv. 26,27,14; Val. Max. 1,4,5; Aug. civ. 3,18. Vesta carrying the Palladion is depicted either standing (from the time of Antoninus Pius to Severus Alexander) or seated (from the time of Galba to Septimius Severus), whereas both variants nd rd appear again on coins of Gallienus in the 2 half of the 3 century AD (cf. Cohen, 1930 V, pp.510-511 nos.142. 146). For coins depicting Vesta either standing or seated (with the exception of those minted under Gallienus) cf. Schmidt-Dick (2002, pp.118-120). The most famous non-numismatic depiction of the Palladion in connection with Vesta is an Augustean marble base from Sorrent on which the statue is shown standing on a column in the circular temple of Vesta (cf. Mekacher, 2006, pp.158-159. 250 no.R3). The different traditions concerning this aspect are collected by Wörner, 1897-1902. Remarkably, they are mostly related to the theft through Diomedes and Odysseus which is also a major topic especially in Roman art (cf. Moret, 1997; Plantzos, 1999).

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Fig.9: Bronze sestertius of Antoninus Pius, AD 140-144 – British Museum, London, Mus. no. 1872,0709.639 (© Trustees of the British Museum).

Fig.10: Gold aureus of Septimius Severus, AD 195-211 - British Museum, London, Mus. no. R. 12662 (© Trustees of the British Museum).

transferred to any other city by relocating the statue there, and it partly explains why the theft of the Palladion was an important topic for those claiming possession because it offered the opportunity to secure the continued existence of a city. 21 The only city which is known to have pursued this line of reasoning, in fact in quite a propagandistic way, was Rome. Compared to the Greek poleis Argos and Athens, Rome’s claim to possession of the Palladion first appears several centuries later due to the city’s increased political importance. Nevertheless, the first writst st ten accounts from the second half of the 1 century BC and the 1 century AD already integrate the statue into the city’s history, asserting that it had been kept rd in the temple of Vesta at least since the 3 century BC. Despite the political importance it is by no means by chance that the Palladion played a key role in the propaganda of Iulius Caesar and in the reign of Augustus since their family claimed to descend from Iulus, son of Aeneas, and therefore from the Trojans.22 Iconographically first introduced into Roman art through the above-mentioned coins of Caesar (fig.8), where it probably served both to illustrate his family’s genealogy and to demonstrate his ambition to bring peace to war-weary Rome, the Palladion reflected the aspiration of Augustus to restore the Roman Republic and maintain peace. Is there any better symbol than the Palladion to emphasise this ambition, emblematizing the guarantee of Rome’s sustained existence? This might have been a basic consideration when the above-mentioned authors, who mainly wrote in the time of the Iulio-Claudian emperors, told the story about the Palladion being kept in the temple of Vesta – the goddess of the hearth in Roman mythology and therefore well chosen to be accompanied and protected by the Palladion. But it was not until the time of Galba that the Palladion was displayed 21

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In the 6 century AD the idea of the Palladion protecting the city which posses the statue is directly attested in Ioh. Mal. 5,12. For the close bonds between Rome and Troy see Bömer (1951). A suitable brief summary is given by Rose (1998, pp.408-411).

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in a political context, propagandistically exposing its meaning as a symbol of the duration not of the city of Rome, but, deriving from this, a symbol of the power rd of the Roman emperor. 23 From Galba’s reign onwards up to the 3 century AD the Palladion appears again and again on Roman coins either as an attribute of Vesta, the Dea Roma or the emperor himself. 24 The message seems to be always the same and on some coins is even expressed in the legend as ROMA (resp. VESTA) AETERNA (fig.9). Therefore, the possession of the statue guarantees the existence and duration of Rome and the Roman Empire. The emperor could also express through the Palladion that he was the one who was able to restore order. Thus, coins from the time of Septimius Severus with the Dea Roma holding the Palladion on the reverse are accompanied by the legend RESTITUTOR URBIS (fig.10), referring to the emperor as having restored the tumbling state after the death of Commodus in AD 192 and the city of Rome itself after the huge fire in AD 191 (cf. Weisser, 1998, pp.651-652). This possibility even enabled Caracalla to appear as RESTITUTOR URBIS of Byzantium, later Constantinople, on coins of that city. The reverse side of the coin is a copy of a Roman coin struck under Severus but most probably shows the personification of the city of Byzantium, although up to this time the city itself was not connected to the tradition of the Palladion at all.25 Here, the statue is most obviously reduced to its ascribed value, which is to guarantee continued existence and duration – in this case through the emperor as mediator since the statue was not in the possession of Byzantium but of Rome and the Roman Empire, of which the city was part. Two other portrayals of the Palladion, again on coins, echo the role of the statue for the Roman emperors. On a small emission of bronze coins the Sicilian city Segesta repeats the depiction of Caesar’s denarii in the time of Augus-tus (cf. Poole, ed. 1964b, p.137 nos.65-66). Although the flight of Aeneas had already been depicted on Segestean coins in Hellenistic times (Pause-Dreyer, 1975, p.89; Schürmann, 1985, pp.34-35) the addition of the Palladion was new and might be regarded as the attempt to please the new princeps in order to benefit from him in the future. This attempt rooted in the city’s shared history with Rome, since Segesta also connected its foundation to Aeneas and his companion Akestes (Verg. Aen. 5,700-718). A similar idea probably inspired the depiction of a Palladion-like Athena on four different emissions in Troy itself (cf. Bellinger, 1961, pp.43, pp.45-46). It appears on bronze coins from the times of Caligula, 23

24

25

In the time of Augustus it is only depicted in genres which lack the official character of coins (e.g. a Campana relief (Canciani, 1984, p.1091 no.231) and a marble base from Sorrento [cf. Mekacher, 2006, pp.158-159. 250 no.R3]). For Vesta cf. note 18. The depictions of the emperor with the Palladion are assembled by Schürmann (1985, pp.37-43) and further discussed by Gmyrek (1998, pp.180-182). Concerning the depictions of Dea Roma and the Palladion cf. Jucker (1965, pp.106-107) for Galba and Weisser (1998) for the times from Titus up to Caracalla. cf. Weisser (1998, pp.650-652). Constantinople was later supposed to be the home of the Palladion, which Constantine was said either to have brought to the forum of his new capital (Ioh. Mal. 13,7) or found in exactly that place (Prok. BG 15,14).

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Fig.11: Bronze coin of Lucius Verus, AD 161-169 – Kgl. Mønt- og Medaillesamling, Nationalmuseet Copenhagen, scale 2:1 (SNG Copenhagen. Troas, no. 400).

Claudius,Vespasian, and Hadrian in between two antithetic heads. On the coins minted under Claudius only one head, namely that of Augustus, is depicted beside the goddess. The heads are either members of the emperor’s family or personifications of Rome and the Senate. In the first case the intention seems to have been to show that the city of Troy stood loyal to the emperor and his dynasty. Therefore, the goddess functions as a kind of religious authority justifying the right of the ruling emperor and his dynasty to be in power. 26 The second case points in a similar direction, though here Athena positioned in between Roma and the Senate symbolically justifies and protects the Roman Empire itself. Most interestingly, this image of Athena in Troy differs from the one from the Hellenistic period holding spear and distaff (fig.11) – a depiction which is completely absent from Trojan coinage from the times of Tiberius until the reign of Marcus Aurelius some 150 years later. And it cannot be by chance that precisely in this period a different image of a Palladion-like Athena appears in Troy which could be recognized as the Palladion although it differs significantly from the one the Trojans claimed to be the original. Therefore, the statement of the Palladion-like depiction on the Trojan coins is twofold and is used in a political way: On the one hand Athena as she appears here was probably known and recognized throughout the Roman Empire as the Trojan Palladion and therefore directly linked to the city of Troy itself. On the other hand, the Trojans could always refer to their own statue with spear and distaff, thus avoiding a conflict with the much more powerful city of Rome and even point to the importance of their city

26

Bellinger points in the same direction (1961, pp.43, pp.45-46 naming the emissions “inaugural issues”).

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to the history of Rome and the Roman Empire to which they proved their loyalty in order to benefit from it later. 27 A last example of a possible political use of a depiction of the Palladion shall just be briefly touched upon here. In 2000 Silvia Mani Hurter raised the idea that th a Palladion-like mintmark on a 4 century BC tetradrachm from Rhodes might have been an expression of the polis’ political positioning towards Athens and against the Persians (Mani Hurter, 2000). Although the tradition of the Palladion existed in Athens it was obviously never recognized as so strong that the statue could have served as a symbol for the city and therefore be sufficient to demonstrate the supposed bonds between it and Rhodes, although it has to be remembered that Athens used the Trojan War and also the Palladion to emphasize its role in the war against the Achaemenid Empire. 28 Furthermore, the mintmark appears in no specific context which would corroborate its identification with the Palladion. It seems to represent the more general image of the fighting Athena, the so-called Athena Promachos, which was famous throughout the Greek world and in some depictions probably inspired by the Palladion. Thus, the mintmark was not a direct expression of Rhodes’ position vis-à-vis Athens but a commitment to the Greeks in general against the Persians. This becomes even more convincing if one considers the mintmark of a Persian head with tiara on Rhodian coins minted under the direction of pro-Persian magistrates (also discussed by Mani Hurter, 2000). Therefore, the two symbols – Athena and the Persian head – most probably mirror the inner-Rhodian struggle about which party to support. Although Athens was one of the driving forces on the Greek side in this resuming conflict and Athena was its main goddess, the mintmark is too indistinct to serve as a pro-Athenian symbol rather than a pro-Greek one.

Conclusion – The Palladion as a Symbol of “Greekness”? After this overview of the different traditions surrounding the Palladion and its political implementations the question again arises to what extent can the statue be considered a symbol of a common Greek or Greco-Roman identity in the Mediterranean. At first glance the different places involved, or involving themselves, from Troy in the East to Argos and Athens in Greece to Segesta and Rome in Italy and the vast distribution of the Palladion’s depictions in various contexts and media suggests that it was indeed perceived as such. But a closer look reveals quite different perceptions and aims. At its place of origin, Troy, the Palladion belonged to the city just as other Greek cities claimed to have a specific patron deity. Although the citizens may well have been offended by the claims of other 27

28

That these attempts were successful is shown by Vermeule III (1995, pp.470-477) who summarizes the benefits to Troy from Roman emperors and famous Roman citizens from Julius Caesar th to the 4 century AD and the connections of Rome and Troy during that time. For the use of the Palladion in this context cf. Krumme (1993, pp.225-226).

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cities to possession of their statue, they seem to have regarded the Athena Ilias as local rather than global. This is indicated by the differing image of the Palladion in Troy and in wider Greek and Roman art. That the worship and therefore the idea of the specific Trojan Palladion was local but not limited to the city itself, is furthermore shown by the koinon of the Athena Ilias in which several cities from the Troad participated. The koinon was so influential and popular on a local basis that in Hellenistic times they minted tetradrachms with a depiction of Athena Ilias which, apart from her striding stance, comes very close to the appearance of the Palladion at Troy. 29 Therefore, this specific and original Trojan Palladion was more important on a local than on a broader level. Furthermore, a closer look at the cities of Argos, Athens, and Rome testifies that outside Troy the Palladion was primarily seen in a political way, either in a pro-Greek context versus the Persians or as a guarantee of the continued existence and duration of a city. Thus, the traditions surrounding the Palladion offered the Greeks and Romans an abundant opportunity to be connected to the events of the Trojan War – the most famous and esteemed narratives in classical antiquity. This opportunity also explains the popularity of different topics and depictions from the Homeric and subsequent narrations, of heroes and myths in general as well as of the Palladion. But although all the considerations laid out in this paper refer back to the Homeric Hymns as a shared Greek history, they also show that this specific statue of Athena cannot be regarded as a visual expression of a common Greek or GrecoRoman identity. The different case studies presented here illustrate that the same mythological and historically charged object was treated and used in different ways in order to serve many purposes. It does not symbolize a pan-Greek or Greco-Roman identity in antiquity and was never meant to do so. But a closer look at the Palladion – as at any other assumed ‘symbol’ of this nature – and the different contexts in which it appears sheds light on questions of identity and selfconception of ancient classical societies.

29

For the koinon of Athena Ilias and its coins cf. Robert (1966, esp. pp.18-46).

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MICHAEL HERZFELD

Perpetration and Perpetuation: The Persistence of Reciprocal Stereotypes in the Geo-Politics of Mediterranean Culture For anthropologists who intend to comment on current political matters, especially at the international level, the greatest challenge is that of how to avoid cultural determinism. It is always tempting to try to ‘explain’ a country’s seemingly peculiar behavior in terms of ‘cultural values’. To some extent, that approach can be a useful contribution, and it can be expected to offset the simple-minded economism and universalism that characterize a good deal of media discourse about geo-politics. But when cultural explanation becomes an excuse to project a grossly evolutionist hierarchy of civilizations (e.g. Huntington, 1996), what passes for explanation is actually an ideological attack. To be sure, such abuses of the culture concept far exceed and indeed contradict what anthropologists are prepared to say about the impact of cultural factors on political relations. But how can anthropologists do a better job? How can they avoid reducing undeniable cultural differences to stereotypes and caricatures? The answer, I suggest, lies in demonstrating how stereotypes are used. In that perspective, even the writings of scholarly and journalistic observers can be treated either as an element in the scenario under analysis – they do, after all, have observable effects on political decision-making – or as a parallel discourse and even, on occasion, as a source of popular models for political action. To speak of stereotypes is thus not to ignore realities. Stereotypes may not be accurate, and they are often malicious, but – sometimes for that reason – they have material consequences in the political life of societies. Furthermore, they constitute a particular type among the many categories of symbols that, as David Kertzer (1996) has argued, constitute the active nexus of political and ideological persuasion, and their particular power lies in the ease with which they, like national identities, can be ‘naturalized’ and made to look like self-evident truths. In a generic sense all claims to ‘national character’, an old staple of nationalistic folklore studies, are stereotypes. Self-stereotyping, however, usually and for obvious reasons emphasizes positive virtues and attributes. It is when stereotyping is applied to others – minorities, underclasses, and migrants in particular – that it often becomes instead an instrument of attack and a means of justifying violence both structural and physical, sometimes in tandem with an equally stereotypical self-representation by the aggressor as humane, liberal, and reasonable (Herzfeld, 1991, p.197).

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The Mediterranean offers a theatre for the inspection of these processes with a peculiar slant. Because the area is often treated as the historical point of emergence for Western civilization, the successors to its ancient cultures are, for romantic folklorists and nationalist ideologues, imbued with the aura of past cultural glory. At the same time, they are treated as peasants who have failed to live up to those achievements in the modern age, and therefore as unworthy of the accoutrements of modernity. As I have argued at length (Herzfeld, 2004), this dual vision – at once a pedestal and a tethering-post – is reproduced at many internal levels as well, resulting in a consistent pattern whereby the stereotype of a culture mired in antiquated practices and attitudes evokes the most damaging kind of condescension. Admiration for an ancient identity becomes a liability that excludes entire categories of people – artisans and laborers as well as country folk – from the privileges of modernity; and the same logic is applied to the country as a whole, and even to the entire region. The stereotypes of ancient and modern Mediterranean cultures, and particularly of Greece, play off against the reciprocal stereotypes of northern Europeans, stereotypes that southerners share with their northern neighbors and that add to the sense of cultural hierarchy. In the case of Germany, the duality of ‘northern barbarian’ and ‘technological leader’ is especially telling, and it resonates with the tension between Geist and System that Dominic Boyer (2005) has identified as a recurrent them in attempts by German organic intellectuals to come to terms with their own history. German scholarship, moreover, has played a far from innocent role in the construction of images of ancient Greek culture and its transmutation into modern Greek realities, and that process – in which German scholars provided much of the arsenal of ideas about culture through which other Western countries exercised dominion over Greek interests – is clearly reflected in the mudslinging and insult trading that has marked Greek-German relations in the course of the recent economic crisis in Greece and more generally in the European Union. In what follows, therefore, although I will address issues of Mediterranean stereotyping more generally, the Greek-German dynamic will feature prominently. There are historical reasons for this emphasis. Although Germany was not a colonial power (or even a unified single nation-state) at the time of the Greek War of Independence (1821–1833), German scholars and intellectuals were deeply implicated in the construction of Europe’s fond delusions about the nature of ancient Greek culture. The art historian Johann Joachim Winckelmann (1717–1768), who never even set foot in Greece (he was murdered in his bed before he could ever embark on that voyage), exemplifies, perhaps to an extreme degree, the construction of a sanitized aesthetic that represented the ancient Greeks as (inevitably) logical, (marmoreally) white, and (quintessentially) European. That aesthetic, which also contained powerful elements of Victorian morality, not only strongly influenced the Greeks themselves in developing an image of chaste women and sexually pure men (an image that contrasts markedly with the culturally intimate picture we can garner from jokes and informal behavior [see

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Orso, 1979]), but also re-emerged in the remarkably self-censoring cultural politics of the right-wing military regime of 1967–1974. We must be careful here not to conflate ‘Greece’ with ‘the Mediterranean’. Indeed, to do so would be to fall into precisely the essentialist trap that it is my aim to expose. Greece, as an entity with its own borders and policies of absorption (Voutira, 2003; 2006), represents the end-product of a process of national consolidation analogous to similar developments throughout the world; its unity is the result of state construction driven by the demands and needs of the dominant powers (Britain and France) at the time of Greece’s emergence as a nominally independent state and conclusively re-ordered in response to its adventurism in Asia Minor in the disastrous war of 1920–1922 (Doumanis, 2013). The Mediterranean, by contrast, has no overarching administrative structure. It is therefore very unlikely to congeal to the same degree of homogeneity as any of its constituent nationstates. In that sense, the reification of the Mediterranean – which has been an intellectual problem for social anthropologists ever since the inception of a supposedly distinctive area focus (Herzfeld, 1984; de Pina Cabral, 1989) – can serve as a reminder that even the nation-states it contains, entities defined by cartographically transparent boundaries, represent massive performative acts of reification and consolidation. When the Mediterranean is treated as a country-like monad, the critical analysis of these cultural processes is easily short-circuited, resulting in the very stereotypes and caricatures we should particularly avoid. There is also no good conceptual reason to replace a reified Mediterranean with a reified Europe. Politically, the effort has already been under way for two decades and more, although the attempt to translate that process into cultural unity founders repeatedly on the more modest (or, some would say, myopic) concerns of the constituent national governments. The European Union, to no one’s surprise, has emerged as a troubled and perhaps unworkable scheme, the quasi-colonial ambitions of its stronger members embarrassingly revealed in the wreckage of a ‘partnership’ that was never intended to be anything other than a structure of economic domination and a renewal of colonialism under a different name. The attempt to give it cultural unity has been especially open to doubt (Shore, 2000, pp.21-26). This is hardly surprising, given the plethora of languages, religious identities, and deeply inculcated national loyalties that today seem to be proliferating rather than dwindling in number. Indeed, we should have been forewarned: an entity some of whose most prominent apostles reject Bosnians and Turks as non-European because they are Muslims has over-determined what ‘Europe’ is to be before the project truly gets under way, and plays into the hands of those – notably Tayyip Erdoğan of Turkey – who are just as happy to use ‘Europe’ as a foil to their own ambitions. Those attitudes, which in the case of Turkey undergo chameleon-like shifts between Islamism and secularism, are no less thoroughly imbued with what Verena Stolcke (1995) and I (Herzfeld, 2005) have both called cultural fundamentalism – often underwritten by biogenetic theories of ‘blood’ standing for collective descent and a comprehensive ius sanguinis – than anything produced by European right-wing

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extremists such as the Golden Dawn in Greece or Forza Nuova in Italy. Nor are those movements as far removed from the basic underpinnings of national culture models as the nation-states that promote these models would like us to believe (see also Dyal, 2011; Holmes, 2000). In this context, current Western European policies toward the Mediterranean countries, and especially Greece, have the dangerous quality of a self-fulfilling prophecy. We should not forget that Greece in particular, a country that was forced to define itself in accordance with the crypto-colonial logic of neo-classical values (Herzfeld, 2002), shares with Germany and many other parts of Europe a popular imagery of blood that has nourished theories of identity as superficially distinct but historically inter-related as Nazi Rassenwissenschaft and EuroAmerican popular kinship models, and that continue to bedevil attempts to create a purely bureaucratic and place-based concept of citizenship (see, variously, Bottomley and Lechte, 1990; Herzfeld, 1992, pp.28-34; Herzfeld, 2005, pp.111125; Linke, 1999; Schneider, 1984; Soysal, 1994). As with Turkey and the Islamism that already permeates the logic of its ostensibly secularist state structure (White, 2002), these policies are also propelling the Christian countries of the European South toward a form of religiously inspired and unapologetically racist fundamentalism that will be held to ‘justify’ the North’s fears of an undisciplined, irresponsible, and ultimately childish South. That logic may well in turn perpetuate, for an unforeseeable and probably long extended time, the dynamic whereby the geographical inequality of the two halves is maintained, even reinforced, always to the advantage of the North. The stereotype of Mediterranean character has gained special currency in light of recent revelations about Greek (and Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese) government mismanagement and corruption in economic affairs. Lest my meaning be misunderstood, I want to emphasize that I am not trying to exonerate specific Greek or other politicians for their misdeeds. Andreas Papandreou’s government was embroiled in scandals that were perhaps typified by the famous “corn (kalamboki) scandal”, in which Greece exported Yugoslav corn as Greek. This was illegal, and there is no ambiguity about that. Kostas Karamanlis’s government looked more respectable, but the public impression, at least, is that it seems to have covered up a series of its own mistakes or malfeasances. And in more general terms I have argued that Greeks themselves recognize as endemic to their country a capacity for buck-passing (efthinofovia; see Herzfeld, 1992) that they contrast unfavorably with what they see as the relative transparency of other states. This concept, the term for which literally means ‘fear of responsibility’, entails an endemic assumption that ‘the system’ is to blame for everything that goes wrong; that it is the logical right of every functionary to deflect blame to the next highest person on the ladder of authority; and that what can be deferred to another time should under no circumstances be handled right away – unless, to be sure, there is some clear practical advantage to be gained from immediate action. There is a certain irony in this view of Greek bureaucratic habits. One part of northern Europeans’ self-stereotype is as administrative rationalists. That Weberi-

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an image has been rather damaged by stories about Brussels attempting to regulate the shapes of bananas and cucumbers in order to facilitate counting and packaging. But in fact it was the southern European countries – specifically, Greece, Italy, and Spain – that recently demanded that olive oil not be served in restaurants in open, reusable jugs but in specially sealed, disposable bottles, apparently in a move to counter effects of plummeting olive oil prices despite the product’s famed association with the ‘Mediterranean diet’ (Chaffin, 2013). Here we see a new version of the same old trap: when the countries seated on the glorious rural pedestal of the Mediterranean diet attempt to apply the standards of governance supposedly developed by the industrialized nations, they are seen as immured in habits of endemic corruption and bureaucratic unreason – and this, by three northern countries (Germany, the Netherlands, and Britain 1) that were also using the situation to express their disdain for the bureaucratic structures and procedures of the European Union itself. That Greece should be one of the countries caught in this double bind should occasion no surprise. Greece’s notoriously inefficient and bloated bureaucracy – and there is no doubt about its general condition – is often singled out for particular opprobrium as one of the lingering remnants, as official history would have it, of Greece’s emergence from the dark night of Ottoman (‘Turkish’ 2) ‘barbarism’. 3 This view assumes that it would be extremely difficult to establish a ‘rational’ Greek bureaucracy, with institutions requiring transparency and efficiency, despite the tutelage of the imported monarchy’s Danish and German advisers. That the ‘West’ is no less liable to use the rhetoric of transparency and efficiency to obscure its own habits of secrecy and discreet favoritism (Shore, 2000, pp.8-11, p.213) counts for little in this unequal name-calling contest. Here, in fact, we discern the germs of a contradiction that may allow us to reverse the usual interpretations altogether. The morality tale of a transparent Germanic system of administration corrupted from within by the persistent remnants of an Ottoman disposition itself, I suggest, points to an encompassing structure of corruption in which the Northern countries have long been the main beneficiaries. We should not, in any case, be surprised at this view of the North; as Shore (2000, p.213) has shown, even the supposedly incorruptible British seem to have been complicit in at least tolerating some shady practices in the darker corridors of power in Brussels. The art of bureaucratic management, whether al1

2

3

Britain did not initially support the measure, so one may reasonably suspect that the British government’s sudden opposition arose from a domestic need, created by the so-called Euro-skeptics in the Conservative Party, to distance itself from the fussier aspects of European Union bureaucracy. The usual description of Ottoman rule as ‘Turkocracy’ (Tourkokratia) is inaccurate and anachronistic since, even though Turkish language and culture dominated the empire, a specifically Turkish state had yet to emerge, and the term Türk had pejorative connotations. There is increasing evidence that ordinary people contested – in their memories, if not often in political protest – a version of the past that tried to bury any memory of Muslim-Christian coexistence (and to refuse its neologistic recasting as a Turkish-Greek relationship) once and for all. See especially Doumanis, 2013, pp.166-169.

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truistically benign or viciously malignant, largely consists of using a rhetoric of absolute conformity with the rules to disguise a high degree of agency, willful manipulation, and ironic inversion. In this light, it may then seem less surprising that, as James Scott (1998, pp.328-333) has noted, it was the British who invented the work-to-rule, which must be the ultimate example of irony in practice: total obedience as the most effective means of subversion! Be that as it may, we have entered into a period of post-modern awareness, in which bigots and racists talk like anthropologists about political correctness, transparency, and stereotypes; the usual cant begins with the statement that “I am not a racist, but…” and then continues with an indictment of “those people” (that is, immigrants or minority people) (Herzfeld, 2007). The language of transparency, human rights, and democracy has often been used in recent times to disguise what arguably were precisely the opposite attitudes (e.g. Morris, 2004 4). If in times past it was evident, not only to anthropologists but also to journalists and other observers, that stereotypes governed a considerable spectrum of geopolitical action, today the accusation of using prejudicial stereotypes has become part and parcel of the dynamic. Thus, it is not enough (though it is important) to point out that Angela Merkel constantly uses stereotypes of feckless and indolent Greeks -- perhaps to curry favor with her electorate (not very successfully, it appears, but that is another matter) – or that this dynamic has had a strong influence on her handling of the Eurozone crisis. Nor is it sufficient to remark, as some commentators have done (McDonald, 2012; Stoiciu, 2012) that statistically Greeks work longer hours overall than do Germans; the obvious retort, that they work less efficiently, easily gains purchase on the West European imagination, and the idea that Greeks work harder strikes many West European observers as counter-intuitive because the opposite view has already taken firm root. We must instead ask what further purpose her actions (and especially her invocation of the stereotype of Greek indolence) might serve, and what its effects are likely to be. This calls for a framing of the play of stereotypes in terms of a Maussian view of reciprocity. Negative reciprocity, in the form of insulting mutual images, creates a sense of mutual dependency – perhaps not the lien d’âmes imagined by Marcel Mauss (1925), but rather that of patron and client who dislike each other but cannot manage without each other, and who accuse each other of, precisely, patronage (or, in one direction, ingratitude and an inability to act independently, and in the other brutal and exploitative domination). Here, precisely, lies the irony of the Greeks’ current predicament.

4

Morris writes about Thailand, and I suspect that any resemblance to the Greek case reflects at least in part the share history of crypto-colonialism that in my view makes these two countries remarkably comparable with each other. Morris is specifically concerned with the political rhetoric of former prime minister Thaksin Shinawatr, whose career bears some resemblance – in this as in other regards – to that of Italy’s Silvio Berlusconi. But even the E.U. bureaucrats described by Shore (2000) seem at times to invoke transparency in order to protect their own secrecy rather than to create an open view of their activities.

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For while it is common to blame to Ottomans for the corrupt habits of Greek politicians and the Greek populace as a whole, this ignores the fact that such value-laden name-calling is in fact part of the structure of ideas and power that determines the moral economy in which notions of mutual obligation are embedded. As I have argued elsewhere (Herzfeld, 2011), Greeks usually interpret international relations in terms of failed obligations, a concept that has a long history in the ethnographic literature (at least since Campbell, 1964) and that underlies the national self-stereotype as a proud but hospitable people. Those (mostly moderately rightist) Greeks who deplore their country’s past performance in the global economy argue that it is Greece that has failed to live up to its obligations. Those further to the left tend to accuse Germany of the same failure, in terms both of reparations allegedly not paid for German atrocities during World War II and of the compassion one should feel for a disadvantaged partner in a common alliance (on the reparations issue see Papadimitriou, 2013). In this moral economy, such reciprocities balance the political obligations of the underdog (here Greece) against the moral bankruptcy of the bully. Whether that bully is Germany, as now, or the United Kingdom or the United States as so often in the past, such a view allows Greeks to accord themselves a morally superior position that compensates for their structural disadvantages. Such is the framework for a revealing exchange of insults. The name-calling displays equal banality and viciousness on both sides. For some Greek journalists and cartoonists to call Angela Merkel a Nazi is unquestionably gratuitous and mean-spirited (e.g. Flock, 2012) – but, viewed in terms of the theory of reciprocity and the moral dynamics of hospitality (whereby the ‘host’ is morally superior to the ‘guest’ and effectively, if symbolically, controls the latter [Herzfeld, 1987]), it does make more sense of the view expressed by those of more leftist persuasion: that the German occupiers during World War II took wealth out of Greece and wrought enormous damage on what was left, so that what is happening now is simply a condign form of recompense – an obligation (ipokhreosi) recalled in the face of an ignoble stance of recalcitrance. The Greek-German spat exemplifies a dynamic that, mutatis mutandis, is reproduced in north-south relations throughout the Mediterranean lands and further afield. Given the Nazi slur that some Greek commentators have hurled at Merkel, one can hardly fail to be struck by the fact that within the European context Greece now has the largest extreme-right representation in its national parliament; in the last election, the neo-Nazi Golden Dawn party won eighteen seats. 5 It might actually suit the interests of the West European democratic cen5

The stance of Golden Dawn (Khrisi Avyi) is illustrated by the way it insists on proof of ‘Greek blood’ as a condition for providing foodstuffs and other necessities to indigent citizens. One of its leaders physically assaulted a female communist politician during a televised discussion; its thugs have been caught attacking immigrants in the streets. More personally for me, its attitude is clearly revealed by repeated attacks against “the Jewish anthropologist Michael Herzfeld” – a label that clearly declares the ideological roots of the party and suggests that if it were ever to come to power it would immediately implement comprehensively racist policies. See the blog of arisdios5691

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ter-right very well if Golden Dawn played an even greater role in ongoing Greek politics. Even the rise to the premiership of Antonis Samaras, a more rabidly nationalistic politician than Constantine Karamanlis, is at least convenient, 6 and at the very least places at the head of the Greek government someone who largely shares Merkel’s economic and political philosophy. But the emergence of Golden Dawn as a genuine force in Greek politics, however abhorrent it may be to democratically minded Greek citizens, offers an even greater opportunity to the German moderate right. It implicitly allows Merkel and others to answer Greek name-calling, especially the charges of Nazism, with pointed if indirect allusions to the persistence of a political lunatic fringe in Greek affairs and more generally evokes the hyper-masculine aggression that northerners stereotypically associate with Mediterranean people. Merkel and others have called for imposing a long period of austerity on the Greeks in order to rectify the many weaknesses in their national economy. The military regimes of 1967–1974 invoked a similar logic, although theirs was a specifically surgical metaphor: Greece was a sick patient, and they were going to cure that patient of its besetting illness of indiscipline and all the other disreputable attributes that went with that condition (Roufos, 1972). The structural resemblance between their and Merkel’s rhetoric – far more persuasive than any suggestion of Nazi associations on either side – reveals a more general and historically deeper pattern of repressive paternalism. The colonels were but one group, and the last one for a while in a long succession of stooges, who performed the West’s will within the country. After their fall, and especially with the election of Andreas Papandreou in 1981, it seemed as though the pattern of international patronage of the Greek client state had been broken for good. Much of what is happening now threatens to reverse that new-found independence from the indirect but painful constraints of the crypto-colonial condition and to return Greece to the humiliating dependency that has plagued the country for most of its history – but to place it in thrall to a German-dominated European Union rather than to the combined but internally fractured alliance of British and French interests that had, in an earlier phase, simply used German philology and art history as one of the instruments of crypto-colonial cultural domination. In this rendition of events, Greece and the other, mostly Mediterranean countries that have defaulted on their debts are not simply potentially dangerous economic sinkholes. They also represent something that is more fundamental to the European imagination of the European self – and it is not as negative as the affectations of horror and disdain emanating from the major European capitals might be taken to suggest. The treatment of Greece, and more generally ‘the Mediterranean’, as a place of corruption and patronage in fact presents this area as the zone

6

(2013) for a set of images that, even if one does not know Greek, make this movement’s ideology and attitudes entirely clear. Samaras left the party in apparent disgust over the Macedonian issue to found his own party, Political Spring, and only returned when there seemed a reasonable chance he could become the party leader.

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of cultural intimacy of ‘the West’. That claim is a large one, and needs more explanation. By ‘cultural intimacy’ I mean that zone of mutual self-recognition in which people find the embarrassing but potentially comforting aspects of their own cultural identity (Herzfeld, 2005). Often this consists of aspects of a national culture that are considered to be of foreign derivation; in other words, “we” are not to blame for their persistence – even though we may secretly enjoy the familiarity they provide. The Mediterranean lands are often represented as existing in a premodern time – the phenomenon that Danforth (1984), following Fabian’s (1983) model, has recognized as an “allochronic” representation of otherness that is particularly marked in the case of Greece – the tethering-post of inescapable backwardness again. But that otherness, paradoxically, is also the most intimate part of ‘us’. ‘We’ claim descent from the Mediterranean’s ancient civilizations; ‘we’ go to Mediterranean countries to enjoy the relaxed attitudes and lifestyles that we crave for ourselves but, again, attribute to these irrepressible others, bearers of “Mediterranean vices” 7. When Merkel claims the Greeks do not work as hard as Germans, she is evoking an alleged attitude to life that Germans affect to despise, but that they also eagerly seek when vacation time beckons. With some variation, the same pattern can be seen in most north-south relations within Europe, and it has a long history (Fernandez, 1983). This account allows us to read critiques of Mediterranean corruption and the like in a new way. Charges of corruption occlude the fact that local clientilism reproduces the larger clientilism of powerful toward weaker states, and the fact that such structures are maintained within the weaker states because the stronger ones have every interest in supporting client politicians as long as the latter do not act in ways that directly embarrass their patrons. They therefore both tolerate such behavior and deride it as evidence of the need for intervention – a very convenient combination for the so-called “protector” states. Thus the accusations of corruption against previous Greek governments and against the Greek bureaucracy in general, while justifiable in terms of the prevalent definition of corrupt practices, overlook the clientilistic nature of the international arrangements that reproduce and reinforce, at the level of nation-to-nation relations, the familiar patterns of patronage we know from the ethnographic record. The point here is not to justify the persistence of such practices at any level – they perpetuate class differences internally while holding the country hostage to external interests as well – but to point out that patronage, as Campbell (1964) demonstrated so persuasively many years ago, rests on an understanding of mutual obligation. When Greeks feel that those obligations have been ignored or violated, they react with a tone of grievance that astonishes Western observers but that makes perfectly good sense in the context of traditional values.

7

This was the title of a critically oriented symposium, in which the author participated, and which was held at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign on 2 December 2010.

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Many Greeks, it is clear, read international events through the prism of those values, whether as an excuse for their own attitudes or simply because they have become accustomed to thinking in that way over the entire history of their country. For Germany to castigate Greece for its allegedly dishonest and laggardly management of its economy thus strikes many Greeks as a violation of a tacit agreement between the two countries, a violation that seems all the more egregious in that there is a widespread feeling among Greeks that Germany owes their country significant compensation for the damage wrought during the German Occupation during World War II. Ironically, it is now the extreme right, and especially Golden Dawn, that gains most from the continuing perception of German policy as Western bullying designed to squeeze the maximum profit out of a hapless victim. Given what I have already said about the advantage the German critics of Greece can draw from the ascendance of Golden Dawn, the relationship between the two countries is now set on an extremely dangerous path, one that will do nothing to dispel the already pervasive appearance of factuality that adheres to stereotypes of Mediterranean character. We can understand this dynamic more easily in terms of another area in which Greek relations with its Western patrons have been marked by tension. Greek insistence on the rights to names like feta cheese evoked reactions ranging from derision to fury from other Western countries that were trying to produce and export their own versions. But the Greek reaction, while primarily dictated by the desire to secure a rare commercial monopoly, also partly follows the logic of the gifts of produce to merchants, bureaucrats, and politicians, a pattern also described by Campbell (1964, p.240) for the Sarakatsani, and the expectations that, even though (or, rather, because) patronage is by definition an unequal partnership, the stronger party has a moral obligation to reciprocate with interest: noblesse oblige. There, as even more dramatically in the onoranza – a gift of farm produce made to honor the lord of the manor and secure his benevolent protection – of pre-modern northern Italy (Holmes, 1989, p.98), we see that reciprocity does not guarantee or produce equality. To the contrary, as the expression of a patron-client relationship it generates a false equality that disguises severe imbalances of power; just as Mauss (1925) recognized the importance of not specifying the debts involved in reciprocal relationships, so here the persistent inequality between the partners must not be rendered explicit. But such structures do require the stronger party to act with grace and generosity. When that does not happen, lasting bitterness is the result. That bitterness clearly inflects current Greek attitudes to Germany, which is seen as a powerful country that has declined to honor moral obligations that, in the popular view, trump the technical obligations of international law, just as the prestige of many well-placed politicians in Greece rested on their ability to act with a generosity that sufficiently compensated their clients for the sometimes acute dependence that their patronage created. This did not mean that ordinary people liked or admired those who wielded power over them, although they might treat such public figures with unctuous politeness, but it did permit the persistence of deep

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inequalities in a society in which emergent class structures were masked by assertions of a common culture, shared by patrons and clients, as well as by a real fear of the consequences of defying a deeply entrenched system. 8 Although it has become habitual to describe the persistence of such clientilistic relations as a survival of Ottoman rule, the reality is more complicated. Politicians of pro-Western bent have been given material as well as moral support by Western governments for much of Greece’s modern history. While the collapse of the military junta in 1974 brought with it the realization that in Greece, as in Spain and Portugal, supporting only right-wing politicians would ultimately produce only hostility toward the Western powers, the European Union provided a means of limiting the ability of more left-leaning politicians such as Andreas Papandreou to realign the country with the West’s traditional and new enemies in the communist and Islamic worlds. And now the accusations of Greek failure to live up to obligations contracted at the time of entry restore the inequality among nominally equal partners, recalling the symbolism and discourse of patronage in Greece itself. The isolation of Greece as a place of lazy, corrupt, and feckless reprobates illustrates how negative stereotypes can be unequally applied and used to maintain an inequality already in place. This is exactly parallel with accusations of passivity and fatalism such as used to characterize the old colonial regimes’ view of their so-called ‘civilizing mission’, which entailed the denial of agency to those they had attacked and conquered – an ‘explanation’ of their success, as it were, and a moral defense of its perpetuation. As in my earlier discussion of efthinofovia (Herzfeld, 1992), I certainly do not intend to imply that all accusations of Greek political irresponsibility are untrue. That, bluntly speaking, would be nonsense. Nor do I take the view, popular in some Greek circles, that if others are corrupt, that is a sufficient justification for the Greeks to follow suit. Rather, without pronouncing moral judgment, I contend that what is called corruption in the discourse of international politics appears in Greece in part – but only in part – because corrupt practices are also the interior face of encompassing European institutions. In other words, these practices constitute the concealed part of a complex reality. What is that reality? If we accept the possibility that in caricaturing Greece as a cesspool of corruption Western Europeans are actually acknowledging the otherness they see within themselves as a collective entity, we can also understand that 8

Perhaps the most extreme case is that of the one-time Minister of Justice and Minister of the Interior, the late Ioannis Kefaloyiannis, who, although a stentorian foe of animal-rustling in the national parliament, was convicted of bribing witnesses in a marijuana-growing case in his native Crete. The extraordinary feature of this event was that it had not happened much sooner. Many years earlier one of my village informants had mocked him for sitting down with sheep-rustlers to strike such deals, which nevertheless appear to have been far from uncommon. Shepherds thus viewed such arrangements as morally suspect and socially absurd, but put up with them because in the short terms they offered clear protection from the legal consequences of what at the time were locally normative but nationally illegal practices (Kathimerini, 2008).

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situation as the reciprocal aspect of the rhetoric that conventionally attributes all such alleged moral weaknesses to ‘four hundred years of Turkish rule.’ 9 If today some European Union leaders oppose Turkish accession on the grounds that an Islamic country can never be truly European, this suggests that Greece – at once the cultural ancestor and fallen child – represents for European observers that part of their own political culture that they cannot bring themselves to acknowledge. For it is clear that corruption is not solely a Greek phenomenon – or, for that matter, a Spanish, Portuguese, or Italian one. This conundrum is nevertheless a consequence of a very parochial view of ‘Europe’, which has always been more of an idea than a place (Chabod, 1959; Pagden, 2002). Given some leading figures’ frankly insulting insistence that Europe is by definition ‘Christian’, and given also that Greeks, Romanians, and others all oscillate between seeing ‘Europe’ as an entity that includes them and as a cultural goal ultimately beyond their reach because of the supposed taint of their ‘Turkish’ past, 10 it is perhaps unsurprising that it is in the Mediterranean reaches of Europe that we see both a new ascendancy of the political far right on the one hand, and an especially strong tendency to deride German politicians as ‘Nazis’ on the other. The future shape of political developments in the southern segment of the European Union is largely unclear, and likely to remain so for a long time. What we can already perceive with painful clarity, however, is the extent to which the selfreproducing stereotype of a Mediterranean Europe incapable of self-management or of shedding deeply sedimented practices of corruption governs geo-political decisions that in turn radically affect the lives of ordinary people. As an anthropologist, I am epistemologically fascinated and ethically appalled by the way this drama has played out. I believe – and such is my goal in this paper – that a trenchant critique of the stereotype and of what we might call its reproductive cycle is warranted on both fronts. From a scholarly perspective, such an effort will push back even further than earlier attempts to escape the circular effects of ‘Mediterraneanism’ on our understanding of the region (Herzfeld, 1984; de Pina Cabral, 1987). From an ethical standpoint, it will provide a platform – one on which anthropology should gain its long-overdue foothold – from which to expose the self-serving viciousness with which a seemingly pleasant, innocent, and amusing image of the classic so-called ‘Mediterranean vices’ – fecklessness, venality, and unreliability – has been pressed into the service of a thinly 9

10

That number is a symbolic figure; the actual length of Ottoman occupation of land now constituting the Greek state was quite variable. In Italy, the same tendency takes the form of claiming that “Africa” begins just south of any native Italian spaker’s home city or rsegion. In Italy, too, there are outbursts of agonizing over whether the country is truly European even though this does not so much entail the regretful invocation of a Turkish past as a racialized geography that equates southernness with backwardness and “Africa”—a perspective that, in addition to its obviously racist and exoticist aspects, also ignores the enormous variety of cultural traditions in the area (for a critical response to such prejudices, see especially the essays in Petrusowicz, Schneider and Schneider, 2009).

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disguised policy of global domination, and especially to secure the support of wavering electorates whose sympathy for any form of welfarism is unquestionably a key target of neoliberal machinations at home and in the larger geopolitical spheres of Europe and the world.

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Connectivities

STEFAN ALTEKAMP

Crossing the Sea – The Translation of Relics to and from North Africa Introduction The veneration of martyrs and saints was of paramount importance to early North African Christianity. The North African church boasted a large number of African martyrs – in part due to long and violent inter-Christian rivalries. In addition to local protagonists, saints of universal renown were increasingly and widely honoured. The veneration of martyrs and saints found expression in the cult of their relics and therefore took on a notably topographical character. Reverence for martyrs and saints of almost ubiquitous provenance created the need to move and to distribute relics over a more and more capillary plentitude to an increasing number of far-flung cult places. 1 North Africa played a vital role in this process. 2 This essay is concerned with the translation of (Christian) saints’ relics across the borders of North Africa, coming into the region or leaving it. This phenomenon is by no means limited to the period in which Christianity dominated North th Africa – from late antiquity until the Muslim conquest in the late 7 century CE – , but rather it has continued, albeit under changing circumstances, up to the th 20 century CE. ‘Relics’ are not confined to bodily remains. According to Roman law, the peaceful rest of the mortal and buried human remains was protected. Under Roman law burial places were inviolable – a prescription which remained in force in th North Africa until the 7 century CE, when the area left the realm of Roman legislation (Herrmann-Mascard, 1975, pp.26-41; Duval, 1982, pp.549-550; 2006, pp.49-50; Conant, 2010, pp.41-45). The primordial Christian relic is doubtlessly represented by the bodily remains proper; initially, however, their translatio could not be an issue. A second, much more readily available category of relics consisted of objects which had been closely connected with the saint during his or her life-

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General introductions to the Christian cult of relics: Angenendt, 1995; 1998; 1999; Heinzelmann, 1997; Köpf, 2004. Generally on the cult of relics in late antique North Africa and literary, epigraphical or archaeological testimonies: Duval, 1973, pp.331-335: archaeology; Herrmann-Mascard, 1975, pp.20, pp.77-79; Saxer, 1979; 1980; 1984; Duval, 1982, pp.543-580; 1983; 2006, pp.48-51; Bejaoui, 2006.

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time. Finally, yet another category was created, namely objects or liquids that had been in physical contact with the burial or an alternative category of relic. 3 The Maghreb has been conceived as an island, as Jazirat al-Maghrib (“Island of the West”), surrounded by seas of water or sand. 4 The phenomena observed here did not take place either in relation with the West (where there is nothing but water) or with the South (where the Christian world faded out in the Sahara), but they linked the region to the East and to the North. North Africa interacted with the East and the North by sea. The sea shore formed its natural northern border, and to the East the inhospitable desert between Tripolitania and Cyrenaica discouraged communication over land.

North Africa Interconnected The early Christian period – late antiquity – presents a straightforward evolutionary picture. The veneration of martyrs, which initially was deeply rooted in local traditions and kept alive in the worship of local communities, was superseded by a new regard for martyrs of importance for all of Christianity or at least for North African Christians. This phenomenon coincides with the institutional and theological history of the church, which became more homogeneous, more universal and more mono-hierarchical. North Africa was a centre of gravity of early Christianity. This is reflected by the massive influx of relics into North Africa from different areas of origin. Therefore, the region could be seen as a kind of microcosm of the universal th church. New developments were swiftly adapted. Already in the early 5 century CE the area was actively involved in the insipient dissemination of relics related to the life of Christ (parts of the cross) and to the world of the New Testament. The cult of the apostles Peter and Paul is well attested, as is the veneration of the protomartyr Stephanus. 5 Likewise, the region responded readily to the growing popularity of a group of saints from the West as well as from the East. 6 3

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Tripartite scheme proposed by Herrmann-Mascard, 1975, pp.42, pp.67-70: a) reliques réelles corporelles – b) reliques réelles non corporelles – c) reliques représentatives appellées parfois de contact – Heinzelmann, 1979, pp.22-23; cf. Angenendt, 1997, pp.156-157; this classification seems more appropriate than the common distinction between “first” and “second degree” relics, as only a two-step extension of a core concept of ‘relic’ (thus resulting in three categories, including the far-reaching criteria of ‘contact’) could guarantee sufficient availability: Initially, of moveable relics without harming burials; later, of ever-increasing quantities of bodily relics for distribution to newly Christianized territories, which far exceeded the number of genuine saint burials (or even parts of it) – see below. Elevated to a diachronically effective historical category by Shaw, 2003. Relics of Christ: Duval, 1982, pp.615-616; worship of Stephanus: Duval, 1982, pp.624-632; Meyers, 2006; worship of Peter and Paul: Février, 1966; Duval, 1982, pp.633-645; Bejaoui, 2006, pp.27-31. Worship of Western saints: Duval, 1982, pp.645-657; worship of Eastern saints: Duval, 1982, pp.657-670.

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The situation appears more complicated in terms of microchronology and with regard to political divisions and theological schisms, which could have influenced th th the selection and distribution of relics. In the 4 and 5 century CE the area is shaken by violent struggles, caused by rivalling Christian churches. The Catholic claim to orthodoxy was challenged by Donatism and Arianism – both condemned as heretical by the ultimately prevailing dogma. Donatism was an exclusively North African movement, causing a duplication of church institutions and parallel church buildings for nearly a century (Frend, 1952; Pietri, 1996; Evers, 2011). Arianism spread among some Germanic groups during the Migration Period. Also the Vandals, temporary masters of large parts of North Africa, confessed to the Arian faith. 7 The political and ecclesiastical segregation of North Africa under Vandal rule seems to have had an impact on distribution patterns of relics, too. The Roman saints Laurentius and Hippolytus are best attested in th North Africa during the mid-5 century CE and on the Western fringes of the Vandal kingdom. It has been suggested that this affection for Italian saints expressed anti-Arian loyalty to Catholicism and to the Pope in Rome (Février, 1966, pp.16-18; Duval, 1982, p.649). The submission of North Africa to Byzantine rule in 533/34 triggered various integrative forces. On the one hand, the cult of the apostles Peter and Paul seems to indicate a renewed orientation of North African Christian institutions towards Rome-centred Catholicism; on the other hand, the cult of Eastern saints both as an instrument and an effect of Byzantine administration made itself strongly felt. Both developments were substantiated by the translation of relics. 8

The Mediterranean World Breaks Up So far we have seen saints migrate into the Maghreb, but the scenario has to be supplemented by movements in the opposite direction. The following considerations will not, however, deal with those frequent instances of dissemination of cults (and relics) relating to African saints in general. 9 Instead, they will concentrate on instances of evacuation and transplantation which eradicated the saints’ presence on Maghrebian soil. In about 725 CE Beda Venerabilis reported in his chronicles that the Longobard king Liutprand had transferred the mortal remains of bishop Augustine of Hippo from the island of Sardinia to Ticinum (= Pavia). His action was motivated by “Saracene” (Arab) incursions into Italian insular or coastal land and the imminent danger that the burial place of the Father of the Church could be dishonoured or lost. But why was Augustine, who died at Hippo (present-day An7

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Arianism in North Africa is confined to the approximately centennial phenomenon of the Vandal kingdom and therefore shows a blend of religion and politics – Modéran, 2001; Howe, 2007. See above. The subject is discussed extensively by Conant, 2010.

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naba in Algeria) in 430 CE, was laid to rest on Sardinia? Beda himself may have felt the need to include a short explanatory note, as he remarks that in earlier times (olim) the remains of Augustine had been evacuated from his town to Sardinia because of a “Barbarian” attack (propter vastationem barbarorum) (Bedae chronica, 1898, p.321; Hallenbeck, 2000, p.2, p.12; Stone, 2002, pp.32-35; Bozóky, 2006, p.128, p.130; Conant, 2012, pp.110-111 with notes 193-194). In addition, the recent incident of the translation of Augustine’s earthly remains to Pavia (nuper) and the previous transfer from his hometown to Sardinia (propter barbaros) is part of a text that is included in the martyrology attributed to Beda (Quentin, 1908, p.109). Beda’s narration is essentially echoed in a passage in th Paulus Diaconus’ Historia Langobardorum (late 8 century CE) (Schwarz, ed., 2009, p.333 [6,48]). How far back would the previous, the first translatio lead? – An isolated and much later source, Jordan of Quedlinburg (Liber Vitasfratrum, ca. 1357), provides a precise account and a precise date: 62 years after Augustine’s death (i.e. 492 CE) a group of 220 African bishops were said to have gone into exile because of Vandal persecution. These bishops, then, were Catholics, fleeing Arian-Vandal hostility. Jordan goes on to say that the group of bishops took Augustine’s bones with them after his grave had been profaned by the Vandals. 10 Scholarship is divided on the interpretation of this text, as there is no corroborating evidence from th earlier authors that Augustine went into exile in the 5 century CE. In addition, it seems reasonable to assume that for readers of Beda the allusion to “Barbarian” action in North Africa would intuitively refer to the Muslim conquest – an event closer in time and with repercussions that were still keenly felt (Rowland, 1999, pp.189-191; Hallenbeck, 2000, pp.156-158; McCormick, 2001, p.297 with note 41, p.865 no.100; Conant, 2010, p.9 with note 26, p.53 with note 179). In this case, the bishop of Hippo would have arrived in Sardinia with a wave of Christian refugees fleeing North Africa very shortly after the fall of Carthage in 698 CE. In a certain way, the discussion about a Vandal or early Muslim date for the reported translatio of St. Augustine’s bones – i.e. the rift between North Africa and Southern Europe – recalls Henri Pirenne’s interest in the date of the end of Mediterranean unity, which he firmly believed was brought about by Muslim expansion and not in the Age of Migration (Pirenne, 1937, pp.127-153). Preference for the Vandals would not be altogether arbitrary, as their political and religious rivalry with central Roman power – at Rome or at Constantinople – left a noisy, basically pro-Roman und anti-Vandal historiographic record, most promith nently represented by Victor of Vita (late 5 century CE). The narrative handed down by Jordan of Quedlinburg fits into this literary tradition, as it connects an individual tragic episode (the translatio of Augustine’s bones) to a well-known 10

Arbesmann and Hümpfner, 1943, p.62; Hallenbeck, 2000, p.2. – cf. Stone, 2002, pp.32-33: translation carried out by bishop Fulgentius of Ruspe, a pupil of Augustinus, who went into Sarth dinian exile in the early 6 century CE.

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tragic period in the history of the Catholic church caused by a notorious rascal among peoples. The alleged rescue of a most valuable possession certainly incorporates memory from late antiquity, pointing to a notion of separation between Italy and North Africa. This notion could have been updated and perpetuated by the experience of Muslim expansion. Pro-Roman historiography had succeeded in establishing a lasting and harsh verdict on the circumstances and impact of Vandal rule in North Africa. Accordingly, an exaggerated impression of an antagonistic split between Vandal North Africa and Italy and other parts of the Roman Empire took root. This vision th seems to be corroborated by the contemporary literary matrix of a 10 century CE vita of Saint Restituta, homonymous with a Restituta to whom tradition attributed martyrdom at Carthage in North Africa. The sparse source material which survived from late antiquity ascribes her death in 304 CE to the persecution under Diocletian. Restituta is mentioned as one of the famous fifty “Martyrs of Abitina”, but there is no account of cultic activity surrounding her person in North Africa itself (Franchi de’Cavalieri, 1935, p.51, p.55; Duval, 1982, pp.684th 685; Maier, 1987, p.63, p.69; Dalvit, 2009, p.23, p.26). The 10 century vita, written by Petrus Subdiaconus from Naples, recounts the dramatic events that lead to the translation to Italy of Restituta, who suffered torture in North Africa roughly at the same time as the martyr mentioned in the ancient documents. This Christian woman is said to have been left in a small boat filled with inflammable materials. The boat should have been destroyed while floating on the sea and the future saint killed. But Restituta was saved from fire by divine support, though she nevertheless died from exhaustion. The boat with her unharmed corpse eventually arrived at the island of Ischia (D’Angelo, ed., 2002, pp.186199; Conant, 2010, p.11 with note 34; 2012, p.111 with note 196). Accounts of saints fleeing or relics being evacuated from North Africa to Italy by boat constitute a recurrent narrative element in Campanian hagiographic literth th ature from the 9 and 10 century (Vuolo, 1999). This topical feature – miraculous rescue during or by a maritime crossing – seems again to be modelled after th Victor of Vita’s Historia Persecutionis Africanae (late 5 century CE) (Vuolo, 1999, pp.62-63). According to Victor, Vandal king Geiseric (reigned 428–477) forced Catholics, including, for example, bishop Quodvultdeus of Carthage, into exile on small boats which were then abandoned to the sea (Vössing, ed., 2010, chapters 1,15. 1,23). Thus medieval hagiography apparently merged heterogeneous ancient records into a standard narrative of older, pre-Muslim persecution of Christians in North Africa, epitomized by the Vandal-Roman or Arian-Catholic rivalry. The dividing sea as a source of threat as well as a potential medium of redemption may have appeared particularly convincing at the time of frequent “incursioni saracene”, when Petrus Suddiaconus’ vita of Saint Restituta was written (Vuolo, 1999, p.63).

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North and South Apart The next incident to be addressed here is close in time to Augustine’s journey to th Pavia. By then (8 century CE) the treatment of relics had changed considerably. Leaving the ancient tradition behind, the bodies of martyrs and saints were now themselves moved extensively (Herrmann-Mascard, 1975, pp.49-57; Angenendt, 1997, pp.125-127; Hallenbeck, 2000, p.1). The dismemberment and fragmentation of bodies and the distribution of body parts became common practice (Herrmann-Mascard, 1975, pp.62-67; Heinzelmann, 1979, pp.19-22; Angenendt, 1997, pp.152-155). Behind this change of customs of translatio in the individual sense stood a far reaching translatio of general scope. Newly Christianized territories were emerging in Northern Europe. New centres of settlement, new monasteries and other places of worship created a great demand not only for church buildings, but also for authentic material testimonies from the church’s early history. In fact, it was mandatory to include relics in all altars being consecrated. These relics could hardly be found in regions which had not been touched by Christianity in antiquity, i.e. in times of persecution. Accordingly, the search for relics in the Carolingian period was intense. Supply, however, remained limited. (Re)discovery of forgotten burials (inventiones), theft (furta sacra) and the recovery of holy burials from lands now governed by infidels were the major options for obtaining relics. 11 Congruously, the extended concept of relic, i.e. the broad category of contact relics (“reliques representatives”), continued to be widely accepted. Carolingian interest in relations with the Muslim world is well attested. While the exchange of gifts and messages between the courts of Charlemagne and the Abbasid caliph Harun al-Rashid stands out for its extravagance and two-sided exoticism, it seems to overshadow the more pragmatic diplomacy along and across the Western Mediterranean – between the Carolingian empire and its neighbours in al-Andalus and the Maghreb. th In the early 9 century CE Charlemagne succeeded in transferring the relics of highly venerated Christian saints from North Africa to Europe. Two nearly contemporary sources, Florus of Lyon and Ado of Vienne, report the translatio of the rd bones of saint Cyprian, bishop of Carthage in the 3 century CE, of the Scillitani martyrs (including saint Speratus) and of the head of Saint Pantaleon, all buried at Carthage. This group of relics was said to have come to an interim resting place in the cathedral church of Saint John the Baptist at Lyon (Flori Lugdunensis carmina, 1884, pp.544-546; Ex Adonis archiepiscopi Viennensis chronico, 1829, p.320; Sancti Adonis martyrologium, 1852, col.355-356 – cf. Sigeberti Gemblacensis monachi chronica, 1844, p.336). A slight doubt remains about the strict reliability of the sources, as the texts partly meld the information on the translationes of the saints with the spectacular 11

On the extent and impact of translationes in Carolingian times: Herrmann-Mascard, 1975, p.19, pp.57-70; Geary, 1990, p.18, p.37; Vocino, 2008; list: Fros, 1986.

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embassy of the emissary Isaak, who safely conveyed Harun’s gifts to Charlemagne, including the famous elephant, overland via the Maghreb, from where the party was taken by a small fleet to Italy. The core information about the relic transfer, however, divested of the return of Isaak’s embassy, is generally believed to be accurate (Duchesne, 1892, p.84 note 12; Audollent, 1901, pp.795-796; Quentin, 1908, pp.507-514; Courtois, 1945; Borgolte, 1976, pp.128-131; Duval, 1982, p.665; Fros, 1986, p.429; McCormick, 2001, pp.890-891; Conant, 2010, pp.2-3 with notes 6-7, pp.16-17, p.21, p.23; 2012, p.111 with note 195). While Charlemagne’s biographer praised the emperor’s privileged relations to the Abbasid court (Einhardi Vita Karoli Magni, 1911, pp.19-20, pp.31-32: Chapters 16. 27), the Carolingian ruler nevertheless found himself in a position of defence and Mediterranean Christianity reduced in relation to its diffusion in late antiquity. The precise condition of North African Christian communities in the first centuries after the Muslim conquest is no easier to assess than the remaining relevance of Latin as a language still spoken in the region. 12 An over-confident view of Christian perseverance in the area (e.g. Conant, 2010, pp.3-4, pp.35-36, pp.45-46; 2012, pp.362-370), however, is difficult to reconcile with the rapid decline of active dioceses and with the total absence of Latin (or the language of the Roman administration) as a linguistic means of communication recognized by the Arab elites. This evidence differs distinctively from the situation both in the East (Egypt, Syria) and in the West (Andalusia). The evacuation of bones could be appraised as an act of pious prudence, but the translation took the form of a retreat – albeit negotiated and well organized, quite unlike the bold thefts of relics from Eastern regions, e.g. the transfer of the remains of Saint Mark from Alexandria to Venice in 828 CE. 13 Despite multiple contacts, the demarcation line between Northern and Southern Mediterranean shores was apparent for many centuries; at the same time the balance of power was volatile. The crusades resulted in a significant influx of Europeans into the Levant. In 1270, one of the last crusades was led by the French king Louis IX and – for no really conclusive reason – directed towards Tunis. Here the king and many of his followers died from an epidemic, creating a different but nonetheless very urgent need to evacuate at least one other Christian body from Muslim territory. To avoid problems of decomposition, the king’s body parts were boiled to separate the flesh from the bones. The imminent canonisation of the king amplified the interest of different parties of the royal household in all parts of the royal body. Eventually the components of Louis’ skeleton found their way to Paris, whereas the entrails were taken by his brother Charles of Anjou to Monreale in Sicily. Most of the bones were lost during the French Revolution, the entrails will

12 13

Cuoq (1984, pp.123-172) collects the written sources on post-Byzantine Christianity. Herrmann-Mascard (1975, pp.368-369) starts her review of “récupérations des reliques restées en Orient” with this translation. The North African case is not taken into consideration.

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continue to issue in this account (Le Goff, 1996, pp.305-310, p.856; Reitz, 2005, pp.216-217).

Colonizing the South 560 years after the death of Louis IX, the conquest of Algiers in 1830 marked the beginning of European colonization in North Africa, which only came to an end in 1962. European domination, be it through annexation or the establishment of a protectorate, was partly legitimized by claiming historical rights. According to this pretext, Proto-Europeans, i.e. Romans or Latins, had once – in the time of the Roman Empire – governed and administered the area to its greatest benefit. Studying the ancient remains in North Africa could illustrate the region’s onetime affluence and – from time to time – even teach the new Romans how to proceed with their renewed empire-building efforts. Restoring the status of Christianized countries was a particular aspect of colonialist practice. The Christian population consisted almost exclusively of immigrants of European origin, as hardly any conversion from Islam to Christianity had taken place. The testimonies of ancient Christianity were welcomed with special emphasis. The old cult practices were much the same as the modern ones, and the exterior of a late antique Christian basilica was easily recognizable as a church. In some instances the excavated ruins of ancient churches were used again for religious services in a triumphalist manner, in other cases architectural or decorative elements salvaged from church ruins were incorporated in new church buildings (most notably columns and mosaics). Church excavations revealed numerous examples of undisturbed late antique depositions of relics as well as physical installations for reliquaries and inscriptions including the words memoriae or reliquiae. The re-use of archaeologically retrieved ancient relics in new churches, however, did not seem to have been a practice sought after. In one instance, the relics of a certain Geronimo, who as a convertite – thus an example of a specifically didactic morality – was executed at Algiers in 1569, were systematically retrieved. In 1854 they were solemnly transferred to the interim cathedral of Algiers (Pons, 1930, pp.87-89). A vast number of new churches was erected, each one requiring the deposition of relics at the altar. These could be provided without major problems, as many categories of relics fulfilled the requirement. Relics of contact, for example, could be multiplied to meet any demand. But for churches that were symbolically and architecturally significant, prominent bodily relics were desirable. At the same time the vision of revision, of a re-establishment of Latin and Christian cult and culture could be underlined. Under the auspices of a renewed Christian North Africa even ancient saints in exile could now return. Already in 1842 (or 1844) the right forearm (the cubitus) of St. Augustine was handed over from Pavia to the community of Hippo Regius, the Episcopal see of Augustine, which at that time was named Bône and is now Annaba (Redon,

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1901, pp.65-68; Pons, 1930, p.38, p.193). Half a century later (1881–1890) a new basilica of St. Augustine was erected (Pons, 1930, pp.187-188, pp.190-191, p.193), which of course received the revered relic. In 1881 Tunisia became a French protectorate. Three years later Carthage was elevated to an archbishopric and its archbishop installed as head of the Catholic Church of Africa. A cathedral was erected between 1884 and 1890. It was only to be expected that the first archbishop, Cardinal Charles Lavigerie, would ensure an appropriate endowment of this prestigious new see with significant relics. But outstanding relics of late antique martyrs, for which early Christian Carthage had a high reputation, were out of reach. Instead, king Louis IX was returned to the place of his death. Those of his bodily relics which had been kept at Monreale th since the 14 century CE had been taken to Vienna by the last king of Naples. After the political changes in the Maghreb he could think of no better destination than their deposition in the new cathedral of the new archbishopric of Carthage. Louis was the principal patron of the new cathedral – Saint-Louis de Carthage. Money for the building was specifically asked for from descendants of those knights who had participated in the crusade against Tunis. A very elaborate reliquary was donated, displaying a miniature model of the Sainte-Chapelle at Paris, the home of the bones of Louis after the crusade (Pons, 1930, pp.254-256; Carthage autrefois – Carthage aujourd’hui, 1952, p.27, pp.31-33). Altogether, the medieval king was far from being a second-rate substitute for an ancient Carthaginian martyr. French control over Tunisia had been heavily contested by Italy, whose claim to sovereignty was based on the large number of people of Italian origin. The French authorities reacted by encouraging French immigration and diminishing Italian influence in the country. Systematically, Italian clerics were replaced by French, the French government obtained the right to approve any archbishop of Carthage nominated by the Pope. Thus, in fact, only French clerics occupied the see from 1884 to its suppression in 1964 (O’Donnell, 1979; Renault, 1994; Soumille, 1994). The nationalisation of the Catholic Church in Tunisia points to breaks in the seemingly solid claim of Latin supremacy over the Maghreb, as it reveals its nationalist variations and the fiercely rivalling aspirations of an alternatively French or Italian Mediterranean sphere of dominion. Saint Louis was an ideal patron for the French claims. The entrails of Saint Louis were deposited in the above-mentioned new reliquary above the high altar of the cathedral (Vellard, 1896, pp.29-30; Carthage autrefois – Carthage aujourd’hui, 1952, p.32), and a royal hair cloth was kept in the chapel of Saint Louis (a modest building preceding the cathedral) (Sladen, 1906, p.72). Moreover, a piece of Saint Augustine’s tunic is said to have been kept in the chapel of Saint Augustine within the cathedral – donated by archbishop Barchialla of Cagliari (Carthage autrefois – Carthage aujourd’hui, 1952, p.42). According to Père Delattre from the White Fathers, who were in charge of th nearly all of Carthage in the late 19 century, relics of Louis IX, Augustine, Restituta and even Cyprian were kept in the cathedral (Delattre, 1902, p.23; 1906, p.22). The case of Cyprian is difficult to verify, but Delattre should be regarded

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as a reliable source. He gives this piece of information in two editions of a popular guide book, which was meant to be read by many and which should not have contained false information of this kind). Lavigerie himself died in 1892. During his lifetime he had already provided for his crypt and monument inside Carthage cathedral (Vellard, 1896, pp.33-35; Sladen, 1906, pp.74-76; Carthage autrefois – Carthage aujourd’hui, 1952, pp.4246; O’Donnell, 1979, pp.194-195). Lavigerie was not raised to sainthood, but was regarded as father of the new colonial church and somewhat unofficially joined the official patrons of the cathedral. Like Lavigerie Père Delattre too was buried ad sanctos inside the cathedral after his decease in 1932 (Delattre and Lapeyre, 1932, p.X).

Decolonizing the South In 1956, Tunisia gained independence. In July 1964, two days after signing a Modus Vivendi between the Tunisian Republic and the Catholic Church, the coffin of Cardinal Lavigerie was moved out of the country to the headquarters of the White Fathers at Rome; his mausoleum was dismantled and re-erected in France (O’Donnell, 1979, p.200; Kazdaghli, 2006, p.11; Gutron, 2010, p.180). Also for king Louis it was time to bid farewell to Carthage a second time. His entrails were transferred to the Sainte-Chapelle at Paris (Gutron, 2010, p.180). His statue and the fine reliquary remained in the country, though they were relocated to the museum garden and to Tunis cathedral, respectively. The extradition of both king and cardinal satisfied the need for symbolic retaliation. Thus, the tunic of Saint Augustine might have fallen into oblivion without being forced into new exile. The same can be assumed for the supposed relics of Cyprian and Restituta. Augustine’s forearm at Annaba remained unharmed after the independence of Algeria in 1962. After all – Augustine is an Algerian. 14

Changing Direction An unsuccessful attempt to replace the dethroned saints of the colonial enterprise with a genuinely national Tunisian hero may serve as a concluding episode. In 1968, President Habib Bourguiba paid a private visit to Turkey, during which he went to see the putative tomb of Hannibal. After the Second Punic War, the Carthaginian commander had fled into exile in the Hellenistic East and died from 14

Caption on an undated (but recent) Algerian tourist brochure: Saint Augustine, the Algerian, n.d.; the brochure recommends the “relic of Saint Augustine (right cubitus)” as an attraction in the modern basilica of Augustine at Annaba; cf. Guides Bleus. Algérie, 1986, p.95; Hureau and Soreau, 2009, p.95 – Algerian conference on Augustine (“le philosophe algérien”) in 2001: Pollmann, 2003, pp.9-12.

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suicide at Libyssa in 183 BCE to avoid being handed over to Rome by his last host, king Prusias of Bithynia. Bourguiba considered Hannibal to be a founding figure of proto-Tunisian statehood. Punic Carthage not only as a forerunner, but also as the ancestor of modern Tunisia was a stable component in the state ideology of Tunisia under both Bourguiba and Ben Ali (Hazbun, 2008, pp.70-71; Erdle, 2010, pp.285-286; Gutron, 2010, pp.220-236). This official perspective is very popular in certain sections of society. 15 Back in 1968, Bourguiba was said to have been shocked by the neglected state of Hannibal’s alleged burial site. At the same time, he showed himself to be overwhelmed by the quasi personal encounter with his historical hero. For one hour he remained in silence in front of the grave. For the remainder of his visit he harassed his Turkish hosts to hand over Hannibal’s remains to him so that they could be taken ‘home’ to Tunisia. When the Turkish authorities turned down this plea, Bourguiba filled an ampulla with sand taken from Hannibal’s reputed last resting place. 16 Hannibal’s ‘repatriation’ would have symbolically crowned a reorientation turning decolonisation into tunisification. As the remoteness of his burial place was due to forced exile, and not to affiliation, Hannibal’s ‘homecoming’ after more than 2,000 years would – in a way – have established a ‘natural’ state of affairs. From this perspective, the country could have returned to itself – neither being left nor being appropriated. It is mere coincidence that the ancient region in which Hannibal died and was buried is part of present-day Turkey, a country with a concept of nationhood that was not dissimilar from and to some extent exemplary for that of Tunisia. In their search for their nations’ ancestry, Tunisia and early republican Turkey looked for anti- or at least non-Western connections – an Oriental counter-axis to the European, especially Latin, interpretation of Mediterranean togetherness.17 Seen from this angle, Hannibal’s journey across the sea from the East to North Africa would have made good sense. 15

16

17

See, e.g., Gutron (2010, pp.102-106) for the limits of appeal of this component of Tunisian state ideology. Episode reported by a former Tunisian minister, who was part of Bourguiba’s entourage during the visit to Turkey: Belkhodja, 2010, pp.24-25; see also Bessis and Belhassen, 1989, p.81; Gutron, 2010, p.224. – Hannibal’s tomb is mentioned in a Byzantine source, where it is said to have undergone renovation by order of the Roman emperor Septimius Severus (reigned 193–211 CE): Lichtenberger, 2011, pp.173-174. The location of the ancient monument, however, is no longer known: Şahin, Işin and Can, 1983, p.43. Bourguiba most certainly had been led to a place marked by cypresses, which was popularly – without archaeological justification – called Annibal Tepe, situated close to modern Gebze on the shore of the Sea of Marmara. In the 1930s, an attempt initiated by Mustafa Kemal Atatürk to give the place a monumental appearance had failed. Prior to Bourguiba’s stay minor maintenance intervention is reported: Mansel, 1968, p.527, pp.543-544, pp.549-51 fig. 15-18, 43; 1972, pp.264-268. Since 1968, the place, now more familiar as Hannibal Anıtı, has been marked by a commemorative stone showing Hannibal’s portrait and an honorary inscription. For Turkey see, e.g., Shaw, 2007. – Tlatli, 1985 praises the lasting achievement of the Carthaginian Empire in tying ‘Tunisia’ to the Orient.

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Conclusion This short survey has excluded nearly all aspects of religious devotion and political calculation which governed the actual depositions and translocations of relics. It is crucial to my approach, however, that relics were at the centre of both popular affection and official attention. Thus the surficial patterns of movement and transfer, of association and dissociation bears witness to fundamentally changing relations, of subordination and segregation. Undoubtedly, the Mediterranean reveals itself as a sphere of interaction throughout the story presented here. The sea, with its natural advantage of an extraordinary means of communication, facilitated transport, contact and successive attempts of integration. But physical proximity and resulting “connectivity” 18 did not mean automatic cultural cohesion. The sea shores as part of the physical scenario form very clear border lines which may well define social and political frontiers.

18

cf. Conant, 2010, p.45 – also p.4 (“circulation”, “networks of commerce and communication”), p.36 (“regular networks of communication and exchange”).

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Bibliography Angenendt, A., 1995. Reliquien I. Allgemeiner Begriff. Abendland. In: Lexikon des Mittelalters 7, col.702-703. – 1997. Heilige und Reliquien. Die Geschichte ihres Kultes vom frühen Christentum bis nd zur Gegenwart. 2 ed. Munich: Beck. – 1998. Reliquien/Reliquienverehrung im Christentum. In: Theologische Realenzyklopädie 29, pp.69-74. rd – 1999. Reliquien. In: Lexikon für Theologie und Kirche 8. 3 ed. col.1091-1094. Arbesmann, R. and Hümpfner, W., 1943. Jordani de Saxonia Liber vitasfratrum. New Haven: Cosmopolitan Science and Art Service. Audollent, A., 1901. Carthage romaine. 146 avant Jésus-Christ – 698 après Jésus-Christ. Paris: Fontemoing. Bedae chronica maiora ad a. 725 – eiusdem chronica minora ad a. 703, 1898. In: Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Auctores Antiquissimi 13. Chronica minora 3. Berlin: Weidmann, pp.223-333. Bejaoui, F., 2006. Le culte des saints en Afrique. État des recherches. In: Meyers, J., ed., 2006. Les miracles de saint Étienne. Recherches sur le recueil pseudo-augustinien. Turnhout: Brepols, pp.27-35. rd Belkhodja, T., 2010. Les trois décennies Bourguiba. Témoignage. 3 ed. Paris: Arcantères. Bessis, S. and Belhassen, S., 1989. Bourguiba 2. Un si long règne (1957–1989). Paris: Jeune Afrique. Borgolte, M., 1976. Der Gesandtenaustausch der Karolinger mit den Abbasiden und mit den Patriarchen von Jerusalem. Munich: Arbeo-Gesellschaft. Bozóky, E., 2006. La politique des reliques de Constantin à Saint Louis. Protection collective et légitimation du pouvoir. Paris: Beauchesne.

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Guides Bleus. Algérie, 1986. Paris: Hachette. Gutron, C., 2010. L’archéologie en Tunisie (XIXe–XXe siècles). Jeux généalogiques sur l’antiquité. Paris: Karthala. Hallenbeck, J. T., 2000. The Transferal of the Relics of St. Augustine of Hippo from Sardinia to Pavia in the Early Middle Ages. Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press. Hazbun, W., 2008. Beaches, Ruins, Resorts. The Politics of Tourism in the Arab World.

Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Heinzelmann, M., 1979. Translationsberichte und andere Quellen des Reliquienkultes. Turnhout: Brepols. – 1997. Translation. In: Lexikon des Mittelalters 8, col.947-949. Herrmann-Mascard, N., 1975. Les reliques des saints. Formation coutumière d’un droit. Paris: Klincksieck. Howe, T., 2007. Vandalen, Barbaren und Arianer bei Victor von Vita. Frankfurt a. M.: Verlag Antike. Hureau, J. and Soreau, F., 2009. L’Algérie aujourd’hui. Paris: du Jaguar. Kazdaghli, H., 2006. Rétrospective des politiques mémorielles en Tunisie à travers l’histoire des statues et des monuments (XIXe–XXe siècles). [online] Available at: [Accessed 20 November 2012].

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Köpf, U., 2004. Reliquien/Reliquienverehrung 2. Alte Kirche bis Reformation. In: Religith on in Geschichte und Gegenwart 7. 4 ed. col.418–421. Le Goff, J., 1996. Saint Louis. Paris: Gallimard. Lichtenberger, A., 2011. Severus Pius Augustus. Studien zur sakralen Repräsentation und Rezeption der Herrschaft des Septimius Severus und seiner Familie (193–211 n. Chr.). Leiden: Brill. Maier, J.-L. 1987. Le dossier du donatisme 1. Des origines à la mort de Constance II (303–361). Berlin: Akademie. Mansel, A.M., 1968. Hannibal’ın mezarı. Belleten 32, pp.527-551. – 1972. Zur Lage des Hannibalgrabes. Archäologischer Anzeiger, pp.257-275. McCormick, M., 2001. The Origins of the European Economy. Communications and Commerce A.D. 300–900. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Meyers, J., ed., 2006. Les miracles de saint Étienne. Recherches sur le recueil pseudoaugustinien. Turnhout: Brepols. Modéran, Y., 2001. Afrika und die Verfolgung durch die Wandalen. In: L. Pietri, ed., 2001. Die Geschichte des Christentum. vol.3. Der lateinische Westen und der byzantinische Osten (431–642). Freiburg: Herder, pp.264-299. O’Donnell, J.D., 1979. Lavigerie in Tunisia. The Interplay of Imperialist and Missionary. Athens, GA: University Press. Pietri, C., 1996. Das Scheitern der kaiserlichen Reichseinheit in Afrika. In: Pietri, C. and Pietri, L., ed., 1996. Die Geschichte des Christentums. vol.2, Das Entstehen der einen Christenheit (250–430). Freiburg: Herder, pp.242-270. Pirenne, H., 1937. Mahomet et Charlemagne. Paris: Alcan. Pollmann, K., 2003. St. Augustine the Algerian. Göttingen: Dührkohp & Radicke. Pons, A., 1930. La nouvelle église d’Afrique ou le catholicisme en Algérie, en Tunisie et au Maroc depuis 1830. Tunis: Namura. Quentin, H., 1908. Les martyrologes historiques du moyen âge. Étude sur la formation du martyrologe romain. Paris: V. Lecoffre. Redon, F.X., 1901. Notice sur la vie et les oeuvres de l’abbé Pougnet, architecte religieux. Avignon: Aubanel. Reitz, D., 2005. Die Kreuzzüge Ludwigs IX. von Frankreich 1248/1270. Münster: Lit. Renault, F., 1994. Cardinal Lavigerie. Churchman, prophet and missionary. London: Athlone. Rowland, R. J., Jr., 1999. The Sojourn of the Body of St. Augustine in Sardinia. In: Schnaubelt, J.C. and van Fleteren, F., eds., 1999. Augustine in Iconography. History and Legend. New York: Lang, pp.189-198. Şahin, S., Işın, M.A. and Can, M.K., 1983. Acht Meilensteine aus Libyssa. Epigraphica Anatolica 1, pp.41-58. Saint Augustin, the Algerian, n.d. Algiers: National Office of Tourism. Sancti Adonis martyrologium, 1852. In: Migne, J.P., ed., 1852. […] Sancti Adonis opera. Patrologia Latina 123. Paris: Garnier, col.201-420. Saxer, V., 1979. Saints anciens d’Afrique du Nord. Vatican City: Tipografia Poliglotta Vaticana. – 1980. Morts, martyrs, reliques en Afrique chrétienne aux premiers siècles. Les témoignages de Tertullien, Cyprien et Augustin à la lumière de l’archéologie africaine. Paris: Beauchesne. – 1984. Die Ursprünge des Märtyrerkults in Afrika. Römische Quartalschrift für Christliche Altertumskunde und Kirchengeschichte 79, pp.1-11. Schwarz, W.F., ed., 2009. Paulus Diaconus, Geschichte der Langobarden. Historia Langobardorum. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft.

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porum Geiserici et Hunerici regum Wandalorum. Kirchenkampf und Verfolgung unter den Vandalen in Afrika. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Vuolo, A., 1999. La nave dei santi. In: Vitolo, G., ed., 1999. Pellegrinaggi e itinerari dei santi nel Mezzogiorno medievale. Naples: Liguori, pp.57-66.

SEBASTIAN KOLDITZ

Some Thoughts on the Carolingians and the Mediterranean – Theories, Terminology and Realities When the distinguished Belgian historian Henri Pirenne cast his ideas about the early Middle Ages into the memorable formula, that Charlemagne “would have been inconceivable” without Muhammad, 1 he was much more concerned with Charlemagne than with Muhammad. His famous thesis focused on a question of periodization which had already turned into a very productive generator of scholarth ly debate in the early 20 century, namely the ‘end of Antiquity’ and the emergence of the European ‘Middle Ages’. 2 While the traditional view that the incursions of Germanic tribes into the Roman Empire (the so-called ‘Barbarian Migrations’) had put a tragic end to the ancient world still dominated the field, alternative explanations gained prominence. One of them focused on the Islamic expansion into the Mediterranean. Although not exclusively held by Pirenne, 3 this idea found its most elaborate expression in the latter’s concise treatise entitled Mahomet et Charlemagne which did only appear posthumously in 1937 – as his “historical testament” (Brown, 1974, p.25). But the author had worked on this theory for decades, 4 and he had managed to base it on an impressive mass of source evidence. The complex thesis goes by far beyond the often cited axiom that the Arabs had caused the breakdown of Mediterranean unity. Thus, a very brief outline might be justified.

1

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4

Pirenne (1970, p.174): “L’Empire de Charlemagne est le point d’aboutissement de la rupture, par l’Islam, de l’équilibre européen. S’il a pu se réaliser, c’est que, d’une part, la séparation de l’Orient d’avec l’Occident a limité l’autorité du pape à l’Europe occidentale; et que, d’autre part, la conquête de l’Espagne et de l’Afrique, par l’Islam, avait fait du roi des Francs, le maître de l’Occident chrétien. Il est donc rigoureusement vrai de dire que, sans Mahomet, Charlemagne est inconcevable.” Various pertinent contributions to this debate have been collected in Hübinger (1969); for a rather selective overview over some lines of the debate see Lyon (1972), who exalts the role of Pirenne. The ‘Arab caesura’ has simultaneously and independently also been proposed by Fueter (1923). th th Gutschmid (1863) had already pointed at the late 6 /early 7 century instead of the conventional date 476 for the “end of Antiquity”. These parallels have been ignored by Lyon (1972, p.57) stating that before Pirenne “no historian, classical or medieval, had challenged the humanistenlightenment-Gibbonesque explanation or doubted that the ancient world ended in the fourth or fifth century” as well as by Joris (1987, p.118). There is evidence that Pirenne had already formed some elements of his thesis around 1889, cf. Prevenier (2011, p.563), and basic ideas also occur in his studies on the origins of European towns, see Delogu (1998, pp.17-20). A first draft of the argument was published by Pirenne already in 1922: Pirenne (1922).

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The whole first book of Pirenne’s work attempts to show, that the ‘Barbarian Migrations’ did not essentially affect the stability of the Roman world in its wellestablished Mediterranean setting, neither from an economic nor political or cultural point of view. On the contrary, the ‘barbarians’ attempted to integrate themselves into the empire in order to profit from its resources: they assimilated to Latin culture, adopted the Christian faith, profited from the Roman tax system, and commercial exchange across the Mediterranean continued to flourish (Pirenne, 1970, p.100-103 [conclusion to the first book]). Things only changed dramatically when the Arabs entered the Mediterranean scene shortly after the birth of Islam. Their rapid expansion over the Eastern provinces of the Roman Empire in the 630s and 640s was certainly more impressive than the campaigns of any northern gens before, but Pirenne sought the differentia specifica on the religious level: in contrast to the Northern “barbarians” the Arabs were not willing to get assimilated to the Roman culture just because they had their own strong religious identity: “La grande question qui se pose ici est de savoir pourquoi les Arabes, qui n’étaient certainement pas plus nombreux que les Germains, n’ont pas été absorbés comme eux par les populations de ces régions de civilisation supérieure dont ils se sont emparés? [...] Il n’est qu’une réponse et elle est d’ordre moral. Tandis que les Germains n’ont rien à opposer au christianisme de l’Empire, les Arabes sont exaltés par une foi nouvelle.” (Pirenne, 1970, p.109)

Consequently, the cultural patterns in the conquered territories were no longer set by the christianized Graeco-Roman tradition but by the Arabs. Pirenne was of course well aware of the numerous administrative continuities between Byzantine and early Islamic rule in the Near East, but in his view the establishment of the Arab empire disrupted the unity of the Mediterranean World. 5 Having made this crucial point, he asks for the consequences Arab domination had on various fields. Here the most famous part of his thesis comes to the fore, namely that the Arabs made great efforts to become a major naval power within the Mediterranean and easily succeeded in gaining uncontested supremacy in the Western part of the Sea, not least by the means of piratical activities. 6 They thus divided the East from the West and consequently caused the breakdown of trans-Mediterranean 5

6

Pirenne (1970, p.111): “En se christianisant, l’Empire avait changé d’âme, si l’on peut dire; en s’islamisant, il change à la fois d’âme et de corps. La société civile est aussi transformée que la société religieuse. Avec l’Islam c’est un nouveau monde qui s’introduit sur ces rivages méditerranéens où Rome avait répandu le synchrétisme de sa civilisation. Une déchirure se fait qui durera jusqu’à nos jours. Aux bords du Mare nostrum s’étendent désormais deux civilisations différentes et hostiles. Et si de nos jours l’Européenne s’est subordonné l’Asiatique, elle ne l’a pas assimilée. La mer qui avait été jusque-là le centre de la Chrétienté en devient la frontière. L’unité méditerranéenne est brisée.” Pirenne (1970, p.111): “Il était dans l’ordre des choses, qu’un pouvoir, doué d’une force d’expansion telle que l’Islam, dût s’imposer à tout le bassin du grand lac intérieur.”; Pirenne (1970, p.119): “On peut donc dire que, dès la conquête de l’Espagne, et surtout de l’Afrique, la Méditerranée occidentale devient un lac musulman. L’Empire franc, démuni de la flotte, ne peut rien.”

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trade to Frankish Gaul, in which merchants of Eastern, mostly Syrian origin, had figured prominently according to Pirenne. 7 This is what might be called the ‘interruption thesis’. 8 But the long final part of Pirenne’s book exclusively focuses on th th the Frankish kingdom through the 7 –9 centuries. He traces Merovingian decadence back to an economic crisis caused by the breakdown of Mediterranean trade, which led to a general decline of towns, a dramatic reduction of the kings’ material resources9 and a shift of the kingdom’s center of gravitation into its exclusively agrarian North Eastern parts (Austrasia) (Pirenne, 1970, pp.141-146). This development fostered the ascendency of the Pippinid-Carolingian family as the dominant representative of Austrasia’s aristocratic elite and finally led to the replacement of the Merovingians in 751. Beyond its immediate dynastic significance the northward shift enabled the emergence of a new, “Medieval” culture, characterized by agrarian economic patterns, by a self-confident noble and ecclesiastical elite cultivating an artificial Latin culture instead of the living vulgar language of romanized Gaul, and by its complete independence from the Byzantine East (Pirenne, 1970, pp.177-214.). The bulk of scientific discussion Pirenne’s work has given rise to, 10 is devoted to one aspect, namely the “interruption thesis”. Concerning this aspect, important modifications and corrections have been proposed, which need not to be summarized again in detail. Though it is now generally admitted that transMediterranean exchange and communications diminished significantly especially th in the earlier 8 century, 11 this long term structural development cannot simply be attributed to the Arab conquests (Hodges and Whitehouse, 1983, pp.169170). The early caliphs had even tried to impose the freedom of maritime trade (Ehrenkreutz, 1972, pp.97-98), but the extension of the Islamic empire, uniting the formerly separated area of the Roman-Persian frontier and facilitating the access to Inner Asia and China, as well as the emergence of new urban hubs in the 7

8

9

10

11

Cf. also Lambrechts (1937, pp.36-51) according to whom the Syrians profited from the economth ic crisis of 5 century Gaul to gain a leading commercial position they had not yet occupied in the centuries before. The role of the Syrian traders in Merovingian Gaul has, however, completely been revised by later research, since among the Syrians unquestionably present in this region, there are only two, indeed prominent cases explicitly attested as merchants and none of them after about 610: cf. Claude (1985b, pp.65-67); McCormick (2001, p.107, pp.125-126). Cf. Pirenne (1970, pp.120-128) concluding that the merchants as a social group completely disappeared from the Frankish kingdoms, but conceding that trade via Venice and the maritime cities of Southern Italy continued to exist. In his view, however, these merchants belong to the Eastern basin of the Mediterranean dominated by Byzantine naval power. The question of Merovingian and Carolingian material resources not to be discussed here, has recently been reconsidered by Fouracre (2009). For the earlier stages of the debate see the overviews given by Verlinden (1956, pp.96-100) and Lyon (1960, pp.473-490); cf. also Verhulst (1993, pp.23-32) and Claude (1985a, pp.9-15). th th For quantitative data on various kinds of Mediterranean communications in the 8 and 9 century see McCormick (2001, pp.431-443). Claude (1985a, pp.302-307) is very cautious about general developments in the volume of Mediterranean long-distance trade. From the local observatory of the once important port of Marseille, the effects of deteriorating commercial vitality in the th th late 7 and early 8 century are clearly visible, see Loseby (2000). Nevertheless, Marseille continued to serve as an important Frankish port (Loseby, 2000, p.192).

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Near East offered new commercial opportunities away from the Mediterranean, while the port cities of the Near East suffered remarkably from continuous marith time warfare throughout the 9 century. 12 The uncontestable disappearance of some luxury goods such as spices and purple, of papyrus and of the traditional gold coins in Gaul had its own specific reasons 13 and is not representative for general economic trends while other, non-commercial forms of material exchange such as gifts and tributes should also be taken into account. 14 Communications and traffic across the Mediterranean, including pilgrimage, relic transfer and diplomatic exchange never completely ceased, but were subject to various changes in routes, maritime as well as terrestrial, during the early Medieval centuries. 15 Scholarly debate over the Pirenne thesis has mostly focused on long distance trade within the Mediterranean and only seldom left the field of economic history at all. This is certainly in accordance with Pirenne’s predominant interest in economic history, but it does not full justice to his thesis, which aimed at explaining the transition between civilisations and epochs in general. 16 Looking more closely at the spatial patterns Pirenne claimed for the initial as well as the final state of this transition it seems that he had rather fixed ideas about these configurations. He basically regarded the Ancient world as a more or less homogeneous Mediterranean oikumene under Roman rule and Carolingian society as oriented towards the “North”, identified with Christian European culture. 17 Therefore his thesis is not only about the economic consequences of certain changes in maritime communications, but primarily about civilisations and their location. While the Arabs and Byzantines remain parts of a Mediterranean environment, the Carolingians formed the very core of a new Latin Europe away from the Mediterra12

13 14

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17

Ehrenkreutz (1972, pp.101-104); Hodges and Whitehouse (1983, pp.126-149) focusing on Arab maritime trade in the Indian Ocean. For the consequences of maritime warfare between the Arth abs and Byzantines in the 9 century and the decline of the once flourishing Arabic port cities in the Mediterranean see Ashtor (1970, pp.168-172). These questions have already been reviewed in detail by Lopez (1943). Such is one main argument of Grierson (1959); for the fluid terminology of mercator and negotiator see also Claude (1985b, pp.62-63). Cf. McCormick (2001, esp. pp.123-210, 283-318, 501-569). For information on the various trade routes in the Western Mediterranean before the Carolingian age see Claude (1985a, th pp.131-166). From the second half of the 8 century to the 830s the overland routes from the Caliphate through Khazaria and the Varangian territories to the Baltic flourished remarkably, so that the Carolingian rulers could profit from these resources for their cultural achievements. Coin th hoards then show significant signs of decline in trade along these routes until the end of the 9 century, see Hodges and Whitehouse (1983, pp.123-125, 156-168). The crucial importance of economic factors for the development of Pirenne’s ideas has formidably been outlined by Delogu (1998, esp. pp.20-40) who nevertheless states that in the final version of the argument political and cultural changes leading to a new civilisation gained preeminence, Delogu (1998, pp.38-39). Cf. Pirenne (1970, p.175): “Et, conformement à la direction qu’a prise l’histoire, le centre de cet Empire est dans le Nord, là où s’est transporté le nouveau centre de gravité de l’Europe. […] L’Empire carolingien, ou plutôt l’Empire de Charlemagne, est le cadre du Moyen Age. L’état sur lequel il est basé, est extrêmement faible et croulera. Mais l’Empire subsistera comme unité supérieure de la chrétienté occidentale.”

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nean. 18 Locating Carolingian culture in this way is by far not peculiar to Pirenne, it rather reflects a common idea among historians, which is emphasized still nowadays, sometimes with explicit reference to Pirenne. 19 His characterization of the Merovingian state seems to be more controversial. It is indeed difficult to characterize this kingdom, the royal cities of which were concentrated in the region between Seine and Loire, as a somehow Mediterranean entity. 20 Instead, it has been argued that Merovingian rule enhanced the weight of Northern Gaul and thus only intensified patterns of orientation inherited from Roman times. 21 Furthermore, Northern Gaul was far from economically backward or marginal in Merovingian times. 22 The long term development can thus be seen as a transformation of the Frankish kingdom from a “marginal culture” adjacent to Roman Gaul into an extensive imperial entity comprising the very heart of the Roman world. It consisted in a series of conquests on the various frontiers accompanied by the integration of annexed territories and peoples under Merovingian as well as Carolingian rule. This model, outlined by Josef Fleckenstein, 23 concentrates on Frankish expansion instead of cultural or economic shifts, and if any shift was involved, it certainly did not lead away from the Mediterranean but into the opposite direction, since the integration of Italy marked its 18

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22

23

The very opposition between an idea of European civilization based on Mediterranean – classical as well as Christian – heritage on the one hand and the world of Islam on the other hand can be seen as a prominent constant feature in the flourishing French discourse on the Mediterranean of th th the later 19 and early 20 centuries, comprising Pirenne and still present with Braudel, cf. Wieck (2008, esp. pp.59-67). It is, however, questionable whether Pirenne really considered Islam to be “non-Mediterranean” – he seems much more interested in explaining the birth of a new European culture of non-Mediterranean orientation. Cf. Riché (1987, p.17) referring to the Arab expansion: „Zweifellos verlor das Mittelmeergebiet damit seine zentrale Bedeutung für das Abendland, doch bahnte sich im Norden bereits Ersatz dafür an [...]“; Angenendt (2001a, p.234): „Die vom belgischen Historiker Henri Pirenne [...] vertretene These, daß erst die arabische Eroberung der südlichen Mittelmeerländer die Antike zerstört und den Schwerpunkt der christlich-europäischen Geschichte in den Norden verschoben habe […], ist wirtschaftsgeschichtlich gewiß fraglich, nicht aber im Blick auf die politischen, kulturellen und religiösen Auswirkungen.“ See also Tabacco (1981, pp.17-20). Barraclough (1964, pp.10-11) has likewise accepted the core of Pirenne’s thesis as well as Winkler (2009, pp.43-44), who states that the Arabs indirectly supported the emancipation of Western Europe by keeping Byzantium occupied with permanent military struggle. From the viewpoint of the Mediterranean trade system Claude (1985a, p.29) has justly criticised the focus on the Merovingian kingdom, disproportionate to its rather small Mediterranean coastal area. This is the main argument of van Dam (1992, esp. p.332): “Roman Gaul always retained this focus on its central and northern regions, ensured at the very least by the presence of legions on the Rhine frontier” and p.333: “Ancient historians should likewise not take for granted the Mediterranean orientation of Gaul, even of southern Gaul, under the Roman empire.” Cf. Genicot (1947, p.119): “Si le Nord de la Gaule constitue depuis les Carolingiens le centre vital de l’Occident, c’est moins le fait de Mahomet que de Clovis, Dagobert, Charlemagne, Colomban et Boniface.” For indicators of prosperity in the rural economy of the Frankish heartlands th th in Merovingian times compared to poorer conditions in the 8 and 9 century see Henning (2008, pp.40-47). See Fleckenstein (1981). The missionary factors in this expansion have been highlighted by Hauck (1967).

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most spectacular success. On the other hand, various scholars have criticised the common view about the Carolingian Empire as the main root of the European Middle Ages 24 because this empire did not yet incarnate the plurality of peoples and political entities which is often seen as an essential characteristic of Europe.25 Richard Sullivan likewise felt uncomfortable with the dominant view of the Carolingian age as the “birth of Europe”. 26 In his view it was only the social transformations taking place “around 1000” which led to the characteristic patterns of “medieval” society while continuity prevailed over the often assumed caesura around 750 (Sullivan, 1989, pp.278-286). His interpretation, however, does not challenge the implicit assumption that Carolingian history essentially concerns Western Europe north of the Mediterranean. Against this backdrop of a generally admitted non-Mediterranean but very European character of the Carolingian empire 27 the actual relevance of the Mediterranean area for the Carolingians deserves more explicit attention. In what follows we can only allude to some related questions in a very sketchy manner, consciously leaving apart the most prominent topic of trans-Mediterranean economic and cultural exchange and concentrating instead on some terminological, political and religious aspects. First of all we might ask whether the Mediterranean actually formed a category of spatial thought in Carolingian times. It is well established, that the Romans used a variety of terms to designate the Mediterranean Sea: mare internum, mare magnum and mare nostrum, all of which had a Greek equivalent: ἡ ἐντὸς θάλασσα (in contrast to the Okeanos as “exterior Sea”), ἡ μεγάλη θάλασσα and ἡ παρ’ ἡμῖν / καθ’ ἡμᾶς θάλασσα, which rather implies familiarity with that sea, seemingly turned into a more possessive understanding in Latin (Burr, 1932, pp.95-134; Rougé, 1974, p.279-280; Luque Moreno, 2011, p.44, pp.265-266, 279-280). Instead, the term mare mediterraneum not yet existing in classical Lat24

25

26 27

Carolingian ‘paternity to Europe’ has of course been a popular concept in post-war Western Europe, since it gave a kind of long-term historical identity to the project of a European Community initially nearly coextensive with the Carolingian Empire, and at the same time excluded the Eastern parts of the continent, not only cut off by Cold War, but also in a prominent tradition of thinking about Europe. For a critical appraisal of these factors favouring what might be called ‘Carolingianism’ see Herbers (2007, pp.25-30) and Oschema (2006). For a critical discussion of such a view see Barraclough (1964, pp.15-16). Recently it has been readopted by Winkler (2009, p.45) stating that the Frankish empire was only a “voreuropäisches Gebilde” still lacking the “typically European” plurality of nations; similarly Riché (1987, p.142): “Ein unfertiges Europa”. Fleckenstein (1981, p.266) attributed the common features of the European nations – in spite of their continuous struggles – to a common Carolingian background. Instead, Nelson (2002, pp.12-14) has duly emphasized pluralism – regarding peoples, languages, laws and histories – as a constitutive characteristic in Charlemagne’s reign. Cf. Sullivan (1989, pp.268-270) explicitly attributing this idea to Pirenne. An important exception is Nelson (2002, p.12), who emphasizes that the “fundamental shift of centre” to the areas around Rhine and “Meuse” did “not mean that Charlemagne ceased to be closely concerned with affairs in the Mediterranean” and thus states a “bi-polar orientation towards northern and southern Europe” for his regime (Nelson, 2002, p.17) – a position I fully agree with.

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in is first found in the work of the late antique polyhistor Solinus, although in plural and thus perhaps not as an actual name. 28 Solinus only combined the word mare with a very common adjective designating places in the midst of land. This was indeed a fitting attribute for the Great Sea completely encircled by the three known continents, but the adjective usually does not refer to a maritime environment, on the contrary: as a term for inland places, mediterraneus was quite naturally used as the opposite of maritimus. This application, already common with classical authors, 29 was still very familiar to their early medieval successors as the following example shows. In his Commentary on Jacob’s blessings to his sons (Gen. 49) Saint Jerome comments on the contrast between Sebulon, who is said to settle on the Coast of the (Mediterranean) Sea and Isachar, a “donkey” working hard on fertile land: “After [Jacob] had said about Zabulon that he would possess the coasts of the Great Sea [...], he now turns to the “mediterranean” (that is: the inland) province and 30 makes Isachar possess the most beautiful region in Galilaea.”

Medieval writers had little concern about copying a famous authority, so that the same words likewise occur in the Genesis commentaries of Bede the Venerable, 31 of Alcuin, 32 Charlemagne’s most renowned court scholar, and of Angelomus of Luxeuil. 33 Bede furthermore repeatedly refers to the people of inner Anglia as Mediterranei Angli 34, and the Irish Adamnan of Iona situates the place, where Saint Columba had founded a monastery, within the medi-terranea pars Hiberni-

28

Solini collectanea rerum memorabilium (cap.18,1, pp.91-92): Quoniam in Ponticis rebus sumus, non erit omittendum, unde mediterranea maria caput tollant. existimant enim quidam sinus istos a Gaditano freto nasci, nec aliam esse originem quam eliquia inrumpentis Oceani: cuius spiritu pervadente apud aliquot mediterranea litora sicut in Italiae parte fieri accessus vel recessus. Instead, Solinus still uses the term mare nostrum or mare internum to designate the Mediterranean: e.g. cap.23,13, p.105: Sed Gaditanum fretum, a Gadibus dictum, Atlanticos aestus in nostrum mare discidio inmittit orbis; and cap.25,1, p.111: E provinciis Mauretaniis Tingitana, quae solstitiali plagae obvia est quaeque porrigitur ad internum mare. Cf. Rougé (1974, p.281, n.30). The plural form also occurs in an anonymous letter from Carolingian times when describing the Leviathan: Ad epistolas variorum supplementum (n° 11, p.639, l. 18-23): Leviathan ergo, cum Medi-

29

30

31 32 33 34

terranea maria non capiunt molis illius magnitudinem, Indico oceano luctatus, omnes angustias liber exultat et ludenti similis huc illucque vagatur.

Cf. Thesaurus linguae latinae VIII (col.573, s.v. mediterraneus); Luque Moreno (2011, pp.271272). Hieronymi Hebraicae Quaestiones in Libro Geneseos (ad Gen. 49.14/15, p.54): Quia supra de

Zabulon dixerat quod maris magni esset litora possessurus, Sidonem quoque et reliquas Phoenicis urbes contingeret, nunc ad mediterraneam prouinciam redit et Issachar, quia iuxta Neptalim pulcherrimam in Galilaea regionem possessurus est, benedictione sua habitatorem facit.

Bedae Venerabilis In Pentateuchum (col.275C). Alcuini Interrogationes et responsiones in Genesin (col.560B). Angelomi Luxoviensis Monachi Commentarius in Genesin (col.234B). Bedae Historia Ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum (I 15.2, p.164; III 21.1, p.116): His temporibus Middilengli, id est Mediterranei Angli, sub principe Peada [...];Bedae Historia Ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum (III 22.2, p.122, l. 5; III 24.4, p.140, l. 1-3): Primus autem in prouincia Merciorum,

simul et Lindisfarorum ac Mediterraneorum Anglorum, factus est episcopus Diuma.

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ae (Inner Ireland). 35 A Merovingian Council determined that the bishops should meet next time at a locum mediterraneum, meaning some place away from the coast. 36 In his geographical description of Africa (Libya) in the Etymologiae, Isidore of Sevilla first says that this continent adjoins the Mediterranean Sea (mare Mediterraneum) to the North, 37 but later calls Getulia Africae pars mediterranea 38 because this region is situated in the interior of the Continent and therefore is not located in the Mediterranean region. Isidore, whose works were copied and read extensively throughout the Middle Ages, seems to be the main link for the transmission of Solinus’ “Mare mediterraneum” into the Middle Ages: A chapter entitled “De mediterraneo mari” explains that the Mare Magnum is also called Mediterraneum “quia per medium terram usque ad Orientem perfunditur Europam et Africam Asiamque disterminans”, 39 thus refering to the threefold partition of the orbis into continents. And there is still another meaning of the term mediterraneus in the “Etymologiae”: Discussing the characteristics of languages Isidor remarks that the people of the Orient form the words in the throat, those of the Occident break them with their teeth, but omnes mediterraneae gentes primarily use the palate for articulation, namely the Greeks and the people of Asia Minor (Asiani). 40 These “mediterranean peoples” according to Isidor are those living inbetween East and West. A very similar notion can already be found in the Liber generationis, a part of the compilation known as the Chronography of 354, with respect to the partition of the world among the sons of Noah: Sem in the East, Japhet in the West and Cham in mediterraneam. 41 Finally the term mediterraneus could also mean places situated in the centre instead of the margins of a spatial 35

36

37

38

39

40

41

Adomnán’s Life of Columba (I, 3, p.24): Alio in tempore uir beatus in mediterranea Eberniae parte monasteriolum quod scotice dicitur Dairmag diuino fundans nutu [...]; cf. Adomnán’s Life of Columba (III, 9, p.194): Quidam faber ferrarius in mediterranea Scotiae habitabat parte [...]. Concilium Matisconense (a. 585). In: Concilia aevi Merovingici (p.172): Et hoc adimplere sollicitudinis sit metropolitane Lugdunensis episcopi una cum dispositione magnifici principes nostri prius definientis locum mediterraneum, ad quem omnes episcopi sine labore alacres congregentur. Isidori Hispalensis episcopi Etymologiarum sive Originum (libri XIV,5.3: De Libya): Incipit autem a finibus Aegypti pergens iuxta meridiem per Aethiopiam usque Athlantem montem. A septentrionali vero parte Mediterraneo Mari coniuncta clauditur, et in Gaditano freto finitur. Isidori Etymologiarum sive libri (XIV,5.8): Zeugis, ubi Carthago magna. Ipsa est et vera Africa inter Byzacium et Numidiam sita, a septentrione mari Siculo iuncta, et a meridie usque ad Gaetulorum regionem porrecta [...] Gaetulia autem Africae pars mediterranea est. Isidori Etymologiarum libri (XIII,16.1): De Mediterraneo mari. Mare Magnum est quod ab occasu ex Oceano fluit et in Meridiem vergit, deinde ad septentrionem tendit; quod inde magnum appellatur quia cetera maria in conparatione eius minora sunt. Iste est et Mediterraneus, quia per mediam terram usque ad orientem perfunditur, Europam et Africam Asiamque disterminans. Isidor thus seems to be the first author who calls the Mare Magnum “Mediterranean”, not only as a property, but also as a name. Isidori Etymologiarum libri (IX,1.8): Omnes autem Orientis gentes in gutture linguam et verba

conlidunt, sicut Hebraei et Syri. Omnes mediterraneae gentes in palato sermones feriunt, sicut Graeci et Asiani. Omnes Occidentis gentes verba in dentibus frangunt sicut Itali et Hispani. Chronographus anni CCCLIII (p.112, § 230): Filiorum igitur trium Noe tripartitum saeculum divisum et quidem Sem primogenitus accepit orientem. Cham autem mediterraneam, Iafet occidentem. Cf. also Fredegar (I 11, p.26, l. 1).

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entity, 42 it could even refer to the very “centre of the world”: Thus Jerusalem is “Mediterranean” par excellence in Adamnan’s treatise on the Holy sites. 43 To conclude: although the term mediterraneum was indeed familiar to various authors of the Carolingian period, among them also Hrabanus Maurus who effectively copied the Etymologiae, 44 its meaning was not yet fixed as an attribute of the Great Sea like once in Frechulf’s World History, written around 830. 45 Quite to the contrary: if the adjective was not combined with mare, it would evoke a quite different, even opposite notion. 46 It is only in post-Carolingian times that the term mare Mediterraneum seems to occur more regularly, 47 while the AngloSaxon tradition called this Sea Wendelsæ (“Sea of the Vandals”), perhaps because the Vandals were still known for their maritime ventures there. 48 The almost complete absence of explicit references to the “Mediterranean Sea” as a specific entity in Carolingian Sources might therefore be understood as a consequence of a terminological development in flow and does not imply a general lack of interest in this maritime space due to the alleged exclusively terrestrial 42

Bedae Venerabilis In primam partem Samuhelis (I, 2.10, p.25, l. 572-573): Dominus iudicabit

fines terrae. Certum est dominum non solum fines terrae sed etiam mediterraneas regiones iudicare [...]. A similar connotation in Bedae Venerabilis Expositio in canticvm Abacvc prophetae (p.392, l. 321-324): Paueant ergo ad nomen Christi Aethiopes, ut ad fines orbis fides ejus peruentura signetur. Paueant et Madianitae, ut mediterraneae quoque plebes per hanc insinuentur esse saluandae. The Madianites are localized in the Arab deserts on the other shore of the Red

43

44

45

46

47

Sea. Adamnan’s De Locis Sanctis (I, 11.4): in Hierusalem, quae mediterranea et umbilicus terrae dicitur. Cf. Rabani Mauri De Universo (XI 4 [De Mediterraneo], col.312A-B; XVI 1 [De linguis gentium] col. 436D). Frechvlfi Historiarum (I,2.26, p.144): Audiens haec Alexander, filius Priami, Troia progressus,

multitudinem exercitus sumens naues magnas ascendit, per Mediterraneum mare ad insulam regis Memnonis ueniens [...]. Cf. Walafrid Strabo, Glossa ordinaria, Evangelium sec. Matthaeum (ad Mt. 24,31, col.162A): A summis coelorum: Ne quis putaret a quatuor plagis terrae, et non a cunctis finibus ejus, simul et mediterraneis regionibus electos esse congregandos, subditur: A summo terrae usque ad summum coeli [...]; Frechvlfi Historiarum (I,1.28, p.59, l. 34-35): Et ita omnis terra per eos completa est, mediterranea simul atque maritima; Claudii Taurinensis episcopi XXX Quaestiones (lib. I, col.643B): Quod si non adderetur, et tantummodo diceretur facere judicium, et justitiam, magnum hoc praeceptum ad utrosque homines pertineret, et mediterraneos, et maritimos. Richeri Historiarum (Libri I, 1-2, p.36): Orbis itaque plaga […] a cosmographis trifariam dividi perhibetur, in Asiam videlicet Africam, et Europam. Quarum prior […] interius a Ripheis montibus usque ad terrȩ umbilicum, Thanai, Meothide, Mediterraneoque ab Europa distinguitur. […] Africam vero et Europam, exterius quidem ab austro in septentrionem oceano circumdatas, Mediterraneus interiectus discriminat. Ab Asia vero interius earum alteram Nilus, alteram vero Mediterraneum, Thanaisque ac Meotis ut dictum est seiungunt. As far as I see, the abridged use of “mediterraneum” instead of “mare mediterraneum” appears thus for the first time in a th

48

Chronicle written at Rheims in the late 10 century. Cf. Gesta Treverorum, (cap.1, p.130, l. 1920): Transfretato mari mediterraneo, quod ab Asia dividit Europam […]. Cf. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (MS A, ad a. 885, p.52): Þy ilcan geare feng Carl to þam westrice 7 to allum þam westrice behienan Wendelsę 7 begeondan þisse sę […]. Cf. the Latin translation in Annales Anglosaxonici (p.105): Eodem anno capessivit Carolus occidentale regnum, et totum illud regnum citra mare Mediterraneum et ultra hoc mare. For the Vandals’ expeditions across the Mediterranean see Grieb (2012, pp.77-85).

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character of the Carolingian Empire. 49 Instead, Frankish concern with the Mediterranean Sea is reflected in several contemporary sources. In 812 Pope Leo III informed Charlemagne in a very detailed manner about maritime activities of the nefandissimi Mauri and of the Byzantines and assured him that the coast-guard of the Pontificial territories was well organised. 50 Three years earlier a maritime attack on the region of Piombino in Tuscia is mentioned in the Frankish Annals, executed by Greeks called Orobiotae – perhaps a reference to the Byzantine maritime thema of the Kibyrrhaiots. 51 The activities of Arab “pirates” against Corsica or Sardinia are frequently recorded in the Annals as well as some successful Frankish answers at Sea such as the attack of count Irmingarius of Empúries against Maiorca in 813. 52 In 828 the Tuscan count Boniface, who could no more find any “pirate” at sea, even managed to reach the coast of Africa with his fleet, succeeded in combats with the local population between Utica and Carthago and returned home safely on board ship, as the Frankish Royal Annals and the anonymous Vita Hludowici report. 53 Somehow this naval tradition seems to have survived in Tuscany: In her famous letter to the caliph written in 905 Bertha of Tuscia likewise refers to a naval victory over a fleet from Africa fought some years earlier, when the commander of this fleet had been captured (Levi della Vida, 1954, p.25; McCormick, 2001, p.963, n° 736). Furthermore, the maritime cities of Gaeta, Amalfi and Naples on the coasts of Campania disposed of important naval means: Fleets from Amalfi and Naples helped to repel seaborne Arab forces who had plundered the urban hinterland of Rome in 846, including St Peter’s outside the Roman Walls. 54 Emperor Louis II stayed in Amalfi for some time in 866 and later received Amalfitan support to intervene at Naples in support of the bishop Athanasius and against the machinations of the Neapolitan dux (Schwarz, 49

50

51

52

The continental character of the Carolingian empire has recently again been emphasized by Gravel (2012, pp.46-48) especially with regard to the military ventures of the Carolingian kings. Leonis III. Papae Epistolae 6 (pp.96-97, here p.97, l. 14-16): A quo enim de illorum [the Saracens] adventu vestra nos exhortavit serenitas, semper postera et litoraria nostra ordinata habuimus et habemus custodias. Annales Regni Francorum (ad a. 809, p.128): In Tuscia Populonium civitas maritima a Grecis, qui Orobiotae vocantur, depraedata est. Hitherto no convincing identification of the Orobiotae has been given, cf. McCormick (2001, p.895-896, n° 292). For the Kibyrrhaiots see Ahrweiler (1966, pp.81-83). Annales Regni Francorum (ad a. 813, p.139): Mauris de Corsica ad Hispaniam cum multa prae-

da redeuntibus Irmingarius comes Emporitanus in Maiorica insidias posuit et octo naves eorum cepit, in quibus quingentos et eo amplius Corsos captivos invenit. Cf. also Annales Regni Fran-

53

54

corum ad a. 807, 809, 810 (p.124, p.128, p.130). For Charlemagne’s temporary naval policy in the Tyrrhenian and Adriatic see Eickhoff (1966, pp.51-59). Annales Regni Francorum (ad a. 828, p.176); Astronomus, Vita Hludowici (cap.42, pp.448450); for Boniface see Depreux (1997, p.143-144). This operation has now been linked to a Byzantine embassy to Louis the Pious in 827, carrying the famous “Kaiserbrief von Saint Denis” and asking for the help of the Franks against the Arabs conquering Sicily, see McCormick (2005, pp.147-149); cf. Lewis (1951, pp.132-133). Schwarz (1978, pp.26-27); Lewis (1951, pp.135-136); for a detailed reconstruction of the events see Herbers (1996, pp.108-120). All evidence suggests that the popes lacked ships of their own: Delogu (2007, p.114).

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1978, p.27). The maritime resources of Amalfi, Gaeta and Naples could temporarily be mobilized by the Carolingian rulers in case of necessity. Sometimes, however, even a ‘Byzantine solution’ seemed realistic: When Louis II laid siege on Bari, then the capital of an independent emirate on mainland Italy, he tried to arrange for a combined attack of his own terrestrial forces and of a Byzantine armada present in the Adriatic, which had seemingly been destined by the basileus to support the Franks, but due to certain controversies the Greeks retired prematurely. Nevertheless, even after the conquest of Bari Louis II tried to persuade Basil I to send another fleet in order to continue the coordinated operations against the Saracens of Sicily. 55 Some years later, pope John VIII informed the emperor about a victory he had personally obtained against certain Saracen marauders. Although the pope’s forces had captured 18 vessels and freed nearly 600 captives, it is more probable that this battle had taken place near the coast on land than at Sea. 56 In general the Franks lacked proper maritime capacities and resources in the Mediterranean, but they did not ignore the importance of a naval component in warfare in these areas. Apart from military episodes references to the Mediterranean maritime environment are also found in other contexts in Carolingian sources. After having been sent as an envoy to Constantinople by Charlemagne, Amalarius, bishop of Trier, wrote his short and enigmatic Versus Marini, which allude to any kind of maritime discomfort and danger, from seasickness 57 to the fear of Saracen and Slavonic pirates, 58 however, in a rather artificial and allusive way. In one of his let55

56

Ludovici II. Imperatoris Epistola (p.393, l. 34- p.394, l. 13). Louis urges the basileus to send a strong fleet in order to impede further maritime supply for the Saracens in Tarent and Calabria, coming from Sicily as well as from Aghlabid Ifriqīya. The letter further mentions the Byzantine strategos Georgios as a talented commander who, however, lacked sufficient maritime forces besides some chelandia to be able to resist a major maritime attack from Sicily (394, l. 2-5). This passage of the letter is completely misunderstood by the author of the Chronicon Salernitanum th (p.107, l. 9-13) writing in the 10 century on base of the letter, who confuses Georgios and the patricius Niketas Ooryphas, whom the letter had likewise mentioned as commander of the Byzantine fleet that appeared at Bari for some time in 869 but retired some time before the city fell to the Franks because of some discrepancies with Louis II: this confusion has still influenced the article on Georgios in PmbZ II (2013, vol.2, # 22093). In fact, it is not clear whether Georgios was indeed a fleet-commander, as already Eickhoff (1966, pp.218-219) firmly believed, or a strategos responsible for Byzantine forces and territory in Southern Italy. Registrum Iohannis VIII. papae (Fragmentum 49, p.303): Cum reversi fuissemus, omnia littora

nostra depredata, etiam et in Fundis et in Terracina velut in domo propria multos Sarracenos invenimus residere […] exivimus cum fidelibus nostris, quorum Deo adiuvante cepimus naves decem et octo. Sarraceni autem multi occisi sunt, captivos autem fere sexcentos liberavimus. Cf. al-

57

58

so Arnold (2005, p.60) and Böhmer and Unger (2013, p.67, nr.118 and p.70, nr.124) both dating this victory to 874. For John’s continuing measures against the Saracens after 875 see Arnold (2005, pp.208-220). Amalarii Versus Marini (v. 10-22, p.427); cf. Düchting (1989, p.51-53). For Amalar’s biography see Steck (2000, esp. pp.7-11, 50-56). Amalarii Versus Marini (v. 60-65, p.428): Et fugias Mauros, metuas Sclavos rigidosque. / Tu cumula tela, ut Maurum iugules metuendum, / Quem nobis monstrat protus, quem flamina tollunt; / Tende arcum, donec percurramus mare cursu. / Sta procul a terra, Sclavorum litora linque, / Pelliculas tendant fratres pluviasque repellant.

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ters Amalarius praises the fame of his correspondent Hilduin of Saint-Denis whose God-given position is such that he can grasp whatever he wishes to find out “from the ends of the river Danube (Ister) to the Tyrrhenian Sea and to the frontiers of Germania, from the Gallican Sea between Sardinia and the Balearic Islands to the British and Scottish Isles”. 59 The authority of the influential abbot is thus inscribed into a space nearly corresponding to the empire’s extension, but characterized primarily in terms of maritime geography. As in this case, allusions to the Mediterranean Sea by Carolingian authors mostly refer to those parts of the Sea that adjoin the coasts of the empire: the mare Balearicum, 60 the Tyrrhenicum, 61 or the Adriaticum, 62 instead of the Mediterranean as a whole, be it called mare magnum or mare nostrum. 63 The Mediterranean did never become a Carolingian mare nostrum, but at the same time the Frankish kings and emperors did not simply turn away from this Sea either. Instead, their empire actually linked the Mediterranean to the flourishing emporia on the coasts of the Western and Northern Seas. 64 Although these seascapes occur prominently in Carolingian sources, 65 they likewise did not become a kind of Carolingian mare nostrum, but 59

60

61

62

63

64

65

Amalarii Epistulae 6 (p.247, l. 14-18): est vobis locus a Deo et occasio data, ut quodcumque salubriter indagare coeperitis, adprehendatis, a terminis Histri fluminis usque ad mare Tyrrenum et usque ad fines Germaniae, a terminis maris Gallici, quod est inter Sardiniam et Baleares insulas, usque ad insulas Brittonum et Scottorum. For the contacts between Amalarius and Hilduin see

Steck (2000, pp.78-82). Cf. Einhardi Vita Karoli Magni (cap.15, pp.17-18): ea pars Galliae, quae inter Rhenum et Liger-

em oceanumque ac mare Balearicum iacet.

Cf. Nithardi Historiarum libri IV 3 (p.44): et sic deinde per Rodanum usque in mare Tyrrenum. The Tyrrhenian Sea is also implied in a number of letters from the register of pope John VIII who used to emphasize that he had taken upon himself the dangers of the sea to come to Gaul (878) in order to encourage king Louis the Stammerer to intervene in Italy, cf. Registrum Iohannis VIII. papae (Ep. 87, p.83, l. 7-11); Ep. 110, p.102, l. 15-16: multos et duros labores in mari et in terra pertuli, ab Urbe et Romana sede in Franciam veni; Ep. 163, p.133, l. 18-22. This Sea is explicitly mentioned in Ludovici II. Imperatoris Epistola (Ep., p.394, l. 5-8): Et quia nonnulli

Sarracenorum Panormi latrunculi cum sagenis solacio et refugio iam memoratorum Neapolitanorum freti per Tirrenum mare debachantur […]. For the pope’s maritime voyage see Böhmer and Unger (2013, nr.334, nr.345, nr.349). Cf. Alcuini sive Albini Epistolae (196, p.324, l. 40-41): nec terrarum longinquitate vel procellosis Adriatici maris fluctibus territum (referring to Saint Jerome). It is curious to note, that Alcuin could refer to mare nostrum as a very general term, concerning

the Northern seas and British coasts, when writing a letter to an English archbishop: Alcuini sive Albini Epistolae (130, p.193, l. 11-12): Timeo paganos propter peccata nostra, qui antecedentibus non temptaverunt temporibus mare nostrum navigare et maritima patrie nostre devastare. The literature concerning these Northern emporia is very rich, for overviews on them see Verhulst (2002, pp.91-93); Theuws (2012) and Lebecq (2012) with further references. Recently some efforts have been made to compare these emporia and great trading places in the Mediterranean, especially Comacchio in Northwestern Italy, see McCormick (2007); McCormick (2012). On the other hand, the impact of Comacchio and its trade on the economy of the Po Valley, based on local exchange between flourishing towns and their surrounding countryside, should not be exaggerated, as Balzaretti (1996, pp.219-228) has argued. The term mare sometimes actually refers to the Western or North Sea in Carolingian sources, cf. Annales Regni Francorum (ad a. 817, p.147): Statim missa trans mare legatione iunxit amicitias cum filiis Godofridi et, ut exercitus in Saxoniam Transalbianam mitteretur, impetravit; ad a. 800, p.110: litus oceani Gallici perlustravit [sc. Charlemagne], in ipso mari, quod tunc piratis in-

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developed into a zone dominated by the Vikings whose violent attacks on Carolingian coasts caused even more fear than those of the Arabs in Mediterranean waters. The above mentioned examples show that the Mediterranean seascape was not completely strange to the Frankish monarchs although they abstained from going aboard ship on Mediterranean waters themselves. It is more obvious, however, that certain parts of the Mediterranean region, from the North Eastern Iberian peninsula to Southern Italy belonged to the immediate political sphere of action of the Carolingian rulers. Pirenne himself has hinted at numerous moments linking the second Frankish dynasty to the Mediterranean world. Thus the military activities of Charles Martel in Aquitaine and southern Burgundy are mentioned, especially his various confrontations with Arab forces, which were, however, correlated to his efforts to reduce the autonomous position of the duchy of Aquitaine and the ruling elites of Burgundy. 66 The second crucial moment of Carolingian presence in the Mediterranean area is marked by the alliance between king Pippin and the papacy, which fully materialized during the visit of pope Stephen II to Francia in 754 and led to Pippin’s military intervention in Italy against the Lombard kingdom and the establishment of the so-called “papal state”. 67 According to Pirenne, Pippin’s son Charlemagne therefore only accomplished the work his father had begun when he conquered the Lombard kingdom in 774, 68 tried to subjugate the principality of Benevent (West, 1999, pp.350-359) and finally was crowned emperor in Rome. 69 Summing up, Pirenne does not deny that the early Carolingian rulers were very much involved into Italian affairs and that they formed a “puissance italienne”. But he turns the interpretation into another direction, pointing out that Charlemagne did not stay at Rome: “Il ne deviendra pas Méditerranéen. Il resta septentrional.” 70 Finally, Charlemagne’s “Mediterrafestum erat, classem instituit; cf. also Annales Vedastini ad a. 879, p.44: Nortmanni ultra mare positi. The Baltic is named mare orientale: Annales Regni Francorum (ad a. 808, p.126): limitem regni sui, qui Saxoniam respicit, vallo munire constituit, eo modo, ut ab orientali maris sinu, quem illi Ostarsalt dicunt, usque ad occidentalem oceanum […] praetexteret. Cf. also Astronomus, Vita 66

67

68

69

70

Hludowici (cap.12, p.312, l. 10; cap.44, p.454, l. 16). Cf. Fouracre (2000, pp.79-99); Fischer (2012, pp.110-136). The significance of the famous battle of Poitiers in 732 or 733 within these contexts has been critically revised by Nonn (1990). Pirenne himself had already questioned the importance of the battle of Poitiers in comparison to the unsuccessful Arab attack on Constantinople in 717, cf. Pirenne (1970, p.162). There is an immense amount of literature on these questions, including the role the papacy played in Pippin’s usurpation of kingship in 751 and the complex field of papal-Lombard relath tions in the 8 century. We shall therefore only refer to Noble (1984, pp.65-98); Pohl (2004); Scholz (2006, pp.46-77) and to the critical discussion of Pippin’s “donation” by Hartmann (2006, pp.130-142). For the transition from Lombard to Frankish rule in Italy see now the collected studies in Gasparri (2008). It is impossible to refer here to any of the numerous debates entwined with the imperial coronation; we only refer to the classical studies by Folz (1989) and Classen (1988); more recent contributions have been discussed by Schieffer (2004). Pirenne (1970, p.170), who furthermore states that Italy was centred around the papacy and that the Lombard kingdom enjoyed a certain degree of autonomy within the Carolingian realm.

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nean policy” is considered a failure because he had to renounce on Venice as well as Southern Italy remaining within the orbit of Byzantium: “En somme la politique de Charles en Italie a échoué: il n’est pas devenu une puissance méditerranéenne” (Pirenne, 1970, p.174). At first sight such a judgment is well confirmed by the itineraries of Charlemagne and his son Louis the Pious in the four decades from 800 to 840: while the old emperor remained nearly immobile in his palace at Aachen for the remaining years of his life, his son likewise spent most of his troubled reign in a rather restricted area between Frankfurt to the East, Compiègne to the West, the Rhine delta to the North and Metz to the South, and the majority of synods during his reign assembled in the same region. 71 Although Louis had governed Aquitaine including the Pyrenean area before he succeeded to his father’s throne 72 he never again visited any southern part of his kingdoms as a ruling emperor. The Mediterranean was thus indeed far away from the new imperial centre. On the other hand, this very circumstance facilitated the development of a certain degree of autonomy from the Frankish centre in the Mediterranean sphere of the Carolingian Empire, 73 most prominently in the former Lombard kingdom or regnum Italiae. Already in 781 Charlemagne had installed his elder son Pippin as a king there, whose reign extended over nearly 30 years. 74 Two years after Pippin’s death, in 812, his son Bernard was sent to Italy as a king (Depreux, 1992a, pp.38), who retained this position under the new emperor Louis the Pious, but later lost both his kingdom and life in consequence of a dubious rebellion against the emperor. 75 In 822 Louis the Pious sent his eldest son Lothar to Italy who was crowned co-emperor by pope Paschalis I in the following year. The Apennine peninsula in fact became Lothar’s power base within the Carolingian empire as well as his place of exile after the failure of his attempts to dethrone his father in the early 830s. 76 After his father’s death, however, Lothar had to engage in the 71

72

73

74

75

76

Gravel (2012, pp.46-61); for characteristics of the royal itineraries see also Werner (1980a, pp.192-194). Cf. Auzias (1937, pp.3-76); Boshof (1996, pp.28-79); Tremp (2002, pp.283-292); Kasten (1997, pp.274-281); for the conquest of Barcelona and Louis’ entry there in 801 see now Salrach (2006). According to a crucial distinction made by Karl Ferdinand Werner, all these areas did not belong to the actual Francia – formed by the former Merovingian heartlands and subdivided into missatica for the needs of admnistration - but were often considered as regna of their own though not always ruled by a king, see Werner (1980a, pp.204-211). For the meaning of regnum in Carolingian sources see Goetz (1987, esp. pp.176-181). Cf. Bougard (2011, pp.491-492); Kasten (1997, esp. pp.281-286, 331-334); for the role of Frankish elites in Italy see Hlawitschka (1960, pp.23-50). Although Bernard’s military activities in 817 have been characterized as revolt by the official Carolingian historiography, they were essentially defensive in nature, directed against a possible threat from Louis’s son Lothar or from the pope who preferred the indirect authority of the emperor over Rome, cf. the arguments advanced by Jarnut (1989, pp.639-642) and Depreux (1992a, pp.21-23). For Lothar’s position in Italy see Albertoni (1998, pp.37-44); Jarnut (1990) and Depreux (1992b, pp.901-905); for his entourage see Hlawitschka (1960, pp.53-60).

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wars of succession with his younger brothers north of the Alps, while his son Louis II stayed in Italy and successively became king of the Lombards – crowned in Rome – in 844 and emperor in 850. 77 The partition of Lothar’s realm in 855 confirmed Louis II in his Italian possessions as the sole Carolingian emperor, 78 but without any territorial base in the former Carolingian heartlands: The imperial title thus definitely lost any connection to Aachen 79 and became more firmly associated with Rome, since the popes had in fact enforced their prerogative to perform the legitimate imperial coronations there. Far from being marginal, the importance of Italy certainly grew in late Carolingian times, when the open question of Louis’ succession, debated already some years before his death in 875, attracted pretenders both from West and East Francia. 80 This situation of a long since expected succession crisis provoked the formation of aristocratic factions81 supporting or disapproving of the strong position the empress Angilberga exercised in Italy. Unshaken by the ensuing troubles between various pretenders Angilberga managed to retain her remarkable authority seemingly until her death (Bougard, 1993; Bougard, 1998, pp.261-265; Hartmann, 2009, pp.122-127). At the same time the prestige and power of the imperial office pursued the path of decline. Its effective scope was definitively confined to Italy, 82 sometimes even only to parts of this kingdom. But it was primarily due to this imperial title, bearing a still illustrious tradition, that the affairs of Italy now functioned as a forceful motor of Carolingian political dynamics much more oriented towards the Medith terranean in the last decades of the 9 century than in former times. The western empire was finally inconceivable without Rome while the eastern empire remained continuously fixed in Constantinople. The Mediterranean dimension of Carolingian politics is not limited to Italy and the imperial city. It also contains an Iberian dimension, namely the heterogeneous conglomeration of counties usually called Hispania in Carolingian documents (Zimmermann, 1983, pp.9-12) or sometimes “Spanish March” in histo77

78

79 80

81

82

Hees (1973, esp. pp.27-37, 51-59); Herbers (1996, pp.210-214); Böhmer and Zielinski (1991, nr.27, nr.67); Albertoni (1998, pp.46-50). For Louis’ competences as king and co-emperor see Kasten (1997, pp.394-424); for his courtly entourage Bougard (1998, pp.250-259). For this partition and its contexts, which have received less scholarly attention than they deserve, see Kasten (1997, pp.381-394); Kaschke (2005, p.93) for Louis II. The role of Aachen as sedes regni has concisely been characterized by Nelson (2001). For the steps taken by Louis the German to assure the succession of his son Carloman to the regnum Italiae and consequently to the empire, measures which included diplomatic contacts with the Byzantine Empire, but failed to prevent Charles the Bald from prevailing on the Italian scene after the actual death of Louis II, see Goldberg (2006, pp.304-309, 313-314, 323-333); Hartmann (2002, pp.120-122). For the activities of Charles the Bald leading to his imperial coronation at Christmas 875 see Nelson (1992, pp.238-242); for the coronation see Böhmer and Zielinski (1991, pp.193-194); Arnold (2005, pp.69-76); Scholz (2006, pp.224-233). For a detailed analysis see MacLean (2007, esp. pp.243-250); see also Hlawitschka (1960, pp.6773). Cf. Zimmermann (1974, pp.379-380). The formula imperator Italiae used by archbishop Hincmar with reference to Louis II does not necessarily imply disrespect of the imperial position, but seems to result from personal disaffection, cf. Zimmermann (1974, pp.384-389).

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riographical sources (Zimmermann, 1983, pp.13-15), which formed a second Christian nucleus on the Iberian peninsula besides the Asturian kingdom. 83 Local elites also played a leading role in the formation of regional identities in the various parts of Southern Gaul, the temporarily autonomous regnum of Aquitaine and Septimania 84, the southern parts of the former Burgundian kingdom centered around Vienne and the actual Provence around Arles. These last two regions were the core of the regnum attributed to Lothar’s son Charles in 855 and later formed the power base of the influential nobleman Boso, who had himself proclaimed king in 879 driven by a situation of general instability, 85 and of his son Louis, generally acknowledged as king over Provence and southern Burgundy after 890. The supposition of a strong indigenous political identity of this region hostile towards the Franks is nevertheless rather implausible, as Florian Mazel has recently argued (Mazel, 2011, pp.460-469). Therefore a number of Mediterranean landscapes and their long-term identities in the Middle Ages have thoroughly been influenced by Carolingian structures and have themselves contributed significantly to shape the empire’s history. Although this is evident yet from a superficial overview, it stands in contrast to prevailing patterns of the modern perception of Carolingian history. Carolingian heritage has primarily, sometimes nearly exclusively, been associated with France and Germany as long-term successors to West and East Francia respectively, 86 whereas the Lotharian Francia media seemed to disappear 87 after two generations. Such a view, however, overlooks the continuous existence and the Carolingian roots present in of the kingdom of (Northern) Italy. In recent times interest in the political and structural history of this regnum has significantly grown. 88 It had hardly profited from national interpretations of Italian history understanding the 83

84

85

86

87

88

For the history of the so-called Marca hispanica see Abadal i de Vinyals (1986); furthermore among a rich production of studies: Abadal i de Vinyals (1964); Aurell (1998); Chandler (2002, esp. pp.22-29). For the kingdom of Aquitaine under Pippin I, son of Louis the Pious, see Auzias (1937, pp.77124), and Collins (1990). For the troubled history of the noble family of the Bernards and Williams, based on Septimania and later becoming dukes of Aquitaine, see the concise overview by Lauranson-Rosaz (2006). For Boso’s usurpation, his background as a leading magnate of West Francia and the offensive reactions of the surviving members of the Carolingian house to Boso’s step see Airlie (2000, pp.3238); MacLean (2001). The question of the Carolingian roots of French and German history and how it has been perceived by generations of historians has profoundly been discussed by Brühl (1995), here pp.7-19 for the various dates that have been adduced in this respect. It should be kept in mind, that most of the lands east of the Rhine still formed a very peripheral zone within the high Carolingian Empire: see Schieffer (2002a). Only very recently a remarkable attempt has been made to characterize the political identity of the Francia Media, understood in a double sense as the part of the realm falling to Lothar I in 843, including Italy and Provence, and as the kingdom of Lothar II respectively, cf. Gaillard, Margue, Dierkens and Pettiau (2011). Albertoni (1998) has given a concise overview on the history of the regnum. For an assessment of recent studies, that focus especially on the role of “public administration” and local elites, cf. Gasparri (2009).

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Frankish kings as foreign rulers – in accordance with some contemporary Lombard historiographers (Löwe, 1958, pp.354-358, referring to Erchempert and Andreas of Bergamo) ‒ or highlighting the deplorable fragmentation of the peninsula, 89 all of which confirmed the view of Italy’s peripheral position within the entire Carolingian realm. Furthermore, the dynastic history of the Carolingians naturally favours a scheme of rapid ascendency, impressive zenith and prolonged decline, marked by civil war, territorial decomposition and the loss of royal authority. Such a narrative 90 privileges imperial unity and allegedly centralised rulership under Charlemagne against political diversity and regional horizons in the later Carolingian period, which only recently has become a very flourishing field of study. 91 Against this backdrop Pirenne and most of the succeeding historians consciously preferred Aachen to Rome and relegated the Mediterranean parts of the empire to the background as mere appendices. But the Carolingians knew how much their emperorship depended on Rome. 92 Charlemagne himself had given explicit expression to this fact in the official title he assumed after the imperial coronation in 800, adding the phrase Romanum gubernans imperium 93 to the traditional elements rex Francorum 94 et Langobardorum. 95 Although this official terminology did not survive for a long time and the reference to the Roman heritage was soon sacrificed in favour of reconcilia89

90

91

92

93

94

95

Cf. Arnaldi (2005, pp.54-72). Riché (1987, p.165) has boldly concluded: “Italien blieb durch seine Sprache und Mentalität für die Franken immer Ausland.” It essentially goes back to Carolingian authors themselves, most comprehensively to Regino of Prüm, who has therefore been called the “Edward Gibbon of Carolingian historical writing” by Airlie (2006, p.126). The need of further investigation into the history of late Carolingian Italy has duly been emphasized by MacLean (2007, p.242, p.259); similarly Lauranson-Rosaz (2006, p.47) for Southern Gaul. Regional plurality as a vital factor for the Carolingian world has also been emphasized by Sullivan (1989, pp.290-293) and Bührer-Thierry (2008, pp.150-154) based on the conclusions of Werner (1980a). For the Roman character of the medieval occidental empire in Carolingian times (and afterwards) see the pertinent analysis by Werner (1980b, esp. pp.157-173). For the visits of Carolingian rulers to the papal city see Schieffer (2002b); for the last ‘Carolingian’ imperial coronation in 915: Hofmann (2002, pp 547-556). Though the Carolingians did not abstain from demonstrating their imperial authority in Rome in specific situations, the popes clearly shaped and dominated th th the urban space there in the 8 and 9 century, e.g. through building activities and processions, see Noble (2001); Scholz (2006); and their wealth, derived from outside Rome, was a fundamental factor for a localized economy, see Delogu (2007, pp.108-110). This formula was not a new invention out of respect for the Eastern Empire, but can be traced back to earlier evidence, among others from Ravenna, as Classen (1983) has shown. For Charlemagne’s imperial title see also Wolfram (1973, pp.19-52). For this title inherited from the Merovingian kings see Wolfram (1967, pp.108-116, pp.209210). The rather ambivalent notion of Franci in Merovingian sources as a social and political elite closely connected with the kings has been highlighted by Becher (2009, pp.175-187). For the two kinds of regal titles used by the Lombard kings – one without any reference to the gens used in the charters and one in legal texts, designating the king as rex gentis Langobardorum – see Wolfram (1967, pp.64-66, pp.90-107). Thus the title used by Charlemagne after his conquest of Italy did not correspond to the Lombard tradition but emphasized the role of the Lombard gens, cf. Wolfram (1967, pp.217-221); Brühl (1995, pp.155-157).

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tion with Byzantium, 96 the Roman connotation of the imperial dignity remained alive throughout the Carolingian epoch: in a long letter to the Byzantine emperor Basil I, written most probably by Anastasius, the librarian of the Holy See, Louis II defended the Roman character of his imperial office which had been contested by the basileus. 97 On the other hand, Louis also picked up another way of imperial legitimation which had already been constructed by the intellectual elite at Charlemagne’s court: the idea of the emperor’s universal responsibility for the Christian people (populus christianus). 98 The wide range of this connotation is perhaps most clearly expressed by Einhard in the Vita Karoli Magni, according to whom Charlemagne had great pleasure in sustaining the poor, not only within his kingdom, but also trans maria in Syria and Egypt, Africa, Jerusalem, Alexandria and Carthage, at places where poor Christians lived according to his knowledge. At the same time he venerated the church of Saint Peter at Rome to which he sent innumerable gifts. 99 It is thus a Mediterranean space – centred around Rome – which characterises Charlemagne’s sphere of influence in these lines, immediately preceding Einhard’s famous statement on the imperial coronation against Charlemagne’s will (Einhardi Vita Karoli magni, cap.28, p.32, l. 2226.). At the same time, the emperor’s responsibility to sustain and protect the Christian people also shows that religion was of paramount relevance for the definition of the Carolingian rulers’ authority, similar to the universal religious connotations of the imperial office in Byzantium 100, but also to the Islamic definition of the caliph as commander of the faithful or even ḫalīfat Allāh. 101 The main political forc96

97

98

99

Cf. Classen (1988, pp.94-95); Brühl (1995, pp.505-507). For the negotiations Nerlich (1999, pp.180-181); Grierson (1981, pp.909-911). Ludovici II. Imperatoris Epistola (esp. p.389, l. 3-5): scire te convenit, quia nisi Romanorum im-

peratores essemus, utique nec Francorum. A Romanis enim hoc nomen et dignitatem assumpsimus […]. Cf. Zimmermann (1974, p.398); Grierson (1981, pp.892-896).

The predominant Christian connotation of the imperial function and its duties, especially for Charlemagne and Louis the Pious, has often been highlighted, see for instance Bührer-Thierry (2008, pp.146-149); Buck (2002, esp. pp.21-26); Werner (1990, esp. pp.56-69). Einhardi Vita Karoli Magni (cap.27, pp.31-32): Circa pauperes sustentandos et gratuitam liberal-

itatem, quam Greci eleimosinam vocant, devotissimus, ut qui non in patria solum et in suo regno id facere curaverit, verum trans maria in Syriam et Aegyptum atque Africam, Hierosolimis, Alexandriae atque Cartagini, ubi Christianos in paupertate vivere conpererat penuriae illorum conpatiens pecuniam mittere solebat [...] ob hoc maxime transmarinorum regum amicitias expetens, ut Christianis sub eorum dominatu degentibus refrigerium aliquod ac relevatio proveniret. Colebat prae ceteris sacris et venerabilibus locis apud Romam ecclesiam beati Petri [...]. For the generosity

100

101

of Charlemagne towards the Roman Church see Christie (2005, pp.167-174). Its background in the complex relationship between Hadrian I and Charles has been studied by Hartmann (2006, pp.197-265). For the fluid notions of political and Christian oikoumene in Byzantium see Koder (2002, esp. pp.25-31). For the title ḫalīfat Allāh, rather often used by the Umayyads and similar to the Christian concept of the ruler as vicarius Dei, see Crone and Hinds (1986, pp.4-23); al-Azmeh (1997, pp.7379). The more common title amīr al-mu’minīn (commander of the faithful), of course not devoid of religious connotations, is sometimes simply translitterated in Latin sources, cf. Annales Regni Francorum (ad a. 801, p.114): Ibi nuntiatur ei, legatos Aaron Amir al Mumminin regis

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th

es of the Mediterranean world in the 8 and 9 century understood themselves not only in relation to a certain “people” (Franks, Romans, Arabs), but also in universal religious terms. Therefore it is all the more remarkable that religious difference and conflict seemingly did not play a determinant role for the multifarious relationship between Frankish and Muslim rulers in Carolingian times. It may suffice to mention the well-known diplomatic contacts between the first th th Carolingian rulers and the early Abbasids in the later 8 and early 9 centuries (Borgolte, 1976; Sénac, 2006, pp.43-66). About one hundred years later, Bertha of Tuscany, a granddaughter of emperor Lothar I, initiated an exchange of letters with the Abbasid caliph al-Muktafī (902–908), offering gifts and proposing a sort of alliance against the Greeks. 102 On the other hand, military confrontations between Franks and Muslims developed out of specific critical constellations in frontier zones such as the Pyrenees. During his famous Iberian campaign in 778 Charlemagne intervened in favour of one Muslim faction against another, and it was only pope Hadrian I who ascribed a religious meaning to this war – later also claimed by the Annals of Metz. 103 Similarly Frankish historiographical sources did not characterize the attacks of Muslim “pirates” from the Iberian peninsula against Sardinia, Corsica and Italy between 798 and 813 as an expression of religious warfare. 104 Such a connotation, which had already appeared in some contemporary statements on the battles Eudo of Aquitaine and Charles Martel had fought with Arabs from the Iberian peninsula, 105 only gained prominence in the Italian context from the 830s onwards, especially in consequence of the Arab attack on Rome, and it helped the emperor Louis II to enhance his political prestige as an energetic defender of the Christians against the Arab “infidels” 106 in Southern Italy. 107 The Frankish perception of Islam as a religion was characterized by nearly complete ignorance. 108 Instead, Charlemagne’s interest in the Levant

102

103

104

105

106

107

108

Persarum portum Pisas intrasse; Annales Mettenses Priores ad a. 801, p.88, referring to the same event; Crónica mozárabe de 754 (cap.57, p.74): Ulit Amir Almuminin (i.e. al-Walīd). The text of these letters had been published by M. Hamidullah in 1953 and given in translation by Levi della Vida (1954); cf. also Hiestand (1964, pp.108-112, 225-229); König (2012, pp.5859). This has clearly been demonstrated by Hack (2008, esp. pp.35-38, 44-48); see also, especially for the alliance between the king and the governor of Barcelona, Sulaimān ibn al-A’rābī, Sénac (2006, pp.18-24). For these attacks see the detailed study by Guichard (1983). The terms Mauri and Sarraceni are used without distinction for these attackers, cf. Goetz (2013, pp.256-257). Especially in the life of Gregory II in the Liber Pontificalis, concerning Eudo’s victory at Toulouse in 721, see Fouracre (2000, pp.84-85); Nonn (1990, pp.46-48). Negative stereotypes and vituperations of the Muslims – generally understood as pagans and opposed to the Christians, cf. Goetz (2013, pp.338-339, 357-358) – were often correlated to situations of military confrontation: cf. Goetz (2013, pp.270-272, 274-286, 400-401). For Louis’ campaign against the Arabs of Southern Italy and their ideological connotations see Seneca (1950, pp.17-42); Russo Mailler (1982, pp.6-17). Cf. Southern (1962, pp.14-16, 26-27); Goetz (2013, pp.248-250, 261, 396-398) who, however, stresses the ethnographical and historical interest in the Saracens or Ishmaelites to be found already in early Medieval Latin sources (pp.316-326) and draws attention to the exceptional case of the Frankish intellectual Paschasius Radbertus (pp.346-347).

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concentrated on the status of Jerusalem as a Christian lieu de mémoire of paramount significance. It found its perhaps most impressive testimony in the detailed list of the churches, monasteries and buildings belonging to the patriarchate of Jerusalem, which has recently been edited and analyzed by Michael McCormick (2011). A religious dimension is likewise inherent in Frankish-Byzantine relations, marked by a rather frequent exchange of embassies in general. 109 With regard to the question of icon veneration the positions of the Roman church and Frankish Gaul differed significantly according to differences in religious practice (Angenedt, 2001b; cf. Thümmel, 1999, pp.55-64). While Charlemagne took a highly critical standpoint towards the Seventh Ecumenical Council celebrated at Nicaea in 787 and rejected both Greek “iconoclasm” and icon veneration, pope Hadrian I firmly adhered to the decisions of the council his representatives had attended (Neil, 2000, pp.544-552; Thümmel, 1999, pp.64-70; Nagel, 1998, pp.168-194). The king commissioned his renowned court intellectual Theodulf of Orléans to compose a long treatise, the so-called Libri Carolini, denouncing and condemning what he considered to be a new Greek heresy, driven by the eastern emperors’ arrogance. 110 But this fine work of erudition has never been officially published, and at the synod of Frankfurt in 794 Charles had the Greek council condemned on base of a rather obscure interpretation of its decisions (Nagel, 1998, pp.194-198; Hartmann, 1988, esp. pp.307-309). A condemnation, however, seemed indispensable for the king, in order to articulate his dissent to an allegedly ecumenical church assembly celebrated without any representative of the Frankish king who ruled over a considerable part of the Christian oikoumene. 111 After the re-emergence of a moderate Eastern iconoclasm as official Byzth antine theology in the early 9 century, the Byzantines tried of their own accord to win the support of the Franks: an embassy sent by the emperor Michael II to the court of Louis the Pious in 824 pacis confirmandae causa 112 also sought a common ground concerning icon theology and even achieved Frankish intercession at Rome, but the pope did not aberrate from the definitions of the Second Council of Nicaea (McCormick, 1994, pp.145-148). Some decades later the contested legitimacy of the Constantinopolitan patriarch Photios once again led to deep dissension and even open schism between the sees of Constantinople and 109

110

111

112

The known legations have been compiled by Nerlich (1999, pp.252-291); cf. also Lounghis (1980, pp.143-197, 470-477); McCormick (2001, pp.138-147, 175-181) and his register of Mediterranean communications (pp.872-963). Cf. Opus Caroli Regis contra synodum (Libri Carolini) (Praefatio, pp.98-100, here esp. p.98, l. 35-p.99, l. 1): Inflammavit igitur ventosae arrogantiae inflata ambitio et vanae laudis insolentis-

simus appetitus quosdam orientalium partium non solum reges, sed etiam sacerdotes, adeo ut postposita sana sobriaque doctrina [...].

This is most clearly expressend in the title of the Opus Caroli Regis contra synodum (Libri Carolini) (p.97): Opus [...] Caroli, nutu dei regis Francorum, Gallias, Germaniam Italiamque sive harum finitimas provintias domino opitulante regentis. Annales Regni Francorum (ad a. 824, p.165): Sed legati imperatoris litteras et munera deferentes, pacis confirmandae causa se missos esse dicentes.

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Rome, which did not involve the Carolingians in a decisive way. 113 It touched, however, the normative structure of church government 114 and generated frequent epistolary communications between the papacy and Byzantium, which in spite of the numerous mutual reproaches and accusations evokes a strong sense of community comprising Eastern and Western Christianity across the borders of the two empires. Religious adherence played a decisive role in defining identities and more specifically the duties of rulers in Carolingian times. The Mediterranean was indeed marked by religious diversity, but it was not divided by impermeable lines of faith into a Christian and a Muslim sphere. Multifaceted religious antagonism developed perhaps more clearly within Christianity and Islam than between these two religious communities. On the Christian side, all the important theological controversies of this age originated from a Mediterranean environment: Byzantine iconoclasm, the Adoptianist question 115 arising on the Iberian peninsula and the Filioque controversy making its appearance between monks of Greek and Frankish origin in Palestine during the last years of Charlemagne’s reign. 116 The various aspects of religious tension emerging between the Franks, Rome and Constantinople, including missionary competition among the Bulgarians in the 860s117, provoked embassies and even forced migration, they thus enhanced Mediterranean connectivity and did not disrupt it. The wide range of political activities initiated by some Carolingian rulers leads us back to “spatial” concepts. The Carolingian period has often been seen as an important step not only for the development of “European civilization”, but also for the emergence of a “European consciousness” in the Middle Ages. 118 The use of Europa in Carolingian sources is indeed noteworthy, but the most impressive references belong to the sphere of court panegyrics and have thus to be used with 113

114

115 116

117

118

The classical study on this conflict is Dvornik (1948); see also Simeonova (1998); Herbers (1993). It is generally believed that Photios tried to win Louis II for his side in order to proceed against the pope, but this assumption is only founded on two rather dubious contentions by the patriarch’s enemies who thus tried to prove Photios’ illoyalty towards the basileus, cf. Dvornik (1948, p.121); Böhmer and Zielinski (1991, nr.273, nr.279). While Rome insisted on its primacy of jurisdiction, the idea of pentarchy was upheld by Constantinople as instrumental to refuse the Roman claims though it actually had lost its vitality due to the isolation of the Eastern patriarchs under Arab rule, as Herrin (2004, esp. pp.622-626) has underlined. For Byzantine attempts to exploit the Eastern patriarchs’ authority in the context of the quarrel over icon veneration see Signes Codoñer (2013). For a detailed reconstruction see Nagel (1998, pp.19-138). Cf. Borgolte (1980) with references to previous literature; Nagel (1998, pp.205-226); Scholz (2006, pp.139-143); Siecienski (2010, pp.96-100); Goetz (2013, pp.714-722). Cf. Simeonova (1998, esp. pp.77-81, 152-158, 166-198); Curta (2006, pp.166-174); Ziemann (2007, pp.356-409); Herrin (2004, pp.614-616). For the political contacts between East Francia and the Bulgarians see Hartmann (2002, p.119). Louis the Pious had already received several embassies from the Bulgarian khan Omurtag between 823 and 826, cf. Annales Regni Francorum (pp.164-168); Ziemann (2007, pp.309-316). Cf. Gollwitzer (1951, pp.164-165); Schneidmüller (1997, pp.9-10); I (1999, pp.149-155); Hay (1957, pp.51-52); Leyser (1992, pp.31-39); Oschema (2013, pp.133-160).

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caution. 119 One might even state that the recurrent term Europa was attractive for the court intellectuals because it was not yet a well-defined category of political thinking. 120 Its fluidity allowed for a wide range of interpretations. Furthermore, it should be emphasized that this European terminology was not used in order to conceptualize a new political space at the margins of the traditional “Mediterranean” oikoumene, quite to the contrary: When Cathwulf addressed a letter to Charlemagne reminding him that God had exalted him to the honour of “glory of the kingdom of Europe”, 121 this was conditioned by the conquest of Italy and Charlemagnes entry into Rome. 122 A Roman connection is likewise implied, when the anonymous poem “Karolus Magnus et Leo Papa” celebrates Charlemagne as pater Europae, with reference to the visit of pope Leo III, the summus pastor in orbe, to Paderborn in 799. 123 At about the same time Alcuin addressed a letter to the king deploring the current situation of the world, since two of the three highest institutions were in crisis: the papacy and the imperialis dignitas in the East, thus only Charlemagne himself was the remaining forceful rector populi Christiani. 124 Whether explicitly using the term “Europe” or not, the general connotation of these statements is not “European” but universal, equating the Roman orbis and the christianitas. 125 Early Carolingian rhetorics were not concerned with re-locating the kingdom in a European instead of a “Mediterranean” framework but with locating the glory of Charlemagne in the whole world. In a similar at119

120

121

122

123

124

125

Cf. Hiestand (1991, p.37) emphasizing that Charlemagne and his chancery did never use the term, and Oschema (2013, pp.136-142) who rightly challenges the usual characterization of the Carolingian epoch as a peak of medieval “European consciousness”. Cf. Schneidmüller (1997, p.10). Similarly, Fischer (1957, pp.76-77) had emphasized that the Franks prefered the hitherto neutral term Europa to occidens loaded with a negative allegorical tradition in contrast to the oriens. His conclusion, that Europa inofficially became the designation of “jener Einen irdischen civitas Dei, deren Haupt Karl der Große ist” (p.77) exaggerates however the limited source evidence. Epistolae Variorum Carolo Magno regnante scriptae 7 (pp.502-503): Nunc igitur, domine mi

rex, pro his modis beatitudinum nocte et die com omnibus exercitibus tuis da gloriam Deo regi regnorum et gratiarum acciones com omni regno tuo: quod ipse te exaltavit in honorem glorie regni Europe. Et adhuc etiam maiora prestat tibi horum, namque predictorum, si illum exaltas cum suis hoc modo.

This has rightly been outlined by I (1999, p.150) while Fischer (1957, p.79) had assessed Cathwulf’s attempt as merely awkward and Leyser (1992, p.32) doubted that Cathwulf might have wished “Europe to be understood as a single kingdom.” Karolus Magnus et Leo papa (p.379, v. 504): Rex, pater Europae, et summus Leo pastor in orbe [...]. But Charlemagne is also called the caput orbis, amor populique decusque, Europae venerandus apex, pater optimus, heros, Augustus (p.368, v. 92-94). It thus seems impossible to distinguish neatly between European, imperial and universal connotations, cf. Beumann (1966, pp.1618). Alcuini sive Albini Epistolae 174 (p.288, l. 17-27, here esp. l. 22-23): Tertia est regalis dignitas, in qua vos domini nostri Iesu Christi dispensatio rectorem populi christiani disposuit. For Alcuin’s use of the term Europa and its Christian connotations see Oschema (2013, p.139); Leyser (1992, pp.32-33); I (1999, pp.149-150). Cf. Hay (1957, pp.51-52) who states that the deeper meaning of the panegyrical use of Europa depends on the identification of christianitas and Romanitas – excluding the Greeks – headed by Charlemagne.

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tempt Widukind of Corvey later conferred “European honours” upon the Ottonians. 126 The only clear notion of “Europe” in Carolingian times (as well as before) is that of the continent inhabited by the descendants of Japhet, stretching from the Oceanus in the west to a not always well-defined boundary within the inner parts of Scythia in the east, often marked by the river Don (Tanais). 127 The Carolingian Empire was situated within this geographical framework and was perhaps considered its foremost political power, but not coextensive with Europe. Its concrete spatial extension is refered to in terms like Galliae, Germania or Italia, longestablished names for large regions (“antike Großländer”) 128, which are likewise a sign of the dominant Roman tradition. The European terminology, however, which was used either in pure geographical contexts or with exclusive reference to the imperial ruler, did not convey a specific cultural identity, constructed by distinction from Asia or Africa. Nor could it serve to exclude Byzantium. The geographical concept of Europe was naturally also familiar to the Byzantines, at least two levels: as name of the continent, but also of a small region in Thrace, constituting the immediate hinterland of Constantinople. The Byzantine capital was thus somehow the “most European” city that could be imagined, but a European consciousness did not play a role in Byzantine political self-definition, as the empire stretched over two continents, Asia and Europe, and, last but not least, the Sea and islands in between. 129 To conclude: Although it has been claimed that the Pirenne thesis can no longer serve as an inspiration for further debate 130 its effective influence has proved to be rather long-lived. On the one hand, the Mediterranean aspects of Carolingian history still occupy a peripheral position in general views of the Carolingian empire, though they certainly have gained growing attention in recent research. On the other hand, very little if any space is devoted to Carolingian transformations in recent Mediterranean histories. 131 While the Mediterranean of

126

127

128

129 130

131

Cf. Widukind, Sachsengeschichte (I 34, p.48): patre tuo, cuius potentiae maiestatem non solum Germania, Italia atque Gallia, sed tota fere Europa non sustinet; I 41, p.60: defunctus est ipse rerum dominus et regum maximus Europae. Cf. Gollwitzer (1951, p.165); Oschema (2013,

pp.155-157).The subtle interpretations given by Fischer (1957, pp.98-104) perhaps go too far. For the ancient tradition on the geographical extension of Europe see Hay (1957, pp.2-4); Oschema (2013, pp.88-91). It became the standard model for Medieval thought combined with scriptural exegesis on the sons of Noah, see Fischer (1957, pp.10-23); Hay (1957, pp.7-15, 3748); I (1999, pp.145-148); Herbers (2007, pp.22-24); Oschema (2013, pp.107-119, 336-339). The relevance of these categories of spatial thinking in Carolingian times has been shown by Anton (2000, pp.36-37, 43-44, 54-63; for the use of the term “Italy” see also Zimmermann (1974, pp.380-382). For Byzantine conceptions of Europe see Koder (1987, pp.64-71); Hiestand (1991, p.41). See Szabó (2004, p.464): “Zwar ist der Disput längst verklungen und dient auch nicht mehr als Ansporn zu neuen Untersuchungen, doch erinnert sich die Forschung noch gern daran.” Cf. Carpentier and Lebrun (1998, pp.142-160) focusing nearly exclusively on Byzantine-Arab antagonism; Abulafia (2011, pp.241-258) with only some short statements on the Carolingians (pp.251-252).

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the 9 century might easily be called a “Muslim lake” 132, the Carolingian empire is not only firmly located within Europe but also understood as a main step on the way to present “European identity”, sometimes too easily equated with the European Union. Yet, some decades ago, a prestigious Settimana di Studio in Spoleto had already appealed for a reconsideration of the seemingly unquestioned equation of “Carolingian Europe” and “the birth of Europe”. 133 It cannot be denied that some Carolingian intellectuals had ideas about Europe, but certainly not about “the Mediterranean”. Nevertheless, the fields of political interaction between Carolingian rulers and other Mediterranean powers were manifold as we have seen, ranging from the exchange of rich diplomatic gifts to fierce military confrontations, which sometimes even carried religious undertones. The relative importance of the Mediterranean dimension in Carolingian “foreign relations” is even more striking in comparison with their Merovingian predecessors: Instigated by Byzantine demands some Austrasian kings had invadth ed Northern Italy in the 6 century and had erected their temporary dominion over parts of Liguria and Venetia (Ewig, 1983, pp.12-13, 18-25, 42-48; Lounghis, 1980, pp.92-101; Drauschke, 2011, pp.248-257). But besides such episodes the Merovingian dynasty, perhaps due to its long-lasting bloody intestine struggles, did not show a permanent political orientation towards the Mediterranean: their Constantinopolitan contacts seem to disappear completely after 640 nor did the emerging Arab power play any role in the politics of the first royal Frankish dynasty. 134 Pirenne, nevertheless, regarded them still as part of the Mediterranean world. For the Carolingian age, instead, he emphasized separation – characterized by a constitutive dichotomy between “Europe” and “Islam”. Oversimplified, this conception easily leads to even more questionable concepts, be they “clashes of civilizations” – unknown to the Carolingian age – or speculative assumptions about the helpful role Islam might have played in the assumed creation of a “European identity” (Dursteler, 2011, pp.414-415). Rigid spatial classifications such as those underlying Pirenne’s thesis are thus of little help for historical considerations and easily slide into skew conceptions. It is obvious that the Mediterranean sphere – though not yet emerging as a category of spatial thought – played a significant role for the complex political realities of the Carolingian age; and therefore in turn the Carolingian factor should not be excluded from the multiple realities of the Mediterranean past.

132 133 134

This circumstance, however, did not impede Christian travellers to cross it: cf. Halevi (1998). For a critical assessment of this concept and its historiographical contexts see Capitani (1981). For the last attestations of Byzantine-Merovingian diplomatic exchange see Ewig (1983, pp.5152, 56); Lounghis (1980, pp.107-108, 110-111); Drauschke (2011, pp.257-258).

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Thesaurus Linguae Latinae, 1966. vol.8: M, Leipzig: Teubner. Theuws, F., 2012. River-based Trade Centres in Early Medieval Northwestern Europe. Some ‘Reactionary’ Thoughts. In: Gelichi, S. and Hodges, R., eds., From One Sea to Another. Trading Places in the European and Mediterranean Early Middle Ages. Turnhout: Brepols, pp.25-45. Thümmel, H.G., 1999. Die Stellung des Westens zum byzantinischen Bilderstreit des 8./9. Jahrhunderts. In: Christin, O. and Gamboni, D., eds., Crises de l’image religieuse: de Nicée II à Vatican II. Paris: Editions de la Maison des Sciences de l‘homme, pp.5574. Tremp, E., 2002. Zwischen Paderborn und Barcelona. König Ludwig von Aquitanien und die Auseinandersetzungen des Karlsreichs mit dem Islam. In: Godman, P., Jarnut, J. and Johanek, P., eds., Am Vorabend der Kaiserkrönung. Das Epos “Karolus Magnus et Leo papa” und der Papstbesuch in Paderborn 799. Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, pp.283299. van Dam, R., 1992. The Pirenne Thesis and Fifth-century Gaul. In: Drinkwater, J. and Elton, H., eds., Fifth-century Gaul: A crisis of identity? Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp.321-333. Verhulst, A., 1993. Marchés, marchands et commerce au haut moyen âge dans l’historiographie récente. In: Mercati e mercanti nell’alto medioevo. L’area euroasiatica e l’area mediterranea. Settimane di Studio 40. Spoleto: Centro Italiano di Studi sull’alto medioevo, pp.23-43. – 2002. The Carolingian Economy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Verlinden, C., 1956. Henri Pirenne. In: Architects and Craftsmen in History. Festschrift für Abbott Payson Usher. Tübingen: Mohr, pp.85-100. Walafrid Strabo, Glossa Ordinaria, Evangelium secundum Matthaeum. In: PL 114, coll.63-178. Werner, K.F., 1990. Hludovicus augustus. Gouverner l’empire chrétien – Idées et réalités. In: Godman, P. and Collins, R., eds., Charlemagne’s Heir. New Perspectives on the Reign of Louis the Pious (814–840). Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp.3-123. – 1980a. Missus – Marchio – Comes. Entre l’administration centrale et l’administration locale de l’Empire carolingien. In: Paravicini, W. and Werner, K.F., eds., Histoire compae e rée de l’administration (IV –XVIII siècles). München, Zürich: Artemis, pp.191-239. – 1980b. L’empire carolingien et le Saint Empire. In: Duverger, M., ed., Le concept d’Empire. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, pp.151-198. West, G.V.B., 1999. Charlemagne’s Involvement in Central and Southern Italy: Power and the Limits of Authority. Early Medieval Europe 8, pp.341-367. Widukind, Die Sachsengeschichte des Widukind von Korvei, ed. P. Hirsch, 1935. Month umenta Germaniae Historica Scriptores rerum Germanicarum, 5 ed. Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung. Wieck, A., 2008. From Pax Romana to Pax Americana, 1789–1995. The Idea of the Mediterranean in the French Imaginary Between Orientalism and Altermondialism. In: Petricioli, M., ed., L’Europe méditerranéenne – Mediterranean Europe. Brussels et al.: Peter Lang, pp.49-74. Winkler, H.A., 2009. Geschichte des Westens. vol.1: Von den Anfängen in der Antike bis zum 20. Jahrhundert. Munich: Beck. Wolfram, H., 1967. Intitulatio I: Lateinische Königs- und Fürstentitel bis zum Ende des 8. Jahrhunderts. Mitteilungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung, Ergänzungsband 21. Graz, Vienna, Cologne: Böhlau. – 1973. Lateinische Herrschertitel im neunten und zehnten Jahrhundert. In: Wolfram, H., ed., Intitulatio II: Lateinische Herrscher- und Fürstentitel im neunten und zehnten

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gänzungsband 24. Graz, Vienna, Cologne: Böhlau, pp.19-178. Ziemann, D., 2007. Vom Wandervolk zur Großmacht. Die Entstehung Bulgariens im frühen Mittelalter (7.–9. Jahrhundert). Cologne, Weimar, Vienna: Böhlau. Zimmermann, H., 1974. Imperatores Italiae. In: Beumann, W., ed., Historische Forschungen für Walter Schlesinger. Cologne, Vienna: Böhlau, pp.379-399. – 1983. Aux origines de la Catalogne: géographie politique et affirmation nationale. Le Moyen Age 89, pp.5-40.

MARTIN BAUMEISTER

The Return of Ulysses. Varieties of the ‘New Mediterranean’ between Mediterraneanism and Southern Thought It is rather unusual that a serious historical study begins with a declaration of love for its subject. This is particularly surprising in the case of a monumental French thèse. The author of what would become one of the classical works of historiography of the last century, whose first version was published in 1949, chose this rhetorical figure in the famous first sentence of the introduction to his book: “J’ai passionnément aimé la Méditerranée, sans doute parce que venu du Nord, comme tant d’autres, après tant d’autres. Je lui aurai consacré avec joie de longues années d’études - pour moi bien plus que toute ma jeunesse. En revanche, j’espère qu’un peu de cette joie et beaucoup de sa lumière éclaireront les pages de ce livre.”

Fernand Braudel appealed to his readers in a quite suggestive way: “Le lecteur qui voudra aborder ce livre comme je le souhaite, fera donc bien d’apporter ses propres souvenirs, ses visions de la mer Intérieure et, à son tour, d’en colorer mon texte, de m’aider à recréer cette vaste présence, ce à quoi je me suis efforcé autant que je l’ai pu…” (Braudel, 1982. vol.1, p.10)

What Italy had been for Goethe, Algeria was for the French historian. Braudel, coming from North-eastern France, knew the Mediterranean world, having lived there ten years, between 1923 and 1932, as a secondary school teacher at Constantine. His monumental La Méditerranée et le monde méditerranéen à l’epoque de Philippe II, drafted far away in a German prisoner of war camp during World War II, was to become one of the most famous works about the Mediterranean and perhaps the most influential one in the humanities to look at the ‘interior sea’. Braudel considered this extensive geographical space, “cette vaste présence”, as an “espace mouvement”, connecting different or even opposed political, cultural and religious spheres. In his histoire totale that crossed the borders between geography and history as well as between historiography and literature the sea appeared as a personality of its own and the historian as her biographer. What Braudel presents is a history of the Mediterranean, not in the Mediterranean (Horden and Purcell, 2000, p.9).

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The ‘New Mediterranean’ Few historians dared to follow Braudel’s challenge of a Mediterranean history, but he was not the first to conceive of the Mediterranean, the sea and the regions and countries surrounding it, as a historical region, a spatial unity characterized by distinctive structural features and a world of its own. In the brief introductory citations, one can discover a series of well established topoi concerning the ‘interior sea’: its position somewhere between north and south, the south’s attractiveness for northerners, its particular emotional quality expressed by its light, synonymous with clarity, beauty and reason, filling the foreigner with a genuinely “Mediterranean passion” (Pemble, 1987). Braudel’s Mediterranean was not a tabula rasa. It was not only a more or less clearly marked geographic unity, an immutable physical reality. Above all, it was th a European ‘invention’ dating back to the 18 century and shaped, among other factors, by colonial expansion and the rise of the nation state. In modern Europe the Mediterranean became an ambiguous space, marginalized after the shift of political and economic hegemony to the Atlantic West, a chronotope (Mikhail Bakhtin), a “geographization of historical time” (Rancière, 1994, p.82, qtd. in Fogu, 2010, p.2), marked by the deep contrast between ancient greatness and present backwardness, a site of ruins testifying to ancient splendour and a region lacking modern progress and development. This ‘new Mediterranean’ was perceived as a place of origin, of encounter and conflict, where three continents met, where the three great monotheistic religions had emerged and intermingled and the ambitions of imperial powers clashed. It was an inexhaustible source of fascination for the European imagination, a favourite topic of travel writing and novels, the attraction for artists, a region with plenty of pilgrimage and archaeological sites central to European cultural identity, be it Jerusalem, Athens or Rome. Since th the late 18 century, the Mediterranean region was seen in a new way as a unit characterized by historical and cultural factors as well as by ‘objective’ natural criteria of climate, geology, fauna and flora. The occupation of Egypt by French troops, which were accompanied by a scholarly commission, from 1798 to 1801, is considered a key moment of this ‘invention’ of the ‘new Mediterranean’. It opened a new colonial era, when European powers, France and Great Britain, and later on Spain and Italy, struggled to succeed the decaying Ottoman Empire by military power as well as by the means of Western science and economic supremacy. The construction of the Suez Canal in the 1860s increased its high strategic and economic value. As the destination for cultural practices like the Grand Tour and tourism, as well as being the site of increasing geographical and archaeological research, the Mediterranean became the object of intense scientific study and of rich literary and artistic production. The perception and representation of this European Mediterranean was dominated by two overlapping modes, classicism and Orientalism (JiratWasiutyńsky, 2007). Scholars, writers, and poets like Winckelmann and Goethe, Wilhelm von Humboldt and Hölderlin, contributed to creating a neo-classical cul-

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ture which conceived of the ancient Mediterranean world of Athens and Rome and its achievements as a moral example and model to be followed by a new Europe of national communities. Historicism and science influenced the transformation of the European elites’ relationship to the Mediterranean, confronting them with the double challenge of recovering the precious treasures of an inexhaustible cultural heritage, on the one hand, and, on the other, of modernizing the south which was seen as an increasingly backward periphery of the dynamic Western and Northern European core. In a neo-humanistic and classical view of the Mediterranean, the Mare Nostrum was considered the ‘cradle of Western civilisation’ or, as Paul Valéry put it in a well known phrase on the eve of World War II, “une véritable machine à fabriquer de la civilisation” (Valéry, 1960, p.1084). Already for Hegel the Mediterranean, as the “heart of the ancient world”, had been the “uniting principle” and “the centre of the world” (see e.g. Guarracino, 2007, pp.102-103). The formation of this perspective was accompanied and influenced by an orientalising view where the people of the Mediterranean seemed to live in a timeless, static world and appeared as the ‘other’ of European modernity, plagued by all kinds of deficits, a lack of reason, progress, and order. The Mediterranean, together with Asia and the area of Byzantine Christianity, in an undefined geography formed the vague, imaginary area of the ‘Orient’ against which modern Europe was constructed (Dainotto, 2007, p.52). Orientalism prepared a dramatic shift in the discourse of Europe from an antithetical construction of identity against an absolute other to the assimilation of otherness. The south, including the Mediterranean, became the repository zone of the exotic other within an internal frontier of Europe. It represents a compensatory principle to the north which, for its part, is seen as a problematic modernity. This principle is not strictly defined as a place, but as a direction, a movement from an original south to a progressive north (Dainotto, 2000). From its beginnings, the ‘new Mediterranean’ tended to be transformed from a concrete physical place into an abstract principle. But even as a material space and historical landscape, its limits often are not so clear. According to Braudel, there is a transhistorical, timeless concept of a smaller Mediterranean defined by climate and geography, by the often cited “trinity”, “fille du climat” (Braudel, 1982, vol.1, p.215), of the olive tree, wheat and wine. The climate unifies landscape and ways of life in the longue durée. In Braudel’s view, space as a physical category turns into a human unit, characterized by a specific economical “model”, a common cultural base and a particular geopolitical position of the area surrounding the sea. Commerce and economy constitute, in the era under his examination, a wider concept of a “greater Mediterranean” which can include Antwerp and places even far more remote (Horden and Purcell, 2006, p.725). Among its essential traits are its liquidity and the fluidity of its limits which embody some of the very essence of a global modernity. More than other geographical spaces, the Mediterranean is a mythical place, a product of powerful representations in the European ‘imaginaire’. The mythical figure of Ulysses appears as an existential metaphor of the Mediterranean, the hero of voyage and return who is a personifi-

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cation of the tension between land and sea, of movement, crossing and adventurous encounter (Cacciari, 1997; Cassano, 2011, pp.43-46). Ancient images of the sea, to be found among others in the Odyssey, as a site of risk and danger, as the expression of the cruelty of nature, in the contemporary era have been overlapped and superseded by the idea of the Mediterranean as a place of light, harmony and beauty, of nostalgic longing and utopian fulfilment (Bono, 2008, pp.185-202; Ilbert and Fabre, eds., 2000). This is, however, a clearly European perspective. The Italian historian Salvatore Bono has stressed that in the majority of the non-European countries bordering on the Mediterranean the sea did scarcely inspire literary and artistic production. In these countries one can find mistrust and hostility towards the Mediterranean rather than a sense of unity and a positive consciousness about it (Bono, 2008, p.200). “The Mediterranean and the discourse on it are inseparable from each other” (Matvejević, 2007, p.21). 1 This statement does not only refer to myth and literary fiction. Modern science, primarily human geography, has been essential for the construction of the Sea’s image on the European mental maps. The French geographer Élisée Reclus was the first scholar who, in the 1870s, considered the Mediterranean as an entity of its own. According to him, it was not only a geophysical space, but a historical, economical and cultural one which as a particular sea, as “the axis of the civilization” had a pre-eminence over all other seas (Ruel, 1991, p.9). Reclus was followed by other geographers such as the German Alfred Philippson or Reclus’ compatriot André Siegfried who published allencompassing studies on the Mediterranean as a particular geo-cultural space, before Braudel after the Second World War successfully challenged geography’s preeminence in Mediterranean studies in favour of history (Philippson, 1904; Siegfried, 1943). In 1895, half a century before Braudel, the Austrian scholar Eduard von Wilczek had written the first history of the Mediterranean world in the form of a sample of ‘genre pictures’. Von Wilczek saw the Mediterranean Basin in the “centre of the world interests”, where according to him there rose a “‘Middle Empire’ in a higher and truer sense”. Perhaps he was the first in using a later on widespread metaphor, defining the Mediterranean as “the cradle of the fertile and radiating human ideas” (qtd. in Bono, 2005, p.655). And prior to Braudel, already under the aegis of the Annales, the French ethno-historian Charles Parain published in 1936 a study on a Mediterranean of infrastructures, of “natural resources, fields and villages, of the variety of property regimes, of maritime life, pastoral and agricultural life, of professions and techniques” (qtd. in Bromberger, 2001, p.67). And with a similar emphasis to that which Braudel would later have, the Belgian historian Henri Pirenne, in his classical posthumous work of 1937 Mahomet et Charlemagne, characterized the unity of the Mediterranean as the great legacy of the Roman Empire:

1

All translations of quotes from the Italian are mine, MB.

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“De tous les caractères de cette admirable construction humaine que fut l’Empire romain, le plus frappant et aussi le plus essentiel est son caractère méditerranéen. C’est par là que [...] son unité se communique à l’ensemble des provinces. La Mer, dans toute la force du terme la Mare nostrum, véhicule des idées, des religions, des marchandises. Les provinces du Nord [...] ne sont que des glacis avancés contre la barbarie. La vie se concentre au bord du grand lac.” (Pirenne, 1992, p.3)

Mediterranean Studies and the Charges of Mediterraneanism With Braudel, Mediterranean historiography undoubtedly reached its peak. There are even good reasons to affirm the assertion of Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell, that in Mediterranean studies Braudel marks an end rather than a beginning, his work “bringing to summation and close an entire epoch in Mediterranean scholarship” (Horden and Purcell, 2000, p.37, p.39). Due to his own standards, Braudel did find few followers of his work. But more importantly, Mediterranean studies after La Méditerranée entered a new phase, leading in a fundamental critique of its basic assumptions and its academic practices. By the late 1950s a new discipline was emerging: Mediterranean anthropology, a creation by Anglo-Saxon ethnologists who discovered the ‘interior sea’ in the political context of decolonisation, shifting their fieldwork from overseas to less dangerous sites in countries bordering on the Mediterranean, while at the same time maintaining their ethnological approach of studying the ‘exotic’ and the ‘primitive’. th While Braudel had analysed the Mediterranean world of the 16 century as a core region of the rise of modern civilization, British and American anthropologists tried to study, in isolated village communities, a seemingly archaic rural world, characterised by a dual value system of honour and shame, by “amoral familism” and patron-client-relationships as the prevailing mode of social integration (e.g. Davis, 1977). Braudel had proclaimed his faith in the unity and coherence of the Mediterranean world determined by natural geographical traits as well as by processes of communication and exchanges. The representatives of the new Mediterranean anthropology, however, in their ruralist emphasis conceived of the region first of all as an agglomeration of remote villages, completely neglecting urban traditions of learning, commerce and complex interrelations that for Braudel and others had been constituent of a “Mediterranean civilization” (de Pina-Cabral, 1989, p.405). Many of them agreed in analyzing the Mediterranean as a ‘culture area’, characterised by common social structures and values, which “shows both an internal cohesiveness in moral-cognitive terms and a perspicuous trait enclosure in space” (Gilmore, 1987, p.3). It was in this relatively young discipline, however, that serious critiques against European resp. Western approaches of Mediterranean studies arose. For the most part, the Anglo-Saxons had ignored local traditions of research which, together with the academic influence from Britain and the U.S., in the 1980s contributed to the establishment of social and cultural anthropology as its own area of study in the respective countries, partly rather criti-

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cal with foreign colleagues and their methodological presumptions (e.g. Llobera, 1986). The rise of the anthropology of the Mediterranean in France, for example, built on particular national currents of thought and academic traditions such as French human geography and the work of the Annales school of historical studies, intellectual discourses about la Méditerranée of the interwar years and the quest for supposed common traits of the Mediterranean ‘universe’ in different disciplines like archaeology, ethnology or sociology (Bromberger, 2001). The critics of Mediterranean studies principally refer to three crucial points: that the Mediterranean, instead of being a physical reality, is just an intellectual construction; that this construction is deformed by its ideological content and political bias, informed by colonialism, imperialism and euro-centrism, and that it generally carries a heavy cultural freight (e.g. Horden and Purcell, 2006, pp.725726). Criticism culminates in the accusation of ‘Mediterraneanism’, a concept coined in analogy with Said’s ‘Orientalism’ (Herzfeld, 1984; Herzfeld, 1987), which points out the highly problematic essentialising of a culture area and its inherent logics of power and hierarchy. Mediterraneists are accused by their critics of exoticising and homogenising their object and of stressing its uniqueness by choosing a restricted field of comparison. The term ‘Mediterranean’ according to such an interpretation would be a kind of political weapon, a legitimisation of northern hegemony: “a means of distinguishing ‘us’ – northern European, advanced, diverse – from ‘them’ – southern, backward, uniform” (Horden and Purcell, 2006, p.20, p.486).

Mediterranean Politics In the light of this critique, the ideological baggage of contemporary ideas of the Mediterranean comes to the fore. Academic debates and analysis of the Mediterranean world had never been detached clearly from their political contexts and ideological interests and it is thanks to this criticism, particularly since the 1980s, that these reciprocal interdependences and influences have been pointed out and made transparent. In any case, there is a Mediterranean beyond, and sometimes in spite of, the critique of ‘Mediterraneanism’. In the 1990s, older concepts of the Mediterranean Sea as an area of intercontinental contact and interchanges between different cultures and civilizations were revitalized in the context of the socalled Barcelona Process, initiated by the European Union and formalized in the Barcelona declaration of 1995. This document was signed by the Ministers of Foreign Affairs of the Union’s members and all the countries bordering on the sea except Libya, but including the non-bordering states of Jordan and Portugal (European Union. External Action, n.d.; Euro-Mediterranean Conference, 1995). The Euro-Mediterranean partnership proclaimed in the Catalan capital was aimed at creating a Mediterranean area of peace, security and prosperity, and contributed, among others, to the proliferation of academic meetings, associations and the foundation of a series of centres and institutions with their respective publica-

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tions, journals and book series (Alcock, 2005; Bono, 2008, pp.7-8). The multiplication of academic and cultural activities referring to the Mediterranean – which in many cases can be seen as a mere “recycling of old ‘Mediterraneist’ positions” (Horden and Purcell, 2006, p.730) 2 - ran parallel to the southern and south-eastern expansion of the European Community, by which the Community’s Mediterranean coastline was enlarged many times over. For good reason, the so called Euro-Mediterranean partnership has been criticised for its programmatic vagueness and poverty of content, the priority of economic aspects as well as its bias towards problems of security and stability, particularly regarding the regulation of migration and the control of Europe’s southern frontier, and generally its paternalism and one-sided consideration of European interests (e.g. Bono, 2008, pp.164-171). The Mediterranean Union, launched in 2008 by the then President of France, Nicolas Sarkozy, was a further step in watering down a common Mediterranean project of European and non-European countries. The two recent initiatives of promoting an international Mediterranean partnership illustrate how the geographical concept of the sea is addressed by European powers as a political space of strategic importance, of contact, exchange and control. The rise of the idea of a ‘new Mediterranean’ in contemporary Europe was closely linked to its politicisation, corresponding to geopolitical changes, i.e. shifting power relations mainly between European and non-European countries. One consequence of the critique of ‘Mediterraneanism’ might be the urgent need to historicise these kinds of political projects referring to the sea, which belong to the sphere of the ‘ideas’ of the Mediterranean, of elaborated, structured visions of the sea, in contrast to the wider reign of its ‘images’, aesthetic expressions and representations (Bono, 2008, pp.184-229). A significant example could be utopian Saint-Simonean projects of the 1830s which contributed to conceiving of the Mediterranean as a coherent, united political space, the “nuptial bed of Occident and Orient”, where a new order of peace should be constructed (Izzo and Fabry, eds., 2000, pp.29-36). A century later, two opposed visions of the Mediterranean clashed: the Fascist project of an Italian Mare Nostrum to be established by military means, a “new Mediterranean order” of a reborn Latin Empire under the sign of the colonial racist idea of romanità on the one side (Rodogno, 2006, pp.42-71) and on the other, at least to all appearances, an anticolonialist Mediterranean humanism, the dream of a dialogue encompassing all cultures, races and religions present on the shores of the sea, which was articulated by French intellectuals living in Algiers like Gabriel Audisio and Albert Camus who gathered around the Cahiers du Sud, published in Marseille (Izzo and Fabry, eds., 2000, pp.61-68; Témime, 2002, pp.89-116; Foxlee, 2010). In 1942, in the middle of World War II, the French historian and archaeologist Fernand Benoît, in defiance of the danger coming from the north, exalted in the Cahiers du Sud a utopian vision of the Mediterranean as a synthesis of Orient and Occident, repre2

Bono (2008, p.7) cites Matvejević who ironically maintains that the discourse on the Mediterranean has been suffering from the “Mediterranean loquacity” (see Matvejević, 2007, p.21).

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senting “un type d’humanité éternel” (qtd. in Bromberger, 2001, p.69). Half a century later, the Barcelona Declaration gave a very sober view of the ‘interior sea’, referring only briefly and in very general terms to “the privileged nature of the links forged by neighbourhood and history” (Euro-Mediterranean Conference, 1995) as an explanation of the coherence of the Mediterranean. Recent political projects concerning the Mediterranean have to cope with the ambivalent geopolitical heritage deriving from the eras of imperialism, colonialism and of post-war decolonisation and will continue to carry their remnants with them. This is also the case in the completely changing situation of the upheavals of the ‘Arab Spring’ which presents new challenges to the Mediterranean from a European perspective.

Mediterranean Studies after Mediterraneanism? In any case, it is noteworthy that even the critics of ‘Mediterraneanism’ haven’t discarded completely the sense of ‘Mediterranean studies’. Michael Herzfeld sees at least two possibilities to use the ‘Mediterranean’ as an analytical tool without falling into the trap of essentialisation: firstly, to study ‘Mediterranean’ identities as performative acts; secondly, to use a clearly constructivist approach in defining a Mediterranean area of research (Herzfeld, 2001; Herzfeld, 2005). Herzfeld asks “why does it matter to people to ‘be’ Mediterranean” (Herzfeld, 2005, p.51), and whether people invoke the idea of a shared Mediterranean identity as performative utterances and strategies of self-stereotyping, “that can, under the right ‘felicity conditions’, actually create the realities that people perceive” (Herzfeld, 2005, p.50). Instead of insisting on an idea of “fixed identities”, of “countrylike ‘cultures’ with neatly drawn boundaries and countable sets of culture traits” he prefers to “focus on how discourses on common identity are used by social actors, to what ends and to what effects” (Herzfeld, 2001, p.68). This approach would be suited particularly for social and cultural anthropology as well as cultural studies. Furthermore, however, he argues in favour of a wider category of the ‘Mediterranean’ as a general research agenda in the humanities, which according to him belongs to the group of “scholarly classifications shoring up the boundaries of existing disciplines or [...] for defining new alliances and agglomerations capable of generating novel and interesting heuristic options”, and which is able to open up possibilities “to get away from the tiresome ontological debate and to focus instead on issues of power and hierarchy” (Herzfeld, 2001, p.68). As an impressive example of such a type of conceiving of the Mediterranean, Herzfeld cites the most ambitious attempt at writing a history of the Mediterranean Sea after Braudel, the monumental work by the medievalist Peregrine Horden and the classicist Nicholas Purcell with the intention of continuing Mediterranean Studies into the third millenium. In The Corrupting Sea, the first of two planned volumes about Mediterranean history over two thousand years, from the beginning of the first millennium B.C. to the end of the first millennium A.D., the

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British scholars present a revision of Braudel, whose approach and style they consider as too impressionistic and romantic – “a historical panorama, a massive picture full of engaging detail” - and whose ideas of the unity of the sea and the nature of continuity in the Mediterranean they don’t share (Horden and Purcell, 2000, p.42, p.464). For their part, they advocate the ideal of a problem-based historiography instead of histoire totale on a Braudelian scale (Horden and Purcell, 2000, p.44). With the French historian they share, however, the purpose of writing a history of rather than in the Mediterranean (Horden and Purcell, 2000, p.9 and passim). Horden and Purcell are well informed about a wide range of disciplines dealing with the Mediterranean Sea as a historical resp. culture area as well as of critical discussions of ‘Mediterraneism’ and constructivism all of which they try to consider in their own project. Starting from Braudel’s first part of La Méditerranée and its discussion of the ‘constants’ of human geography, they develop an ‘ecological’ approach which focuses on the “many-faceted interaction between humanity and environment” (Horden and Purcell, 2000, p.45), which cannot be caught up in the fixed categories or typologies preferred by Braudel like cities, kinds of commodities, routes and roads (Shaw, 2001, pp.426-27). Instead of Braudel’s predilection for vivid literary metaphors, they prefer the “objective” language of science. In this way, the Mediterranean appears, in a term borrowed from mathematics, as a “fuzzy set” characterised by a certain vagueness, lacking a hard and fast unity, clear external boundaries and an internal homogeneity (Horden and Purcell, 2000, p.45). The idea of unity is replaced by that of cohesiveness. Connectivity, another term taken from mathematics, serves as the key concept that describes the cohesiveness of the Mediterranean world, which Horden and Purcell see as an intensely fragmented sample of microregions dispersed around the sea: “the various ways in which microregions cohere, both internally and also one with another – in aggregates that may range in size from small clusters to something approaching the size of the entire Mediterranean” (Horden and Purcell, 2000, p.123).The two historians highlight the dialectical contradiction of the sea that both isolates and links. The lines of connectivity, of exchange and redistribution, which united the Mediterranean, according to the two historians were never truly broken during the huge period considered by them (Shaw, 2001, p.425). In the last part of their book, Horden and Purcell rather surprisingly leave behind their own explanatory model in order to explore the geography of religion as well as common social structures and moral codes of the Mediterranean. Although it has been recognised that in these chapters “the reader has an almost palpable sense that the authors are stepping into terra incognita”, they have incurred some criticism because of the general character of their explanations, which “are so broadly systemic in nature that they are in danger of becoming a universal solvent” with the risk of tautology and “no way of coping with qualitative shifts in both scale and time” (Shaw, 2001, p.448, p.452). Furthermore, according to their critics, their “history of the Mediterranean threatens to leave big and persistent structures like the city, the state, the army, and the church and the mosque with no clear place” (Shaw,

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2001, p.434, p.447). 3 Unintentionally, the British historians in this way approach Braudel’s structuralist Mediterranean which they want to overcome. But even in the face of deconstructivism and charges of essentialising the Mediterranean, Braudel’s project of conceiving of the Mediterranean as a coherent unique culture area with deep historical roots has not died. The Italian historian Salvatore Bono argues in favour of a “new history of the Mediterranean” as a continuation and deepening of the cultural agenda of the Barcelona process, which, in spite of all high-sounding declarations, has only produced some meagre results. Bono’s “altra storia” of the Mediterranean has a clearly political perspective. By discovering, studying and writing a shared history, people living on all the shores of the sea should overcome racist and nationalist prejudice and fanaticism and should be empowered to find a common identity. With such a key, history should foster a memory of common experiences and a sense of a common destiny, and become a means of creating a spirit of dialogue and pacific coexistence (Bono, 2008, pp.251-95). Bono in this highly idealistic view claims a common responsibility of the people of the Mediterranean, rooted in the consciousness of belonging to a wider historical and cultural community which materialises in physical th th space. As such, it continues older traditions, going back to the 19 and 20 centuries, of conceiving of the ‘interior sea’ as a region of crossing, encounter and tolerance. Other scholars go still some steps further than Bono, by claiming the ‘alterity’ of the Mediterranean (Fogu, 2010, pp.11-21). Following Jacques Derrida’s call for ‘provincialising’ Europe as a “small cape of the Asian continent” instead of its pretensions to be “the most precious part of the world, the crown of the planet” (Derrida, 1992, p.21), the Italian sociologist Franco Cassano and some of his followers proceed to a radical re-evaluation of ‘Mediterraneanism’. Inspired by Albert Camus’ concept of “pensée de midi” of the early 1950s (Camus, 1951; Cassano, 2011, pp.79-105), they claim the (self-) emancipation of a ‘south’ which is not longer a defective mirror of the ‘north’, marginalised and plagued by backwardness and underdevelopment, the “disease of the world”, according to the logic of orientalism. Counter to Said and the critics of ‘Mediterraneanism’, Cassano (1998; 2001; 2011) maintains a real ‘otherness’ which has to be conceived of in a new way, doing justice to what he sees as true differences, beyond charges of a pathological, faulty modernity. The claim for the autonomy of the ‘south’, Cassano’s project “to restitute to it its ancient dignity of a subject of thought, to interrupt a long sequence during which it has been thought only by others” (Cassano, 2011, p.VIII), emanates from the “challenge of the sea”. Cassano revives the idea of the Mediterranean, “the sea between lands, a sea that separates and links”, as a site of encounter, of fusion and hybridisation, and transforms it into a 3

See the authors’ extensive response to some of their critics (Horden and Purcell, 2005). Recently, it has been maintained that due to its methodological inadequacies “Horden and Purcell’s book seems so anachronistic as to have been written at the end of the nineteenth century” (Fogu, 2010, p.3).

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symbolical landscape of a “great epistemological force” (Cassano, 2001, p.3, p.5). The south, embodied by the sea, a “paradoxical centre” situated on the borderline, is a concrete subject, a collective being, and at the same time represents a way of thinking, “southern thought”, “succinctly criticizing the pretense of northwestern thinking that presents itself as ‘uni-versal’ and, therefore, the only way of thinking” (Cassano, 2001, p.2). Measure and balance, slowness against unbound capitalist rhythms of time are the principles of this “southern thought”, directed against all kinds of fundamentalism and aspirations of hegemony. “The physical unity of the Mediterranean isn’t an invention by tourism, but a common anchorage against the divisions, the physical and material anchorage for a big common fatherland, a root of stone and sea which is stronger than the diversity, of that drift of continents, religions and ethnic pride from which incessantly arises the integralist temptation.” (Cassano, qtd. in Goffredo, 2000, p.19).

Notwithstanding his references to a concrete physical space, Cassano’s south tends to dissolve into a rather liquid entity and an abstract principle, a kind of ‘Mediterraneanism’ turned positively, with an unmistakeably European flavour. In a speculative, fascinating attempt at studying the Mediterranean south as a physical, material and social reality, Iain Chambers, referring to Walter Benjamin and postcolonial theory, presents Naples as an emblematic city of an alternative “porous modernity”, which “proposes its own particular configuration of modern life”. As a “worldly setting”, a “potential paradigm of the city after modernity”, which introduces “the uneven and the unplanned, the contingent, the historical”, it reveals, as he supposes, “less about its own obvious shortcomings than about the limits and illusions of modernity itself” (Chambers, 2008, p.74, pp.86-87). The boom in Mediterranean studies of the 1990s has, without any doubt, come to an end. The works of Horden and Purcell, Bono, Cassano, Chambers and many others, however, give clear evidence of the interest and even passion that the Mediterranean continues to arouse among scholars of various disciplines (e.g. Petrov, ed., 2013). There remains the problem of coping with the criticism of ‘Mediterraneanism’, given the close interconnection between Mediterranean studies and politically and culturally induced mental mapping of the interior sea. The main challenge for future research, however, seems to overcome the fundamental shortcomings of a more or less European Mediterranean, to realize the claim of bridging over the sea and connecting the European and non-European shores in a common perspective. It is evident that the Barcelona process has failed. And up to now, there are only few serious attempts at de-europeanising what appears to be a predominantly European ‘interior sea’.

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Bibliography Alcock, S.E., 2005. Alphabet Soup in the Mediterranean Basin: The Emergence of the Mediterranean Serial. In: Harris, W.V., ed., 2005. Rethinking the Mediterranean. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp.314-336. Bono, S., 2005. Il Mediterraneo prima di Braudel: Das Mittelmeer di Eduard von Wilczek. In: Scaramella, P., ed., 2005. Alberto Tenenti. Scritti in memoria. Naples: Bibliopolis, pp.651-654. Bono, S., 2008. Un altro Mediterraneo. Una storia comune fra scontri e integrazioni. Rome: Salerno Editrice. Braudel, F., 1982. La Méditerranée et le monde méditerranéen à l’époque de Philippe II. th 2 vols. 5 ed. Paris: Armand Colin. Bromberger, C., 2001. Aux trois sources de l’ethnologie du monde méditerranéen dans la tradition française. In: Albera, D., Blok, A. and Bromberger, C., eds., 2001. L’anthropologie de la Méditerranée. Anthropology of the Mediterranean. Paris: Maisonneuve et Larose, pp.65-79. Cacciari, M., 1997. L’arcipelago. Milan: Adelphi. Camus, A., 1951. L’homme révolté. Paris: Gallimard. Cassano, F., 1998. Paeninsula. L’Italia da ritrovare. Rome: Laterza. – 2001. Southern Thought. Thesis Eleven 67, pp.1-10. th – 2011. Il pensiero meridiano. 4 ed. Rome: Laterza. Chambers, I., 2008. Mediterranean Crossings. The Politics of an Interrupted Modernity. London: Duke University Press. Dainotto, R., 2000. A South with a View: Europe and its Other. Nepantia: Views from the South (1/2), pp.375-390. – 2007. Europe (in Theory). London: Duke University Press. Davis, J., 1977. People of the Mediterranean: An Essay in Comparative Social Anthropology. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Derrida, J., 1992. Das andere Kap. Die vertagte Demokratie. Zwei Essays zu Europa. Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp. Euro-Mediterranean Conference, 1995. Barcelona Declaration, [online]. Available at: [Accessed 18 November 2013]. European Union. External Action, n.d. The Barcelona Process, [online]. Available at: [Accessed 18 November 2013]. Fogu, C., 2010. From Mare Nostrum to Mare Aliorum: Mediterranean Theory and Mediterraneanism in Contemporary Italian Thought. California Italian Studies 1 (1) [online]. Available at: [Accessed 24 August 2013]. Foxlee, N., 2010. Albert Camus’s “The New Mediterranean Culture”: A Text and its Contexts. Bern: Peter Lang. Gilmore, D.G., 1987. Introduction: The Shame of Dishonor. In: Gilmore, D.G., ed., 1987. Honor and Shame and the Unity of the Mediterranean. Washington, D.C.: American Anthropological Association, pp.2-21. Goffredo, G., 2000. Cadmos cerca Europa. Il Sud fra il Mediterraneo e l’Europa. Turin: Bollati Boringhieri. Guarracino, S., 2007. Mediterraneo. Immagini, storie e teorie da Omero a Braudel. Milan: Mondadori.

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Herzfeld, M., 1984. The Horns of the Mediterraneanist Dilemma. American Ethnologist 11, pp.439-454. – Anthropology Through the Looking-Glass. Critical Ethnography in the Margins of Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. – 2001. Performing Comparisons: Ethnography, Globetrotting, and the Spaces of Social Knowledge. Journal of Anthropological Research 57 (3), pp.259-276. – 2005. Practical Mediterraneanism: Excuses for Everything, from Epistemology to Eating. In: W.V. Harris, ed., 2005. Rethinking the Mediterranean. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp.45-63. Horden, P. and Purcell, N., 2000. The Corrupting Sea. A Study of Mediterranean History. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing. – 2005. Four Years of Corruption: A Response to Critics. In: W.V. Harris, ed., 2005. Rethinking the Mediterranean. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp.348-375. – 2006. The Mediterranean and the “New Thalassology”. American Historical Review 111, pp.722-740. Ilbert, R. and Fabre, T., eds., 2000. Les représentations de la Méditerranée. Regards croisés sur la Méditerranée. 10 vols. Paris: Maisonneuve et Larose. Izzo, J.-C. and Fabre, T., eds., 2000. La Méditerranée française. Paris: Maisonneuve et Larose. Jirat-Wasiutyńsky, V., 2007. Modern Art and the New Mediterranean Space. In: JiratWasiutyńsky, V. with the assistance of Dymond, A., eds., 2007. Modern Art and the Idea of the Mediterranean. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, pp.3-33. Llobera, J.R., 1986. Fieldwork in Southwestern Europe: Anthropological Panacea or Epistemological Straightjacket? Critique of Anthropology 6, pp.25-33. Matvejević, P., 2007. Breviario mediterraneo. Milan: Garzanti. Pemble, J., 1987. The Mediterranean Passion. Victorians and Edwardians in the South. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Petrov, A., ed., 2013. New Geographies 5, The Mediterranean. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Graduate School of Design. Philippson, A., 1904. Das Mittelmeergebiet. Seine Geographische Und Kulturelle Eigenart. Leipzig: B.G. Teubner. de Pina-Cabral, J., 1989. The Mediterranean as a Category of Regional Comparison: A Critical View. Current Anthropology 30 (3), pp.399-406. Pirenne, H., 1992. Mahomet et Charlemagne. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Rodogno, D., 2006. Fascism’s European Empire: Italian Occupation during the Second World War. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ruel, A., 1991. L’invention de la Méditerranée. Vingtième Siècle 32 (October–December), pp.7-14. Shaw, B.D., 2001. Challenging Braudel: A New Vision of the Mediterranean. Journal of Roman Archaeology 14, pp.419-53. Siegfried, A., 1943. Vue générale de la Méditerranée. Paris: Gallimard. Témime, E., 2002. Un rêve méditerranéen. Des Saint-Simoniens aux intellectuels des années trente (1832–1962). Arles: Actes Sud. Valéry, P., 1960. Œuvres II. 2 vols. Paris: Gallimard.

HEIDRUN FRIESE

Transnational Mobilities, Digital Media and Cultural Resources Abstract (Un)documented transnational mobilities in the Mediterranean are currently at the center of political and public attention. Even after the Tunisian revolution and its demands for dignity and liberty, the desire of young men (harragas) to ‘burn their papers’, to leave their country of first citizenship and to reach Europe is still persistent. Such a desire to escape overall circumstances, however, cannot be attributed to economic reasons alone. Undocumented mobility is by no means a one-dimensional, single-layered process but it also reflects the transnational, social imaginaire and cultural resources – such as music. Media such as blogs, social networks, and YouTube contribute to the expression and dissemination of disagreement, creating a transnational socio-cultural space and public spheres in which the current (and past) situation is negotiated and contested. Whereas the role of these public spaces for the revolts is recognized, such a relation is a blind spot in research on (un)documented mobility. This paper engages cultural resources, its symbolical orders and powerful representations of harga as a practice of dissent and freedom.

Mapping the Field(s) My first fieldwork in Tunisia was in summer 2009. 1 President Zine el-Abidine Ben Ali (ZABA as everyone called him), the ‘hairdresser’ (as his wife was disrespectfully named) and the nepotist Trabelsi clan which had been in power for twenty-three years, were still in charge. I was interested in undocumented mobility. Although the right to mobility is included in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 2 undocumented mobile people encounter – not least following 1

2

These remarks are part of my last research envisioning “The Limits of Hospitality” which was hosted by the European University Viadrina and generously funded by Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (Friese, 2010; 2014). Art. 13 divides freedom of movement into three separate rights – namely to leave a country, to return to one’s own country and to have freedom of movement and residence within the borders of each state. Similar EU objectives are expressed in art. 8a, 1 of the Maastricht Treaty and reinforced by the Treaty of Amsterdam (1997). There is, however, a radical disjuncture between the freedom of exit and the freedom of entry.

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the introduction of the Schengen Treaty and the visa system in 1986 – legal systems and border regimes that limit their freedom of movement. Under pressure from the EU, several countries have signed bilateral agreements which make it a legal offence to cross borders without legitimate documents: Morocco in 2003, Algeria in 2008 and Tunisia in 2004 (Ben Cheïkh and Chekir, 2008, pp.6-8; Fargues, 2009). After carrying out fieldwork on Lampedusa, the tiny Sicilian island which, thanks to extensive media coverage, became the symbol of restrictive EU policies regarding unwanted mobilities from the Maghreb, I was hanging out in bars in Tunis, at almost every port of Tunisia and at places where fishermen meet. Everyone knew the police informants of the regime, collective groans of frustration and dissent were expressed in a bold, though cautious manner. During this fieldwork, I became acquainted with a number of harragas, as young men who have the ‘burning desire’ and are ready to ‘burn their ID papers’ are called throughout the Maghreb. They aspired to freedom and dignity and did not want to wait any longer to leave the country and head for Europe. These young men introduced me to popular music heard throughout the country, the Maghreb and the diaspora community in Europe. CDs of Raï – from famous Cheb Khaled to Cheb Hasni – filled the shelves of record stores. I could not find Raï-Rap such as the Algerian-French RimK/133 and Reda Taliani who recorded the hymn of the harragas, “Partir loin”, a song that accompanies the ready-made videos of harga on YouTube. Just as Raï had been banned from broadcasting in Algeria for a long time, Rap was largely banned in Tunisia (an exception being the popular singer Balti who is reported to have been a frequent guest on the Trabelsi family’s luxury yacht). But: it was on Facebook and YouTube. Sites such as Facebook, YouTube, and RerverbNation.com had made the internet the most important medium for distributing Arabic hip hop. The internet’s great gift was that it allowed Tunisians to almost effortlessly share their testimony with each other and with the world (O’Keefe, 2011). In spring 2011, after the Tunisian revolution 3 and during the arrival of more than 55,000 harragas on the island, 4 I was on Lampedusa again. A dramatic ges3

People in Tunisia mostly refer to their political actions as thawra/thawrat (revolution/s), alongside terms like intifada (uprising), sahwa (awakening) or nahda (renaissance). I am not interested in an academic discussion whether recent and current action should be properly referred to as ‘revolution’, ‘revolt’, ‘jacquerie’ or ‘upheaval’. As an anthropologist and following Clifford Geertz (1983, pp.57-59), I tend to use only those terms which people use themselves to order and represent their world. Additionally, I share the suspicion raised by Rami G. Khouri (2011) “that the popularity of the term ‘Arab Spring’ across the Western world mirrors some subtle Orientalism at work [...]. Revolutionary, self-assertive Arabs frighten many people abroad. Softer Arabs who sway with the seasons and the winds may be more comforting.” Such a suspicion might also be provoked by the term ‘arabellion’ indicating a somehow pre-modern form of political action of “members of Arab societies” (Borneman, 2012, p.2 here quoted after the manuscript) – as if political action could be reduced to or subsumed in ethnic terms, a common “kinship structure” and a shared “net of libidinous energies” (Bornemann, 2012, p.2) which are unable to set up

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ture of despair and a symbol of protest had already travelled: on November 19, 2010 an unemployed worker from Metlaoui (in the southern mining region of Gafsa), Chamseddine El Hani, a former harraga desperately looking for work, set himself on fire (Ben Mhenni, 2011, p.12). On December 17, 2010 Mohammed Bouazizi – now the ‘martyr of the Tunisian revolution’ – doused himself in gasoline (his picture is omnipresent even on postcards in downtown Tunis). On February 11, 2011 Noureddine Adnane, a Moroccan street trader burned himself, as police in Palermo chased him from his customary place. Talking to desperate fishermen on Lampedusa in March 2011, who felt ‘left alone’ by the government, I often heard: “we all hope that no one with a petrol can in his hands is carrying a lighter as well”. Webs of mobile, transnational symbols had been created which brought together protest, mobilization, the demand for political participation, dignity, recognition and: mobility. Next time I had the opportunity to return to Tunisia was in early 2012. Everything, it seemed, had changed. I joined the celebrations of ‘L’an I de la révolution’, ‘the revolution of freedom and dignity’ (Thawrat al hurriyyah wa alkaramah). Slogans and graffiti reading ‘Tunisia is free’ (Tounis hurra) and ‘the people’s will’ (al’sha’b yureed), marked the ousting of the hated autocratic dictator and his corrupt family. It was an extraordinary day: al’sha’b yureed, the ‘constitution of a people’, a demos and what we somehow aseptically call the ‘public sphere’ expressed in demonstrations. Various political groups from left to rightwingers as well as the association of the parents of the ‘martyrs of the revolution’ (around 300 people had been killed and innumerable had been jailed and tortured) gathered in discussion and made their demands heard. The demos occupied a central physical space and the center of town. Streets burst into slogans, speaking out, public debate, writing, painting, flash mobs, nascent cultural associations, performing hip-hop, signs of personal liberation, well-known symbols and again: music. La multi-dimensionalité du message politique sur internet, avec pour point d’ancrage l’insurrection populaire qui progresse de jour à travers les régions, a donné

4

modern “Ordnungsvorstellungen” (Bornemann, 2012, p.3) or modern revolutions such as the French revolution, because of the psycho-sexual authority structures of Arab societies. Most people I talked to during my fieldwork did not consider themselves ‘Arabs’. The word ‘Arab’ connoted “those rich people from the Gulf”. Identification was with Tunisia, often played out against Algerians and Libyans, just as official identification had been to Hannibal – a ‘hero’ who was part of Ben Alì’s political iconography to display national pride (Cf. also the contribution by Stefan Altekamp in this volume). Asked how they considered the ongoing transformations, the benefits and shortcomings thereof, people often referred to the French revolution: “what do you want, it took quite a while after the French revolution before positive outcome could be noted”. Hannibal by the way, offered “a continuum of identification in the charged grammar of hybridity” for the Neapolitan musicians of Almamegretta and their song “Figli di Annibale” (“Hannibal’s Children”, Chambers, 2008, p.48). After the Tunisian Revolution in January 2011, 55,298 mobile people had arrived on Lampedusa by September and around 27,000 Tunisians grasped the chance and headed for European shores (Committee on Migration, Refugees and Population, 2011, p.2).

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libre cours à autre forms? Autres formes d’expression se manifestant dans des élans d’enthousiasme et de libre parole- Il s’agit des poèmes, percutants tant au niveau de style que de contenu, chantés sur un air de révolte par des jeunes rappeurs de talent et autres chanteurs engagés. Les messages véhiculent des faits qui puisent leur source dans la trame du quotidien. (Abdelhak, 2011, p.112)

Music and the anthem of the Arab revolutions, the song “Rais Lebled” by the rapper Hamada Ben Amor, better known as El Général resonated Avenue Bourguiba, the building of the Minister of the Interior and the Roman Catholic Cathedral of St Vincent de Paul – next to Allahu a’ Akbar shouted by followers of Ennahda and young Salafist gangs who gathered in front of the Théatre National (their outfit: strictly original and expensive black and white Adidas and the latest smart phones designed in California and assembled in China). Everyone had a mobile phone, laptops were online, and media such as Al Jazeera documented the scene. Political and social dissent had spread from Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, and the Middle East to the US (the Occupy Wall Street movement) and moved Europe’s indignados at the Puerta del Sol in Madrid. Via the late Stéphane Hessel’s (2010) pamphlet “Indignez-Vous” it also connected Berlin th to Paris, linking up to (the personal) histories of 20 century Europe. Digital media such as blogs, social networks, and YouTube contribute to perform and disseminating disagreement, which in turn creates a transnational sociocultural space and public spheres in which the current and past situation is negotiated and contested. (Undocumented) mobility has rightly be seen as a specific form of social movement (Mezzadra, 2011) and the pertinent notion ‘l’individu mobilisé’, proposed by Olivier Fillieule (2010, p.19) has a twofold semantic range including both mobilization and movement (which might imply a specific form of ‘disengagement’, Fillieule, 2010). 5 Mobility/mobilization, however, is by no means a one-dimensional, single-layered process. It cannot be reduced to economic reasons, alleged rational choices of the homo oeconomicus and mechanical pushand-pull factors, because it also reflects the transnational, social imaginaire and cultural resources. 6

5

6

However, we should not forget that social movements reproduce specific gender relations (Fillieule, Mathieu and Roux, 2007). For studies envisioning the causes of undocumented migration in this region, see Fourati 2008; Labdelaoui, 2009; Mabrouk 2009; 2010; Moussa Larbi Fadhel, 2004. For economic, political and juridical approaches, see Ben Achour and Ben Jemia, 2011; Bendaoud, 2009; Ben Hadj Zekri, 2008; Fargues, 2011; cf. Ghediri, 2011.

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Fig.1: Tunis 14 January 2012, picture taken by the author.

Fig.2: Tunis 14 January 2012, picture taken by the author.

Fig.3: Tunis 14 January 2012, picture taken by the author.

Fig.4: Tunis 14 January 2012, picture taken by the author.

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Contemporary mobile visual culture/s and sounds are not to be somehow ‘added’ as a negligible, trivial supplement to basic or more fundamental economic structures. They play an important role in the dynamics of life-worlds, experiences and contested symbolic spheres. As such, they are part of daily practices of negotiating the current situation and its justifications (Boltanski and Thévenot, 2006) and make up the continuum of movement, of protest, dissent and/or exodus/mobility, ‘voice’ and ‘exit’ as proposed by Albert Hirschman (1970; 1978). 7 The following remarks focus on mobilities and its intersections: mobile dissent, mobile sounds, mobile signs, symbols and mobile people. However, I will not engage in ongoing discussions of globalization vs. localization, cultural hegemony, the cultural industry vs. contest and authenticity, center and periphery, which have dominated discussions on so-called ‘world music’ and involved various schools of cultural studies, ethnomusicology, anthropology and postcolonial studies. 8 The aim is rather humble: I want to demonstrate that first, dissent and protest are mobile and part of contemporary mobilities, its social imaginaire and cultural resources, such as music, symbols and images. Second, I want to show that digital media offer mobile spaces for the negotiation of the current situation. In a first step therefore, mobile dissent, digital media and the Tunisian revolution will be addressed (section 1). Since cultural resources are moving and indeed do ‘move’ people, in a second step the relations between mobile sounds and mobile people, music and harga will be tracked (section 2).

Mobile Dissent: Digital Media and the Tunisian Revolution “Un electron libre n’a pas des limites. Un blogeur, une blogeuse, c’est mille fois plus efficace, plus rapide. Personne n’est leader. Tout le monde peut participer au processus de prise de décision. Dans le cyberactivisme, chacun contribue à sa manière et

7

8

I emphasize the continuum and not the opposition between ‘voice’ and ‘exit’. The ongoing sociopolitical transformations in Tunisia could be seen as the result of action and decisions to voice dissent in order to change circumstances and to solicit a better life in a situation in which freedom of movement and legal mobility are restricted. “Voice is [...] defined as any attempt to change, rather than to escape from, an objectionable state of affairs”, as Hirschman (1970, p.30) remarks, this option “is the only way [...] [to] react whenever the exit option is unavailable” (Hirschman, 1970, p.33; see Fargues, 2011). ‘Voice’ and ‘exit’ are elements of a reasoning indicating how actors express their dissent within a given socio-political order. This perspective combines economic rationality (exit) with political action (voice) and the social element loyalty (be it ideological, material, emotional or identitarian). Such a theoretical frame can be a first step of an analysis. In order for it to become more dynamic, however, it has to be refined. Additionally, it is vital to include contemporary public spaces offered by digital media in which suffering, indignation about injustice, dissent and protest as well as political consensus are articulated. For a recent account on social movements in the Middle East and North Africa, see Beinin and Vairel (2011). For an overview see Chambers, 1995; Erlmann, 1996; Guilbault, 1995; Helms and Phleps, 2007; Klein and Friedrich, 2003; Stokes, 2004; Slobin, 1993. For an account of popular music in Arab countries, see the contributions in Peddie, 2006; Plastino, 2003.

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tout le monde contribue à toute comme ça c’est passé pendant la revolution tunisienne.” (Ben Mhenni, 2011, p.4)

Again, what comes into play is: movement. The ‘free’ movement of ‘electrons’ challenges limits and (national) borders. Dissent has been mobile and has crossed limits and borders ever since. Thus, we might say, nothing new so far. However, as the blogger Tunisian Girl (Lina Ben Mhenni) states, it allows for hitherto unknown “efficiency and speed”, a “free”, open, independent movement “without leader”, hierarchy and centers of decision-making. De-centering power, the “internet changed it all […] internet became a weapon”, states Yassine Ayari, a 1981 born ‘ingénieur réseau et sécurité’ and a well-known Tunisian blogger and (cyber-) activist. 9 Just like voice and exit, cyber activism and street resistance are not alternatives but a continuum. Already in spring 2008, massive protests against unemployment and corruption disrupted the southern mining areas and were violently repressed. However, even if the Tunisian internet-infrastructure had already developed, it was not viable option especially in rural areas for spreading disagreement, calling for action and organizing protest efficiently. In fact, now “Tunisia has one of the most developed telecommunications infrastructures in North Africa with a high mobile penetration rate and one of the lowest broadband prices in Africa”, as opennet states in a report published in 2009 and according to Socialbakers, the number of Facebook users increased from 2,968,320 in 2012 to 3,436,720 in 2013, taking the percentage of ‘online population’ from 82.45% to 89.10% (see tables 1–6 in the appendix). 10 9

10

Cf. the video of Yassine Ayari’s/Mel7it3’s (Ayari, 2012) “Intervention a une conference organisée par l’université Oxford” (at the Institute for Strategic Dialogue, 1.3.2012). I shall not engage in the ongoing debate on ‘cyber utopia’ (“let them tweed, and they will tweet their way to freedom”), ‘the net delusion’ and ‘the dark side of internet freedom’ forcefully portrayed by the disseminal book of Evgeny Morozov (2011, p.xii) among others. For a Cyber-optimist version, see Shirky (2008; 2011). Again, I rather humbly seek to re-present (some) voices of actors as they represent their actions. Whether cyber-optimist or skeptical, the role of digital media is increasingly at the center of attention, to give just a few examples in a long list, the role of the internet for diasporic, transnational practices has been addressed by Brinkerhoff (2009); for an ethnographical account of the internet in Kuweit, see Wheeler (2005). For a documentation of global digital activism, including the Mediterranean, see Joyce (2011). “As of October 2008, the number of GSM subscribers had reached 9 million, while the number of Internet users was 1.7 million, 114,000 of whom have broadband subscriptions. Out of a population of 10.2 million inhabitants, nine out of ten Tunisians own a cell phone. 84% of these users access the Internet at home, 75.8% use Internet at work, and 24% use public Internet cafés. The Tunisian Ministry of Communications established the Tunisian Internet Agency (ATI) to regulate the country’s Internet and domain name system (DNS) services, which had formerly fallen under the Regional Institute for Computer Sciences and Telecommunications (IRSIT)’s purview. The ATI is also the gateway from which all of Tunisia’s eleven Internet service providers (ISPs) lease their bandwidth. Six of these ISPs are public (ATI, INBMI, CCK, CIMSP, IRESA and Defense’s ISP); the other five — Planet Tunisie, 3S Global Net, HEXABYTE, TopNet, and TUNET — are private. The government has energetically sought to spread Internet access. The ATI reports connectivity of 100 percent for the education section (universities, research laboratories, secondary schools, and primary schools). Government-brokered ‘free Internet’ programs that

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Facebook started off in 2004, YouTube in 2005 and Twitter in 2006: mobile sounds, digital media, blogs and social networks created a new and transnational public space of dissent and political mobilization that worked against the brutal police-state, 11 against censorship and the shutting down of Tunisian social networks by the Minister of Communication and the Agence tunisienne d’Internet which produced the famous ‘error 404’ (the “six cents Cyberflics […] au sein du ministère de la Communication et en collusion avec l’Agence tunisienne d’Internet”, as the blogger Tunisian Girl recalls, Ben Mhenni, 2011, p.8). Online and offline politics blended, “social media and expanded internet access weren’t the cause of the Tunisian Revolution [...] but they were crucial to its success”. 12 In 2010, the campaign 7ell blog (‘start a blog’) had been launched by Nhar 31a 3ammar (‘a hard day for Ammar’ – Ammar is a nickname, the personification of

11

12

provide Web access for the price of a local telephone call and increased competition among ISPs have significantly reduced the economic barriers to Internet access. Those Tunisians for whom personal computers remain prohibitively expensive may also access the Internet from more than 300 cybercafés set up by the authorities” (OpenNet, 2009). See also blogs from the Middle East and North Africa at global voices [online]. Available at: [Accessed 20 February 2013]. As the blogger Astrubal (2012), who taught ‘droit constitutionelle’ for fifteen years, notes in his blog: “en effet, Twitter, Facebook ainsi que d’autres réseaux sociaux ont joué un rôle majeur dans l’accélération de l’Histoire; tant ils ont servi à relayer efficacement l’information.” Sadok Abdelhak (2011, p.112) agrees: “La Révolution de janvier est à bien des égards, une e-Revolution. Le phénomène mobilisateur de Facebook, de YouTube et de twitter a atteint des proportions extrèmes. Les cinq millions d’internautes recensés ont passé dans la période, selon des experts en communication, quatre heures par jour en moyenne devant leurs écrans.” “In the spring of 2008, massive protests erupted in the southern mining town of Redeyef. For six months, 3,000 police besieged this city of 25,000 people while its citizens bravely demonstrated against corruption and chronic unemployment. Because of the state's violent repression and its stranglehold on media outlets, the protests failed to spread or gain much attention. Without developed social networks, the thousands of Redeyef’s citizens who obtained protest footage on CDs or computers had no way to let most Tunisians see it. Fahem Boukaddous, a Tunisian journalist who covered the protests, said, ‘In 2008, Facebook wasn’t at all well-known, especially in poor cities like here.’ In fact, fewer than 30,000 Tunisians were on Facebook when Redeyef exploded in early 2008. By the end of 2010, Tunisia’s internet landscape had been transformed. A January 2011 survey found that Tunisia, a country of 10 million, had 1.97 million Facebook users - 18.6% of Tunisia’s entire population and 54.73% of its online population. By this time, sites such as Facebook, YouTube, and RerverbNation.com had made internet the most important medium for distributing Arabic hip hop. The internet’s great gift was that it allowed Tunisians to almost effortlessly share their testimony with each other and with the world” (O‘Keefe, 2011). As the situation has not been ameliorated, the area is still the scene of strikes and sit-ins. I am not interested in the reconstruction of history or in answering the question whether this statement can be considered a historical ‘truth’ but rather, in the production of (local) historical knowledge. In fact, the remarkable reserve of the Tunisian military during these days was probably a, if not the, decisive factor for the revolution to succeed. It is not a coincidence that the corpse of the opposition politician Chokri Belaid, a left-leaning lawyer and outspoken critic of the government who was assassinated on February 6, 2013 was transported by a military vehicle from the home of his family to the cemetery. Whereas public opinion widely respects the military, this is not true for police forces who are known for their random brutality (and ‘A.C.A.B’ circulates throughout political blogs and videos on YouTube).

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Tunisian censorship and cybercops) and joined Facebook on 05-17-2010.13 By mid-December 2010, 102 new blogs had already been created and the list was regularly updated. 14 The nascent culture of digital dissent and activism can hardly be labeled an invention of Western media 15 and ‘anti-islamic’ strategies. In 2010, ‘Western’ media were not interested in the more than deplorable situation in Tunisia and even less in Tunisian bloggers or far-off rappers from Sfax. Both localized and de-localized, digital activism allowed for aggregation and exchange. It was/is also culturally rooted and reinvents ‘traditions’. Blogger Ali Chouerreb, for example, refers to the name of a famous Tunisian bandit who had died in the early 1970s and to popular folklore, stories and anecdotes about his courage and bravery, he “was said to have entered prison as many as 1500 times [...] and to have fought against the French occupation” while being highly devoted to his mother (Yacoubi, 2012). 16 Formulating political and social claims, blogging voiced protest and created transnational bonds. It also allowed social dilemmas and tensions to surface and provided a platform for personal experiences of liberation. Blogging suspended day-day-to normality, it ruptured, assimilated, and internalized norms and rules of the game in an authoritarian regime. The blogger chut libre (free fall, a concept in physics) recalls his first entry: “Je me souviens de mon premier billet sur le blog, (Demain, je brûle), comme fut mon premier statut sur mon profil facebook ‘chut libre’. Puis mon deuxième billet, un poème en arabe littéraire où je voulais mettre les mots sur le mal quotidien et partagé qu’on vivait tous en silence. Chaque article est une délivrance. Je suis intimement convaincu que la ‘force’ de la dictature dite douce de Ben Ali était dans l’ancrage psychique qu’elle a renforcé au fur des années dans nos esprits opprimés. On voyait le dictateur partout, dans nos rues, dans les espaces publiques, dans nos lieux de travail, etc. Le dictateur se cachait en nous; on le savait, douloureusement. Pire encore, on devenait petit à petit son propre dictateur. Mon dictateur à moi a fermé sa bouche le jour où j’ai osé lynché Ben Ali ouvertement. Mon dictateur à 13

14 15

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“Info: Action citoyenne pour un internet libre. [...] Aim: Article 7 de la constitution Tunisienne: Les citoyens exercent la plénitude de leurs droits dans les formes et conditions prévues par la loi. Action pacifique et citoyenne contre la censure en Tunisie. Ce mouvement est indépendant de tout parti politique ou association. Nhar 3la 3ammar est un mouvement citoyen et pacifiste. Son but est de demander l’arrêt définitif de la censure sur Internet et la réouverture de tous les sites censurés. Action pacifique et citoyenne” (Nhar 31a 3ammar, 2010). On 2-14-2013, 61,809 people ‘liked it’ and 215 are talking about it. See also Yacoubi, 2012. For a complete list, see 7ellblog, 2010. “Instead of building sustainable political movements on the ground, they spend their time receiving honorary awards at Western conferences and providing trenchant critique of their governments in interviews with Western media”, Evgeny Morozov (2011, p.200) polemically states in his pessimist view. Lina Ben Mhenni’s pamphlet has been, indeed, published by the – rather minor – French press from Montpellier that landed the ‘coup’ with Stéphane Hessel’s manifest (indigène éditions). She indeed received a price in Germany and taught Arab in the US. However, I doubt that being praised by Western media ‘after the fact’ had an impact on past action. Such a view is at best an error made by rational choice perspectives which confuse a historical outcome with (rational) strategies of actors. See also el_manchou (2008) and Nadiah (2011).

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moi s’est immolé avec l’article sur Mohamed Bouazizi. Ca, sur un plan politique. Quant à l'intime, je crois que j’ai bravé cette bête de l’inconscient avec l’article traitant de l’homosexualité. (‘Je me ressemble’, note hf) Je ne le considère point comme un ‘coming out’; mais plutôt comme un défi public à cette dictature de l’éthique. (chut libre, 2011)

Along with trade unionists (UGTT – Union Générale Tunisienne du Travail), student organizations (UGET- Union Générale des Etudiants en Tunisie), unemployed, lawyers, feminists, political and human rights activists (LTDH, Ligue tunisienne des droits de l’homme), bloggers, Facebookers had been active not just via the net, but were present on the streets. In May 2010 a group of twenty persons had organized a manifestation and flashmobs against censorship in downtown Tunis and Yassine Ayari had been one of the organizers. They were however, not the first ones. In 2001, the economist Zouhair Yayaouri (he had been tortured in prison in 2002 and after a hunger strike was released in 2003, he died from a heart attack in 2005) had launched the site Tunezine. 17 The blogger Fatma Arabicca was arrested in 2009 and released only after national and international mobilization. 18 Additionally, on December 7, 2010 Wikileaks published the embarrassing US Embassy cables on the situation in Tunisia (in 2009), news that only confirmed what everybody already knew. 19 Tunisia’s government doesn’t exactly get a flattering portrayal in the leaked State Department cables. The country’s ruling family is described as ‘The Family’ - a mafiaesque elite who have their hands in every cookie jar in the entire economy. ‘President Ben Ali is aging, his regime is sclerotic and there is no clear successor’, a June 2009 cable reads. And to this kleptocracy there is no recourse; one June 2008 cable claims: ‘persistent rumors of corruption, coupled with rising inflation and continued unemployment, have helped to fuel frustration with the GOT [government of Tunisia] and have contributed to recent protests in southwestern Tunisia. With those at the top believed to be the worst offenders, and 17

18

19

[Accessed 16 April 2012]. The site has been closed and in February 2013 it read: “Il ne sera répondu à aucune question concernant l’arrêt définitif de fonctionnement du site. Merci de votre compréhension.” See Arabicca (n.d.) and Al Jazeera (2009). The well-known cartoonist Z see: [Accessed at 14 February 2013] published a cartoon on this occasion. A cable from July 17, 2009, 16:19 reads: “The problem is clear: Tunisia has been ruled by the same president for 22 years. He has no successor. And, while President Ben Ali deserves credit for continuing many of the progressive policies of President Bourguiba, he and his regime have lost touch with the Tunisian people. They tolerate no advice or criticism, whether domestic or international. Increasingly, they rely on the police for control and focus on preserving power. And, corruption in the inner circle is growing. Even average Tunisians are now keenly aware of it, and the chorus of complaints is rising. Tunisians intensely dislike, even hate, First Lady Leila Trabelsi and her family. In private, regime opponents mock her; even those close to the government express dismay at her reported behavior. Meanwhile, anger is growing at Tunisia's high unemployment and regional inequities. As a consequence, the risks to the regime's long-term stability are increasing” (The Guardian, 2010).

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Fig.5: Blog of Yassine Ayari: stats and live traffic. Available at: [Accessed 12 February 2013].

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likely to remain in power, there are no checks in the system’ (Dickinson, 2011). In January 2011 (2.1.2011), the cyber-pirates Anonymous joined action with an open letter and a video disseminated via YouTube (Anonymousworldwar3, 2011). 20 Anonymous voiced a ‘cry of freedom’, decided “to help Tunisians in the battle for freedom” and threatened “attacks on the Tunisian Government”. In a string of arrests, Tunisian authorities “rounded up bloggers, activists and a rap singer” in December and January, as Al Jazeera reported on 1-7-2011. The most influential networks were: - Takritz (Balls): The network was founded in 1998 by two anonymous cyber activists (who called themselves Foetus and Waterman). Poignant criticism of the state of affairs, expressed in popular street slang, made it a target for Tunisian authorities, who have tried to block their site since 2000. However, Takritz states that it managed to mobilize football Ultras for the ongoing street fights in 2010/11 (Breuer, 2012). - Nawaat (‘Net-citizens’/netizens and ‘pip allowing something to grow’, Breuer, 2012): The award-winning group was founded in 2004 by two Tunisians in exile. During the revolution, it offered a platform for uncensored news and brought together news from Facebook, Twitter, global voice, and other social networks. The platform was used by Al Jazeera which ‘re-imported’ news to Tunisia. The team now consists of ten activists writing on issues such as censorship, Human Rights, and the development of local community reporting. Additionally, the site hosts several independent Tunisian blogs/bloggers and is also present on YouTube (the site is subscribed to by 7,230 people and videos have been viewed by 6,672,264 users, 2-14-2013).

“Prominent” bloggers The most famous bloggers and part of the mobile ‘digital elite’ are certainly Slim404 (error 404 - page not found, Slim Amamou) and Tunisian Girl (Lina Ben Mhenni). Together with the blogger Azyz Ammami, member of the (then underground) Tunisian Pirate Party which was legalized only in 2012, 21 Slim was

20 21

Released on 1-5-2011 it had been seen by 44,270 users on 2-14-2013. “The Party also distributes USB Keys and CD ROMS in Tunisian universities and schools , installing the TOR Software needed to circumvent the major wave of cyber censorship happening on the Tuninsian Internet and to protect Tunisian Internet users from hacking by the Tunisian cyber police intent on monitoring Internet Users and preventing the truth from being relayed online. The three members of the Pirate Party are: Slah Eddin Kchouk aka Le Loup, Azyz see: Ammami aka Azyoz GM, Slim Ammamou aka Slim404”,

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Fig.6: Screenshot from Anonymousworldwar3 (2011).

arrested in January 2011. 22 He was released and became Minister of Youth and Sport under the first provisional government (he resigned soon after). As the revolt spread, Tunisian cyber activists became part of wider transnational networks, including, for example, American-Libyan activists such as Khalas (Enough), networks of the region and diaspora communities in the US and Europe.

22

[Accessed 14 February 2013]. Together with Sleh Edine Kchouk, “linked to the Tunisian General Student Union (UGET)” as Al Jazeera reported on January 7, 2011.

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Fig.7: Wafa Ben Hassine (2012).

Fig.8: – TAKRITZ: ‘Tunisian cyber think tank & street resistance network since 1998. Free, True & Anonymous Takrizo Ergo Sum - We make revolutions!’ (followers in 2012: 92,749/ in 2013: 101,753, see [Accessed 17 February 2013].

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Fig.9: Takritz, Tunis 2012, picture taken by the author.

Enough/Khalas! is born from a single, broad sentiment: the recognition of the overwhelming need for change in Libya. Initiated by a group of secondgeneration Libyan exiles in the United States, Enough aims to engage all those who share this sentiment towards the betterment of Libya ( [Accessed 15 April 2012]). These – more or less organized – networks meet on a regular basis and in October 2011, the third meeting was held in Tunis. 23 Digital media develop multi-facetted, transnational networks, blurring distinct ‘online’ and ‘offline’ public spaces in which the current and past situations are negotiated (including animosities, defamation and diverging views, as noted by Laacher and Terzi, 2012, p.21). “In day-to-day life, the social world incessantly questions that which can be considered as just” (Boltanski, 1990, p.55) and daily practices demonstrate “what people carry out when they want to show their disagreement without resorting to violence, and the ways they construct, display, and conclude more or less lasting agreements” (Boltanski and Thévenot, 2006, p.25). Digital media and cultural resources, such as music, became part of contemporary day-to-day negotiation

23

Palestinian activists however, were denied visas to enter Tunis.

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Fig.10: Nawaat “An award-winning collective blog created in April 2004 and blocked in Tunisia till 13 January 2011” (YouTube). Available at: [Accessed 14 February 2013].

and justification and a hub for the dissemination of (political) views and daily experiences. The multi-dimensionality of the political message in the net, which was anchored in the insurgence that progressed from day to day and spread from region to region, liberated other forms of expression and free speech. Powerful poems […] were vocalized in a rebellious manner by young rappers and other committed singers (chanteurs engagés). The messages were a vehicle which had their

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Fig.11: Tunisian Girl (book cover).

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Fig.12: Picture of the bloggers Slim Amamou (left) and Lina Ben Mhenni (right).

source in the weft of daily life (Abdelhak, 2011, p.112). 24 Digital media also voice the social imaginaire since they not only forcefully express dissent and disapproval but also propose images of a just and good life. Mobile sounds and mobile people are part of these ongoing negotiations.

Mobile Sounds – Mobile People: Music and Harga The role of music for the development of what Benedict Anderson called ‘imagined communities’ is well-known (Waligorska, 2013). At the same time, however, “sounds move without respecting place and borders, they inaugurate an additional critical perspective” (Chambers, 2012, p.47, transl. by the author), just as digital activism, music – and dance – are a mode of both personal and political liberation and resistance. Movement of sounds and movement of bodies, as performed for example by the cultural association Art Solution and the flash-mob

24

He continues: “La multi-dimensionalité du message politique sur internet, avec pour point d’ancrage l’insurrection populaire qui progresse de jour à travers les régions, a donné libre cours à autres formes d’expression se manifestant dans des élans d’enthousiasme et de libre parole. Il s’agit des poèmes, percutants tant au niveau de style que de contenu, chantés sur un air de révolte par des jeunes rappeurs de talent et autres chanteurs engagés. Les messages véhiculent des faits qui puisent leur source dans la trame du quotidien” (Abdelhak, 2011, p.112).

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Fig.13-15: Internetcafés in Tunis and Kelibia [Accessed 15 April].2012

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danseur citoyen, are challenging limits and are crossing borders. 25 Indeed, the moving body becomes a channel of defiance, resisting censorship and thus, of ” dignity. The recent sound and dance “meme (from mimeisthai, imitate) was recorded by 23-year old DJ and music producer Baauer released a sampled song “Harlem Shake”, invented in the early 1980s (Corasaniti, 2013). It started with a 31 second clip (Australia the Harlem Shake v1/TSCS original, The SunnyCoastShake) uploaded by Australian teenagers on 2-2-2013. 26 Replacing the Gagnam-style hype, it quickly spread to the Middle East and North Africa. In February 2013, four students were arrested in Egypt for violating indecency laws as they were publically dancing in their underwear. The same month, the first Tunisian clip was uploaded on YouTube, showing a group of pupils from the Père Blanc high school in Tunis (available at: http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=rKabGEZm8VY [Accessed 6 March 2013]). Abdeltif Abid, the Tunisian Minister of Education, intervened and announced that action would be taken against the violation of education system principles. As the viral dance craze became a political issue triggering tension, several Tunisian high schools uploaded their own versions and displayed solidarity with the Père Blanc students, announcing also that the dance would be performed in front of the Ministry of Education. As tension grew, it spread to The Pioneer Secondary School of Monastir (Lycée Pilote de Monastir, see Raed Bouslama, 2013), the Lycée El Menzah 9 in Tunis (Sahar Kouka, 2013), the National Institute of Applied Sciences and Technologies (INSAT), the Higher Institute of Multimedia Arts (Isamm), and the Institut des Beaux Art, Tunis (Kaled Gary, 2013). 25

26

Art Solution published on 12-8-2012 “Je danserai malgré tout 2”. The body and the street become a medium of resisting censorship and thus, of maintaining dignity. As the Association states: “Danseurs Citoyens la nouvelle forme de résistance! A corps et désaccords. Le corps [...] le plus investit dans nos rapports au sacré, à nos mères, à nos terres, à nos amours, aux autres. Du copié collé? Sans esthétique et seulement au rythme des émotions, d’accord, c’est le corps qui fait que l’humain se ressemble au delà des frontières. Sans haine ni violence et dans l’improvisation du rire et de l’amour, le corps est une invitation [...] un médiateur, et, à l’intérieur de nos frontières, une arme contre une identité en crise. A travers les cris, les larmes, les coups et l’immolation c’est bien le corps qui nous rappelle combien il faut le respecter pour rester digne. Quand dans nos désaccords on ne trouve pas de lieux politiques, sociaux, médicaux et architecturaux c’est bien dans cette rue qu’on se retrouve pour se dégager de la censure. En lisant vos commentaires, il paraît clair que quand on ne trouve pas les mots, pour s’approprier, se réunir, et se libérer, le corps est là pour réanimer en nous ce pouvoir.” (Art Solution, 2012). The sound of this video is from ‘Boston based’ slam/spoken poet Lyeoka Okoawo - Revolution (phanai, 2007). The opening scene “Créer, c’est résister. Résister, c’est créer” is of course a quote from the late Stéphane Hessel’s seminal pamphlet Indignez-Vous! (2010, p.13). The group blends hip-hop, break dance with classical dance and fuses slam poetry and traditional music in their performances and videos. See also “Tunis by Night” by the street crew BBoy Carbon Upper Underground Tunis (brik chouaib ART SOLUTION, 2013). TSCS’s meme of the Harlem Shake kickstarted an internet explosion, see . Update: as of 15 February 2013, over 40,000 spinoffs of the TSCS meme have been uploaded to YouTube, generating a staggering 175 million views. See ; Harlem Shake – Baauer’, available at ; TheSunnyCoastSkate, 2013, [all accessed 15 February 2013].

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Fig.16: Tunis, Avenue Bourguiba on 14 January 2011, picture taken by the author.

Fig.17: CD-cover “The Sound of Tunisia” by El Général.

Criss-crossing the distinction between online and offline public spaces, the transnational meme (initiated in Harlem, Brooklyn and Australia) became a new form of political protest against restrictions and newly imposed limitations on free expression and dignity. Music, sounds and the dancing body contribute to the evaluation of the current personal and the experienced socio-political situation, creating a dynamic transnational public sphere made up by multifarious translations and both a transnational and local environment of action. Blurring not only online and offline social spaces as well as consumption and creation and since contributors face severe consequences of their public action, such use of the net 2.0 can hardly be seen as a form of slacktivism, a sort of lowcost net activity. The meme Harlem Shake is by no means the first expression of political movement and activism. The most popular and by now worldwide known rapper in Tunisia is certainly El Général from Sfax. Hamada Ben Amor (born in 1990) delivered the ‘anthem’ of the Arab revolutions (Walt, 2011). 27 His video Rais Le27

See his site on Facebook [Accessed 15 February 2013] and on Twitter [Accessed 15

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bled, an open ‘speech’ to the president, was uploaded on November 7, 2010 to Facebook and in December to YouTube. The date was certainly not a coincidence. November 7 was the national day of commemoration when in 1987 Ben Ali ended the reign of Habib Bourguiba in a coup d’etat. Rais Lebled 28 ‘To the president, today I wanna say something to you,

Mr. President, we’re suffering like dogs,

It is on my behalf and on behalf of my people who are living in misery

Half the people living in shame.

2011! Still people dying of hunger!

Misery everywhere, People are eating from garbage cans. Today I’m speaking for the people, Crushed by the weight of injustice. I’ve chosen to speak, Even though many have warned me against it

28

He wanted to work, he wanted to survive, but his voice is silenced

Mr. President, we’re suffering like dogs,

Go to the streets and take a look,

Half the people living in shame.

People are treated like animals, police are monsters

Misery everywhere, People are eating from garbage cans.

Speaking only with their batons, tactac-tac, they don't care

Today I’m speaking for the people,

Because there’s no one to say no,

Crushed by the weight of injustice.

Not even the law or the constitution.

I’ve chosen to speak,

February 2013]. For an account of ‘Rap and the Arab Spring’, see the video of the conference at the Open Democracy/University of East London (Royal docks Admin, 2012). In French ‘le bled’ signifies a dump, the middle of nowhere; in Arabic, ‘bled’ is a village, town.

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Even though many have warned me against it. Every day, I hear of a new lawsuit

They steal in plain sight.

Where the poor were set up

No need to name them,

Although they know he or she’s a decent person

You know very well who they are.

I see snakes (powerful men) everywhere biting our girls Will you accept for your daughter to be bit?

A lot of money should have gone to development, To schools, to hospitals, to housing. But the sons of dogs

I know my words are so hard

Are instead filling their stomachs.

You are a father and you wouldn’t allow that for your sons

Mr. President, your people are dead.’

Thus, take my message as one from a son to his father.

(translation by Adam Jones, 2011).

“Before being banned”, the video “was picked up by a local TV station, Tunivision, and Al Jazeera” (Smith, 2011). Even if this message to a President was not the first one, given that the Iranian rapper Bahram had already launched a “Letter to the President” (Namei be Rais Jomhoor) in 2007, the video is haunting and raw. It showed the young rapper sauntering through a darkened, sewage-strewn alley to a secret site to record. The makeshift studio had graffiti spray-painted on the wall. He beat out the song in front of an old-fashioned mike, with no one else in sight. Afterwards, he ambled back down the alley into the night. His face was never in the light, his identity remained unclear. Going public was too dangerous. (Wright, 2012, p.116) “The global circulation of images allows for models of local practices. Gestures and facial expressions, movement and fashion refer to these models and at the same time they are producing new local contextualizations” (Klein and Friedrich, 2003, p.132, transl. by the author). Although hip-hop/rap was born in the 1970/80s in Harlem and the Bronx, it displayed global visual markers’, such as ‘run-down streets, community housing, graffiti walls, desolate parking lots’ and creative ready-mades which use and re-

Transnational Mobilities, Digital Media and Cultural Resources

´ Fig.18: Blog Khalas (“Enough”). Available at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/58507680@N07/5 371102015/in/photostream [Accessed 15 February 2013].

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Fig.19: Release by El Général “contre-attaque” (5-24-2011). Available at: http://www.myspace. com/general.lebled [Accessed 14 April 2012, the image was removed before 15 February 2013].

As sounds and lyrics travel, so do symbols.

Fig.20: Available at: and [Accessed 15 February 2013].

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present such markers in a specific local context: 29 “The visual” as Ella Sohar and Robert Stam (2002, p.45) note, “is ‘languaged’, just as language itself has a visual dimension”. After the release of the song Tounes Bledna (Tunisia our country) in December, he was arrested in January 2011 by police at his home in Sfax and spent three days being interrogated at the famous Ministry of the Interior in Tunis. After a public outcry, he was released after three days. In the meantime, the video had already crossed borders. Activists from Egypt invited him to perform the song on Tahrir Square, but the rapper was denied a visa. However, the disrupting song traveled. It gained followers in Europe, as it was played by French rock stations like NovaFM. It is to be found on every compilation of music of the revolution and in all CD stores in Tunis; it is also featured on Libyan and Egypt compilations. Guy (Guido) Fawkes has travelled through time and space: From the catholic Gunpowder Plot of 1605 to the release of the film V for Vendetta in 2006 which in turn adopted the mask from the Comic book by Alan Moore and David Lloyd (March 1982–May 1989), to the protest of Anonymous and the Occupy movement, the mask became a seminal symbol of protest against politicians and financial institutions. Alongside the mask, “a lone red star, a clear aesthethic nod for young revolutionaries” elsewhere, Che Guevara is often used (Peisner, 2011). As the story runs, El Général who has a middle class background – his mother runs a bookstore and his father is a local hospital medic – was influenced by the US East Coast rapper Tupac Shakur (2Pac, who had been gunned down in 1996 in Las Vegas in what was believed to be part of the ongoing rivalry between East and West coast rappers). On El Général’s page on Facebook the US rapper Eminem is listed as quite a prominent ‘friend’. He became a national celebrity and even got a page on Time Magazine in February 2011 (Walt, 2011). Next to Angela Merkel, Barak Obama and Wael Ghonim, a former google executive and dissident from Egypt, he became part of the exclusive circle of the hailed “2011 TIME 100 most influential people in the world” (The Time, 2011) and dissent was incorporated into the mediascape.

29

In a recently released video, the rapper – who admittingly does not speak English – wears a shirt on which “Brooklyn 75, East” is displayed, see [Accessed 16 February 2013]. The area hosts “eight major housing complexes”, as NYPD states (available at: [Accessed 16 February 2013]) and is an “economically depressed neighborth hood. In 2011, the sprawling 75 Precinct had the most murders, 27, and the most robberies, 780, of any precinct in the city. [...] The police practice of stop and frisk, which statistics show is especially aggressive in East New York, has worsened the tension, residents say. According to the New York Civil Liberties Union, from 2006 to 2010, the 75th Precinct had the highest number of stops in the city. There were 26,938 such stops in 2010, and 75 percent of the people stopped were black” (Robbins, 2012). For accounts of the origins and development of Hip-hop/rap, see Chang, 2005; Potter, 1995. The relation between rap and cultural studies has been addressed by Rosello, 2000.

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Fig.21: CD-cover “Degage – Rap Revolution”.

Fig.22: CD-cover “DAM – Da Arabian Mc’s” by Tamer Nafar.

His Tunis-produced CD “Sound of Tunisia”, features other Tunisian rappers such as Mr. Shoona, DJ Costa and Mr. Psycho (“free our voices”). The nascent star El Général is, like Lak3y, part of a popular – and increasingly ‘commercialized’ – Tunisian rapper scene, which includes Anis Mrabti (born in 1985) better known as Volcanis Le Roi (“Nothing has changed”), 30 or Viking who regularly appears on Nessma (Breeze), the privately owned Tunisian TV station (which is partly owned by Italian Mediaset and Silvio Berlusconi), and Nordo . (and the song “Game Over”) 31. 30

31

Anis Mrabti was arrested at his home in Tunis on January 25, 2012 and charged with drugs offences. The official clip of “Game over” which deliberately uses one of the slogans of the revolution while displaying the iconongraphy of gangsta-rap (tounsya5013, 2010) has been watched by 91,537 users. Nessma’s transmission of ‘Persepolis’ caused fierce reaction from militant Salafist groups who accused the film of being blasphemic.

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‘Rapping out’ daily experiences of corruption, injustice, discrimination, poverty, inequality and marginalization throughout the (Arab) world: “Every village now has hip hop […] hip hop is our CNN”, declared the Palestinian Tamar Nafar (DAM) (Wright, 2011). A Lybian musician, rapping against Gaddafi stated: “We as rappers are not the leaders of the revolution, we are voices. We put into rhymes what our people are afraid to say” (Ibn Thabit, 2012). Technical devices – such as drumcomputer, sequencer, samplers or programs like Garage Band – are available to everyone and allow creative potential to develop. Hip-hop is – next to Rock – omnipresent throughout the region. 32 The following catalogue is by no means meant to be exhaustive: ‘Crews’ are located in Spain such as Delahoja (“Periodistas”, 2009), Ferid El Extranjero (“3bed Fi Terkina”/“in an open-air prison”) who criticized the police and had an underground hit in 2005, getting the government's attention. 33 They are present in Morocco e.g. Bigg ft. Colonel (“Bladí Blad”/“My country”) and the female rapper Soultana. Hip hoppers in Algeria include MBS (“Microphone Breaks the Silence”) and Intik (“cool”, “Injustice”) Lofti (DJ); 34 Libya - Ibn Thabit (“Nída Líshabab Libya”/“Call to Libyan Youth”; “Fqr Akhu Kufr”/“Poverty and Corruption”, cf. Thabit, 2012), Noy Alooshe (“DJ Gaddafi Zenga Zenga Song”); in Egypt’s RaMy DoNjEwan (“ded del 7kooma” = “ded del Hukuma”/“Against the government”); Arabian Knightz (“Not your Prisoner”); Shada Mansour and Ahmed Rock (Revolution Records) and Palestine/Israel - DAM – Tamar Nafar (“Meen Erhabi”/“Who’s the terrorist”); MWR (“Ashanak Arabí”/“Because you are Arab”); Sagol 59ft Shaanan Street & Tamar Nafar (“Summit Meetìng”). They perform in Lebanon - RGB 961 (“Ya Wled Loubnan”/“Lebanese Son”); Katibe 5 (“Ahlan Fik Fil Mukhayamat”/“Welcome to the Camps”), the female Lebanese Christian Malíka (“Sam Bel Dam”/“Poison in the Blood”), Syria - Anonymus (“Statement No. 1”), even in Saudi Arabia - KSA School (“All Rase”), Kla$h; the United Arab Emirates - Desert Heat, Kuweit - Disso R Die and ThuGZ, Bahrein - DJ Outlaw (“Bahrein unite”), Chillin and Iran - Bahram (“Namei be Rais Jomhoor”/“Letter to the President”, 2007); Kiosk (“Hich Kas” =“Nobody” in Farsi). The aesthetics of Hip hop/Rap and its bold descriptive power allow for local rooting and identification. Local dialects and idioms, and the reference to everyday– mostly rather desolate – spaces conveys authenticity and credibility, and gains respect (Mager and Hoyler, 2007, p.46), and yet it voices common translocal experiences of exclusion, marginalization and its rich, open-ended repertoire takes a political position against the ills afflicting their countries. 32

33

34

For Heavy Metal, see Levine, 2008. A list of Tunisian rappers can be found at [Accessed 16 February 2013]. Some rappers are as well present at rapgenius [Accessed 16 February 2013]. See as well the site Mideastunes. Music for Social Change [Accessed 14 February 2013]. “Ferid had emigrated to Spain, but many other rappers, including Balti, were subsequently hauled into the Interior Ministry for questioning” (Peisner, 2011). For an account of Algeria’s vast rapper scene see Douadi (2000).

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Rap however, is certainly not the first music in this region to voice critical social and political mindsets. In the 1920/30’s, Raï (lit. ‘opinion’ or ‘point of view’) emerged in multi-ethnic Oran’s popular quarters, in taverns and brothels, cabaret halls and the camps of migrant workers. 35 Lyrics addressed lost love, spoke of heartbreak, poverty and drunkenness. Female performers (cheikas) played a crucial role in the development of this musical style. 36 Raï transgressed the dominant cultural codes and was also politically charged since the 1930s, the centenary of Algeria’s colonization. 37 During the war of independence, some raï performers joined the national movement Front de Libération National (FNL) and gave voice to the fight against French colonial domination (some went into exile in Tunisia or ended up in jail). However, even after independence, the government tightly controlled expression and banned raï from broadcasting in public. In the 1970s raï – which incorporated funk and rock – became a central reference for Algerian youth and music production developed. The diffusion of cassette tapes significantly contributed to popular dissemination and worked against censure and the official and monopolizing Algerian media. Raï tackles tabooed subjects like sex, alcohol, ‘divorcées, young widows and adultery’ and its sound framed the ‘frustrations and preoccupations of an entire generation’ (Rfi music, 2004). More recently, raï has begun drawing on ‘jazz, reggae and especially rap’ from the French banlieu (Hogge, 2010; Marranci, 2000), thus fusing rhythms, sounds and voices from Los Angeles, New York, and the Caribbean which travelled to Algeria via London (Chambers, 2008, p.47). Raï-Rap criss-crosses ethnic sounds of so-called ‘world music’. Voicing contest?protest?dissent? against social marginalization and exclusion, it is both de-localized and localized, searching to voice local ‘authenticity’ and its (modern) traditions. Its voices blend melismatic and syllabic elements with black diasporic bass and riffs. Its dialects resonate the neigh35

36

37

Fusing andalusi, zendani and melhun, Bedouin with Arab, Spanish, African and French musical forms, blending traditional instruments with Western ones (its tradition however reaches far further). See Friese (2012). For an account of so-called ‘world music’ and raï, processes of globalization and localization, cf. Ellingham, Duane and Dowell, 1999; Langlois, 1996; Marranci, 2003; Miliani, 1995; Virole, 1995; for an account of raï and censorship Mehdid, 2006; for the relation between music and processes of identification, see Gazzah, 2008; Gross, McMurray and Swedenburg, 2001. New media, music and politics have been addresses by Langlois (2005; 2009). Marranci (2003, p.102) emphasizes the crucial role of the ‘Western’ music industry in the development of a ‘Western audience’, an inherent Orientalism and the representation of an Orient “that rai music increasingly symbolizes in the Western imagination” (p.109) that is ultimately a strategy of ‘antiislamic normalization’. Stressing the critical function of rai against islamists, such a perspective is to promote a “‘caricature’ of pop-rai to reinforce […] the Western political distinction between acceptable, positive Arabic traditions, such as rai music, and dangerous, disruptive Islamist customs” (p.102). Here we are obviously on slippy grounds. However, I wonder if such a critique of subtle Western orientalism does not play the game of a politics of identity – Orient vs. Occident – as well. Huoari Hanani wrote “S’hab el baroud” (“Gens de la poudre”), a patriotic song about the virtues and courage of those who resisted the colonial army (taken up in 1983 by Cheb Khaled’s famous refrain “Les gens de la poudre avec leur fusils / Portent les bouches de canon la mèche allumée / Nos chefs ont délibéré et décide´/ Ils ont voulu réaliser ce jour de célébration”).

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bourhoods of Mali, Senegal, Cairo, Tripoli, Tunis, Oran, Algier, Tanger, Barcelona, Marseille, Naples, Palermo, Athens, Istanbul, Tel Aviv and Rammalah, Beirut, Berlin, Paris and London, New York, Los Angeles (cf. Chambers, 2012, pp.43-45). Its sounds travel via YouTube and mp3 files. Raï-Rock-Rap voices social and political circumstances, just as Cheb Khaled’s famous and prophetical song El Harba Wayn: “You can always cry or complain / Or flee, but where?” 38 Music voices movement. At this point, let me come back to ‘mobile people’ and the harragas and the burning desire to escape. As already mentioned, haraga is basically a project of young men and thus part of highly mobile cultural articulations, signs and symbolizations/symbols. One ‘hymn’ of haraga is – along with “El Harraga” by Reda Taliani –RimK 113/Reda Taliani’s “Partir loin” voices alienation, 39 poverty and attitudes of a ‘lost’ generation, having ‘nothing to loose’ and the struggle for perspectives and ‘happiness’ – the video was uploaded in October, 2009 and has been viewed up to now (2-21-2013) by 2.492,411 users. 40 Oh boat, o my love / Take me away from misery / In my country, I’m tyrannized / I am so tired and pissed off / it has been longtime in my mind / I won’t miss the opportunity / special evasion from Algeria to the West,

as the lyrics run. Voicing the desire to escape from personal, social and political circumstances – having been raised with thieves’ -, a ‘hard life’ that seems without alternative. Evasion, break away, getaway, being “on the route for Eldorado, even in economy class” searching a boat to being taken away from daily misery. “Partir loin” tones mobilization and mobility, being on the way, searching for dignity, self-respect, liberty and a good life. Harga as a process is first and foremost a transgression of rules, of exit and entry. However, it also includes insubordination to a desolate situation, corruption, injustice, the burning desire to flee the state of affairs and last but not least, exclusion from the universal right to mobility. In the context of current socio-political transformations, Harga is a gendered practice of freedom and an integral part of dynamic and creative transnational spaces that use cultural resources and are also developed in the contemporary environments of digital media. Mobilization, mobilities and its complex cultural articulations, musical and visual representations open up a space of rupture, agency, empowerment and thus, political mobilization. As such, it is part of a re-setting borders in a specific postcolonial situa38

39 40

“Where has youth gone? / Where are the brave ones?/ The rich gorge themselves / The poor work themselves to death / The Islamic charlatans show their true face [...] / You can always cry or complain
 / Or flee, but where?” as the lyrics of Cheb Khaled’s “El Harba Wayn” run. For a more detailed discussion of this song, see Friese, 2012/2013. See 113VEVO, 2009. Born in Algeria in 1978, RimK (Abdelkarim Brahmi) set up the ‘crew’ 113 (Yohann Duport, born in Guadeloupe and Mokobé Traoré, born 1979 in Mali). They became a highly successful group (since 2004, they have been under contract to Sony Music). RimK also founded his label Fresnik [Accessed 21 February 2013]. Reda Taliani, the ‘Italian’ (Tamni Reda), was born in 1980 in El-Biar, Algeria and lives in France.

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tion. Harga was – and is – a daily plebiscite against the deplorable political, economic and social conditions in the Maghreb. Its representations voice claims of dignity, liberty and participation as well as processes of inclusive exclusion in the (globalized) Euromediterranean space. Digital media, moving bodies and mobile sounds and, symbols are part of a transnational contemporary public space in which suffering, indignation about injustice, dissent and resistance as well as political consensus and the transcultural social imaginaire of a good and just life are articulated in everyday life. As such, they provide a forceful ‘hub’ for mobile cultural articulations and mobile people. Moving voices and identities, the constant processes of their deterritorialization and re-territorialization bring forth a “mutable and diversifying locality” (Chambers, 2008, p.2) and disturb the borders of a distinct, unified Mediterranean or European, an Arab or Western area and their alleged distinct identities. Mobile, diasporic voices and sounds, their incessant creativity “give way to the testimony and tempos of a differentiated becoming that … deviates established framings” (Chambers, 2008, p.11) and challenges limits and borders. In this sense, not just the Mediterranean and its mobile people “becomes a complex echo chamber where the migrancy of music suggests histories and cultures sounding off and sounding out, transforming and transmuting each other” (Chambers, 2008, p.48). In this sense, the continuum of mobilization and mobilities, voice and exit is accompanied by cultural resources and – to borrow an insight from Edward Said’s Musical Elaborations, music becomes […] a mode for thinking through or thinking with the variety of human cultural practices and voices, generously, and, yes, in a utopian cast, if by utopian we mean worldly, possible, attainable, knowable (Said, 1991, p.105).

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Appendix - Tables Year 2000 2006 2007 2008 2009

Users 100,000 953,000 1,618,440 1,765,430 3,500,000

Population 9,66,900 10,228,604 10,342,253 10,383,575 10,486,339

% Pen. 1.0% 9.3% 15.6% 17.0% 33.4%

Usage Source ITU ITU ATI ATI ATI

Table 1: Internet Usage and Population Growth, source: Internet World Stats [Accessed 15 February 2013]. ATI (Agence Tunisienne d’Internet, Minister of Information and Communication Technologies).

Total Facebook Users Position in the list Penetration of population Penetration of online population Average CPC Average CPM

2012 2,968,320 47 28.03% 82.45% $0.06 $0.02

2013 3,436,720 48 32.46% 89.10% $0.04 $0.0

Table 3: Tunisia general information and facebook users (2012/2013), source: Socialbakers [Accessed 20 April 2012 and 14 February 2013].

Table 4: Facebook users 2011–2012, source: Socialbakers [Accessed 20 April 2012].

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Taux de connexion Universités Laboratoires de recherché Lycées secondaires Ecoles primaries Nombre d’abonnés Nombre des comptes emails Nombre des utilisateurs Nombre de noms de domaine

Nombre de sites web

100% 100% 100% 70% Décembre 2011 604,102 737,271

Mars 2012 607,142 806,006

4,200,000 19,991

4.2 millions Nombre de noms de domaine enregistrés chez les fournisseurs de services (.tn) Nombre total de noms de domaine enregistrés chez les fournisseurs de services Nombre total de sites web selon les fournisseurs de services

12,454 544,392 Capacité de la connectivité au résau mondial

14,453

20,541 12,684

547,598 60 gigabits/seconde

Table 2: Statistiques du mois de Décembre 2011/Mars 2012 sur l’Internet en Tunisie, source: ATI (Agence Tunisienne d’Internet, Minister of Information and Communication Technologies) [Accessed 12 April 2012].

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Table 5: Age-ratio, source: Socialbakers [Accessed 20 April 2012].

Table 6: Gender-ration, source: Socialbakers [Accessed 20 April 2012].

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