Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches & Current Practices 9781912090792, 1912090791

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Public Archaeology Theoretical Approaches & Current Practices

Public Archaeology

This volume explores the relationship between archaeology and contemporary society, especially as it concerns local communities living day-to-day alongside archaeological heritage. The contributors come from a range of disciplines and offer inspiring views emerging from the marriage of archaeology with a number of other fields, such as economics, social anthropology, ethnography, public policy, oral history and tourism studies, to form the discipline of ‘public archaeology’. There is growing interest in investigating the meanings of archaeological assets and archaeological landscapes, and this volume targets these issues with case studies from Greece, Italy, Turkey and elsewhere. The book addresses both general readers and scholars with an interest in how archaeological assets affect and are affected by people’s understanding of landscape and identity. It also touches upon the roles played in these interactions by public policy, international conventions, market economies and the theoretical frameworks of public archaeology.

Edited by

Front cover: Döşemeboğazı – ancient road, Kovanlık, Antalya (photo Ekin Kazan) Back cover: Ariassos arch – gateway to the city, Akkoç, Antalya (photo Ekin Kazan)

Işılay Gürsu

Işılay Gürsu

British Institute at Ankara

ISBN 978 1 912090 80 8

BIAA 52

Monograph 52 2019

PUBLIC ARCHAEOLOGY THEORETICAL APPROACHES & CURRENT PRACTICES

Edited by Işılay Gürsu

BRITISH INSTITUTE AT ANKARA Monograph 52 2019

Published by British Institute at Ankara 10 Carlton House Terrace, London SW1Y 5AH www.biaa.ac.uk

This book is available from Oxbow Books 10 Hythe Bridge Street, Oxford, OX1 2EW www.oxbowbooks.com

ISBN 978 1 912090 79 2

© British Institute at Ankara 2019

All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the British Institute at Ankara.

Typeset by Abby Robinson Printed by Short Run Press Ltd, Exeter

Contents Preface List of figures

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Introduction Işılay Gürsu

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1. Past, place and people: archaeology and public relevance Reuben Grima

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2. A consideration of public archaeology theories Akira Matsuda

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3. The ‘economic’ in public archaeology Paul Burtenshaw

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4. Exploring community participation in the management of Italian archaeological sites Sarah Court and Jane Thompson

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5. The public and archaeology: some examples from current practices in Turkey Gül Pulhan 41 6. The rupture between archaeological ‘sites’ and local communities Sevil Baltalı Tırpan

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7. An ‘empowerment’ approach to public archaeology: the Three Peak Sanctuaries Public Archaeology Project Evangelos Kyriakidis

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8. Promoting innovative forms of cultural participation Erminia Sciacchitano

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9. Publicising archaeology and heritage: the role of education and local museums Veysel Apaydin

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10. From site management to public archaeology in Turkey Işılay Gürsu

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11. Informal tourism at the edge of a tangible heritage: feminised performances of street vending in Aspendos/Belkıs Güldem Baykal Büyüksaraç

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Preface Işılay Gürsu

The British Institute at Ankara (BIAA) is one of the British Academy-sponsored British International Research Institutes (BIRI). In recent years, in line with British Academy policy, the Institute has transformed from being an organisation mainly concerned with archaeological research, to a research institute that supports UK-based Humanities and Social Sciencesrelated research connected with Turkey and the Black Sea littoral area. As part of this development it is devoting a significant amount of its resources to issues concerned with cultural heritage and public archaeology in Turkey. This volume stems from the workshop ‘Public Archaeology in Turkey: Theoretical Considerations and Current Practice’ that took place in October 2014. The Koç University Research Center for Anatolian Civilizations hosted the event at their premises in Istanbul. The workshop was triggered by questions about the

relationship between archaeology and the contemporary society dealing with current issues of Public Archaeology in two perspectives: the changing people-based perception and understanding of archaeological heritage, and the new context created by the rapid growth of the tourism industry. It formed part of the BIAA’s broader project on cultural heritage management in southern Turkey. The workshop and this publication were only able to come to life thanks to financial support that was provided by the Headley Trust. The Headley Trust has also been a long-time sponsor of the BIAA’s projects concentrating on the management and interpretation of archaeological heritage in Southwest Turkey. We sincerely thank the Headley Trust for their continued support not only by shouldering the financial burden of the project but also by sharing our enthusiasm for the project.

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List of figures and table Chapter 2 2.1. Correspondence between Merriman’s models, Holtorf’s models and the four approaches to public archaeology 2.2. A new divide (represented by a bold vertical line) that is gradually created in the four approaches to public archaeology under the influence of economic neoliberalism Chapter 5 5.1. The ancient site of Hasankeyf on the Tigris in May 2015. The remains of the medieval bridge are being reinforced in preparation for inundation by the Ilısu Dam reservoir in the near future 5.2. The historical buildings of Mardin used as exhibition spaces for contemporary art during the Third Mardin Biennale, ‘Mythologies’ in the spring of 2015 5.3. Mustafa Atmaca with his grandson, archaeologist Mehmet Sadık Işık, during our visit to his village in October 2014 5.4. Archaeologist Abdullah Bilen instructing a group of workmen at Gre Amer during an on-site archaeology seminar 5.5. Students with period costumes posing in front of the replica of the Early Iron Age Gre Amer house in the museum-park during the opening reception of the Batman Museum on 18 May 2015 Chapter 6 6.1. Aerial view of the archaeological site of Kerkenes 6.2. Localities within the walled area at Kerkenes (map prepared by Yasemin Özarslan) Chapter 7 7.1. Abandoned threshing floor outside the village of Gonies. Photo Credits: Aris Anagnostopoulos 7.2. Manolis Nathenas and his dog Zoukov (sic) showing us around the village. Photo credits: Aris Anagnostopoulos. I thank Manolis Nathenas for allowing me to publish a picture of him, as well as Aris Anagnostopoulos and Lena Stefanou for allowing me to use their pictures 7.3. Painted steps representing the women of the village queuing for water, ‘To Nosbeti’. Photo credits: Lena Stefanou Chapter 10 10.1 Frequency of mentions of particular concepts (data compiled from the excavation results reports, 2014) Table 10.1: List of sites with site management plans (2004–2006)

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Introduction Işılay Gürsu

One of the most striking pieces in Çanakkale Archaeology Museum is a sarcophagus depicting a vivid and brutal murder scene. Placed in the middle of the main display hall, it captures the visitor’s gaze with the tragic story of Polyxena being sacrificed at the tomb of Achilles (Morford et al. 2011). Different versions of this mythological story, none of them ending well for Polyxena, have inspired various artists, including the one/s who produced the sarcophagus at Çanakkale Museum. The uniqueness of this piece, however, does not reside in the artistic expression that it embodies; instead, it stems from the collective consciousness of the contemporary communities that live nearby to the hill where it was found. Retrieved as a result of a rescue excavation by the Çanakkale Museum in 1994, the tumulus was named after the neighbourhood in which it was found: Kızöldün (the Dead Girl). The contemporary name of the neighbourhood is an inescapable reference to the qualities of the long-concealed tomb, which did not see the light of day for many centuries. Tombul refers to this centurieslong transmission of knowledge as thought-provoking (Tombul 2013). The astonishing topographical description of the whole neighbourhood as the ‘Dead Girl’ is also a source of fascination for Rose. He narrates the rescue excavation and the unearthing of another sarcophagus. The latter contained the remains of a young girl and had not been ‘disturbed or seen between the time of burial (ca 450 BC) and the excavation in 1994’; therefore, the name Kızöldün / Dead Girl might personify a ‘long oral tradition within the region that has lasted for nearly 2500 years’ (Rose 2014: 105). The reference might be to Polyxena or the young girl but local identification of the hill as Kızöldün is an exceptional case. When asked about any other possibility (murder of a girl in a nearby location, et cetera), the communities have responded that they have ‘always known this place with this name, and it is not a reference to a recent event’ (Brian Rose, personal communication May 2018). This story illustrates a deep and intangible relationship between contemporary communities and the remains of long-gone civilisations that once occupied the same land. Although intriguing, this relationship does not guarantee the seamless protection and stewardship of those remains. Nor does it stimulate an organic interest in understanding what the remains are, or to whom they

belonged. However, the lack of such interest should not be taken as total indifference towards the ruins, as demonstrated by the Kızöldün Tumulus story. As Matsuda points out, archaeology intrudes into contemporary living space in an active, real and physical way (Matsuda 2014). In the context of the Kızöldün story, until the moment in which the museum conducted a rescue excavation, the site had only a subtle significance for the people living around it. Following the museum’s intervention, it was labelled as ‘archaeological heritage’ and thus subject to special conservation rules. Excavation and musealisation of an artefact may result in the loss of the existing relationship between community and object. More commonly, detaching a place from a society’s everyday landscape in order to conserve it leads to estrangement. An overemphasis of the monumental and tangible aspects of cultural heritage, as well as placing the importance on the artefact rather than the people, gives birth to practices and policies that are indifferent to the anthropological aspect. Creating tools to foster an insight into the public understanding of archaeology is well worth the attempt. This volume stems from a search in this direction using the innovative platform offered by ‘public archaeology’. Although most of the contributions in this volume make a reference to theoretical considerations that are relevant to their cases, the first three chapters are particularly focused on the definition, the evolution, the conceptual and the theoretical frameworks of public archaeology. Grima starts by briefly looking at the historical evolution of archaeology and how it was linked with public at all stages of its development. By placing this changing relationship in a wider context that involves environmental sustainability, public health and the statecitizen relationship, he offers insights about the future orientation of public archaeology as a field. Focusing on the public and archaeology from an inspiring angle, Grima touches upon an important relationship, the one between the citizen and the state, an issue that is mentioned by other authors in this volume in the context of public archaeology (see the chapters by Gürsu, Baykal Büyüksaraç and Apaydin). Referring to the international conventions and how they changed over time, he looks at the citizen-state relationship in depth and offers a rich discussion for the opening of this volume.

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices Matsuda’s article shoulders the much-needed theoretical framework in public archaeology for this volume. His discussion on the evolution of public archaeology and its current status is enriched by a multi-layered reading of the accounts of prominent scholars who have shared their opinions on the public and archaeology. Examining four approaches to public archaeology – educational, public relations, pluralist and critical – he not only provides an excellent background for a structured conception of the accumulated stances, but also inspires the reader about the prospect of transformations. Matsuda shows us how educational, public relations, and pluralist approaches are merging into one another, leaving the critical approach as the only opposite. It is then up to the reader to reflect on which approach they take, if any. The focus on people is visible, at differing levels, in all of the chapters in this volume. Baltalı Tırpan, for instance, uses an ethnographic case study carried out alongside an ongoing excavation in Kerkenes, an Iron Age mountain-top settlement located in central Anatolia in Yozgat province, Turkey. Offering inspiring examples about the way local communities perceive a site labelled as ‘archaeological’, her work highlights a rare case in which social anthropology and archaeology are in the same frame. Providing a critical reading of the self-confidence of the archaeologists who tend to dismiss the local traditional knowledge as unscientific, and referring to personal experience as a field archaeologist, Baltalı Tırpan offers a sincere reflection on the ruptures between archaeological projects and local communities. Pulhan looks at archival material and matches it with oral history around the site of Gre Amer in the Garzan Valley. Present at the site as ‘the archaeologist’, Pulhan offers an inquisitive account of the recent history of the region following in the footsteps of J.G. Taylor, a British diplomat who travelled in the 19th century. Combining material remains, written documents and local memory, this chapter illustrates a rich and diachronic account of interaction between the local people and archaeology in a small corner of the eastern Tigris in the province of Batman in southeastern Turkey. This paper also touches upon an important component of the relationship between archaeology and public in Turkey: that of ‘treasure hunting’ or illicit excavations. It illustrates that the search for gold is not a new phenomenon; rather, it is a long tradition in the region. In both Baltalı Tırpan and Pulhan’s articles, economic difficulties are a determinant in the way the public relates to archaeology. The ‘economic’ in public archaeology is the main focus of Burtenshaw’s contribution. The marriage between archaeology and the economy has recently started to gain attention from scholars but is still in its infancy. This marriage is of particular importance in

this volume, and for all discussions related to public archaeology. As the pressure increases to make archaeology more relevant to contemporary society, economics is located at the centre of many conversations that relate to the relationship between the public and archaeology. The economic impact of archaeology might become a determinant in the relationship between local communities and sites – in some cases, the only determinant. The presence of an ongoing archaeological project, especially in a rural region, can represent a substantial source of income through the employment of local people to work at the excavation, or purchases from the local shops, et cetera. The leading protagonist, however, in the interplay between archaeology and the economy is undoubtedly tourism. Freya Stark was an explorer and travel writer who journeyed along the west coast of Asia Minor in 1952. In her book, Ionia: A Quest, she notes that she visited 55 ruined sites, including Ephesus, and at only one – Pergamum – did she met another tourist like herself (Stark 1954). Today, Ephesus alone receives more than one million visitors annually. This boom in the tourism sector has undoubtedly had impacts on the relationship between the public and archaeology, since every year an increasing number of people make the effort to leave their homes and travel many kilometres to visit archaeological ruins in someone else’s country. Tourism, in its capacity to create both direct and indirect income, can be a game changer. Inevitably, the ways in which local communities experience cultural heritage are enhanced, and often determined, through tourism-related channels. In this volume, Baykal Büyüksaraç offers an anthropological reading of this phenomenon in the context of the Turkish town, Belkıs, located in the vicinity of the important archaeological site, Aspendos. Starting off with a vivid fieldwork account, Baykal Büyüksaraç invites the reader to spend a day near the ancient aqueducts of Aspendos, the edge of a heritage site, which is also the address for the local communities’ souvenir stalls. Her rich and multi-layered reading of the everyday politics, as well as the people’s and especially women’s daily interactions with the archaeological ruins that they live next to, touches upon many topics relevant to public archaeology: authenticity, the informal tourist economy and its contribution to the household economy, and the commodification of cultural heritage. Like tourism, economic exploitation of cultural heritage through entrance fees and auxiliary services is a recent and global phenomenon. In a way, paying to visit ruins reflects the standardisation of an archaeological site visit. This is very well portrayed by Makdisi as a remarkable moment in the history of the famous archaeological site of Baalbek:

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Introduction: Gürsu A material transaction allowed every visitor to enjoy the spectacle of the ruins in return for a single silver coin. Removed from this transaction was any hint of the Harfush emirs who throughout the 18th and 19th centuries had dominated access to the site. Removed as well was the ritual of hospitality that the Ottoman pasha or the Harfush emir had occasionally insisted upon before a traveller was given the privilege to walk among the ruins (Makdisi 2011: 273–74).

within an archaeology project. The ultimate aim is to enhance locals’ attachment to a historic site without creating economic dependencies or financial expectations from the archaeological project. Taking a similar approach to building up a relationship between archaeology and local communities, Court and Thompson offer their invaluable experience from three case studies in Italy. The authors support a transition from public access to public participation in the management and conservation of archaeological assets, the former representing an expert-led and incentivised form of involvement while the latter takes an inclusive and egalitarian form. The presentation of the international framework, such as ICCROM’s programmes, is grounded in the authors’ own fieldwork experiences, resulting in an authentic account of the link between the local, the national and the international. Without necessarily designating their work as such, the cases presented are examples of activist archaeology. Sharing the space with the local communities, ‘being there’ with them, results in an emphatic approach to the daily needs and struggles of the public. The case of Herculaneum, especially, which started off as a conservation project but soon expanded to address the needs of the communities nearby, is a fantastic embodiment of what it means to ‘be there’ in the context of an archaeological and conservation project. Hadrian’s Villa in Tivoli is another example of how the protection of cultural and natural heritage is increasingly merging and also how cultural and natural heritage are interlinked in the eyes of the public. Lastly, the Rione Sanità is an important case for portraying a successful cooperative culture around heritage; as most initiatives fail due to internal conflicts, cooperatives are important tools for creating long-term involvement and ownership of the heritage in question. The idea of bottom-up and peoplecentred approaches comes to life in these examples from Naples and Tivoli in Italy. This volume refers to examples from Greece, Italy, Turkey and elsewhere. Although the contexts differ, the issues at stake appear to be similar. Lowenthal also points this out, observing that various countries tend to think that:

Tourism on the one hand, and the effects of neoliberalism on the other, have led to changes in legal and operational frameworks that deal with archaeological heritage. Gürsu analyses the Turkish context over recent decades and offers a detailed reading of the evolution and practice of archaeological site management. Focusing particularly on the state-citizen relationship in the context of public archaeology, she portrays issues at stake in reference to the effects of neoliberalism on the (missed) opportunities for fostering a closer relationship between people and archaeology. Apaydin proposes a solution to this often difficult relationship between the public and archaeology in Turkey. Having analysed three individual sites (Çatalhöyük, Ani and Hattuşa) with differing characteristics, he suggests that the protection of heritage can be sustainably achieved through formal and informal education. By means of a detailed analysis, he invites the reader to consider the quality of heritage education programmes. Sciacchitano’s paper focuses on Italy’s cultural heritage policies. She analyses statistics and offers innovative strategies targeted at constructing or strengthening the relationship between society and cultural heritage that might also be applicable in contexts besides Italy. Although her contribution makes many references to the use of quantitative techniques, Sciacchitano concludes by clearly acknowledging that the betterment of the relationship between the public and cultural heritage involves a long-term investment with multiple dynamics. However, shedding light on these dynamics requires the use of different tools, despite their resemblance to the tools of ‘customer research’. Her paper demonstrates that the meticulous use of these tools has the possibility to turn users into a critical and demanding mass rather than mindless customers. In his thought-provoking contribution, Kyriakidis explains the community empowerment approach to public archaeology, using a case study from Greece to illustrate his points. The experience in the local community of Gonies, Crete, touches upon many dimensions of public engagement. The chapter illustrates how ethnographic tools, having borrowed methodologies from different disciplines such as psychology, cognitive science and marketing, have been innovatively employed

their problems (are) unexampled elsewhere…Italians imagine that they alone have a heritage too burdensome to live with. Greeks feel uniquely bereaved by the classical legacy’s global dispersal; none but Israelis suffer a suicidal Masada complex; Egyptians uniquely lack empathy with ancient roots. Only Americans parade their past with patriotic hype, debase it with Disney, and feel guilt on both counts. Or so they all think. But they are wrong: most of these heritage ailments are pandemic (Lowenthal 2010: 249).

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices With a possibly less pessimistic approach, our experience also supported this argument. Another dilemma in which most of the contributors to this volume have found themselves inspires the final remarks of this introduction. Retaining a self-critical stance by asking, ‘How do our presence and projects affect local communities?’ is a challenging task while also running a project in the field, dependent on permissions from governmental bodies and with daily problems to be solved. In the end, it comes down to compromise. Often, we find ourselves thinking of ways to minimise any negative impacts that our projects might unintentionally create. But then, who gets to decide what is a negative and what is a positive impact? Whether there is a way to foresee unintended consequences remains at the heart of our current inquiries.

Matsuda, A. 2014: ‘Archaeology and newspaper reports: a case study of Japan’ in P. Stone, Z. Hui (eds), Sharing Archaeology: Academe, Practice, and the Public. New York and London, Routledge: 238–47 Morford, M.P.O, Lenardon, R.J., Sham, M. 2011: Classical Mythology. Oxford and New York, Oxford University Press Rose, C.B. 2014: The Archaeology of Greek and Roman Troy. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press Stark, F. 1954: Ionia: A Quest. New York, Harcourt, Brace and Company. Available online at: https://archive.org/stream/ioniaaquest001948mbp#pa ge/n7/mode/2up Tombul, M. 2013: ‘Çanakkale Bölgesindeki Anıtsal Tümülüsler. (Monumental tumuli in Çanakkale region)’ in F. Özdem (ed.), Aşklar, Savaşlar, Kahramanlar ve Çanakkale (Love, War, Heros and Çanakkale). Istanbul, Yapı Kredi Yayınları: 177–93

Bibliography Lowenthal, D. 2010: The Heritage Crusade and the Spoils of History. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press Makdisi, U. 2011: ‘The “rediscovery” of Baalbek: a metaphor for empire in the 19th century’ in Z. Bahrani, Z. Çelik, E. Eldem (eds), Scramble for the Past: A Story of Archaeology in the Ottoman Empire, 1753-1914. Istanbul, SALT: 257–81

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1. Past, place and people: archaeology and public relevance Reuben Grima

Introduction This chapter considers changing ideas about the relevance of the past and of archaeology to the public. It begins with a brief overview of the circumstances in which the discipline of archaeology emerged, from the early antiquarian interest of the 16th and 17th centuries, to its recognition as a full-fledged discipline by the 20th century. Throughout this period, changes in the wider historical context brought about changes in the way archaeology was practised, as well as changes in ideas about how the public should engage with archaeology. The area of theory and practice that we know today as public archaeology is largely the result of this evolution. Current debates about public archaeology have often tended to present it as a sub-set or specialised subdiscipline of archaeology, which is ancillary to the main purpose of archaeology. There is a risk here that as debates about the future and purpose of public archaeology are conducted increasingly among specialists, they may become more marginal to archaeological practice, perhaps even less relevant to the public. Here it will be argued that one way to steer clear of these risks is to examine how changing ideas in archaeological practice today are, just as in the past, closely bound up with wider political, social and economic transformations. Focusing on developments during the last quarter of a century, it will be demonstrated that changing ideas in archaeology are inseparable from the wider changes that span environmental sustainability, public health, and the relationship between the citizen and the state. These changes also allow some insight into how the relationship between archaeology and the public is changing, and may be expected to continue to change in the near future. It will be argued that developments in this wider context have given the relationship between archaeology and the public a fresh salience and a significance that is perhaps unprecedented in the history of the discipline. In this light, the area of discourse and practice we have come to term public archaeology has a more crucial role to play, with greater responsibilities than ever before.

Archaeology and public relevance: historical origins The history of archaeology as a discipline has become a well-established area of research, where successive contributions have charted out its emergence through a convoluted route of political, social and historic circumstances, accidents and alliances. This history does not need to be rehearsed in detail here. It will suffice to recall some of the circumstances that have shaped the discipline, because they are relevant to the relationship between archaeology and the public. In the Renaissance world, antiquarian interest was driven by the patronage of the most powerful, keen on the social and political advantages that archaeological endeavours could yield. The rise of the cabinet of curiosities and cabinet of antiquities represents another important chapter, characterised by the emergence of a community of scholars and antiquarians, who were either themselves drawn from the largely hereditary elites that ruled Europe during the 16th and 17th centuries, or entirely dependent on their patronage (Findlen 1994). Many of the encyclopaedic narratives of the past produced by the scholars of this period are eloquent documents of how archaeology was deployed to serve the political agendas of the day. Not only are patrons eulogised and idealised in obsequious prefaces and dedications, but the very scope, narrative and interpretations in their antiquarian efforts are more often than not calculated to satisfy and further the ambitions of those same masters. The collections amassed, ordered and exhibited in the cabinets of these scholars reflected the same considerations. Public access to these collections was severely limited by the constraints of poor education and more pressing priorities, so that they remained largely the preserve of a narrow circle of scholars and noblemen. The rise of the Grand Tour during the course of the 17th and 18th century began to broaden the audience for antiquarian pursuits, however, this growth was only relative, and remained an elite activity, accessible to perhaps one per cent or less of the population (De Seta 1996). The great leap in capturing the interest of wide swathes of the public was to take place during the course of the 19th century. This period is marked from its very beginning by archaeological exploits on an

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices unprecedented scale. The scientific expedition that accompanied Napoleon’s Egyptian campaign captured the popular imagination, and through the lavish publication of its results has perhaps left a more lasting legacy than the military campaign itself (Burleigh 2007). Napoleon’s Egyptian adventure also created the political climate that allowed Lord Elgin to exploit his position as Britain’s ambassador in Constantinople, in order to undertake the now-notorious despoliation of the Parthenon (Beard 2002). The acquisition of the Parthenon sculptures by the British government in 1816, shortly followed by their exhibition to the public, fuelled a further increase of public interest in archaeology, and helped to shape an unfortunately acquisitive formula for the state-sponsored public museum that was to influence museums across the western world and to endure well into the 20th century (Jenkins 2016). The mould in which the 19th-century museum was cast was also to shape the attitudes and expectations of the public towards archaeology. The spread of publicly accessible museums, together with the gradual recognition of the state’s responsibilities to safeguard archaeological ‘monuments’ in the public interest, resulted in a transformed intellectual landscape, where archaeology was becoming more accessible to the public than ever before. As masterfully recounted by Diaz-Andreu (2007), the emergence of archaeology in the modern sense was deeply marked by two factors that loomed large over the 19th century. Colonialism and nationalism were both deeply engaged in invoking the past to legitimise and further their claims. It has been persuasively argued that archaeology and museums were deeply implicated in the project of creating a false consciousness that helped legitimise the inequalities inherent in 19thcentury colonialism (Anderson 1991). The practice and scope of archaeology was also intricately intertwined with nationalism. Archaeology and the past were deployed to demonstrate a genesis for the ethnic groups that were being celebrated, identified or invented. Even as the public reach of archaeology was widened more than ever before, the ideological and political implications of archaeological practice became more carefully controlled. As argued by Anderson, the rise and spread of state-sponsored archaeological museums that characterised the 19th century was deeply bound up in disseminating narratives that consolidated existing power structures and enhanced the prestige of colonial powers. The same may be said of the appropriation of archaeological sites by the state to transform them into ‘monuments’, which became common practice for most European powers during the latter part of the 19th century, first in their home countries and then across the other territories under their control.

Archaeological practice throughout much of the 20th century continued to be shaped by the historical background outlined above. The mobilisation of resources for archaeological scholarship and research continued to move hand in hand with prevailing power structures. Although perhaps not as spectacularly as Napoleon’s scientific expedition to Egypt, the archaeological efforts of colonial powers during the century and a half that followed were no less informed by political and strategic goals. It was only during the second half of the 20th century that this inherited intellectual landscape began to undergo a significant structural transformation. The critiques of colonialism and the progressive dismantling of empires permitted the emergence of indigenous and post-colonial archaeologies by the last quarter of the 20th century (Lydon, Rizvi 2010). Meanwhile, seismic shifts were underway in the relationship between knowledge and democracy (Thomas 2004). The emergence and rise of public archaeology in its many forms and diverse agendas is inseparable from this transformed intellectual landscape. Current debates on locating and defining public archaeology The quest to define ‘public archaeology’ and its scope and purpose has exercised, and continues to exercise, considerable debate (critically reviewed in Merriman 2004; Moshenska 2010; Matsuda, Okamura 2011; Skeates et al. 2012; Richardson, Almansa-Sanchez 2015; Matsuda this volume). This debate has generally been a reflexive one, conducted largely between individuals who are themselves practitioners of some form of ‘public archaeology’. A key concern that has run through the debate is the definition of public archaeology as a discipline or sub-discipline. This concern has often been closely bound with a concern to get greater professional recognition for this area of activity, partly by setting it up as a distinct and different area of specialisation within the wider field of archaeological practice. An inherent risk in such definitions, however, is that they may ‘censor the field’ and ‘restrict our imagination’ (Sorensen, Carman 2009: 13; quoted in Guttormsen, Hedeager 2015: 189). Partly as a consequence of such considerations, efforts to define what public archaeology is and does have tended to proceed empirically and inductively, basing themselves on existing practices and seeking to order them more meaningfully. At considerable risk of over-simplification, it may be said that the question has more often than not been cast in terms of ‘what is public archaeology?’, ‘what is it that a public archaeologist does?’, or ‘what should be included within the term public archaeology, and what should be excluded and described by some other term, such as “community archaeology”?’ Such questions have

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Chapter 1: Grima. Past, place and people: archaeology and public relevance proved extremely useful in charting out the different forms of existing practices that have at some stage or another been brought under the rubric of ‘public archaeology’. On the other hand, until recently less attention has sometimes been paid to some broader questions, such as ‘why should archaeology matter to the public?’, or ‘what are the obligations of archaeologists towards the publics that they serve?’. Or even, ‘what role, potentially, could archaeology play in serving people’s changing needs in the future?’. These wider questions, which have long been a foremost concern for indigenous and pro-indigenous archaeologists and for Marxist archaeology, are increasingly attracting more interest in the mainstream debates on why archaeology should matter (for example, Atalay et al. 2014; Little, Shackel 2014). These wider questions have far-reaching implications for the realm of archaeological practice, and its responsibilities to the public, which deserve to be central to any debate or definition of ‘public archaeology’. The ethics of public archaeology are increasingly receiving attention (for example, Richardson, Almansa-Sanchez 2015; Jopela, Fredriksen 2015), and in 2014 were the focus of an entire session at the 20th meeting of the European Association of Archaeologists. Here it is argued that these wider questions are of pressing importance, and deserve the urgent attention of everyone involved in archaeology. In order to turn the focus onto such wider issues, it is necessary to shift from thinking of ‘public archaeology’ as a subset of ‘archaeology’, to thinking of it as the public role and purpose, potential as well as actual, of archaeology itself. The criticism that such a broad conception of public archaeology is too obtuse to be useful is one which has been warned against by early proponents of such a wider definition (Schadla-Hall 1999: 154). Here it is suggested that this bigger and bolder conception of public archaeology is not only useful but necessary. Only by asking how archaeology may better serve the publics of tomorrow’s ever-changing world may we help ensure that the discipline remains vibrant and relevant. The next section will consider some recent changes that have taken place in wider debates about the environment, public health and the past, in order to then locate the relationship between archaeology and the public in this broader context.

The UN Earth Summit held in Rio in 1992 was an important watershed in the recognition of the principle of environmental sustainability and sustainable development. The resulting Rio Declaration on Environment and Development (UNEP 1992) articulated, in clearer terms than ever before, the importance of stewardship of the environment and the careful nursing of the planet’s limited resources, as a responsibility shared by every individual. Some of the wording used is worth recalling here. Principle 10 underlines the important role of the public in sustainable environmental stewardship: Environmental issues are best handled with the participation of all concerned citizens, at the relevant level. At the national level, each individual shall have appropriate access to information concerning the environment that is held by public authorities… and the opportunity to participate in decision-making processes. States shall facilitate and encourage public awareness and participation by making information widely available. Principle 22 of the (1992) Declaration continues in this vein, to emphasise the contribution of indigenous and traditional cultures to sound environmental stewardship: Indigenous people and their communities and other local communities have a vital role in environmental management and development because of their knowledge and traditional practices. States should recognize and duly support their identity, culture and interests and enable their effective participation in the achievement of sustainable development. The Declaration not only underlined the close relationship between environmental responsibility and quality of life, but also emphasised the central role and contribution of the public, in the broadest possible sense, both at an individual and at a local community level, in the delivery of sound environmental stewardship. The same seismic shift in thinking is evident across the closely related theme of public health and wellbeing. The Dahlgren and Whitehead model for the determinants of public health and wellbeing, first put forward in 1991, has remained extremely influential since (Dahlgren, Whitehead 1991; Barton, Grant 2006). Placing the individual member of society at the centre, the model integrates the wide range of social as well as environmental factors which play a part in determining the health and wellbeing of any individual or community. Successive reports published by the World Health Organisation have continued to underline

Global debates since 1990: a new paradigm The past quarter of a century or so has witnessed a number of significant developments in global debates on environment, sustainability, public health, landscape, and cultural heritage. It will be argued here that the principles of good governance that have emerged across all these sectors may have some relevance to the changing relationship between the public and archaeology.

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices the importance of social factors in determining health and wellbeing (Wilkinson, Marmot 2003), and more recently, the importance of active community participation and empowerment in order to improve quality of life and wellbeing, particularly in underprivileged urban environments (WHO 2012: 12). The scope of these contributions is of course not limited to physical health, but is equally concerned with mental and psychological health of individuals and communities. A strand of this debate that is attracting more attention in recent years is the connection between wellbeing and cultural heritage. We are witnessing a growing recognition that engagement with the historic environment may have a direct and positive effect on the health and wellbeing of individuals and communities (for example, Ander et al. 2013; Noor et al. 2018). Some of the trends that are being noted here also resonate with a number of key principles that have been defined within the cultural heritage domain itself. The Nara Document on Authenticity (ICOMOS 1994), for example, was a watershed in the recognition of the importance of culture-specific traditions in defining what is of value, rather than expecting different cultural traditions to conform to an imposed Euro-centric definition of what qualifies as ‘authentic’. The evolution of the Australia ICOMOS Burra Charter is also a very telling indicator of the shifts in thinking that were taking place in the 1990s, including those articulated in Nara in 1994. The Charter has undergone four successive reviews, which allow comparison between the text as it stood in 1979, 1981, 1988, 1999, and 2013. One of the significant differences between the 1988 and the 1999 versions is in the definition of ‘cultural significance’ (Article 1.2 in both versions). The 1988 text stated:

Article 12. Participation Conservation, interpretation and management of a place should provide for the participation of people for whom the place has special associations and meanings, or who have social, spiritual or other cultural responsibilities for the place. Article 13. Co-existence of cultural values Co-existence of cultural values should be recognised, respected and encouraged, especially in cases where they conflict. Article 12 is particularly relevant to the present discussion. It echoes the wider principle, noted above, of recognising the contribution of individual, indigenous and local community participation in environmental stewardship, as laid down in Rio in 1992, and applies this principle specifically to the cultural heritage domain. The same principle may also be seen, in the years that followed, reverberating and finding application in frameworks such as the UNESCO World Heritage process (Merode et al. 2004; Brown, Hay-Edie 2013; 2014). Another important development in the UNESCO World Heritage framework was the formal introduction of the concept of Cultural Landscapes in 1992, in recognition of the inseparability of the work of nature and of man in moulding landscapes that are culturally significant (Fowler 2003). Parallel developments may also be observed in the European Landscape Convention (Council of Europe 2000). Here again, echoing the principles already laid down at Rio in 1992, people are placed at the centre. The safeguarding of landscapes is not considered simply as an end in itself, but is also integral to the wellbeing of the inhabitants. In the words of the Preamble, the Convention is based on considerations that include:

Cultural significance means aesthetic, historic, scientific or social value for past, present or future generations.

Cultural significance is embodied in the place itself, its fabric, setting, use, associations, meanings, records, related places and related objects. Places may have a range of values for different individuals or groups.

Acknowledging that the landscape is an important part of the quality of life for people everywhere: in urban areas and in the countryside, in degraded areas as well as in areas of high quality, in areas recognised as being of outstanding beauty as well as everyday areas; Wishing to respond to the public’s wish to enjoy high quality landscapes and to play an active part in the development of landscapes; Believing that the landscape is a key element of individual and social well-being and that its protection, management and planning entail rights and responsibilities for everyone…

Another significant evolution in 1999 was the addition of two new articles under Conservation Principles:

Once again, the complementary principles of public enjoyment and public stewardship are firmly embedded in the rationale of the convention.

In the 1999 version, ‘spiritual value’ is added to the same sentence, and two new lines are added:

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Chapter 1: Grima. Past, place and people: archaeology and public relevance The centrality of the rights of the public to the enjoyment of a resource and to participate actively in its stewardship is even more explicit in another Council of Europe Convention that followed five years later, which is of immediate relevance to the present discussion. This is the Framework Convention on the Value of Cultural Heritage for Society (also referred to as the Faro Convention, 2005), which entered into force in 2011, and to date has been ratified by 18 countries. The Convention is informed by an awareness of cultural values in the environment, the environmental dimensions of cultural heritage, and the importance of a sense of place (Council of Europe 2005a; 2005b). The wording of the Preamble sets the pace, by including the following considerations:

encourage reflection on the ethics and methods of presentation of the cultural heritage, as well as respect for diversity of interpretations; establish processes for conciliation to deal equitably with situations where contradictory values are placed on the same cultural heritage by different communities… Article 8 underlines the need for an integrated approach to policies concerning cultural as well as natural resources, while promoting a collective sense of responsibility towards ‘…the places in which people live’. Article 11 is explicitly about ‘The organisation of public responsibilities for cultural heritage’, and makes provision for civil society to participate actively in the stewardship of cultural heritage, binding the Parties to ‘…respect and encourage voluntary initiatives which complement the roles of public authorities’. Article 12, furthermore, binds Parties to ‘encourage everyone to participate’ in the stewardship of cultural heritage.

Recognising the need to put people and human values at the centre of an enlarged and cross-disciplinary concept of cultural heritage; Emphasising the value and potential of cultural heritage wisely used as a resource for sustainable development and quality of life in a constantly evolving society; Recognising that every person has a right to engage with the cultural heritage of their choice, while respecting the rights and freedoms of others, as an aspect of the right freely to participate in cultural life enshrined in the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948) and guaranteed by the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights (1966); Convinced of the need to involve everyone in society in the ongoing process of defining and managing cultural heritage…

A 21st-century agenda for public archaeology The above rapid overview of some key statements from across the domains of environment and sustainability, public health, landscape and cultural heritage over the past quarter of a century shows some common concerns, principles and approaches. The shared concern with placing people at the centre, both as beneficiaries and as stewards, has come through with such consistency that it may be described as a new paradigm for responsible governance. A consistent thread across the range of domains considered is the recognition of the need for a bottom-up approach in which the public is not only engaged, but even co-owns the agenda. The very nature of the relationship between the public and the state appears to be undergoing a metamorphosis here (Thomas 2004). The Faro Convention has reiterated and applied these principles specifically to the domain of cultural heritage, underlining their immediate relevance for the ways that the public relates to archaeology. The tidal shifts in thinking traced above have irrevocably altered the intellectual climate and political context in which archaeology is conducted, more particularly those aspects of archaeological practice that are usually gathered under the rubric of public archaeology. While it has been pointed out that the term ‘archaeology’ barely gets a mention in the text of the Faro Convention (Fairclough 2014), the ramifications of this altered environment for the field of archaeology are writ plain on the wall. The core concepts and values which have underpinned debates over public archaeology over the past quarter of a century resonate closely with the wider paradigm shift

The tenor is maintained in Article I, ‘Aims’, where signatory states agree to, inter alia: recognise individual and collective responsibility towards cultural heritage; emphasise that the conservation of cultural heritage and its sustainable use have human development and quality of life as their goal; take the necessary steps to apply the provisions of this Convention concerning… greater synergy of competencies among all the public, institutional and private actors concerned… Several of the Articles that follow are of immediate relevance to the relationship between the public and archaeology. Article 7, on Cultural Heritage and Dialogue, requires the Parties to the Convention to, inter alia:

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices that has been traced here. Followed through to its logical conclusions, this changed reality has significant implications for the way archaeological practice is conducted, and particularly, for the interface between archaeology and the public. Several archaeologists have actively embraced the Faro Convention and its practical implications in order to widen their mandate to explore different forms of public engagement with archaeology. A recently published body of work inspired by Faro has put the role of the archaeological ‘expert’ or figure of authority under scrutiny, arguing that individuals who inhabit a landscape are themselves in a sense the experts with the most intimate knowledge of the lifeways and rhythms of that particular place (Schofield 2014). In one contribution, this approach has been put into practice through projects that engage with homeless inhabitants of two English cities, in order to better understand how they construct their sense of place and organise their lifeways (Kiddey 2014). Taking as a point of departure Article 1a of the Faro Convention, which asserts the right of every individual to engage with their cultural heritage, these projects have applied it in an eminently practical manner, by engaging with some of the most marginalised and underprivileged members of their society, to explore a range of alternative mindscapes and forms of understanding of the past and of its material record. It is fair to say that such efforts have not yet entered the mainstream of archaeological practice, and in some respects archaeology is still discovering and finding its way in this new environment. It should not, however, be forgotten that archaeology is one of the disciplines that pioneered the game-changing ideas that have now entered the mainstream, such as equity, empowerment of indigenous communities, or multivocality of values and interpretations. The first World Archaeological Congress, which was held in Southampton in 1986, and the ensuing publications (for example, Layton 1989; Stone, MacKenzie 1989; Gathercole, Lowenthal 1990) played a seminal role in charting out many of the intricacies of this terrain, helping in no small measure to pave the way for the consensus-building required for their formalisation in the charters and conventions that have been reviewed. Now that this discourse has entered the mainstream and achieved recognition and endorsement in a panoply of multi-lateral fora, archaeological practice may appear to have slipped to the fringes of these debates. The area of discourse and practice usually gathered under the term ‘public archaeology’ may seem even more marginal on this global scene, as it focuses much of its energies on defining itself as a discipline.

Here it is argued that this need not, should not, be so. Archaeology is singularly well equipped to navigate across this new terrain, which in many respects is not ‘new’ to the discipline at all. The central themes that are now enshrined in the array of charters and conventions that have been considered are ones which have long been the focus of archaeological research, well before the writing of those same charters and conventions. The interaction between humans and nature to create cultural landscapes is at the very basis of landscape archaeology, and has been at least since the 1950s, when the South Etruria Survey was launched by John Ward-Perkins (Potter 1979). The shift from site-centred approaches to examining the taskscapes of everyday life in the wider landscape (Ingold 2000) is another characteristic of archaeological approaches to landscape which presaged the trends traced above. The recognition that, in the words of the Burra Charter since 1999, ‘places may have a range of values for different individuals or groups’ is a fundamental premise of phenomenological approaches to archaeology which since the late 1980s have endeavoured to move from an etic viewpoint to more emic point of view which seeks to reconstruct the way people in the past perceived and understood their environment (Tilley 1994). The recognition of the value of cultural heritage resources as tools to empower indigenous peoples to achieve greater equity owes much to the pioneering efforts of Peter Ucko and co-workers in indigenous archaeology (Layton 1989; Ucko 2001). Archaeology is evidently one of the most powerful tools in the arsenal of contemporary research that may help deliver the ambitious agenda that has of late been embraced and endorsed by the international community. This brings us back full circle to the beginning of the argument, where it was noted that the history of archaeology has at every step of the way been shaped by the political, economic and social circumstances of the day. In the Renaissance and early modern world, scholars and antiquarians first seduced princes and oligarchs into a passion for the beauty of the antique, then enjoyed their patronage and put their scholarship at their service. Today, after decades of endeavour, we are witnessing the completion of the quest of convincing governments and international bodies that the enjoyment of archaeology, as an integral component of cultural heritage, is a universal right. The challenge now is for archaeological practice to rise to the occasion and to continue to be a leader in the remarkable transformation that has taken place in our day. The challenge identified in the previous paragraph is at the heart of the realm of archaeological practice that is concerned with the interface between archaeology and people today. Here then, is a bold and ambitious mission for the public archaeology of today and of the future. As noted earlier, debates in public archaeology

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Chapter 1: Grima. Past, place and people: archaeology and public relevance have sometimes become preoccupied with the definitions and boundaries of the discipline. Perhaps the time has come to worry less about delimiting boundaries and to focus more on building interdisciplinary networks, in order to play a more active role in making archaeology more meaningful and relevant to more people, and to allow more people to use archaeology to empower themselves to help improve their lives. If this seems too wide or too ambitious an agenda to be meaningful or realistic, or if it seems to threaten to outgrow the scope of some of the current definitions of public archaeology, we should not be too worried. If the public archaeology of tomorrow does outgrow the agendas it had yesterday, if its disciplinary boundaries become blurred and its work sometimes messy and entangled in new encounters with other disciplines, it would be a fine tribute to its success, and to its enduring relevance to the publics that it serves.

— 2005a: Council of Europe Framework Convention on the Value of Cultural Heritage for Society (Faro, 2005) — 2005b: Explanatory Report to the Council of Europe Framework Convention on the Value of Cultural Heritage for Society. Council of Europe Treaty Series No. 199 De Seta, C. 1996: ‘Grand Tour: the lure of Italy in the eighteenth century’ in A. Wilton, I. Bignamini (eds), Grand Tour: The Lure of Italy in the Eighteenth Century. London, Tate Gallery Publishing: 13–20 Dahlgren, G., Whitehead, M. 1991: Policies and Strategies to Promote Social Equity in Health. Stockholm, Institute for Future Studies Diaz-Andreu, M. 2007: A World History of NineteenthCentury Archaeology. Nationalism, Colonialism, and the Past. Oxford, Oxford University Press Fairclough, G. 2014: ‘“I wanted to be an archaeologist” A very 21st century crisis of confidence’. Conference paper abstract. Setting the Agenda: Giving New Meaning to the European Archaeological Heritage. 15th EAC Heritage Management Symposium, 20–21 March 2014 Findlen, P. 1994: Possessing Nature. Museums, Collecting, and Scientific Culture in Early Modern Italy. Berkeley, University of California Press Fowler, P.J. 2003: World Heritage Cultural Landscapes 1992-2002 (World Heritage Paper Series no. 6). Paris, United Nations Educational and Scientific Organisation Gathercole, P., Lowenthal, D. (eds) 1990: The Politics of the Past. London, Unwin Hyman Guttormsen, T.S., Hedeager, L. 2015: ‘Introduction: interactions of archaeology and the public’ World Archaeology 47.2: 189–93 ICOMOS 1994: The Nara Document on Authenticity. International Council of Monuments and Sites. Ingold, T. 2000: ‘The temporality of the landscape’ in T. Ingold (ed.), The Perception of the Environment: Essays in Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill. London, Routledge: 189–208 Jenkins, T. 2016: Keeping their Marbles: How the Treasures of the Past Ended Up in Museums… and Why They Should Stay There. Oxford, Oxford University Press Jopela, A., Fredriksen, P.D. 2015: ‘Public archaeology, knowledge meetings and heritage ethics in southern Africa: an approach from Mozambique’ World Archaeology 47.2: 261–84 Kiddey, R. 2014: ‘Punks and drunks: counter-mapping homelessness in Bristol and York’ in J. Schofield (ed.), Who Needs Experts? Counter-mapping Cultural Heritage. Surrey, Ashgate: 165–79

Acknowledgements I am grateful to the organisers and sponsors of the Public Archaeology Workshop held in Istanbul on 30–31 October 2014 for making my participation possible. Bibliography Ander, E., Thomson L., Noble, G., Lanceley, A., Menon, U., Chatterjee, H. 2013: ‘Heritage, health and wellbeing: assessing the impact of a heritage focused intervention on health and well-being’ International Journal of Heritage Studies 19.3: 229–42 Anderson, B. 1991: Imagined Communities. Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London, Verso Atalay S., Clauss L.R., McGuire R.H., Welch, J.R. (eds) 2014: Transforming Archaeology: Activist Practices & Prospects. Walnut Creek, Left Coast Press Barton, H., Grant, M. 2006: ‘A health map for the local human habitat’ The Journal of the Royal Society for the Promotion of Health 2006 126.6: 252–53 Beard, M. 2002: The Parthenon. London, Profile Books Brown, J., Hay-Edie, T. (eds) 2013: COMPACT: Engaging Local Communities in the Stewardship of World Heritage. New York, United Nations Development Programme Brown, J., Hay-Edie, T. 2014: Engaging Local Communities in the Stewardship of World Heritage. A Methodology Based on the COMPACT Experience. (World Heritage Paper Series no. 40). Paris, United Nations Educational and Scientific Organisation Burleigh, N. 2007: Mirage: Napoleon's Scientists and the Unveiling of Egypt. New York, Harper Collins Council of Europe 2000: European Landscape Convention (Florence, 2000)

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices Layton, R. (ed.) 1989: Who Needs the Past? Indigenous Values and Archaeology. London, Unwin Hyman Little, B.J., Shackel, P.A. 2014: Archaeology, Heritage, and Civic Engagement: Working Toward the Public Good. California, Left Coast Press Lydon, J., Rizvi, U.Z. (eds) 2010: Handbook of Postcolonial Archaeology. California, Left Coast Press Matsuda, A., Okamura, K. 2011: ‘Introduction: new perspectives in global public archaeology’ in A. Matsuda, K. Okamura (eds), New Perspectives in Global Public Archaeology. London, Springer: 1–18 Merode, E.D., Smeets, R., Westrik, C. (eds) 2004: Linking Universal and Local Values: Managing a Sustainable Future for World Heritage (World Heritage Paper Series no. 13). Paris, United Nations Educational and Scientific Organisation Merriman, N. 2004: ‘Diversity and dissonance in public archaeology’ in N. Merriman (ed.), Public Archaeology. London, Routledge: 1–17 Moshenska, G. 2010: ‘What is public archaeology?’ Present Pasts 1.1: 46–48. doi: 10.5334/pp.7 Noor, S.M., Jaafar, M., Balan, Y. 2018: ‘Communicating archaeological heritage: strategically connecting the past to the present from community perspectives’ Journal of Asian Pacific Communication 28.1: 151– 71. doi: http://dx.doi.org/10.1075/japc.00008.noo Potter, T.W. 1979: The Changing Landscape of South Etruria. London, Elek Richardson, L.J., Almansa-Sanchez, J. 2015: ‘Do you even know what public archaeology is? Trends, theory, practice, ethics’ World Archaeology 47.2: 194–211 Schadla-Hall, R.T., 1999: ‘Editorial: public archaeology’ European Journal of Archaeology 2.2: 147–58 Schofield, J. (ed.) 2014: Who Needs Experts? Countermapping Cultural Heritage. Surrey, Ashgate

Skeates, R., McDavid, C., Carman, J. (eds) 2012: The Oxford Handbook of Public Archaeology. Oxford, Oxford University Press Sorensen, M.L., Carman, J. 2009: ‘Heritage studies: an outline’ in M.L. Stig Sorensen, J. Carman (eds), Heritage Studies: Methods and Approaches. London, Routledge: 11–28 Stone, P.G., MacKenzie, R. (eds) 1989: The Excluded Past: Archaeology in Education. London, Unwin Hyman Thomas, R.M. 2004: ‘Archaeology and authority in the twenty-first century’ in N. Merriman (ed.), Public Archaeology. London, Routledge: 191–201 Tilley, C. 1994: A Phenomenology of Landscape: Places, Paths and Monuments. Oxford, Berg Ucko, P. 2001: ‘Indigenous archaeology at the Institute of Archaeology’ Papers from the Institute of Archaeology 12: 1–11 UNEP 1992: ‘Annex I: Rio Declaration on Environment and Development’ Report of the United Nations Conference of Environment and Development (Rio de Janeiro, 3-14 June 1992). Document A/CONF.151/26. United Nations Environment Programme WHO 2012: Addressing the Social Determinants of Health: The Urban Dimension and the Role of Local Government. Copenhagen, World Health Organisation Regional Office for Europe Wilkinson, R., Marmot, M. (eds) 2003: Social Determinants of Health: The Solid Facts (2nd edition). Copenhagen, World Health Organisation Regional Office for Europe

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2. A consideration of public archaeology theories Akira Matsuda

In this article, I see public archaeology in this way, and shall consequently examine its recent and current trends theoretically in order to make a case for how archaeology should relate to the public.

Introduction The aim of this article is to offer a theoretical reflection on the current state of public archaeology. Before I begin, however, it is worth considering whether the theorisation of public archaeology is actually necessary at all. Those who regard public archaeology as ‘applied archaeology’ may well consider that public archaeology is practical in essence and that, therefore, its theorisation is unnecessary or bound to be limited. If one believes that the main business of archaeology needs to be theorised first, then that theory should be applied wherever possible to address social issues such as education, community development and site preservation, public archaeology would not seem in need of much theorisation in itself, except perhaps in relation to its methodology. In this case, public archaeology is viewed as an adjunct to, or a sub-field of, archaeology; in other words, archaeology can operate by itself, whether or not informed by discussion of public archaeology. Public archaeology, however, can also be understood as informing and underlying any form of archaeology. This idea makes sense if one believes that archaeology always has some public aspects, whether in terms of where project funding comes from and how it is spent, where and how fieldwork is carried out, how archaeological sites are managed, how finds are treated, or what impact the outcome of archaeological research has. It is therefore possible to argue that ideas about how archaeology relates, and should relate, to the public already constitute public archaeology.1 In this view, public archaeology is inherent in all archaeology and its theorisation needs to go beyond methodology; it needs to address how we want archaeology to be in relation to modern society.2 1

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Debating and defining public archaeology Public archaeology, as a term and concept, has slowly yet steadily gained recognition within the discipline of archaeology over the last few decades. This recognition was initially limited to Anglophone countries, in particular the United States, Britain and Australia, but since about the turn of the 21st century, public archaeology has been introduced, discussed and practised in non-Anglophone countries, too (e.g., see Almansa 2008, 2011 for Spain; Bonacchi 2009 for Italy; Fredrik, Wahlgren 2008 for Sweden; Funari 2001, 2004, Green et al. 2001 for Brazil; Cao 2004 for China; Křenková 2005 for the Czech Republic; Matsuda, Okamura 2012 for Japan). Reflecting the diversity of the theory and practice of archaeology and the even greater diversity of local traditions of engaging with the past and legal instruments regulating archaeological activities in different countries, divergent forms of public archaeology have emerged, and are still emerging, across the world (Richardson, Almansa 2015: 196–97). While it is too demanding to examine each of these forms in detail here, Okamura and I suggested elsewhere that by analysing their aims one can classify them into one of four categories, or a combination of these, which are helpful for grasping the overall trend of public archaeology in each geographical area (Matsuda, Okamura 2011: 5–7). In this article, I refer to these categories as four approaches to public archaeology – educational, public relations, pluralist, and critical – and discuss how they are playing out in the global context of public archaeology today.3 First, it is useful to briefly define each approach. The educational approach aims to facilitate and promote people’s learning about the past on the basis of archaeological thinking and methods; the importance of

Some might think that such an amorphous view of public archaeology stems a healthy development of the subject due to the lack of a clearly defined remit for it. Yet I still prefer to consider public archaeology in as open-ended and inclusive a way as possible, so it can adapt and respond to a variety of social and disciplinary needs. I would also like to welcome archaeologists who do not usually undertake obvious forms of public engagement, such as outreach and education, to the arena of public archaeology, instead of discouraging them from expressing their views as to how archaeology should relate to the public. This emphasis resonates with the theoretical shift observed in museum studies about 30 years ago (Vergo 1989: 3). Sometimes referred to as ‘New Museology’, the advancement of theorisation in museum studies (see Macdonald, Fyfe 1996) has contributed to changes in museum practice in many drastic ways.

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Although I refer only to these four approaches to public archaeology in the present chapter, it is important to remember that others categorise public archaeology, or community archaeology, differently (e.g., Moshenska, Dhanjal 2012; Atalay et al. 2014; Little, Shackel 2014).

Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices protecting and conserving archaeological remains can be one of the subjects of study. The public relations approach aims to increase the recognition, popularity and support of archaeology in contemporary society by establishing close relationships between archaeology and various individuals and social groups. The pluralist approach aims to understand the diversity of interactions between material remains and different members of the public; it treats archaeology as one way of making sense of the past and considers how it can meaningfully engage with various other ways of doing so. Finally, the critical approach engages in the politics of the past (Gathercole, Lowenthal 1990), typically by seeking to unsettle interpretations of the past by socially dominant groups, in particular ethnocentric and elitist groups, or by helping socially subjugated groups to achieve due socio-political recognition by promoting their views of the past. The four approaches build on the models of how archaeologists engage with the public proposed by Merriman (2004: 5–8) and Holtorf (2007: 105–29), as illustrated in figure 2.1. The educational approach and the public relations approach correspond to Holtorf’s ‘education model’ and ‘public relations model’ respectively, and the combination of the two approaches represents Merriman’s ‘deficit model’, in which the public is viewed as devoid of archaeological knowledge (Merriman 2004: 5–6). The combination of the pluralist approach and the critical approach, on the other hand, corresponds to Merriman’s ‘multiple perspective model’ and Holtorf’s ‘democratic model’. One of my main contentions in the present chapter is that it is vital to distinguish between the pluralist approach and the critical approach in order to understand what is happening in public archaeology today. Before I elaborate on this point, however, it is important to remember that the most significant divide in the discourse of public archaeology over the last few decades has existed between the educational and public relations approaches on one side, and the pluralist and critical approaches on the other; this divide is represented by a bold vertical line in figure 2.1. This divide has existed on multiple levels. On one level, it has reflected the divergence between the more practice-oriented educational and public relations approaches and the more theory-oriented pluralist and critical approaches. In terms of the history of public archaeology, the educational and public relations approaches have been recognised more often and for longer than the pluralist and critical approaches; indeed, the latter became prominent only after the 1990s, under the influence of post-processual archaeology (Merriman 2002: 542–43). The divide has also reflected a difference in how the public is conceptualised. The educational and public relations approaches regard the

public as the object of intervention; in other words, the public are to be educated, informed, and engaged.4 In contrast, the pluralist and critical approaches regard the public as a subject, which has its own agency and interacts with the past according to its beliefs, interests and agendas. The growth of public archaeology over the last few decades has in part been driven by a series of heated debates revolving around the divide. Two of these were particularly important. The first occurred between Holtorf and McManamon, and featured in the inaugural volume of the journal Public Archaeology in 2000 (Holtorf 2000; McManamon 2000a, 2000b). McManamon argued that archaeologists should engage more in public outreach in order to generate a public who are supportive of archaeological preservation and who can also ‘serve as an invaluable source of political, volunteer and economic backing’ for archaeology (McManamon 2000a: 7). Holtorf criticised McManamon’s argument for being prescriptive and uncharitable. He contended that nonprofessionals should be ‘welcomed and indeed be encouraged and supported in their own encounters with archaeology, whether these may closely resemble professional attitudes or not’ (Holtorf 2000: 215) and stressed the need for ‘[c]ritical understanding and dialogue’ in order to ‘engage with the multiple pasts and alternative archaeologies’ (Holtorf 2000: 215). McManamon subsequently wrote a reply, justifying his earlier remarks by maintaining that ‘professional archaeologists and others who believe that historical and scientific archaeological methods and techniques provide an informative and valuable view of the past need to promote this point of view more avidly’ (McManamon 2000b: 216). It is important to note that in the debate McManamon called for more education and public relations approaches to archaeology and the past, while Holtorf argued for pluralist and critical approaches. Characterised by Holtorf’s acute criticism and McManamon’s polite and somewhat restrained counterargument, the debate was without doubt engaging. It was thought-provoking because the plea for education and public relations, which had long been considered self-apparently important, came under criticism for the first time; the readers were invited to seriously reflect on how archaeologists should approach, and interact with, the public. The debate not only helped the journal Public Archaeology achieve a successful launch, but also contributed to the development of theoretical discussion of public archaeology.

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This does not mean that the educational and public relations approaches deny the agency of members of the public. What is discussed here is the conceptualisation of the public in relation to the aims of the two approaches.

Chapter 2: Matsuda. A consideration of public archaeology theories More practice-oriented

More theory-oriented

Merriman’s models (2004)

deficit model

multiple perpective model

Holtorf’s models (2007)

education model

Four approaches to public archaeology educational approach

public relations model

democratic model

public relations approach

pluralist approach critical approach

Fig. 2.1. Correspondence between Merriman’s models, Holtorf’s models and the four approaches to public archaeology The second significant debate in public archaeology took place in the journal World Archaeology in 2007 (Fagan, Feder 2006; Holtorf 2005). It was again Holtorf who initiated the debate, by criticising archaeologists who dismissed and denounced alternative archaeologies. Pointing out the similarities between scientific and alternative approaches to the understanding of the past, he argued that ‘[a]rchaeologists do not serve as a special state police force dedicated to eradicating interpretations that are considered false or inappropriate by a self-selected jury’ (Holtorf 2005: 549). Fagan and Feder, who were among the archaeologists criticised by Holtorf, hit back emphatically. They wrote an article titled ‘Crusading against straw men: an alternative view of alternative archaeologies: response to Holtorf (2005)’, in which they rejected most of Holtorf’s contentions as overblown assentation, or the result of his being misinformed. Fagan and Feder insisted on the ‘validity and legitimacy of archaeological prepositions’ that are based on scientific methods and evidence (Fagan, Feder 2006: 724) and argued that it is important to distinguish between rational archaeology and pseudoarchaeology and to reject the second when it disguises itself as the first. The debate in 2007 was notable for Holtorf’s continued sharp criticism and Fagan and Feder’s acrimonious response, and it helped reinvigorate the critical discussion of public archaeology. Holtorf was again a proponent of pluralist and critical approaches to archaeology and the past, and this was contrasted with Fagan and Feder’s position, which was largely positivist and educational. While centring on the question of how, if at all, archaeologists should engage with alternative archaeologies, the debate had much wider implications, touching on other important issues such as the social role of the archaeologist as an expert and the usefulness of archaeology in contemporary society. It may be noted that the two debates cited above revolved around the divide between the educational and public relations approaches on one side, and the pluralist and critical approaches on the other. In both debates, the

divide shaped a theoretical contrast which was conspicuous and easily digestible for readers. In that sense, the divide provided an important basis for discussion in public archaeology – and Holtorf’s contribution was remarkable in this regard. Neo-liberalism and the divergence of approaches Today, however, the dividing line among the four approaches to public archaeology is gradually shifting its position. The pluralist and critical approaches, which have so far tended to be grouped together as a more theoretical and post-processual category, are progressively splitting apart – and this raises again my earlier contention that it is vital to distinguish between the two approaches. What is emerging, as a result, is a new divide between the educational, public relations and pluralist approaches on one side, and the critical approach on the other (fig. 2.2). This shift seems to be caused by the expansion of economic neoliberalism. The current economic climate demands more ‘value for money’ in most sectors of neoliberal society worldwide. Archaeology, which is often regarded as a self-indulgent middle-class pursuit and sometimes even as a hindrance to economic development in the context of preserving archaeological remains, is no exception and is expected to be more accountable in financial terms. This has two consequences. First, archaeology is under pressure to demonstrate what ‘public benefits’ it can bring to the modern world (Little 2002). When it comes to public archaeology, this encourages the espousal of the educational approach, since by delivering education, archaeology can prove its usefulness for the learning of the past. Second, there is a demand that archaeology should maintain and foster good relations with its stakeholders, especially its funders, and various other social groups in order to secure social and financial support – this creates an impetus for adopting the public relations approach to public archaeology. It is no coincidence that educational and public relations activities carried out by archaeologists are on the increase in the neoliberal economic climate.

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices Economic liberalism

Four approaches to public archaeology

educational approach public relations approach

pluralist approach

critical approach

Fig. 2.2. A new divide (represented by a bold vertical line) that is gradually created in the four approaches to public archaeology under the influence of economic neoliberalism Interestingly, the pluralist approach can be useful for such education and public relations approaches to archaeology. Effective delivery of education requires a careful understanding of the recipients of that education – namely, members of the public – and the pluralist approach can help archaeologists gain a nuanced understanding of a range of individuals and social groups. Likewise, the pluralist approach can help archaeologists optimise relations with their clients, stakeholders and even ‘potential’ customers, by providing an insight into a wide array of different understandings of archaeology. Thus, the educational, public relations and pluralist approaches can merge well, albeit with some adjustments between themselves, for the purposes of justifying archaeology’s raison d’être in contemporary society and strengthening its financial viability. This would explain why many recent publications on public archaeology emphasise ‘collaboration’, ‘sharing’ and ‘dialogue’ between archaeologists and various external groups, with a view to enhancing the usefulness and sustainability of archaeology in the modern world (e.g., Jameson 2014; Stone, Hui 2014). All this is welcome news, but it should also be noted that the critical approach does not partake in this new development. In fact, the critical approach seems to be gradually losing ground at the forefront of the discussion of public archaeology today.5 This is because, unlike the other three approaches, which can adapt to the neoliberal market economy, the critical approach does not easily fit the neoliberal logic. Indeed, it would even challenge the very idea of making archaeology subject to the market economy. To give an example, one of the central questions explored in the critical approach is whose interests are served by a particular interpretation of the past or by a particular practice of archaeology (Faulkner 2000; Hamilakis 1999a, 1999b; Leone et al. 1987; McDavid 2004; Shackel 2004: 3–6; Shackel, Chambers 2004; Shanks,

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Tilley 1987). It is not difficult to imagine that many potential external funders of archaeology or collaborators in projects would be reluctant to let themselves be examined in such a critical light. The difference between the critical and pluralist approaches is thus highlighted (Matsuda, Okamura 2011: 7–8). Echoing ‘critical theory’ in the social sciences (Calhoun 1995), the critical approach aims to reveal and critique the power structures underpinning the discourse and practice of archaeology, and its ultimate aim is to make the modern world more just and equitable through archaeology. In other words, the critical approach aspires to reform contemporary society, in line with the thinking of the traditional Left. This can be contrasted with the pluralist approach, which is much closer to the thinking of the postmodern and liberal Left. The pluralist approach breaks away from any grand narratives, including Marxism and Progress, and is more interested in talking about the fragmented nature of (post)modern society, where there is little concern about ‘domination and resistance’. This explains why the pluralist approach can adapt to, or even fit well with, economic neoliberalism. The issue of the divergence between the pluralist and critical approaches surfaced for the first time in a short debate published in the journal Antiquity in 2008 (Kristiansen 2008; Holtorf 2008). The debate involved Holtorf again, with his vision of a people-driven archaeology coming under criticism by Kristiansen (2008). Kristiansen considered Holtorf’s argument an ultra-liberal deconstruction of archaeology ‘in the service of popular culture’ and ‘at the mercy of the free market and its forces’ and pointed out the lack of critical examination of popular culture itself (Kristiansen 2008: 489). Holtorf responded by arguing that Kristiansen’s criticism was ungrounded, referring to his own earlier critical discussions of the popular consumption of archaeology and of potential problems in its political and ideological applications (Holtorf 2008: 491). Holtorf also defended himself by stating that his earlier works had not discussed economic ‘markets’ so much.

But see a few recent books that call for a re-orientation of archaeology to be of service to the public (Atalay et al. 2014; Little, Shackel 2014).

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Chapter 2: Matsuda. A consideration of public archaeology theories Whilst Holtorf has indeed seldom discussed economic markets in relation to archaeology or popular culture in his works, it is noteworthy that Kristiansen expressed concerns about the effect of economic neoliberalism on public archaeology. His argument that the examination of the role of archaeology in modern society needs to be informed by ‘a critical understanding of archaeology’s ideological and political role’ (Kristiansen 2008: 490) can be interpreted as a warning against the removal of the critical approach from public archaeology’s agenda. It might be possible to argue that Kristiansen was the first critic to note the gradual decline of the critical approach in public archaeology. Concerns about diminishing interest in the critical approach were expressed more vocally as part of a controversy surrounding the possibility of the World Archaeological Congress (WAC) establishing a partnership with the mining multinational Rio Tinto Limited. The controversy started when WAC was approached by Rio Tinto, which sought to work with them to enhance its practice of cultural heritage management in economically disadvantaged countries and for indigenous groups (Smith 2011: 228–29). According to the ideas then discussed between the WAC leadership and Rio Tinto, WAC was to receive funding from Rio Tinto for the purpose of strengthening its organisational capacities, in return for providing Rio Tinto with professional advice on cultural heritage management, especially in relation to indigenous heritage (Shepherd, Haber 2011: 102–04; Smith 2011: 228–29). The willingness of the then WAC leadership to engage with Rio Tinto attracted harsh criticism from Shepherd and Haber, who were deeply concerned about the suppression inflicted on indigenous peoples by mining companies in different parts of the world. For Shepherd and Haber, the idea that WAC, which had always championed the rights of indigenous peoples, was to partner with a multinational mining company was tantamount to selling out WAC’s ideals (Smith 2015: 30). The controversy was subsequently debated in the journal Public Archaeology in 2011 and 2012 (Shepherd, Haber 2011, 2012; Smith 2011). The details of the controversy can be found in the debate itself (see also Foloruso 2012; Smith 2015: 29–33), but it is important here to note that the issue at stake was the extent to which archaeologists should retain a critical stance in their engagement with external organisations, including business corporations. For Shepherd and Haber, the critical approach was always of primary importance, whereas for the then WAC leadership, engagement with external organisations was equally vital to the WAC’s growth and sustainability.

Conclusion As shown above, public archaeology is today entering a new phase, where the previous divide between the educational and public relations approaches and the pluralist and critical approaches is being replaced with a new divide which has gradually been created between the critical approach and the other three. In the neoliberal economic climate, the impetus for amalgamating the educational, public relations and pluralist approaches is strong, since it is considered that to do so will strengthen archaeology’s viability. Ironically, however, the more archaeology seeks viability, the more it alienates itself from the critical stance. The critical approach is thus faced with the danger of being regarded as detrimental to the sustainability of archaeology. Public archaeology based on any approach should be welcomed in principle. However, remembering that the discipline has thus far grown largely by critiquing ‘the problems which arise when archaeology moves into the real world of economic conflict and political struggle’ (Ascherson 2000: 2), relinquishing the critical edge for the sake of attaining viability and sustainability is likely to cost public archaeology too much in the long run. What seems to be crucially needed today, then, is to reconfigure public archaeology so that it can cope with the dominant economic paradigm, while at the same time continuing to critique it. Bibliography Almansa, J. 2008: ‘Arqueología pública o de cómo todo nos afecta’ Actas de las I Jornadas de Jóvenes en Investigación Arqueológica Madrid, OrJIA: 529–34 — 2011: ‘Arqueología para todos los públicos. Hacia una definición de la Arqueología Pública “a la Española”’ ArqueoWeb 13: 87–107 Ascherson, N. 2000: ‘Editorial’ Public Archaeology 1.1: 1–4 Atalay, S., Clauss, L.R., McGuire, R.H., Welch, J.R. (eds) 2014: Transforming Archaeology: Activist Practices and Prospects. Walnut Creek, Left Coast Press Bonacchi, C. 2009: ‘Archeologia pubblica in Italia. Origini e prospettive di un “nuovo” settore disciplinare’ Ricerche Storiche 2–3: 329–50 Calhoun, C. 1995: Critical Social Theory: Culture, History and Challenge of Difference. Cambridge, MA, Blackwell Cao Bingwu, 2004: ‘Discussions on the annual selection of national top ten new archaeological discoveries’ Journal of National Museum of China (Zhong guo li shi wen wu) 5: 82–88 Fagan, G.G., Feder, K.L. 2006: ‘Crusading against straw men: an alternative view of alternative archaeologies: response to Holtorf (2005)’ World Archaeology 38.4: 718–29

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices Faulkner, N. 2000: ‘Archaeology from below’ Public Archaeology 1.1: 21–33 Foloruso, C.A. 2012: ‘Putting the records straight: what is up with WAC? Archaeologies 8.2: 188–95 Fredrik, S., Wahlgren, K.H. 2008: Publik Arkeologi. Lund, Nordic Academic Press Funari, P.P.A. 2001: ‘Public archaeology from a Latin American perspective’ Public Archaeology 1.4: 239– 43 — 2004: ‘Public archaeology in Brazil’ in N. Merriman (ed.), Public Archaeology. London, Routledge: 202– 10 Gathercole, P., Lowenthal, D. (eds) 1990: The Politics of the Past. London, Unwin Hyman Green, L.F., Green, D.R., Neves, E.G. 2001: ‘Indigenous knowledge and archaeological science’ Journal of Social Archaeology 3.3: 366–98 Hamilakis, Y. 1999a: ‘From Gramsci’s cell to “guerrillas” in Çatalhöyuk: A response’ Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 12.1: 99–103 — 1999b: ‘La trahison des archéologues? Archaeological practice as intellectual activity in postmodernity’ Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 12.1: 60–79 Holtorf, C.J. 2000: ‘Engaging with multiple pasts: reply to Francis McManamon’ Public Archaeology 1.3: 214–15 — 2005: ‘Beyond crusades: how (not) to engage with alternative archaeologies’ World Archaeology 37.4: 544–51 — 2007: Archaeology is a Brand: The Meaning of Archaeology in Contemporary Popular Culture. Walnut Creek, Left Coast Press — 2008: ‘Academic critique and the need for an open mind (a response to Kristiansen)’ Antiquity 82/316: 490–92 Jameson J.H. 2014: ‘Toward multivocality in public archaeology: public empowerment through collaboration’ in D.A. Scott-Ireton (ed.), Between the Devil and the Deep: Meeting Challenges in the Public Interpretation of Maritime Cultural Heritage. New York, Springer: 3–10 Křenková, Z. (ed.) 2005: Veřejná archeologie 1: příspěvky ke konferenci Archeologie a veřejnost 2004. Ústí nad Labem, Vydavatelství Vlasty Králové Kristiansen, K. 2008: ‘Should archaeology be in the service of ‘popular culture’? A theoretical and political critique of Cornelius Holtorf's vision of archaeology’ Antiquity 82/316: 488–90 Leone, M.P., Potter, P.B. Jr., Shackel, P.A. 1987: ‘Toward a critical archaeology’ Current Anthropology 28: 283–92 Little, B.L. (ed.) 2002: Public Benefits of Archaeology. Gainsville: University Press of Florida

Little, B.J., Shackel, P.A. 2014: Archaeology, Heritage, and Civic Engagement: Working Toward the Public Good. Walnut Creek, Left Coast Press McDavid, C. 2004: ‘From “traditional” archaeology to public archaeology to community action: The Levi Jordan Plantation Project’ in P.A. Shackel, E.J. Chambers (eds), Places in Mind: Public Archaeology as Applied Archaeology. New York, Routledge: 35–56 McManamon, F.P. 2000a: ‘Archaeological messages and messengers’ Public Archaeology 1.1: 5–20 — 2000b: ‘Promoting an archaeological perspective: a response to Cornelius Holtorf’ Public Archaeology 1.3: 216–19 Macdonald, S., Fyfe, G. (eds) 1996: Theorizing Museums: Representing Identity and Diversity in a Changing World. Cambridge, MA, Wiley-Blackwell Matsuda, A., Okamura, K. 2011: ‘Introduction: New perspectives in global public archaeology’ in K. Okamura, A. Matsuda (eds), New Perspectives in Global Public Archaeology. New York, Springer: 1– 18 — 2012: Introduction to Public Archaeology (Nyûmon Paburikku Kôkogaku) (in Japanese). Tokyo, Doseisha Merriman, N. 2002: ‘Archaeology, heritage and interpretation’ in B. Cunliffe, W. Davies, C. Renfrew (eds), Archaeology: The Widening Debate. Oxford, The British Academy: 541–66 — 2004: ‘Introduction: Diversity and dissonance in public archaeology’ in N. Merriman (ed.), Public Archaeology. London, Routledge: 1–17 Moshenska, G., Dhanjal, S. (eds) 2012: Community Archaeology: Themes, Methods and Practices. Oxford and Oakville, Oxbow Books Richardson, L., Almansa, J. 2015: ‘Do you even know what public archaeology is? Trends, theory, practice, ethics’ World Archaeology 47.2: 194–211 Shackel, P.A. 2004: ‘Working with communities: heritage development and applied archaeology’ in P.A. Shackel, E.J. Chambers (eds), Places in Mind: Public Archaeology as Applied Archaeology. New York, Routledge: 1–16 Shackel, P.A., Chambers, E.J. (eds) 2004: Places in Mind: Public Archaeology as Applied Archaeology. New York, Routledge Shanks, M., Tilley, C. 1987: Re-Constructing Archaeology. London, Routledge Shepherd, N., Haber, A. 2011: ‘What's up with WAC? Archaeology and “engagement” in a globalized world’ Public Archaeology 10.2: 96–115 — 2012: ‘Counter-practices of global life: a response to Claire Smith’ Public Archaeology 10.2: 144–50

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Chapter 2: Matsuda. A consideration of public archaeology theories Smith, C. 2011: ‘Errors of fact and errors of representation: response to Shepherd and Haber’s critique of the World Archaeological Congress’ Public Archaeology 10.4: 223–34 — 2015: ‘Global divides and cultural diversity: challenges for the World Archaeological Congress’ Archaeologies 11.1: 4–41

Stone, P., Hui, Z. (eds) 2014: Sharing Archaeology: Academe, Practice and the Public. New York, Routledge Vergo, P. (ed.) 1989: The New Museology. London, Reaktion Books

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3. The ‘economic’ in public archaeology Paul Burtenshaw

the licit or illicit sale of materials, by their use in marketing and branding and their use as public spaces (including for performance and advertising), and through the archaeological and heritage industry itself (the jobs created in governments, universities, private firms and local communities through research into, and conservation and presentation of, archaeological remains). The economic impact of archaeology can be significant. In the UK, heritage tourism’s contribution to GDP was calculated to be £20.2 billion in 2015, generating 386,000 jobs (Oxford Economics 2016). The Global Heritage Fund estimated that tourism to the top 500 sites in the developing world was worth US$24.6 billion in 2010 and would increase to over $100 billion by 2025 (Global Heritage Fund 2010). Crow Canyon Archaeological Center in the western USA found that it was worth US$5.9 million annually, directly creating 50 fulltime jobs and supporting a further 23 jobs in the community (Gangloff 2014). Archaeology and archaeological material can therefore be thought of as economic assets (or capital or resources if these terms are preferred) (Burtenshaw 2014; Linn 2014). The second definition of the ‘economic’ in Public Archaeology is one that reflects economics as a discipline which deals with the production, distribution and consumption of goods and services. The basic question economics asks is how benefit or utility can be maximised from available resources. This question has been applied to non-traditional goods including cultural resources and cultural heritage (Peacock, Rizzo 1994; Towse 2011; Throsby 2012). Cultural Economics, as the field is known, therefore thinks about the ‘economic’ differently to the other definition discussed above: ‘The economic value of cultural heritage can be defined as the amount of welfare that the heritage generates for society’ (Ruijgrok 2006: 206). While the meanings of ‘heritage’, ‘welfare’ and ‘society’ can be endlessly debated, under this definition ‘economics’ is not simply about the financial or monetary benefit that cultural heritage or archaeological remains can offer a certain population but all the types of benefit that it might be able to offer. Economists seek to answer the challenge of maximising welfare by collecting data and through it understanding what it is that people regard as valuable or beneficial. Traditionally, the value of most goods is established through

Introduction This volume demonstrates the increased presence of Public Archaeology as a sub-discipline within archaeology and an area of study and activity in its own right. As Public Archaeology spreads, this relatively young field is evolving in reaction to changing circumstances, audiences and challenges. This chapter will address one of the most significant themes within that field – that of the ‘economic’. This term has increasingly become a part of the landscape of Public Archaeology, particularly over the last decade. If Matsuda and Okamura’s definition of Public Archaeology – ‘a subject that examines the relationship between archaeology and the public, and then seeks to improve it’ (2011: 4) – is a starting point, then it can be stated that ‘economics’ forms a vital part in that relationship, and if we wish to improve it, an understanding of economics is needed. Economics is central to many conversations in Public Archaeology, including development, tourism, employment, and state and other financial support. Public Archaeologists’ research into, and comprehension of, economics is generally lacking and there is a tradition of Public Archaeology distancing itself from the subject (Burtenshaw 2014). As a result, there are many misconceptions and lost opportunities to engage with economics and use it beneficially. This chapter will attempt a broad understanding of the place of the ‘economic’ in current Public Archaeology and argue for the need for economics to be central to the future of the discipline. Economic impact and Cultural Economics The term ‘economics’ provokes different reactions in different audiences. For Public Archaeology the term can be broken down into two broad definitions – that of archaeology as an economic asset and that of ‘archaeological economics’ (or economics as a discipline) (Burtenshaw 2017). The first of these definitions is probably most familiar to archaeologists. It is well known that archaeology generates jobs and revenues in a variety of ways (Bowitz, Ibenholt 2009). By far the largest way is through tourism, directly through ticket sales and other revenues at archaeological sites or through associated spending on accommodation, food, transport and other services. Archaeological resources also create money through performing as an asset for regeneration, through

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices the market. Like economics, ‘value’ is a term that has multiple meanings, including a monetary price or what is important (for example, ‘values’), which can get confused in discussions (Harrison 2013). People are willing to give up a certain amount of resources (often represented by money) to acquire a certain good or service which is proportional to the amount of welfare or benefit it gives them, and through the effects of supply and demand a price is set which is its ‘value’. The idea is that the cost of provisioning such goods can then be compared to the price people are willing to pay for them and efficiencies can be made, providing the maximum of what people value for the minimum cost. It has long been recognised that while it holds true for some goods, this way of establishing value does not work for many others. Cultural (as well as environmental) resources are not traded in a market for various good reasons and therefore there is usually not a readily available price for economists to quickly understand how valuable these resources are for the public (Klamer, Zuidhof 1999). There is a value the public may have for archaeology which is not reflected in any readily measurable monetary amount. This means there is ‘market failure’ and other mechanisms and management approaches are required to regulate the provision of the good and maximise welfare. These mechanisms include public designations, penalties for destruction, and funding through philanthropy or the state – all tools familiar to archaeologists. Some archaeological goods and experiences can be bought on the market (for example, a ticket to see a site), which will represent some but likely not all the value. Much value goes unexpressed – an experience may be free, or people may think something is important without ever making a purchase to show this. Various methods have been devised to access this value so it can be compared to the values of other resources (Nijkamp 2012; O’Brien 2010). ‘Revealed-preference’ methods examine existing behaviour to isolate the value felt for certain resources, while ‘stated-preference’ methods use survey techniques designed to create scenarios where a respondent is able to state their value. Various criticisms have been levelled at these techniques (McLoughlin et al. 2006). However, they remain largely untested and unapplied to cultural heritage situations and so their utility to the goals of Public Archaeology remains to be fully discovered (although an approach of experimentation should be adopted). What is important to remember is that these techniques are not simply trying to reduce value to an easily digestible number but rather to understand the relative importance of things for people. Regardless of the criticisms of the methodologies, two key points should be taken from this approach to the ‘economic’. First, Cultural Economists

position the source of value in the public – their techniques are designed to understand this value and use this as the source of decisions. Second, assessment of value and welfare are grounded in collected data rather than expert opinion. These two definitions of economic value – as an economic asset and as a system of resource allocation and benefit production – are often confused and conflated. The use of the word ‘economic(s)’ tends to be exclusively associated with the first definition, that of revenues and jobs. The use of archaeology as an economic asset has been simultaneously embraced as providing relevance and much needed attention to archaeology and shunned as anathema to the true value of cultural heritage, and a despoiling and damaging influence (Burtenshaw 2014). The economic use of archaeology can have positive and negative outcomes, in the same way explicit cultural or social uses can inspire or horrify and unite or divide people. This aspect of cultural heritage management is no more welcome or troublesome than other public uses of archaeology (Burtenshaw 2017). When economists express an opinion of cultural heritage, or suggest ways to interact with it, there is a tendency to assume that these people are only interested in financial gain – ‘the past for sale’, and that all that matters in the end is the accumulation of money or the ‘commoditisation’ of archaeology into easily bought and sold items (Carman 2005; Mason 2008). As shown above, it is not the stated goal of economists. Economists’ goal is the maximisation of welfare and monetary values are used as a proxy for value. While this is not always clear, those of us interested in economics in Public Archaeology are not trying to dismiss the complexities of the value of archaeology, but rather to use certain tools and concepts (while acknowledging their limitations) to understand how the public and archaeology benefit from each other now and in the long term. Public Archaeology and the economic How does the ‘economic’ fit into the practice of Public Archaeology? Over time Public Archaeology has changed from being focused more on the ‘archaeology’ to being focused more on the ‘public’. The roots of Public Archaeology can of course be traced back to McGimsey’s Public Archaeology in 1972 and in changing attitudes to other stakeholders in archaeology, including indigenous populations in the 1980s (Ascherson 2000; Schadla-Hall 1999). Early definitions of Public Archaeology focused on the archaeologist’s viewpoint. Ascherson defines early Public Archaeology as ‘little more than archaeology conducted or conserved for the general good by public authority’ (2000: 2). By the turn of the millennium definitions and inclusion had expanded to ‘any area of archaeological

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Chapter 3: Burtenshaw. The economic in public archaeology activity that interacted or had the potential to interact with the public’ (Schadla-Hall 1999: 147), showing a little more awareness of a two-way relationship. More recently, under definitions like Matsuda and Okamura’s above, Public Archaeology becomes a more dynamic and inclusive discipline, which does not simply observe but seeks progress in changing and developing the relationship between archaeology and the public. We can see an evolution of Public Archaeology from a discipline that is focused on what archaeology is doing and then how it might provide some sort of benefit for people to one that is increasingly looking at what the public wants from archaeology and how archaeology might meet this expectation in a mutually reinforcing and beneficial way. There is desire that archaeology provides real value to people’s lives, and in turn the public has real value for archaeology. There is also a recognition that the long-term sustainability of archaeology and archaeological materials relies on a responsive attitude to the needs of both the public and archaeology itself and there is a responsibility to be active in understanding and influencing this relationship to be as positive as possible. Public Archaeology has often asked how the subject is ‘relevant’ to the public, including a concern that if relevance was not found, the world might decide it gets on quite fine without it (Fritz, Plog 1970; Minnis 2006; Dawdy 2009; Little 2012). Such questions have been accelerated and brought to the forefront with the real and threatened budget cuts made as part of the impact of the economic crisis in the last decade (Rockman, Flatman 2012). Matsuda and Okamura themselves tied their definition of Public Archaeology to the concern for addressing relevance: ‘Ultimately, then, we see public archaeology as a commitment made by archaeologists to making archaeology more relevant to contemporary society’ (2011: 4). The search for relevance has contributed to the proliferation of definitions and areas of interest within Public Archaeology including multi-vocality, communication, community archaeology, digital archaeology and many others. Archaeology as an economic asset has been widely used as a tool to persuade others of the relevance and benefit of archaeology. In the UK, archaeologists have used economic justifications in reaction to government insistence on evidence for the public impact that archaeology has in exchange for state support (Heritage Lottery Fund 2010). They have also been proactive themselves in marshalling economic data to head off expected funding cuts or attracting new support (Belfiore 2012). Local communities’ relationship with archaeological sites is also often economic – through either existing or hopedfor tourism; the use of sites as an extractive resource for

farming, building materials or looting; or employment by excavation or conservation projects. Archaeologists may try to meet this local desire by hiring locally or attempting to establish tourism. Archaeologists themselves may feel the need to ‘give something back’ to communities through these methods, or perhaps offer such benefits in order to gain access to sites or advance their own careers (Parks 2010). Archaeologists may also proactively mobilise archaeological sites to generate local jobs and income to combat threats to the preservation of archaeological sites (for example, the Sustainable Preservation Initiative). Archaeology has also seen the increasing use of a narrative that describes it as a resource for sustainable development and poverty alleviation. Where once cultural heritage management may have seen ‘development’ as an unlikely ally for conservation, it has increasingly become a way for archaeology to receive increased attention and funds on an international stage (Girard, Nijkamp 2009; Silberman 2013, Lafrenz Samuels 2016). Sustainable development and human rights rhetoric have provided archaeologists with a language to articulate archaeology’s relevance to global agendas (Hodder 2010). The use of these narratives and agendas is part of the trajectory of public archaeology attempting to make explicit its role in contributing to the wellbeing of the public(s). The use of such arguments to persuade of the value of archaeology has faced criticism. They have been accused of overshadowing or harming other values (partly due to easier measurement and more common language of value), not representing the ‘true’ nature of archaeology, or doing little in their present format to forward policies for the preservation and use of archaeology (Bewley, Maeer 2014). The use of economic arguments is often unsophisticated and there is limited data (Burtenshaw 2014). It has been argued that the ‘narratives’ around cultural heritage’s use in sustainable development are falling short of their claims (Silberman 2013). Projects aiming at sustainable development often fail to deliver economic benefits to intended targets (Adams 2010) and it has been argued that actions by individual archaeologists, NGOs or international organisations are politically motivated and a pathway to external control over local assets (LaFrenz Samuels 2010; Pyburn 2014). The narrative has also been absorbed by local communities and repeated back to archaeologists in the shape of increased expectations (Abu Khafajah 2010). Despite this criticism, it should be remembered that cultural heritage does create revenues and jobs which can bring real benefits to people and can be an important tool in preservation. We must commit to continuing to learn how we can best bring benefits to the public in a sustainable way.

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices relatively unsophisticated use of economics ideas in some of the models, and a lag between the philosophies suggested and the contemporary position of Public Archaeology. As Public Archaeology evolves it can be argued that economics ideas are becoming more relevant. One of the most important ideas that should be adopted is a focus on data. Data should not be cast as simply quantitative and some sort of reduction of complex relationships to numbers but rather as a commitment to working from known facts and understanding and building coherent policy and approaches from that point. While the trend is one of increase, Public Archaeology has not widely embraced the use of data in its activities (Gould 2016). Commentators have questioned the evidence for the effectiveness of Public Archaeology programmes (Simpson, Williams 2008; Gould, Burtenshaw 2014). Archaeologists’ understanding of the public they interact with (local, regional, national, political or otherwise) is patchy. We have performed too few surveys of the public and rarely enact systemic research of audiences. We collect and share too little qualitative and quantitative evaluative data (especially long-term) of Public Archaeology initiatives, which hampers our ability to learn from positive and negative examples. The amount of data we have regarding the performance of archaeology as an economic asset is out of proportion to its use in the narratives outlined above. Wide-ranging reviews of the economic impact of archaeology and heritage have shown that what data we have is patchy, mutually incomparable and lacking in sound methodologies, although the picture is improving (CHCfE 2015; Dümcke, Gnedovsky 2013; Rypkema et al. 2011). Regional, national and international studies on the contribution of archaeology to economies are plagued by the lack of basic data to inform them (Burtenshaw 2014). Even where data is high quality and has had widespread circulation, doubt has been sown as to its ability to positively impact policy and be used for aiding archaeology and its relationship with the public (Bewley, Maeer 2014). While this aspect of archaeology is often at the forefront of ‘value’ arguments, our understanding of it is still limited and our ability to use it to improve our relationship with the public equally so. Data is not just about understanding a situation but also having the means to communicate value and information to a range of different stakeholders. Different stakeholders and audiences respond to different sorts of data ‘languages’, often different again from the ones archaeologists use. Governments may want clear data in economic units, which fits with the usual process of

Public Archaeology and archaeological economics To create a mutually beneficial relationship between the public and archaeology, Public Archaeology requires models for understanding and managing value. Cultural heritage management and Public Archaeology currently operate what can be largely described as a values framework – seeking to understand how any piece of archaeology has value for a range of stakeholders (Mason 2008). This operates through lists of ‘values’ which experts then attempt to identify; through this, ‘significance’ is established, which qualifies the resource for various protections (or not). While theoretically taking into account public and interest-group values, the process is led by an expert judging what is establishing value on behalf of the public, and is chiefly concerned with assessing the site or object rather than people (Hodder 2010). Our current approaches to value are not meeting the demands of the aims of Public Archaeology. As Holtorf argues: ‘What we, therefore, need in Heritage Studies is an intensified discussion of how to identify, evaluate and compare the benefits and values of cultural heritage objects in constant transformation in society’ (Holtorf 2015: 418). The building of such a system would be a worthy goal of Public Archaeology. This is perhaps nascent, but the task will likely become more central to Public Archaeology. Economics, in terms of the second definition outlined above, can be a vital tool for that task. The current aims of Public Archaeology can be seen to overlap with those of Cultural Economics, and economics in general. Just like economists, Public Archaeology is increasingly concerned with first understanding the public and what they value and want, communicating with stakeholders regarding that value, and then constructing policies and approaches to ensure that the public gets maximum value from archaeological activities and resources in a way which is efficient and sustainable. Economic concepts have informed value theories in archaeology in the past. Svoboda (2011) has shown that Riegl’s late 19th-century theories of heritage value have a lot of crossover with current Cultural Economics, while Carver (1996) introduces a variety of ideas around market forces and needing to use different values to appeal to different audiences. Darvill (1995, 2005) borrows wholesale from Cultural Economics in constructing a ‘value system’ for archaeology, while Carman (2002, 2005) combines a variety of economic models into his approach to the subject. However, none of these approaches have acquired real traction in Public Archaeology and cultural heritage management. The reasons behind this are hard to discern but probably have much to do with a suspicion of ‘economics’ ideas, the

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Chapter 3: Burtenshaw. The economic in public archaeology decision making at that level, while local audiences may want qualitative stories which resonate with their everyday experiences. Archaeologists must be dextrous not only in collecting different sorts of data but also in understanding how to use the data ‘language’ of various groups, including using economic data and the language of economics. In the UK, numerous attempts have been made to develop a system of measurement which satisfactorily represents all the different values which archaeology offers the public, while fitting in with the language of data on which the government bases its decisions (O’Brien 2010). However, none of these systems have been widely applied, and only some narrowly. Such systems attempt to find the ideal solution – a universal way of measuring the value of heritage. Such a goal is arguably impossible – different ways of measurement and representation have different advantages and disadvantages – and a search for one universal system is arguably distracting from efforts to simply apply and practise existing methodologies. Progress would be made more rapidly by learning from our mistakes and evolving methods into ones which are more appropriate. Data is not the end goal but rather the basis for decisions on how to use archaeology for public benefit sustainably. In this regard, cultural heritage has a long management timescale, which is not traditionally the strength of economics. What the public desires now is not always beneficial for the long-term management of archaeology and there needs to be balance to ensure sustainability. Achieving this balance is an important role of the Public Archaeologist and cultural heritage management – how do we ensure we provide relevance and benefit today without jeopardising our ability to do so in the future? A model of Public Archaeology theory by Matsuda (this volume, chapter 2) offers us some guidance on this matter. Matsuda outlines four traditional models of Public Archaeology action – the education approach (facilitating and promoting learning of the past) and public relations approach (increasing the recognition, popularity and support of archaeology in contemporary society), both of which have been previously viewed as ‘practice-oriented’; and the pluralist approach (understanding the diversity of interaction between material remains and different members of the public) and critical approach (regarding politics of the past, including understanding dominant groups), both of which have previously been put under a ‘multiple perspective’ model. Matsuda argues that Public Archaeology is entering a ‘new phase’ and now the education, public relations and pluralist approaches can be grouped together under a broader umbrella of economic

neoliberalism, noting the shift is due to the pressures on archaeology to offer more public benefits and ‘value for money’, and be ‘more accountable in financial terms’ (this volume: 15). Matsuda argues the educational, public relations and pluralist approaches ‘merge well… for the purposes of justifying archaeology’s raison d’être in contemporary society and strengthen its financial viability’ (this volume: 16). Matsuda’s categories align closely with some of the ideas discussed in this chapter, emerging from a Cultural Economics tradition. The pluralist approach, previously separated from the educational and public relations approach, emphasises the need for archaeologists to understand the public and what it is that interests them about the past and archaeology. The educational approach highlights a key benefit which archaeology offers the public and is employed to argue for its usefulness. This category could perhaps be expanded to cover a range of benefits, not just educational. The public relations approach focuses on our need to be able to communicate with various stakeholders in archaeology; while this usually applies to funders, this skill could be used for any group. Matsuda argues for the continued importance of the critical approach, which he perceives has lost ground against the other approaches as they are more readily applicable to the need of neoliberalism (this volume). Matsuda writes that ‘the critical approach is thus faced with the danger of being regarded as detrimental to the sustainability of archaeology’ (this volume: 17). However, I would argue that it is vital to sustainability. The critical approach reminds us that we are not blindly trying to maximise benefit and exchange it for support, we are also trying to balance short- and long-term requirements. At any given point in time we may be able to maximise benefit to the public using the other approaches, but without a critical perspective we may harm our ability to maximise benefits for future generations. Under the critical approach we are analysing our own models, asking how public opinion and agendas are forming and how this shapes their demands on the archaeological resource now and in the future, who the decision makers we are communicating with are and how is archaeology serving them, how archaeologists’ own actions are shaping agendas, and where our own agendas and demands are emerging from. These questions are vital to our self-awareness so that (as much as is possible) the use of the archaeological record is not tied to agendas or strategies which significantly exclude future possibilities. Such awareness is not counter to economic approaches, but rather highlights future generations as a market/public to whom we must also ensure we offer benefits.

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices Matsuda’s model helps demonstrate some of the overlap between Cultural Economics and Public Archaeology aims. However, the building of a system to manage value, an ‘archaeological economics’, needs to be tailored to the needs of the archaeological resource and its relationship with the public. This will require being confident in using a range of data methodologies, including knowing their limitations and retaining a critical perspective.

Bowitz, E., Ibenholt, K. 2009: ‘Economic impacts of cultural heritage – research and perspectives’ Journal of Cultural Heritage 10: 1–8 Burtenshaw, P. 2014: ‘Mind the gap: cultural and economic values in archaeology’ Public Archaeology 13.1–3: 48–58 — 2017: ‘Economics in public archaeology’ in G. Moshensha (ed.), Key Concepts in Public Archaeology. London, UCL Press: 31–42 Carman, J. 2002: Archaeology and Heritage: An Introduction. London, Continuum — 2005: ‘Good citizens and sound economics: the trajectory of archaeology in Britain from “heritage” to “resource”’ in C. Mathers, T. Darvill, B. Little (eds), Heritage of Value, Archaeology of Renown: Reshaping Archaeological Assessment and Significance. Gainsville, University Press of Florida: 43–57 Carver, M. 1996: ‘On archaeological value’ Antiquity 70: 45–56 CHCfE. 2015: Cultural Heritage Counts for Europe. Krakow: CHCfE Consortium Darvill, T. 1995: ‘Value systems in archaeology’ in M.A. Cooper, A. Firth, J. Carman, D. Wheatley (eds), Managing Archaeology. New York, Routledge: 40–50 — 2005: ‘“Sorted for ease and whiz”? Approaching value and importance in archaeological resource management’ in C. Mathers, T. Darvill, B. Little (eds), Heritage of Value, Archaeology of Renown: Reshaping Archaeological Assessment and Significance. Gainsville, University Press of Florida: 21–42 Dawdy, S.L. 2009: ‘Millennial archaeology. Locating the discipline in the age of insecurity’ Archaeological Dialogues 16: 131–42 Dümcke, C., Gnedovsky, M. 2013: ‘The social and economic value of cultural heritage: literature review’. https://pdfs.semanticscholar.org/3a70/d26f9adf6b277 216b8f3acf7909927bf2bc5.pdf Fritz, J., Plog, F. 1970: ‘The nature of archaeological explanation’ American Antiquity 35: 405–12 Gangloff, D. 2014: ‘Towards a cultural economy: lessons from the American South-West’ Public Archaeology 13.1–3: 250–61 Girard, L.G., Nijkamp, P. (eds) 2009: Cultural Tourism and Sustainable Local Development. Aldershot, Ashgate Global Heritage Fund 2010: Saving Our Vanishing Heritage: Safeguarding Endangered Cultural Heritage Sites in the Developing World. Palo Alto, Global Heritage Fund Gould, P. 2016: ‘On the case: method in public and community archaeology’ Public Archaeology 15.1: 5–22

Approaching the economic in Public Archaeology So what place does the ‘economic’ have in Public Archaeology? Archaeology as an economic asset will continue to be a crucial part of the public’s relationship with archaeology, and of archaeology’s ability to gain relevance and attention. Public Archaeologists should not hold this aspect of archaeology at arm’s length, as has been the tendency, but commit to further understanding it and bettering our strategies of engaging it in a way that is positive and sustainable for both the public and archaeology itself. The second definition will likely gain in importance for Public Archaeology. As the discipline increasingly seeks to better understand the public and provide it with value from archaeology, the concepts and methods of economics can offer some guidance. These include the need to be committed to collecting data and basing decisions on that data. The construction of an ‘archaeological economics’ to help manage value must be appropriate to the needs of the archaeological resources and retain a critical component which helps us balance the short-term needs of creating interest and funds with long-term sustainability. Economics is vital for providing benefits to the public, for examining the relationship between the public and archaeology, and for helping us improve the relationship for the future. Bibliography Abu Khafajah, S. 2010: ‘Meaning-making and cultural heritage in Jordan: the local community, the contexts and the archaeological sites in Khreibt al-Suq’ International Journal of Heritage Studies 16.2: 123–39 Adams, J.L. 2010: ‘Interrogating the equity principle: the rhetoric and reality of management planning for sustainable archaeological tourism’ Journal of Heritage Tourism 5.2: 103–23 Ascherson, N. 2000: ‘Editorial’ Public Archaeology 1.1: 1–4 Belfiore E. 2012: ‘“Defensive instrumentalism’’ and the legacy of New Labour’s cultural policies’ Cultural Trends 21.2: 103–11 Bewley, B., Maeer, G. 2014: ‘Tourism, regeneration and the “Heritage Economy”’ Public Archaeology 13.1– 3: 240–49

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Chapter 3: Burtenshaw. The economic in public archaeology Gould, P., Burtenshaw, P. 2014: ‘Guest editorial: archaeology and economic development’ Public Archaeology 13.1–3: 3–9 Harrison, R. 2013: Heritage: Critical Approaches. Abingdon, New York, Routledge Heritage Lottery Fund 2010: ‘Investing in Success: heritage and the UK tourism economy.’ London, Heritage Lottery Fund. https://www.hlf.org.uk/file/10822/download?token= nYc3SDf6niLPrTzXGY4Sz7_f7ZlqntB9Ue81u2ZOsg [NB Link opens a PDF file] Hodder, I. 2010: ‘Cultural heritage rights: from ownership and descent to justice and well-being’ Anthropological Quarterly 83.4: 861–82 Holtorf, C. 2015: ‘Averting loss aversion in cultural heritage’ International Journal of Heritage Studies 21.4: 405–21 Klamer, A., Zuidhof, P. 1999: ‘The values of cultural heritage: merging economic and cultural appraisals’ in R. Mason (ed.), Economics and Heritage Conservation: A Meeting Organised by the Getty Conservation Institute. December 1998. Getty Center, Los Angeles. Los Angeles, The Getty Conservation Institute: 23–61 Lafrenz Samuels, K. 2010: ‘Material heritage and poverty reduction’ in S. Labadi, C. Long (eds), Heritage and Globalisation. Abingdon, Routledge: 202–17 — 2016: ‘Transnational turns for archaeological heritage: from conservation to development, governments to governance’ Journal of Field Archaeology 41.3: 355– 67 Linn, J.F. 2014: ‘Comment: concepts in archaeology and economic development’ Public Archaeology 13.1–3: 85–90 Little, B.J. 2012: ‘Public benefits of public archaeology’ in R. Skeates, C. McDavid, J. Carman (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Public Archaeology. Oxford, Oxford University Press: 395–413 McGimsey, C.R. 1972: Public Archaeology. London, Seminar Press McLoughlin, J., Sodagar, B., Kaminski, J. 2006: ‘Economic valuation methodologies and their application to cultural heritage’ in J. McLoughlin, J. Kaminski, B. Sodagar (eds), Heritage Impact 2005: Proceedings of the First International Symposium on the Socio-Economic Impact of Cultural Heritage. Budapest, EPOCH Publication: 8–27 Mason, R. 2008: ‘Be interested and beware: joining economic valuation and heritage conservation’ International Journal of Heritage Studies 14.4: 303–18 Matsuda, A., Okamura, K. 2011: ‘Introduction: new perspectives in global public archaeology’ in K.

Okamura, A. Matsuda (eds), New Perspectives in Global Public Archaeology. London, Springer: 1–18 Minnis, P.E. 2006: ‘Answering the skeptic’s question’ The SAA Archaeological Record, November 2006: 17–20 Nijkamp, P. 2012: ‘Economic valuation of cultural heritage’ in G. Licciardi, R. Amirtahmasebi (eds), The Economics of Uniqueness: Investing in Historic City Cores and Cultural Heritage Assets for Sustainable Development. Washington, D.C, The World Bank: 75–106 O’Brien, D. 2010: Measuring the Value of Culture: A Report to the Department for Culture, Media and Sport. London, DCMS https://www.gov.uk/government/uploads/system/upl oads/attachment_data/file/77933/measuring-thevalue-culture-report.pdf Oxford Economics 2016: The Impact of Heritage Tourism for the UK Economy. London, Heritage Lottery Fund Parks, S. 2010: ‘The collision of heritage and economy at Uxbenká, Belize’ International Journal of Heritage Studies 16.6: 434–48 Peacock, A., Rizzo, I. (eds) 1994: Cultural Economics and Cultural Policies. London, Kluwer Academic Publishers Pyburn, A. 2014: ‘Preservation as “disaster capitalism”: the downside of site rescue and the complexity of community engagement’ Public Archaeology 13.1–3: 226–39 Rockman, M.J., Flatman, J. (eds) 2012: Archaeology in Society: Its Relevance in the Modern World. London, Springer Ruijgrok, E.C.M. 2006: ‘The three economic values of cultural heritage: a case study in the Netherlands’ Journal of Cultural Heritage 7: 206–13 Rypkema, D., Cheong C., Mason, R. 2011: Measuring Economic Impacts of Historic Preservation: A Report to the Advisory Council on Historic Preservation. http://xoxyohh9fh753j91bj7hl15l.wpengine.netdnacdn.com/economic-impacts-of-historic-preservationstudy.pdf Schadla-Hall, T. 1999: ‘Editorial: public archaeology’ European Journal of Archaeology 2.2: 147–58 Silberman, N. 2013: ‘Discourses in development: narratives of cultural heritage as an economic resource’ in R. Staiff, R. Bushell, S. Watson (eds), Heritage and Tourism. Oxon, Routledge: 213–25 Simpson, F., Williams, H. 2008: ‘Evaluating community archaeology in the UK’ Public Archaeology 7.2: 69–90 Svoboda, F. 2011: ‘In search of value: Vienna School of Art History, Austrian value theory and the others’ The Journal of Socio-Economics 40: 428–35

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices Throsby, D. 2012: ‘Heritage economics: a conceptual framework’ in G. Licciardi, R. Amirtahmasebi (eds), The Economics of Uniqueness: Investing in Historic City Cores and Cultural Heritage Assets for Sustainable Development. Washington, D.C, The World Bank: 45–74

Towse, R. (ed.) 2011: A Handbook of Cultural Economics, Second Edition. Cheltenham, Edward Elgar

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4. Exploring community participation in the management of Italian archaeological sites Sarah Court and Jane Thompson

countries, has focused on how to increase public engagement with cultural heritage (Skeates et al. 2012). This engagement, particularly in the case of archaeology, often takes place within short-term or project-based activities, such as excavation campaigns, visits, learning and other project-based initiatives. While such efforts are important, the heritage sector in many parts of the world perhaps needs to pay more attention to consolidating meaningful forms of long-term involvement of the public in managing and conserving archaeology, long after excavation campaigns or other one-off projects are completed (Okamura, Matsuda 2011). The challenge lies in promoting genuine participation by (not just public access for) a greater range of stakeholders, in particular local communities, which has proved to be more complicated than involving the public in short-term activities. This is particularly the case for heritage typologies which have lost their original use – the case of many archaeological sites – and with which local stakeholders can struggle to identify (Mapunda, Lane 2004). Paradoxically, the importance of public participation has been demonstrated at sites around the world where it is weak, either because it existed but was allowed to diminish or because it had never been actively promoted. Indeed, traditional patterns of local use and care may have been suppressed as an indirect consequence of the heritage designation process in previous Evolving approaches to heritage management and decades (Larsen 2018) or, in the case of new excavation community participation projects which have seen increasing professionalisation A great deal of concern within public archaeology, in of the archaeology sector, community participation if particular in Northern Europe and many Western present often ceases after the actual excavation has been completed (Ndoro 2011). The difficulties encountered in the management of 1 The authors have worked at Herculaneum for over a decade as part the case studies presented in this paper are just some of the Packard Humanities Institute’s collaboration with the Italian examples of the fate of many archaeological sites which heritage authorities, known as the Herculaneum Conservation fail to play an active role in modern society with negative Project; Thompson leading the project team from the outset in 2001 and Court coming on board for various research projects and engage- repercussions for the conservation of the heritage itself ment initiatives soon after. They were also the lead authors of the and missed opportunities for contributing to the life of successful 2014 heritage impact assessment for Villa Adriana. While the local community. Instead, experience in the field is they have had no direct role in the Rione Sanità case study, exchange visits were organised between the Herculaneum and Sanità teams confirming that community participation in heritage can and Court carried out a postgraduate research project into their potentially promote the opposite scenario: reciprocal participatory approach. Finally, through their regular consultancy to benefits for both archaeology and local communities ICCROM, the authors have been directly involved in the policy work (Court et al. 2011; Biggi et al. 2014). At the same time, cited and the research work from which it derived. Introduction This paper looks at three Italian case studies in the context of emerging international approaches to safeguarding heritage, in particular, the need for management solutions that address the needs of the entire spectrum of interest groups better. This is essentially an attempt to correct the imbalance that has been created, particularly in the Western world, by state interventions which focus primarily on protecting cultural values recognised at an international and national level, at times at the expense of local cultural and other values. It reflects the increasing recognition, the Faro Convention being one regional response (Council of Europe 2005), that the protection of cultural values held by local communities can be a priority for long-term management effectiveness and resilience, just as their contribution can help in the conservation and management of all heritage values. This paper relays experiences from the field in Italy and how these demonstrate the extent to which heritage practice must overcome the defensive mindset all too often instilled in practitioners during professional training. The case studies – Herculaneum, Hadrian’s Villa and Rione Sanità (Naples) – illustrate varying forms of community participation and potential benefits – for society as much as for the heritage itself – contextualising these phenomena in recent international policy work.1

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices the challenge of achieving this can seem ever bigger. As greater understanding is gained of the complexity of stakeholders involved in heritage and as heritage has stopped being perceived only as a series of monuments to be protected in isolation, recognition has increased of the ever-larger number of pressures upon heritage and demands made of it (Phillips 2003). In order to encourage community participation where it has been lost over time (the case of much archaeological heritage) and so obtain reciprocal benefits and contribute to a sustainable agenda, greater understanding is needed of existing management systems at heritage places. Analysis of a management system can indicate its strengths and opportunities for public participation, as well as areas that merit rethinking in order to facilitate potential community involvement (Wijesuriya et al. 2013: 53–120). All too often in the Western world and in many countries that have inherited colonial institutional frameworks, management systems evolved in a way that promoted ‘conventional’ approaches dedicated to preserving solely the material evidence of the past (Wijesuriya et al. 2013) and removed decision-making processes far from the public and empowered ‘experts’ to manage sites in isolation. The shift in the late 20th century towards a values-based approach to heritage management and conservation, which increases the number of people involved in identifying and managing cultural values related to a heritage place, leads to the recognition of a broader range of values (e.g., de la Torre et al. 2005). This in turn has potential for influencing the management and conservation of heritage in various ways: it can lead to a greater understanding of which actions are required to enhance those values and protect the attributes that convey them while, at the same time, securing public access and meeting the needs of visitors and other stakeholders. Above all, it can help ensure these goals are achieved in a way that is compatible with the social, economic and environmental needs of the heritage place and its setting. However, very often values-based heritage management still places the ‘expert’ at the centre of the process of values identification, with power to prejudice or even isolate the process and compromise the achievement of these goals. This is a particularly widespread problem for mono-ownership heritage that has lost its original use or any form of use beyond visitation – very often the case of state-owned and managed archaeological heritage – and hence loses the rich array of core stakeholders that heritage enjoys when there is multiple ownership and diverse use patterns. Indeed, it is progress made for emerging heritage typologies such as cultural and historic urban landscapes that has highlighted the degree to which this is a setback (Bandarin, van Oers 2012; WHITRAP 2016).

Furthermore, a values-based approach is not easy to achieve within the rigid hierarchical institutional frameworks that characterise management systems in Italy and many other countries in the Mediterranean region. These systems are often devoid of any mandate to work with others and, where there are mechanisms for promoting meaningful stakeholder participation, they struggle to find fertile terrain. A body of work was developed by ICCROM and others over the last ten years very much as a reaction to these concerns expressed by many countries in Asia and elsewhere regarding the inadequacy of these Western models being promoted by the international heritage community. One particular ICCROM programme developed the Living Heritage Approach (Wijesuriya 2015), which focused on heritage places characterised by the involvement of the local communities who had created and continued to use them, cases where that core community is still responsible for the continuous care of the heritage as it was originally intended. It has led to greater recognition of management and conservation approaches that are ‘about managing continuity and change for which new decision-making processes have to be evolved’ (Wijesuriya 2015: 1). This has been an important and necessary shift towards ensuring a range of stakeholders are given a more significant role in heritage management and that heritage practitioners are just one voice among many. More recent work by ICCROM in this area has seen a gradual expansion of the concept of ‘Living Heritage’ to a broader idea of ‘People-Centred Approaches’ (Wijesuriya, Court 2015). This was part of an effort to promote improved management and conservation of heritage in general through the participation of communities, not only for ‘living’ heritage that maintains its original purpose but also where heritage has a changed role in society and possibly changed communities within or around it. This is the case of archaeological sites that were formerly places of residence, work, religious practice, etc., but are now usually managed primarily as places of visitation. This expansion to ‘People-Centred Approaches’ has been a natural progression from ICCROM’s involvement with IUCN, ICOMOS and the UNESCO World Heritage Centre in research and policy work on building heritage capacities. One of the key outputs of this collaboration was the 2011 World Heritage Capacity Building Strategy (UNESCO 2011), which was developed primarily for cultural and natural heritage places listed under the 1972 UNESCO Convention but with the explicit intention of being applicable to all heritage. The Strategy aims to improve heritage management by encouraging the sector to step beyond the rather narrow agenda of training

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Chapter 4: Court and Thompson. Community participation in the management of Italian archaeological sites heritage practitioners to a broader agenda of working with new audiences and new learning environments. Particular attention is paid to forms of people-centred change in three key areas where significant heritage capacities reside: within institutional frameworks, among heritage practitioners and among communities/networks. The notion that emerges, in line with approaches in many other sectors dealing with the collective wellbeing of humankind and the planet (e.g., UNDP 2008), is that capacities need to be harnessed in all three areas to optimise the effectiveness of heritage management and conservation, also in relation to benefits to be secured for society. Interestingly, the applicability of these conceptual frameworks has been confirmed by some recent successes and failures in heritage management practice in three diverse realities of Italian archaeology, all incidentally World Heritage: the transformation of Herculaneum and Rione Sanità (Naples) over a ten-year period and the significant role of local stakeholders in defending the cultural values of Hadrian’s Villa in the face of poor decision-making. Similar experiences have been gained elsewhere in the field but not always shared, so their potential to inform future practice is limited. It is in this spirit that this paper recounts work in progress, the lessons drawn and the ongoing challenges from these case studies. Each one illustrates in different ways the serious consequences of neglecting community participation and the positive repercussions for heritage management and for society of capacity building which targets a variety of audiences and learning areas.

The rediscovery of the Roman town happened in the 18th century when Naples was under the rule of the Bourbon kings and the culture of the two periods is interlinked. A royal palace was built within a kilometre of the Roman theatre and the Villa of the Papyri, where early explorations of the archaeological remains took place, and as wall paintings, mosaic and marble floors, sculptures and other finds were removed from site, they were taken to form the royal collection at the palace. The historic route that links the palace with the archaeological site is part of a longer road linking the Bourbon capital cities of Naples and, via Calabria, Palermo. Known as the Golden Mile, this road was the scene of a huge building campaign as the Bourbon nobility followed the court to the Ercolano area and built their own palatial residences near to the king: there are 122 18th-century villas, of which 22 lie within Ercolano. Both the architecture and the decorative schemes of these villas were greatly influenced by the discoveries being made in the Roman town; indeed, the early explorations at Herculaneum made it an important stop on the Grand Tour and it had a huge impact on European culture (Pace 2000). The heart of the vibrant town of Ercolano today sits almost over the Roman archaeological site. Its historic centre is based on the later medieval settlement and includes the Basilica of Santa Maria di Pugliano. This church stands proudly at the top of the main axial road running down through the medieval town and along which some interesting examples of vernacular architecture still survive. This road is now home to a vintage clothes market that has gained its own historic value and finds its roots in the experience of the local community in the Second World War. For a time, it was the largest second-hand clothes market in Europe (Biggi et al. 2018). The 19th and 20th century saw major changes to Ercolano with Italy’s first railway and later first motorway; these were followed by massive and uncontrolled post-Second World War urban expansion into agricultural areas and then the Roman town beneath becoming the focus of a major open-air excavation campaign. The archaeological park seen today, forming a 4-ha large pit within the modern urban and agricultural setting, was essentially created over four decades from the 1920s onwards (Camardo, Notomista 2017). The community’s relationship to its archaeological heritage is complex, it has been the cause of land expropriation and ‘slum’ clearance with dramatic consequences for local residents, as well as being a major source of employment and pride during the 20th century as local people were involved in excavation, restoration, maintenance and presentation of Herculaneum to the public. The archaeology was even a safe haven during

Case study 1: Herculaneum, Ercolano The town of Ercolano lies on the Bay of Naples and is incredibly rich in both cultural and natural heritage. Ercolano is best known for being home to the Roman archaeological site of Herculaneum, which together with Pompeii and Oplontis, was destroyed by an eruption of Mount Vesuvius in AD 79, and they now make up a serial World Heritage property. All too often this World Heritage status has led to an emphasis being placed on archaeological values linked to a: ‘picture of society and daily life at a specific moment in the past’ (UNESCO 2015), which has limited understanding of Herculaneum/Ercolano’s cultural significance. In fact, there is so much more than the Roman town: the district council of Ercolano is bordered on one side by the Mediterranean Sea and extends up the slopes of Mount Vesuvius to the crater of the volcano. It is a territory that contains sizeable parts of the Vesuvius National Park and lies within the UNESCO Man and the Biosphere Reserve (UNESCO 2001).

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices the Second World War as the Roman theatre was used as a bomb shelter and tunnels within the archaeological site were used as refuge by men who wanted to avoid forced conscription into the army. This brief summary illustrates the range and richness of heritage and heritage values in Ercolano connected to a greater or lesser degree to the archaeological site of Herculaneum. There are heritage values which are recognised at international (World Heritage property, MAB reserve), national (national park, 18th-century villas) and local (market, religious buildings, local traditions) levels. Values held by the local community both provide added layers of meaning to the World Heritage archaeological site and connect it into wider territorial heritage that it has influenced and by which it continues to be affected. The local community has played a role over time in strengthening this kind of ‘ecosystem’ of cultural values, an outcome that is inseparable from the community’s significant contribution to Herculaneum and other heritage places in the area. What makes Herculaneum an interesting case study today is the fact that the local community’s contribution gradually diminished over the 20th century for a series of complex reasons. A critical point was reached in the late 1980s when local residents became almost entirely cut off from their heritage. This was also the period in which the last in-house mosaic restorers retired and, given the trend for outsourcing to firms from further afield, were never replaced. It is perhaps the high barriers around the archaeological site that are the most poignant expression of the capacity of the supposedly ‘public’ heritage management to keep the public out: there was not even a view of Herculaneum available to the public if they did not purchase an entry ticket. The isolated archaeological site suffered from extreme levels of decay and this was left unchecked for a long period, largely because there was no public to create an outcry. In parallel, the urban fabric around the site decayed and collapsed, while the local community suffered from worsening socioeconomic conditions. It was in this context that the Herculaneum Conservation Project was launched with the specific aim of tackling the serious conservation conditions found within the archaeological area. A public-private partnership was created between the heritage authority and a philanthropic foundation (the Packard Humanities Institute) in order to obtain the capacity reinforcement that was needed to address decay across the entire archaeological site. This partnership, strengthened over time with the involvement of other partners, already effectively ‘opened up’ the conventional management system to the contribution of an interdisciplinary group of heritage specialists (including archaeologists, architects, conser-

vators, a project manager, an information manager, water and humidity specialists, conservation scientists, etc.), who could be termed a ‘community of practice’ and brought with them evident benefits for the health of the heritage (Stanley-Price 2007). However, conceived as a finite conservation campaign, the Herculaneum Conservation Project did not initially have a mandate for extending its scope beyond the site area to the modern town, even though it became quickly evident that the wellbeing of both realties was heavily interdependent. It was not until a sister initiative – the Herculaneum Centre – was created as a cultural association intended as a longterm presence that efforts could also focus on the local community, among other stakeholders, through a range of initiatives for engagement with their heritage. It is worth noting that research highlighted that fewer than two per cent of independent visitors to Herculaneum were local residents from Ercolano, which posed a question on how to involve people who do not visit a site (Court et al. 2019). One important step forward was to recognise that creating positive conditions for community participation could not be based on an expectation that local residents should come into the site but on recognition that the heritage practitioners should reduce their monopoly. The processes and results of the Herculaneum Centre working with the Herculaneum Conservation Project team have been documented elsewhere (e.g., Biggi et al. 2014; Court 2014; Biggi et al. 2018). It is, however, useful within the limits of this chapter to provide a summary of how the local community is being involved within a project for the Via Mare neighbourhood, the street that runs along the northwest edge of the archaeological site. Residents in this target area live in a historic neighbourhood that has been defined by the site of Herculaneum, as half of the residential district was expropriated and excavated to create the archaeological area. Despite living so close to a World Heritage property, they have not gained any significant benefits. Indeed, the Via Mare neighbourhood is one of the most problematic within Ercolano, where difficulties related to poverty, unemployment, high school dropout rates, organised crime and urban decay have yet to be resolved, echoing similar issues around the Vesuvian area, which hosts some of the densest residential districts of Europe. Initial contact with local residents proved that they had enormous pride in being associated with Herculaneum but that they needed their priorities related to social issues to be taken seriously before heritage was put on the agenda. Initial steps were taken to work in this area were modest but fundamental: Herculaneum Conservation Project practitioners who left the confines of the archaeological site to understand the modern town walked

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Chapter 4: Court and Thompson. Community participation in the management of Italian archaeological sites along the Via Mare. This process prompted unplanned conversations with residents, in turn leading to informal consultation meetings in public and private spaces within the street, and a snowball effect gradually kicked in. Such meetings allowed dialogue to start and needs to be understood, with regard both to the heritage and to other priorities that the community felt were more urgent, such as improved living conditions, safety for children, employment opportunities, etc. It was in this context that a team made up of heritage practitioners and community consultants, from both the Herculaneum Conservation Project and the Herculaneum Centre, and representatives from various partner institutions could begin to plan for long-term, more ambitious actions that would bring benefits for both the archaeological site and the local residents. Indeed, it was community feedback on issues relating to abandoned land lying between the Via Mare neighbourhood and the site that helped define the aims of a project that was eventually submitted for European funding by a group of partners. These included two Italian ministries, two heritage authorities, the town council and a philanthropic foundation (again the Packard Humanities Institute) whose match support was the ultimate catalyst. The project – which is underway at the time of writing – is an urban regeneration project that will renew civic spaces on both sides of Via Mare and across the boundary into the archaeological site (Mollo et al. 2012; Biggi et al. 2014). It aims to reinstate greater dignity to the Via Mare neighbourhood, making the most of its proximity to the site and its new panoramic spaces for residents and visitors alike to enjoy, before visitors are encouraged to explore further within the modern town of Ercolano. Indeed, the desire to stimulate interaction between residents and visitors is at the heart of the Via Mare project strategy, forming more suitable conditions for improved ‘place making’ (Ermacora, Bullivant 2016), an increase in sustainable tourism initiatives and the delivery of socioeconomic benefits (Court et al. 2019). However, such a large and complex regeneration project requires a long lead-in and implementation time and it was felt that the relationship with the community needed reinforcing in this delicate phase when a great deal of patience and cooperation was required from residents with no concrete guarantees of future benefits. Therefore, a small associated project was taken forward within Via Mare, where the Herculaneum teams (in a facilitator, not a leadership, role) focused energy on a small plot of wasteland that was informally used by local children to play football: an area that had been identified by residents as a priority during a consultation meeting (Biggi et al. 2018). The modest nature of the measures required to transform this space into a more functional football pitch

and multipurpose community space meant that there were more opportunities for participation by residents and partnership with other local associations. The fact that the small football pitch was not an official heritage place and reflected community priorities, rather than those of the ‘experts’, meant that relationships were strengthened as residents felt that their opinions and the range of values that they hold had been heard in some way. The project for the football pitch saw respected street artists from Naples working alongside young people from the neighbourhood and volunteers from the Herculaneum teams and local associations to upgrade the floor surface and decorate the surrounding walls. Other local residents joined in clean-up initiatives for the football pitch and the wider area, provided support for the work and even provided hospitality and catering for the volunteers. As this project took place in a communal space with fewer access limitations – unlike the archaeological site – trust could be built between the heritage practitioners and residents during three phases: 1) residents watched initial preparations, deciding to approach the volunteers or not as they felt comfortable; 2) residents were attracted to becoming involved having understood that the activity was based on their request and was for their benefit; 3) the local community felt enough ownership of the project to ultimately take the lead, so that on the completion of the work they organised the inauguration of the space, using largely their own resources (Biggi et al. 2018). This process has been of great importance for the relationships that were formed, which were then the basis for moving forward through the early stages of the more ambitious regeneration project for the whole neighbourhood. It has been of importance to demonstrate to all stakeholders that it is possible to secure benefits for both the heritage in its context and the local community. It is also a testimony to the importance of managing significant change in heritage places hosting people and ideally sustaining livelihoods in small steps and with due attention to local cultural values. Case Study 2: Hadrian’s Villa, Tivoli The archaeological site of Villa Adriana – a World Heritage property and better known in the Englishspeaking world as Hadrian’s Villa – contains a significant portion of the remains of a particularly large Roman palace complex built by, and for, the emperor Hadrian in the second century AD. The precise extent of the villa is still unknown, although it must have covered at least 120 ha of building complexes and gardens (Adembri 2000). There was already a pre-Roman town at Tivoli (ancient Tibur), which saw a prosperous period under Roman rule, while the surrounding area was full of villas owned by influential Romans, such as the emperor Augustus, Maecenas and the poets Horace and Catullus

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices (De Franceschini 2005). It was in this context that Hadrian built a palace, just five kilometres from Tivoli, helping to design the ambitious ‘villa’ complex himself. It impressed contemporaries for the scale on which it was built and the architectural references to locations throughout the Roman Empire, and it can be considered Hadrian’s vision of empire and its various classical cultures (Pinto, MacDonald 1995). Scholars have identified three or four principal architectural complexes made up of multiple structures, often on different levels, within Villa Adriana. The villa was large in order to provide the emperor with living and working spaces but also separate areas to house the imperial court, the praetorian guard and the large numbers of servants and slaves who would have lived and worked there. After Hadrian’s death, the villa was used by various successors, but it was never again a centre of power in the same way. This Roman landscape was transformed over time as buildings fell into disuse and by the medieval period, it was a largely agricultural landscape, with the site already being looted for marbles and other building materials. In the 16th century it then became, ‘the first large-scale archaeological dig in modern times’ (Venetucci 2003: 65) and Villa Adriana was exploited as a source of marble and statues by Cardinal Ippolito d’Este for decorating nearby Villa d’Este, Tivoli’s second World Heritage property. Villa d’Este was in many ways a response to Villa Adriana and many of its building materials were taken up the hill from the Roman site. Indeed, having overseen the excavation of Villa Adriana in 1549, Pirro Ligorio was commissioned to design Villa d’Este by Cardinal d’Este (Venetucci 2003: 65). A similar process occurred later with the creation of nearby Villa Gregoriana in the 19th century; it was built around the site of the Roman villa of Manlius Vopiscus following some artificial landscaping under Pope Gregory XVI. Although the creation of waterfalls and other features responded to the aesthetics of Romanticism, the water management behind Villa Gregoriana was driven by pragmatic needs to stop the risk of flooding that had destroyed parts of Tivoli (Cogotti 2008). In the Renaissance period, landscape painting emerged as a significant category of European art and Tivoli became a focus of attention for the panoramic views it afforded – of the town, of waterfalls, ravines and other geological features, and of the Roman ruins in a natural setting shaped by continuity and change in agricultural practices and quarrying. Indeed artists, architects and writers have been attracted to the Tivoli area from the Renaissance to the modern day and have been influenced by its Roman ruins and landscape features within wider panoramic views. Famous names include

Pirro Ligorio, Claude Lorrain, Gian Battista Piranesi, J.M.W. Turner, Le Corbusier and Marguerite Yourcenar. The site attracted wider public attention during the Grand Tour, when it became a standard stop for visitors to nearby Rome, some of whom left their signatures as graffiti at the site (Cogotti 2014). The removal of decorative elements and artworks during the Renaissance and Grand Tour periods has ensured that Tivoli sculptures are found in collections across Italy, Europe and further afield. At least 500 statues are known to have originally come from Villa Adriana and important artworks can be found in the Vatican and Capitoline Museums and in collections in London, Paris, Berlin and beyond (Adembri 2000). This short narrative highlights the remarkable layered historical setting of Tivoli and the ongoing tradition of landscape enjoyment there (Cogotti 2008). However, Tivoli today, despite hosting two World Heritage properties, faces a series of problems that the conventional management system has not known how to resolve. This failure can be linked to the institutional tendency to create disciplinary ‘silos’ in a reality where cultural values intertwine between different heritage typologies (natural, archaeological, architectural, landscape, etc.) but where heritage practitioners often seem incapable of the interdisciplinary leap. Hadrian’s Villa in particular has been cut off from its context and is at risk as urban sprawl continues to encroach on it, transforming the natural landscape setting, with projects for new development and infrastructure in areas vulnerable to flooding being favoured over adaptive reuse of abandoned industrial heritage. In addition, various problems related to the site’s conservation have been brought to the public’s attention (including inclusion on the World Monument Fund’s 2006 Watch List of Endangered Sites), while visitor numbers were dropping – a rare phenomenon at a World Heritage site.2 One recent episode at Hadrian’s Villa, however, illustrated how the involvement of a wider number of stakeholders might contribute to supporting Tivoli’s heritage in the long term. A project for a residential and commercial development within the buffer zone of Hadrian’s Villa was contested by a range of local interest groups, including the local Tivoli branch of WWF, the environmental group Federazione dei Verdi and a heritage lobby group, Italia Nostra, who began to raise awareness of the issue. They organised media coverage 2

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It should be noted that this paper was first presented in 2014 when visitor numbers had been seen to drop for a number of years. The Italian Ministry of Culture has recently brought together Villa Adriana with Villa d’Este under a new autonomous management system and visitor numbers have begun to rise again. Ufficio Statistica MIBACT 2017b.

Chapter 4: Court and Thompson. Community participation in the management of Italian archaeological sites to highlight the fact that yet more of the Tivoli area was being developed, with no perceived benefits for the local community and potentially damaging the historic landscape. They also successfully managed to bring the attention of the World Heritage Centre to the problem, leading to a Heritage Impact Assessment being commissioned in order to understand the potential impact of such a development on the Outstanding Universal Value of Hadrian’s Villa (Thompson et al. 2014). Part of the methodology of the assessment included a public consultation, which was largely carried out through an online survey, with some questionnaires also administered at the archaeological site itself, in the small residential area around it and in the modern town of Tivoli. The survey attracted the attention of both the international community (there were respondents from 46 different countries) and the local community, in what became the largest public consultation on a site-specific heritagerelated issue that Italy had seen. The consultation provided some interesting results:

The Italian Ministry of Culture took the decision that this risk was not acceptable (MIBACT 2014), particularly because a World Heritage property identified as World Heritage in Danger can potentially be removed from the World Heritage List if the problem is not resolved. The development project was therefore halted in that location and alternative uses of the buffer zone are being sought. In the case of Tivoli, it can be seen that the threat to the archaeological site was perceived most strongly by associations representing local community opinions, rather than the conventional heritage management system. The latter was hindered by a lack of a clear mandate to look at the wider context beyond site boundaries and manage the place as part of a wider cultural ‘ecosystem’ made up of features and traditions that are not limited to visible traces of classical archaeology. These local interest groups were then able to raise the awareness of the international community through World Heritage processes and then use the input of heritage specialists as leverage to insist on more informed, transparent and inclusive decision-making processes. In this case the consultation process that is foreseen in a Heritage Impact Assessment was carried out intentionally early in the assessment methodology (ICOMOS 2011) and provided the mechanism by which both the local community and the international community could make their voices heard and support the protection of heritage through more democratic processes.

• 90% of respondents considered it ‘important’ that Hadrian’s Villa was located within a green setting (ranking it 5 out of 5); • 88% of respondents believed that there would be negative impacts on the archaeological site from a development project so close nearby; • 87% of local residents who responded could see no benefits to the local area from the development project in question; • A third of all respondents – and half of those respondents who were local residents – would be prepared to support an alternative, sustainable use of the proposed development area, either by contributing time or money.

Case Study 3: Rione Sanità, Naples Rione Sanità is a densely populated neighbourhood in the heart of the World Heritage property of the Historic Centre of Naples. In the Greco-Roman period this area lay just outside the circuit of ancient city walls and was therefore used for burials. In the early Christian period, these developed into catacombs and large spaces were cut out of the rock underground, then used both for the burial of the dead and for veneration of key religious figures, including the patron saint of the city, San Gennaro. Church spaces were also cut out of the rock within the catacombs, providing places for Christian worship. Higher-status families would decorate the burial place of the dead with frescoes containing portraits and religious scenes and the church structures were also elaborately decorated. One particular catacomb complex, that of San Gaudioso, which lies under the parish church, was used in the 17th century as a burial site for aristocrats and clergy and provides an understanding of distinct burial practices and a tradition of frescoed portraits on the walls around the embedded skull of the deceased. In total, there are 11 catacomb and hypogeum spaces under the neighbourhood, including the most-recent Cemetery of the Fontanelle, and they are

The final Heritage Impact Assessment drew conclusions based on: 1) an analysis of the range of values associated with Hadrian’s Villa’s cultural significance, in particular the Outstanding Universal Value that led to its inscription on the World Heritage List, 2) an assessment of the impact that the proposed development project would have on the attributes of Hadrian’s Villa that are associated with those values, and 3) the public consultation. The final report concluded that there would be a negative impact on a variety of attributes conveying the cultural values of this archaeological site and, in particular, on Outstanding Universal Value. It relayed the clear opinion that emerged transversally from the research that benefits would not be gained by the local community, leading to a clear conclusion that this project was not appropriate in this context and might lead to the site being placed on the World Heritage in Danger list.

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices structurally much more impressive than the betterknown Rome catacombs. This ossuary was created in a former quarry in the 17th century, following a series of epidemics in Naples that left hundreds of thousands dead. There are still intangible traditions of venerating the dead at the Fontanelle, whereby skulls are adopted and cared for by local people in exchange for granting requests. However, not all the heritage in Sanità is related to these burial spaces. Over the centuries, urban development in this dense and bustling neighbourhood has created a rich built heritage but most notable are the 18th-century residential buildings designed by the architect Ferdinando Sanfelice. There are also numerous churches and convents in the area, including the 17thcentury parish church of Santa Maria della Sanità, which are notable for both their architecture and the artistic works they contain. More recently, in 1898, Sanità’s most famous local resident was born: Totò went on to become a 20th-century comic actor and one of Italy’s most recognisable film icons. Despite a wealth of heritage assets, Sanità has long been a neighbourhood associated with urban decay and major social problems. This is due in part to an early 19th-century bridge that cut literally through the area and took it out of routes from one part of Naples to another. Similar to the situation in Ercolano’s Via Mare neighbourhood, local residents gained no significant benefits from their heritage, from which they had been cut off by a conventional management system. In this case, the management situation is very complex, as there are a range of authorities responsible for the ecclesiastical, archaeological and architectural heritage, and no explicit mandate among them to ensure decision-making involves the local community. At the beginning of the 20th century, the residential fabric and the public buildings of Rione Sanità were suffering from spiralling forms of decay as the entire district experienced increasing socio-economic decline. However, the tide is slowly beginning to turn and in less than a decade this district of Naples has become a pioneer of new and endogenous approaches to heritagebased urban regeneration. The major changes are due, first and foremost, to a series of cooperatives formed by groups of local residents, each with the aim of improving the lives of the local community. Many of these have been related to cultural heritage. In particular, La Paranza Cooperative was created in 2006 with the support of the parish priest and has since taken over the daily running of the catacombs, providing visits and walking tours through the neighbourhood. This group of young people has managed to improve conservation conditions while providing public access to both the San Gennaro and the

San Gaudioso Catacombs. Through tourism and cultural initiatives, they have managed to create jobs, raise awareness of Sanità’s rich heritage and open up the neighbourhood to economic benefits from visitors. They have collaborated with a number of other local groups, including another cooperative, Iron Angels, where a group of young people was trained up in artistic metal working, producing decorative elements used within the catacombs and other areas but also sold to visitors for additional income. There is also a cooperative, Officina dei Talenti, which trains young people as electricians, plumbers and builders, providing skills and employment opportunities to disadvantaged local residents but also creating a technical community for the upkeep and maintenance of the heritage. In addition, two bed and breakfasts have been established in space available in historic buildings, providing further job opportunities and improving visitor services locally (Loffredo 2013). The results of these efforts and the commitment of all the players involved are visible in the professionally managed visits to the local heritage, with more available to the public each year, increased visitor numbers, employment opportunities, local economic growth, ongoing conservation efforts and enhanced local cultural values, even if more might be done to monitor effectiveness of the management of the heritage systematically. In fact, the success that was obtained in the first years at the San Gaudioso and San Gennaro Catacombs led to increased self-confidence in the local community, who, working with the church and other stakeholders, decided to open up more local heritage to the public. At that time, the Fontanelle Cemetery was closed to the public, but a group of local residents went to the cemetery and insisted on staying until representatives of the town council came to speak to them. Community representatives were able to demonstrate the local community’s appreciation of its heritage and capacity to manage it, thanks to the experience with the catacombs, and negotiated a re-opening of the cemetery to the public. This situation now allows local residents to visit and continue their religious practices and ensures upkeep of the cemetery, as well as adding new areas for visitors. This brief overview of the work underway at Rione Sanità illustrates how local community-led efforts are transforming a neighbourhood with benefits for both the residents and the heritage (Wijesuriya et al. 2017). Broad participation in cultural heritage and the subsequent increase in tourism has provided job opportunities for individuals and income for small businesses – but not only that: it has ensured that the heritage has been reappropriated by the community, and is cared for and accessible to the public. In this very positive climate, the relative absence of heritage institutions is of note and

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Chapter 4: Court and Thompson. Community participation in the management of Italian archaeological sites might raise concerns about the balance among stakeholders contributing to heritage management in this case. Could long-term prospects for intellectual, financial and human resources for more substantial and effective conservation actions be compromised?

benefits generated by the heritage place (Lusiani et al. 2018). In each of these cases, the local community had existing capacities that could be used to gain benefits for the heritage and for themselves. In each case, the management system had adapted to draw benefits from capacities sourced more widely, in particular thanks to unlocking community participation and thereby the reciprocal benefits. The capacity building required at each case study was (and is still today) different. However, together they demonstrate that a balanced approach to developing and drawing on capacities among all three groups outlined in the World Heritage Capacity Building Strategy – institutions, practitioners and communities/networks – would reinforce the results already gained for these heritage places and their communities and, furthermore, would help ensure improvements are lasting. It has been said that: ‘engaging communities is about strengthening their ability to participate meaningfully in the process of making conservation and management decisions for themselves and their heritage’ (Wijesuriya, Court 2015). If we take a broad understanding of the word ‘community’ to encompass communities of place, communities of interest and communities of practice and ensure that their capacities are harnessed, then the result over time will be stronger organisational frameworks and interfaces between heritage and the wider environment. Only in this way will reciprocal benefits for both heritage and communities be harnessed, and heritage will be assured a more central role in society in the present, not just the future.

Conclusions None of the three case studies described above are presented here as models of community participation. However, differences and common ground emerge from juxtaposing these three experiences and come together to highlight key areas from which capacities can be drawn to enhance heritage management effectiveness. At Herculaneum, community participation has had to take place beyond the boundaries of the archaeological site in order to rebuild ruptured relationships between site and context, heritage practitioners and community members. The neutral ground on the borders of the site has been the trigger to gain access to funding which will provide improved conditions in the modern neighbourhood and better conservation of the edges of the site, which in turn will help diversify tourism models to better support local sustainable development goals. In Tivoli, the local community was able to bring attention to a threat to their heritage, which the heritage authorities had not found a way to resolve. However, in this case it was a group of heritage practitioners who were able to provide a mechanism by which the voices of the international and local communities could be heard and used as leverage for heritage protection, for the benefit of residents and visitors. In the Rione Sanità neighbourhood of Naples, groups from within the local community have not only found a way to take on the daily management of their heritage from the void left by the heritage authorities, they have also managed to use this as a tool for providing socioeconomic and cultural benefits for residents, creating compatible forms of tourism in a formerly no-go area and ensuring that the heritage is cared for and protected. Their ‘zero kilometre’ management capacities, together with their ability to reinforce the identity and values of the places they recount to visitors, is leading Rione Sanità to become one of Naples’ most popular visitor destinations. In each of these cases, there were shortcomings in the existing management system, often trapped in a conventional conservation mandate (preserving the material fabric) and a heritage typology silo (for example, only seeing archaeological significance). This was leading to heritage being put at risk. Furthermore, with heritage management driven by ‘experts’ talking primarily among themselves (Thompson, Wijesuriya 2018), there had been a blindness to the role of local communities and the resources they could bring: in shaping meaning of each heritage place, contributing to management or sharing

Postscript (2018) It might be of interest to the reader to know that since this paper was first presented in 2014, two of the archaeological sites discussed above have been part of a reform carried out by the Italian Ministry of Culture. Herculaneum has gained management autonomy from Pompeii and the other Vesuvian sites, while management for Villa Adriana has instead been combined with that of Tivoli’s other World Heritage property, Villa d’Este, in a dedicated self-governed authority. With decision-making relocated much closer to the specific values, needs and opportunities presented by these heritage places and their communities, and with an organisational clarity that finally favours ‘working with others’, those who lead and work with and within these new authorities have an extraordinary opportunity. Future analysis will show if these prove to be positive management experiments that harness the reciprocal benefits discussed in this paper. Again, since this paper was originally presented, the third and most ‘grassroots’ case study, Rione Sanità, has attracted extraordinary retrospective institutional ‘buyin’ with four million euros of Ministry of Culture funding assigned in 2017 (MIBACT 2017a).

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices Only time will tell if these forms of local empowerment are, in management terms, a model for heritage in general. Will they be capable of encouraging heritage practitioners out of their disciplinary silos – and the sector as a whole out of its self-referential comfort zone – and show the benefits of working differently?

de la Torre, M., MacLean, M.G.H., Mason, R., Myers, D. 2005: Heritage Values in Site Management: Four Case Studies. Los Angeles, Getty Conservation Institute Ermacora, T., Bullivant, L. 2016: Recorded City: Cocreating Urban Futures. London, Routledge ICOMOS 2011: Guidance on Heritage Impact Assessments for Cultural World Heritage Properties. https://www.icomos.org/world_heritage/HIA_20110 201.pdf Larsen, P.B. (ed.) 2018: World Heritage and Human Rights. London, Routledge Loffredo, A. 2013: Noi del Rione Sanità. La scommessa di un parroco e dei suoi ragazzi. Rome, Mondadori Lusiani, M., Ferri, P., Zan, L. 2018: ‘Making sense of site management’ in Makuvaza, S. (ed.), Aspects of Management Planning for Cultural World Heritage Sites – Principles, Approaches and Practices. London, Springer: 234 Mapunda, B., Lane, P. 2004: ‘Archaeology for whose interest – archaeologists or the locals?’ in N. Merriman (ed.), Public Archaeology. London, Routledge: 211–23 MIBACT 2014: Villa Adriana, MIBACT: vi sono presupposti per rivedere lottizzazione Nathan. http://www.beniculturali.it/mibac/export/MiBAC/sitoMiBAC/Contenuti/MibacUnif/Comunicati/visualizza _asset.html_449157120.html — 2017a: Cantieri della cultura: dal fumetto all’archeologia, oltre 133 milioni di euro per Grandi Progetti Culturali. http://www.beniculturali.it/mibac/export/MiBAC/sitoMiBAC/Contenuti/MibacUnif/Comunicati/visualizza _asset.html_1152215397.html — 2017b: Ufficio Statistica: Visitatori e introiti di musei, monumenti e aree archeologiche statali. http://www.statistica.beniculturali.it/Visitatori_e_intro iti_musei.htm Mollo, L., Pesaresi, P., Biggi, C. 2012: ‘Interactions between ancient Herculaneum and modern Ercolano’ in P. De Joanna, D. Francese, A. Passaro (eds), Sustainable Environment in the Mediterranean Region: From Housing to Urban and Land Scale Construction. Naples, Edizioni Franco Angeli: 1–7 Ndoro, W. 2011: ‘Managing and conserving archaeological heritage in Sub-Saharan Africa’ in S. Sullivan, R. Mackay (eds), Archaeological Sites: Conservation and Management. Los Angeles, Getty Conservation Institute: 561–71 Okamura, K., Matsuda, A. 2011: New Perspectives in Global Public Archaeology. New York, Springer Pace, S. 2000: Herculaneum and European Culture between the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries. Naples, Electa

Bibliography Adembri, B. 2000: Villa Adriana. Rome, Electa Bandarin, F., van Oers, R. 2012: The Historic Urban Landscape: Managing Heritage in an Urban Century. Chichester, Wiley-Blackwell Biggi, C., Capasso, B., Del Duca, F. 2018: ‘The Herculaneum Centre: the reciprocal benefits gained from building capacities for cultural heritage among institutions and communities’ in V. Apaydin (ed.), Increasing Heritage Awareness through Participatory Public Archaeology. London, Springer Biggi, C., D’Andrea, A., Pesaresi, P. 2014: ‘Herculaneum: joining forces to secure heritage benefits for the ancient and the modern towns’ in M. Bachmann, C. Maner, S. Tezer, D. Göçmen (eds), Heritage in Context: Conservation and Site Management within Natural, Urban and Social Frameworks. Istanbul, Ege Yayınları: 39–53 Camardo, D., Notomista, M. (eds) 2017: Ercolano: 1927-1961. Rome, L’Erma di Bretschneider Cogotti, M. 2008: Il paesaggio del Lazi: Tutela, conservazione, trasformazione. Rome, De Luca Editori Cogotti, M. (ed.) 2014: Tivoli, paesaggio del Grand Tour. Rome, De Luca Editori d'Arte. Council of Europe 2005: Council of Europe Framework Convention on the Value of Cultural Heritage for Society (Faro Convention). http://www.coe.int/en/web/conventions/full-list//conventions/rms/0900001680083746 Court, S. 2014: ‘Let’s hear it for Herculaneum! Interpretation as a tool for increasing community participation’ Interpretation Journal 19.2: 10–12 Court, S., D’Andrea, A., Del Duca, F., Pesaresi, P., Thompson, J. 2019: ‘Managing Herculaneum in context: measuring benefits for people and places’ in D. Comer, A. Willems (eds), Feasible Management of Archaeological Heritage Sites Open to Tourism. London, Springer Press: 21–34 Court, S., Thompson, J., Biggi, C. 2011: ‘Recognizing the interdependent relationship between heritage and its wider context’ in J. Bridgland (ed.), Preprints of the 16th ICOM-CC Triennial Conference. Lisbon, 19-23 September 2011. Almada, ICOM: 1–9 De Franceschini, M. 2005: Ville dell’Agro romano. Rome, L’Erma di Bretschneider

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Chapter 4: Court and Thompson. Community participation in the management of Italian archaeological sites Phillips, A. 2003: ‘A new paradigm for protected areas’ World Conservation 2: 6–7 Pinto, J.A., MacDonald, W.L. 1995: Hadrian’s Villa and its Legacy. New Haven, Yale University Press Skeates, R., McDavid, C., Carman, J. (eds) 2012: The Oxford Handbook of Public Archaeology. Oxford, Oxford University Press Stanley-Price, N. 2007: ‘Special edition on the Herculaneum Conservation Project’ Conservation and Management of Archaeological Sites 8.4 Thompson, J., Court, S., D’Andrea, A., Iacomelli, F., Young, C. 2014: Heritage Impact Assessment: Proposed Development in the Buffer Zone of the World Heritage Property of Villa Adriana. Unpublished report, Rome Thompson, J., Wijesuriya, G. 2018: ‘From “sustaining heritage” to “heritage sustaining broader societal wellbeing and benefits”. An ICCROM perspective’ in P. Larsen, W. Logan (eds), World Heritage and Sustainable Development: New Directions in World Heritage Management. London, Routledge: 180–95 UNDP 2008: Capacity Development Practice Note. http://www.undp.org/content/dam/aplaws/publication/e n/publications/capacity-development/capacity-development-practice-note/PN_Capacity_Development.pdf UNESCO 2001: ‘Somma-Vesuvio and Miglio d’Oro’ Man and the Biosphere Programme. http://www.unesco.org/mabdb/br/brdir/directory/bior es.asp?code=ITA+05&mode=all — 2011: Presentation and Adoption of the World Heritage Strategy for Capacity Building. http://whc.unesco.org/archive/2011/whc11-35com9Be.pdf

— 2015: Archaeological areas of Pompei, Herculaneum and Oplontis. http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/829 Venetucci, B. P. 2003: ‘Pirro Ligorio and the rediscovery of antiquity’ in J. Fejfer, T. Fischer-Hansen, A. Rathje (eds), The Rediscovery of Antiquity: The Role of the Artist. Copenhagen, Museum Tusculanum Press: 63–88 Wijesuriya, G. 2015: Living Heritage: A Summary. http://www.iccrom.org/wpcontent/uploads/PCA_Annexe-1.pdf Wijesuriya, G., Court, S. 2015: People-Centred Approaches to the Conservation of Heritage. http://www.iccrom.org/wpcontent/uploads/PCA_Annexe-2.pdf Wijesuriya, G., Thompson, J., Court, S. 2017: ‘Peoplecentred approaches: engaging communities and developing capacities for heritage’ in Chitty, G. (ed.), Heritage, Conservation and Communities: Engagement, Participation and Capacity Building. London, Routledge: 34–49 Wijesuriya, G., Thompson, J., Young, C. 2013: Managing Cultural World Heritage Sites. Paris, UNESCO WHITRAP. 2016: The HUL Guidebook: Managing Change in Dynamic and Constantly Changing Urban Environments. http://www.hulballarat.org.au/resources/HUL%20Gu idebook_2016_FINALWEB.pdf

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5. The public and archaeology: some examples from current practices in Turkey Gül Pulhan

The nearby city of Mardin with its terraced houses on a cliff overlooking the Mesopotamian plain is the best-preserved example of traditional stone architecture in the region (fig. 5.2). The unique cultural landscape of the city makes it a candidate as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The cosmopolitan population of Mardin, composed of Arabs, Kurds, Syriacs and Turks, frequent the heritage sites in and around the city as much as the Turkish tourists on a ‘GAP tour’ (the acronym stands for ‘Southeast Anatolia Project’ in Turkish; meaning a cultural tour of southeast Anatolia usually covering Gaziantep, Şanlıurfa, Adıyaman, Mardin, Midyat, Hasankeyf and Diyarbakır). The historic mosques and religious schools of the city, Syriac Christian monasteries of the area such as Deyr-ül Zafaran, or the archaeological sites such as Dara always attract large crowds. The local museums in Batman and Mardin carry out exhibitions, displays and educational programs under their museum-park and archaeo-park projects that target children and adults alike to engage them with their heritage and create awareness and enrichment in their lives (Erdoğan 2017). My statements and observations on tourism belong to the pre-August 2015 era, prior to the deterioration of the security situation in the region after the June 2015 general election in Turkey (as the final corrections to this paper are made in April 2018, Turkey is facing yet another general election). In the following pages I am hoping to present a picture of an interaction between the local people and archaeology by connecting different incidents and by weaving a story between the past and the present in and around the site of Gre Amer in the Garzan Valley.

Introduction Our current archaeological work at the mound of Gre Amer in the province of Batman in southeast Turkey (Pulhan, Blaylock 2013, 2016) has enabled us to witness or participate in a wide spectrum of local heritage practices in a relatively remote part of present-day Turkey. At the negative end of the spectrum is the ongoing looting of archaeological sites. It is no exaggeration to say that, for the public in Turkey, the first and foremost meaning of archaeology is the golden treasures buried under the ground waiting to be discovered. People of Anatolia, regardless of their region, education or age, believe that with a little bit of luck and with a little bit of help from a scruffy map, from an expensive metal detector, or from the arcane knowledge of an archaeologist, they can find the gold and get rich. This great appetite for treasure hunting and, by extension, a profound ignorance about the harm that illicit digging activities cause to archaeological and historical sites, exists in parallel with a professed interest for the local heritage sites in southeast Turkey. The best embodiment of this interest is in the ancient site of Hasankeyf, so much so, that its very name equates to archaeology in the city of Batman (fig. 5.1). Since we started an archaeological project in Batman in 2008, I have not come across a single person from the area from whom the mention of the words archaeology and Batman did not generate the excited question of ‘Are you excavating at Hasankeyf?’ Once I say, ‘No’ to that question my attempts to describe the location and importance of our site never create the same level of interest. Local people visit Hasankeyf on every occasion, whether to show it to their visitors, or to have a weekend outing with their families, or to eat grilled meat or fish in the shabby open-air restaurants by the River Tigris. There is a more sinister side to this as well, with ‘honour killings’ or related suicides sadly still not uncommon in this region, so the dark Tigris is the last image seen by young women who jump from the cliffs of the citadel to ‘save their honour’. There is something timeless in this, with such millennia-long cruelties reminiscent of the water ordeal in Hammurabi’s law code (Kuhrt 1995: 106–07, 113; Van de Mieroop 2005: 103–04).

The Garzan Valley and a British diplomat in eastern Anatolia Gre Amer is a multi-period, small mound on the east bank of the Garzan tributary of the River Tigris on the borders of Batman and Siirt in the midst of the rich oil fields of the province. The site is 18 km northeast of Hasankeyf as the crow flies, and 26km north of the confluence of the Garzan and the Tigris. It is one of the sites that will be flooded at the completion of the Ilısu Hydroelectric Dam, currently being constructed on the

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Fig. 5.1. The ancient site of Hasankeyf on the Tigris in May 2015. The remains of the medieval bridge are being reinforced in preparation for inundation by the Ilısu Dam reservoir in the near future Tigris near the town of Dargeçit in the province of Mardin. The rescue excavations at the site started in 2009 as part of the Ilısu Salvage projects and are financed by the State Water Works through the Ministry of Culture and Tourism. Eight seasons of excavations have revealed a settlement history beginning in the early third millennium BC, continuing with a probably protoMitanni Middle Bronze Age town, followed by Early Iron Age and Iron Age levels. The latest occupation at the site was a Persian-Hellenistic settlement. Gre Amer’s location in an archaeologically unknown area, coupled with a distinctive local culture, together with recognisable connections with the known cultures of northern Mesopotamia and Iran makes the place special (Pulhan 2013; Pulhan, Blaylock 2013, 2016). When we started to research the history of the area, the British diplomat J.G. Taylor and his 19th-century account of his travels in Kurdistan was the first source we encountered (Taylor 1865). The British Consul General in Diyarbakır did not mention the site of Gre Amer during his journeys in 1862–63 when he rode the east bank of the Garzan Valley, but he must have passed by the site, as the old name of the village of Işıkveren (Du Sadek), where Gre Amer is located, was recorded on his map:

Following the left bank of the Tigris upwards, a ride of four hours, during which I passed the point where the Arzan Su falls into the former, brought me to Redhwan, on the left bank of the latter river. The population of Redhwan, and the plain in which it is situated, although still extensively peopled by the Yezidees, was about twenty years ago nearly exclusively confined to people of that sect, who were always in a state of semi-rebellion against the government; but since the death of their chief, Meer Zig [a corruption of MeerEshag], who was killed by the Turks, the country became more directly under their control, and they have consequently comparatively abandoned the place for Sinjar and the neighbourhood of Mosul. Crossing the river here I ascended the high hills beyond, and descended by a steep miserable goat-path, only practicable for mules, and which occupied one hour and a half in the descent, into the valley of the Tigris; and then, fording the river, reached the old grot town of Hesn el Kahef, or Hesn Keyf, in three hours and a half from Redhwan (Taylor 1865: 32). The presence of Yezidees, albeit few in number, and the site of Redhwan (Rıdvan Höyük), today controlled by

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Chapter 5: Pulhan. The public and archaeology: some examples from current practices in Turkey had not been granted by the British Museum authorities and this crucial administrative centre of the Uruk, NeoHittite, Assyrian, Hellenistic and Roman periods was only excavated for a brief time by Professor Nimet Özgüç before it was submerged under the waters of the Atatürk Dam in 1990. During his diplomatic term, J.G. Taylor travelled extensively in the area to the east of Diyarbakır and recorded geographical, historical and social characteristics of the region. ‘The Travels in Kurdistan, with Notices of the Sources of the Eastern and Western Tigris, and Ancient Ruins in Their Neighbourhood’ (Taylor 1865) comprises the accounts of his three journeys between 1861 and 1863. Another journey further east, which included the rarely visited, arduous area of Tunceli (Dersim) was published under the title of ‘Journal of a Tour in Armenia, Kurdistan and Upper Mesopotamia, with Notes of Researches in the Deyrsim Dagh in 1866’ (Taylor 1868). He explains the purpose of his trips in the following paragraph:

Fig. 5.2. The historical buildings of Mardin used as exhibition spaces for contemporary art during the Third Mardin Biennale, ‘Mythologies’ in the spring of 2015 the powerful tribe of Hamidis, are still the defining features of the lower Garzan Valley. Although we do not have experience of our own, we know the existence of steep, narrow paths over the mountains connecting the Garzan valley to the Tigris valley. John George Taylor was a pioneer figure in the early stages of archaeology in the Near East, although not much is known about his life, especially in comparison to his contemporaries such as Austen Henry Layard and Hormuzd Rassam. He was born in Basra, where his father was the political agent of the East India Company in Arabia. Later, Taylor himself served as an agent for the East India Company and as the British Vice-ConsulGeneral in Basra from 1851 to 1858. During these years he conducted the earliest excavations at the famous Sumerian cities of Ur and Eridu. After his appointment to Diyarbakır as the British Consul-General in 1859, Taylor’s most important archaeological activity was the discovery of two cuneiform inscribed stone stelae belonging to Assyrian Kings Ashurnasirpal II and Shalmaneser III (Sollberger 1972: 130). They came to be known as the Kurkh Monoliths due to the name of the site where they were found (present day Üçtepe near the town of Bismil to the east of Diyarbakir). The British Museum was happy to have the stelae – the Kurkh monoliths are prominently displayed in the Assyrian galleries of the museum – but Taylor’s wish to conduct excavations at the site did not materialise. A few years later, in December 1867, Taylor discovered another basalt stele in a village on the Euphrates near the mound of Samsat (Sollberger 1972: 130). However, the transportation of this stele, described as the ‘Graeco-Armenian Tablet’, to England had to wait until 1927, as no funds were available at the time. Taylor’s vision to excavate the important site of Samsat

The information contained in the following paper is the result of three journies which I made in 1861–63, with the sanction of Her Majesty’s Government, in the consular district of Diarbekr, the capital of the modern Pashalik of Kurdistan, and the seat of its Mushir or Governor-General. Originally undertaken for the purpose of obtaining reliable commercial and statistical data, I did not, nevertheless, neglect to note everything of geographical or historical interest, which either the reports of the natives or ancient authors had brought to my notice (Taylor 1865: 21). The centuries-long practice of treasure hunting One of the historical sites that Taylor paid great attention to, also publishing a plan of the archaeological remains on the ground, was the immense Hellenistic-period site of Arzan/Erzen in the upper Garzan valley: The ruins are very extensive; the remains of the old walls, 20 feet thick at the base, and tapering up to 8 feet, constructed of irregular pieces of rough stone, cemented with mortar, that surround the town are easily traced; and the defenses towards the river, consisting of thicker walls and a number of smalldomed buildings, are in still better preservation. The area contained within them is about 2700 square yards. On the north-eastern and southern sides the walls are straight and regular, but towards the west it narrows off into an irregular shape that follows the course of the stream. It has four gates, one in each of the three regular walls, and a fourth leading to the river. At the southern side is a mound of ruin

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices connected with the wall, that seems to have been a large fortified bastion. The whole ruin is surrounded by a deep ditch, which was crossed at three of the gates by as many bridges, whose foundations still appear above ground (Taylor 1865: 27).

memories at first hand. This was one of those serendipitous moments that one is sometimes privileged to experience in the Near East. The ancient land was offering a slice of its history not just through material remains or written documents, but by transmitting it through the memory of a living individual. The connection between the past and the present was vivid. We went to visit Mustafa Atmaca, the maternal grandfather of Mehmet Sadık Işık on the morning of 17 October 2014 at his home in the village of Yeniköy (Segirkan), west of Batman. He had moved to this place approximately 30 years ago. He was living in a modest house with his bedridden wife, whom he was taking care of himself. Some of his daughters and sons were living in the houses opposite his. They were farmers. Throughout the interview Mustafa Atmaca spoke in Kurdish and was translated into Turkish by his grandson Mehmet Sadık (fig. 5.3). Our long-time driver Mazhar Onat, a Kurd from the area of the Bohtan River, helped to clarify some parts as well. Mustafa was born in 1933 in a village now called Yıldızlı (whose old name is Kewnereza, meaning ‘old gardens’) on the west bank of the Garzan River near Zercel Kale (also known as Yıldızlı kale or Şeyh Baç [Boran 2005: 28]). The nearest towns then and now are Kozluk and Kurtalan in the province of Siirt. He was an orphan and was minded by a young girl from the village. Some years later they got married. His childhood memories were full of treasure-hunting stories, surrounded by genies, strangers, sacred books and snakes. The villagers believed that the innocent and sinless young children could intuit the location of the hidden riches and see the genies that protected the jars full of gold. He recalled that they were smearing blood on ceramic jars and believing that the blood would turn into gold. He also remembered the scared faces of other children who had envisioned the jar and the genies, and the voices of villagers asking if the jar had handles or not. The lands he tended were on the east bank of the Garzan River, the area of the ancient site of Erzen. He remembers that it belonged to a landlord called Hacı Nazar Ağa. People who worked in the fields were barely able to feed themselves. It was a struggle to stay alive. Day after day, they dug, ploughed, sowed and harvested the land. They did not receive any fees or wages. The deal was finding antiquities and selling them for cash. The land of Erzen was so rich in antiquities that whatever came their way they were allowed to keep and sell. ‘We were dirt poor,’ he said, ‘we had no choice but accept the arrangement.’ Mustafa had found rings, coins and small gold ornaments. He said most of the time they had to excavate for antiquities, but there were times that they found things on the surface. I was hoping to locate one little object, a ring perhaps, remaining with him as a

The site Arzan/Erzen continued to live on as a prominent town until the mid-14th century, a place rivalled only by Hasankeyf in the area (Sinclair 1989: 297–302). There are further discussions on the probable identification of Arzan/Erzen with Tigranocerta, the capital of the kingdom of Armenia (Sinclair 1989: 361– 64). During his Ilısu surveys to compile the inventory of sites that would be affected by the dam reservoir, Guillermo Algaze lists Arzan/Erzen as a 170-ha substantial settlement (Algaze et al. 1991: 188). Today, it is known that the Ilısu dam will not flood Arzan/Erzen, which may also account for the lack of archaeological work at the site. Some surveys of the site were conducted by Ali Boran in the early 2000s, mostly with an interest in history rather than archaeology (Boran 2006) Taylor’s mid-19th century account of Arzan/Erzen also records an astonishing aspect of treasure hunting at the site: When I visited it, the area included within the walls was bearing a fine crop of wheat, but the regular lines of the streets, and some of the larger buildings, could still be traced. So many medals in gold and silver are found here that the fellahs who till the ground are paid nothing by the owner for their labour, and they give him in addition half of everything they may find (Taylor 1865: 27). This clue, when followed up by us, would reveal that Arzan/Erzen was the home of a centuries-old antiquities’ looting practice as much alive today as in the 19th century. A living witness from Erzen Mehmet Sadık Işık is a 30-year-old archaeologist from Kozluk, Batman. He studied archaeology at Mustafa Kemal University in Antakya and joined the Gre Amer excavation team in 2013. When we were talking about J.G. Taylor’s accounts of Erzen at the dinner table one night at the dig house, Sadık jumped up and said that he had heard this story from his grandfather, who himself was one of the impoverished villagers who tended the fields at the site in return for the antiquities that they might come across while digging the soil. We had found a living witness to the incredible practice that was reported by Taylor 150 years ago. We immediately decided to pay a visit to Sadık’s grandfather and hear his

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Chapter 5: Pulhan. The public and archaeology: some examples from current practices in Turkey As its name indicates (‘höyük’ means mound in Turkish), the village of Bozhöyük (Teliba) is the latest settlement on an ancient mound. Upon our arrival we saw a group of village men sitting under the shade of trees and chatting. The imam of the village, İshak Nazlı, informed us that the site was 7000 years old and was part of a smoke sign communication system. He claimed that the ancient people were able to send smoke signals as far as Manisa (an inland city in the Aegean region) by lighting a fire on top of the mound. Our first impressions of the locals were not too different from the feelings of Taylor in his visit to the area in the early 1860s: A few greybeards of the place, who pretended to some traditional knowledge, informed me that the castle, during the times of ignorance – that is, before Islamism – belonged to the Beni Sassan; and stated that the Gharzan Begs, who live at Zok, 4 miles off, were the descendants of that dynasty in these parts; a fact that was corroborated to me by the Begs themselves on a subsequent visit I paid them (Taylor 1865: 28).

Fig. 5.3. Mustafa Atmaca with his grandson, archaeologist Mehmet Sadık Işık, during our visit to his village in October 2014 physical memory of this incredible practice, but he said he could not keep anything for himself. He had to sell whatever he had found to survive. Mustafa recalled the name of Hacı Nuri from Kozluk, who later opened a jewellery shop, as one of the people who bought antiquities from them. Sometimes they were taking their loot to Diyarbakır, or Syriac Christians from the Midyat-Mardin area were coming to Erzen. They were looking for antiquities themselves, but also purchasing from the villagers. The stone structures of Erzen, the storage pithoi, the millstones, the recycled stones of the fortification walls, were all fresh in Mustafa Atmaca’s memory, as well as the more distant echoes of the disappeared Armenians and their plundered houses, animals and silver. At 81, Mustafa Atmaca said, he had seen it all, ‘the hunger, the treasures, the Armenians...’ He had one last wish to fulfil in his remaining life: to go on the Haj if he could find some money. ‘You archaeologists have a good chance of finding a treasure,’ he joked. ‘If you discover it would you give me a small share, so I can go to Mecca?’

The Bozhöyük villagers knew that they were living on top of an ancient settlement and talked about finding old bones and burial jars (which indicates some archaeological knowledge, since it is not a current practice) when they were digging for house foundations. They had heard stories from their grandfathers who had worked on the railroad construction (which cut through the area of the walled city) in the 1940s that German engineers had purchased antiquities in the area. Another story that surfaced during the conversation concerned the dismantling of the antique stone fortification wall of Erzen to be reused in the railroad project. A later eyewitness to largescale stone robbing from the city walls of Erzen was the British archaeologist Thomas Sinclair, who visited the area in the 1980s. According to Sinclair, agricultural activities and removal of antique cut-stones to be recycled in the construction of village houses destroyed the last remaining standing structures of the ancient site (Sinclair 1989: 430). The villagers also mentioned finding baked-clay model chariots in another mound to the north, but complained that the gendarmerie outpost at Gözpınar (Hısıs) was firmly controlling the area, and it was difficult to conduct illicit digs at the site of Gre Zere (Altıntepe/the golden mound). Despite all these anecdotal stories, they were not forthcoming about the current digging activities at Erzen, and strongly protested that they had not found any archaeological artefacts from Bozhöyük or Erzen themselves. This reticence presumably derived either from suspicion of us as somehow representative of ‘officialdom’, or from a wish to protect the sources of their finds.

Metal detectors at work We decided to conclude our journey from past to present with a visit to the ancient site of Erzen and to the nearby village of Bozhöyük (Teliba) the same afternoon. The site is on the western border of the province of Siirt. The general location is known as Yunuslar, now a roadside village recorded as Sheyh Yunus on Taylor’s map. We drive by the village of Yunuslar every day on our route to the excavation before taking a right turn towards the River Garzan and the Garzan oil field of the Turkish Petroleum Company. We were hoping that the villagers would tell us some stories about the illicit excavations and if we were lucky, perhaps show us a few objects.

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices When we decided to end our social visit and to stop by the ruins of Erzen before the end of the day, one of the villagers offered to accompany us. He seemed to be involved in the illicit antiquities trade and sensed that we were after some information. The metal detectors became the main topic of conversation in the minibus. He explained that the use of metal detectors for looting antiquities was common practice and the price of a quality detector could go up to 15,000 Turkish Lira (approximately £4300 according to the value of Sterling in autumn 2014). The diggers were forming partnerships to be able to afford such high prices and they have coined the term ‘detector-partner’. The sale and use of metal detectors are legal in Turkey, but the looting of antiquities is not. A quick search on the internet provides tens of commercial sites selling various kinds of metal detectors ranging from ‘gold sensitive’ to ‘treasure sensitive’. There are also diagrams and descriptions for building metal detectors. Television commercials for metal detectors are not uncommon either. Some websites specialising in treasure hunting require membership and passwords, and presumably give more specific information on devices and methods. The veteran journalist Özgen Acar of Cumhuriyet newspaper, who has made a career of fighting the illicit antiquities trade, once said that he had seen dozens of governments and Ministers of Culture in his lifetime who made promises to ban metal detectors but never actually fulfilled their promises because of populist policies and the wish not to upset their voters across Anatolia (Özgen Acar, personal communication, 2012). The practice has been bewilderingly common. ‘The best time to do a survey with a detector,’ said our informant, ‘is soon after the rain in a ploughed field.’ The softened earth revealed the buried small antiquities. This reminded me of the unexpected visits from the local landlords near our site after the occasional rains in the autumn and their long walks at the site, albeit without detectors. In confirmation of Mustafa Atmaca’s recollections, our informant listed coins, small jewellery, ring stones and glass among their finds. The local jargon for small Roman glass bottles was ampul (bulb) and ‘Dikran’ meant a coin from the reign of Armenian King Tigranes. They were consulting books and catalogues for the identification of the coins. He took out a handful of old bronze and iron knick-knacks from his pocket and I photographed them. Then we saw them: half a dozen men with metal detectors in their hands. They had formed regular lines and were crisscrossing the ancient land of Erzen in the dusk. We took photographs from afar and climbed down from the minibus and started walking towards them. The

distance was much longer than it seemed at first and it was difficult to walk in the ploughed field. They started to run away from us. Our accompanying villager shouted at them, but they did not stop. We had just witnessed a centuries-long looting practice with our own eyes and the fact that the ancient site of Erzen still hid antiquities in its bosom. Archaeology seminars for the workmen at the site of Gre Amer Mound excavations in the Near East are traditionally dependent upon on the employment of a local labour force. Workmen dig, shovel and move the dirt, besides helping with other manual jobs. The Ilısu salvage projects are no exception to this rule; on the contrary, the limited time available for the digs combined with good budgets resulted in the hiring of high numbers of locals from the nearby villages that will be affected by the dam reservoir. In 2017, after eight dig seasons, villagers of Işıkveren, Yeşiloba, Asmadere, Kütüklü, Tepecik and Yakacık, from both sides of the Garzan River, had worked at Gre Amer. These are all bilingual Kurdish males, with varying degrees of education. In the summer months, sons of the villagers who attend universities joined the dig, and we are proud to have had teaching, engineering and medical students in the team. However, the majority of the local work force had at most secondary school education. Also, most of them had a story or two to tell, at various levels of innocence, about their entanglements with illicit digging. As the excavations progressed, their curiosity for finding gold at Gre Amer was gradually replaced with questions about the formation of the mound and the ancient people who lived there. If they could have some understanding of the deposition process and the concept of stratigraphy, then they would find their job more meaningful. Perhaps some of them would see the point of us excavating in unbearably hot weather, months on end, not for finding the secret entrance gate of the mound (as our rich landowner neighbour once suggested), but for discovering the settlement history of the site. One of our team members, Abdullah Bilen, was already explaining certain concepts to his workmen while they were excavating together. We decided to turn these occasional briefings into on-site seminars that were a little bit more structured. Abdullah, a native of Diyarbakır with an undergraduate degree in archaeology from Ege University in İzmir and a master’s degree in Near Eastern Archaeology from Sorbonne University, supported by a scholarship from the Kurdish Institute in Paris, would make a good instructor. The workmen liked and respected him, and a shared native tongue made the communication much easier and more efficient (fig. 5.4).

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Chapter 5: Pulhan. The public and archaeology: some examples from current practices in Turkey

Fig. 5.4. Archaeologist Abdullah Bilen instructing a group of workmen at Gre Amer during an on-site archaeology seminar Seminars of approximately half-hour length were organised as short introductions to topics such as the beginnings of archaeology, the purpose of archaeology, the meaning of cultural heritage, the Ilısu Project, the need for salvage excavations, the Tigris and the Garzan rivers, mound formation, and the settlement history of Gre Amer, and were followed by questions and answers. Naturally, the issue of salvage excavations or the advantages of the location of Gre Amer generated more lively discussions than the mound-formation process. When the workmen were asked whether the salvage excavations were necessary before the construction of a dam, they said that it was state’s obligation to do these excavations because the ancient remains were important and should be preserved. The different settlement levels at Gre Amer and their dates were a point of interest. The workmen inquired about the ancient kingdoms that controlled the region and the ancient people who lived in the Garzan Valley. The name of Alexander the Great, known locally as ‘Zul Karmeyn’ emerged in their conversations. They concluded that every group that lived at the site in the past had left their material remains and archaeology is trying to bring these remains, such as architecture, graves, pottery, and coins, together and trying to understand the ancient lives. This collectively formulated answer satisfied everyone, and they found the seminars helpful.

Due to various time and work pressures we were not able to conduct these seminars systematically, but we have seen the value of them, not just for making the local workmen more aware of the fundamental concepts of archaeology and the site itself, but also for narrowing the gap between the archaeologists and the local labour force. Batman Museum and the museum-park The General Directorate of Cultural Assets and Museums of the Turkish Ministry of Culture and Tourism organised the financial and bureaucratic administration of the Ilısu salvage excavations and the other related works to be run by the nearest state museums in cooperation with the scientific advisors of the projects. As early as 2009, eight rescue excavations and regional cultural heritage inventory projects were being carried out in the provinces of Batman and Siirt. In the absence of local museums in these provinces, the nearest museum, in Mardin, managed these projects. The Mardin Museum had already been carrying a heavy workload of their own excavations and the Ilısu salvage projects in their own province. The distance between Mardin and the project sites was causing further difficulties, ranging from day-to-day paperwork of the projects to the storage capacity of the museum. These pressing bureaucratic and archaeological needs were

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices resolved by the foundation of a museum in Batman in 2010. The move to new premises in the new complex of the State Cultural Centre, the planning and implementation of the museum galleries and the creation of a garden with a museum-park concept needed preparation time and the museum finally opened its doors to the public on Museums Day, 8 May 2015. From the beginning, the museum aimed to be a point of attraction for the young people of Batman and for the out-of-town visitors who come in particular to see the nearby iconic site of Hasankeyf. This picturesque town by the Tigris, with many rock-cut dwellings and a citadel on a high rock, has become a symbol for the Ilısu Dam protests and the focus of cultural preservation efforts. For most local people the very name of Hasankeyf equals archaeology (as discussed above). The Batman Museum houses the first exhibition of artefacts found during the excavations of medieval Hasankeyf. The medieval Hasankeyf theme continues in the garden of the museum, with ethnographic displays combining original objects such as a river raft (kelek), a weaving loom and agricultural tools with replicas of some architectural elements and Islamic graves. The Neolithic period was another overarching theme that was used in different parts of the museum. The early settlement history of the region dates back to 9000 BC, as revealed by the excavations at Halan Çemi, Gusir, Hasankeyf Höyük, and Sumaki (Baş et al. 2017: 39–95). While various objects from these sites are displayed in the museum, two replica Neolithic houses were constructed in the garden. These houses are used interactively during education sessions. The idea of farming was introduced to children by having them experiment with cereal growing in large baskets in the museum garden. The complementary nature of the museum displays and the museum-park features is reflected in the presentation of the current excavations as well. The Ilısu Hall displays highlights from the rescue excavations. The hitherto largely unknown prehistoric and historic cultures of the eastern Upper Tigris area and its cultural ties with Mesopotamia and Persia can be followed through the exhibited objects. Interpretive texts, visual material and a short documentary film about the excavations support the exhibition. Gre Amer is represented in the museum-park by a replica of a 3000-year-old (Early Iron Age) wellpreserved stone house that was excavated on the east slope of the mound (fig. 5.5). The two-room house with its intact doors and wall niches causes great excitement among spectators. Whether it is the occasional visitors to the site who see the original or the museum visitors who

Fig. 5.5. Students with period costumes posing in front of the replica of the Early Iron Age Gre Amer house in the museum-park during the opening reception of the Batman Museum on 18 May 2015

encounter the replica, they always enter the house, pass through the doorway, and go to the small room, and they almost always have their picture taken in front of the house. People can relate to this structure easily, yet its age and degree of preservation astonish them. A competing attraction in the garden is a huge replica of a 5000-year-old board game found in a grave in Başur Höyük in Siirt (Baş et al. 2017: 132–33). The coloured stone game pieces are in the shape of little pigs, dogs, bullets, balls and pyramids. Although the rules of the game have yet to be discovered, this does not stop the children playing it. Since its opening, the Batman Museum is trying to integrate itself into the community through its education programs for children, guided tours for the neighbours, and pleasant museum-park garden. The educational programs are coordinated together with the Directorate of National Education. The children’s program includes a visit to the museum and to the museum-park, mock archaeological excavations in the sand pits in the garden, making clay objects, minting coins, painting and writing their impressions. At the end of the day the children receive certificates that qualify them as ‘young archaeologists’. The neighbours project is a new initiative to attract particularly the women in the neighbourhood to the museum. Following a guided tour, neighbours sit down and drink tea and share their experiences. Word of mouth, occasional use of social media and the local press promote the museum and its activities in Batman. On the other hand, expectation of revenues from tourism for the city of Batman have made the museum part of a wider branding and promotion effort, and the Batman Museum is now represented in international tourism fairs, alongside Hasankeyf.

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Chapter 5: Pulhan. The public and archaeology: some examples from current practices in Turkey Conclusion In this paper, I have aimed to share some examples of relationships between the local people and the antiquities in their surroundings in a small corner of the eastern Tigris in the province of Batman in southeastern Turkey. Our ongoing rescue excavation at Gre Amer on the Garzan made us temporarily part of daily life in the area and enabled us to observe the mentalities and practices of the local people in relation to the subject of archaeology (among many other topics!). Our excavation project, with the participation of a high number of local workmen, local archaeologists, students and graduates of archaeology from different parts of Turkey, a British field director, and a Turkish female project director, created a colourful forum to talk over the fundamentals of archaeological practice, rescue excavations and heritage in general. The proximity to the ancient site of Arzan/Erzen on the Garzan River upstream from Gre Amer gave us the unique opportunity to see and hear with our own eyes and ears a centurieslong looting practice first recorded in the travel notes of J.G. Taylor in 1865. As I have also tried to demonstrate, the new museum in Batman, within the limitations of a centrally administered state institution, is making genuine efforts to address issues of public archaeology and provide approachable information at multiple levels. Nevertheless, the unchanging public attitude towards antiquities as a source of personal enrichment instead of a cultural resource remains the main problem to be overcome. I would like to conclude by remembering the worst atrocity in the world of archaeology, the most horrendous loss in the senseless quest for antiquities in the Middle East: the brutal killing of the 82-year-old Syrian archaeologist Khaled al-Asaad of Palmyra by ISIS militants in August 2015. This incident moved the destruction of archaeological heritage to another level, extending to the annihilation of the people who studied and protected it. As the details of the news unfolded, it was understood that Khaled al-Asaad was beheaded after a month-long interrogation because he refused to tell the secret location of the treasures of Palmyra (Hubbard 2015; Shaheen, Black 2015; The Telegraph 2015; Waraich 2015). Of course, there were no secret, hidden treasures in Palmyra. The lavish Roman caravan site in the oasis has been excavated and studied for decades, its standing monuments have qualified it to be a UNESCO World Heritage Site and its artefacts were displayed in the museums in Palmyra and Damascus. Sadly, ISIS’s belief in the existence of secret archaeological treasures reflects a centuries-long obsession in the Near East for finding buried ancient gold and getting rich overnight.

Acknowledgements Thanks are due to my former student and friend Işılay Gürsu and the British Institute at Ankara for the invitation to participate in this conference. I am very grateful to Mehmet Sadık Işık for the impetus that gave rise to this article and to his grandfather Mustafa Atmaca for giving me the interview that forms the core of this work. I would also like to thank Mazhar Onat for his advice and assistance. It is a pleasure and privilege to work in this region and I thank our many friends who have helped and supported us. Last but not least I owe the greatest debt to Dr Stuart Blaylock for sharing these adventures and taking the photographs, and for his comments on the draft of this article. Bibliography Algaze, G., Breuninger, R., Lightfoot C., Rosenberg, M. 1991: ‘The Tigris-Euphrates archaeological reconnaissance project: a preliminary report of the 1989– 1990 seasons’ Anatolica 17: 175–240 Baş, F. (and 17 others) (eds) 2017: Batman Müzesi Eser Katalogu. Batman, Batman Müze Müdürlüğü Boran, A. 2005: ‘Kozluk’taki Kaleler’ Atatürk Üniversitesi Güzel Sanatlar Enstitüsü Dergisi 14: 23–37 — 2006: ‘Tarihi Erzen Şehri ve Kalesi’ Ortaçağ ve Türk Dönemi Kazı ve Sanat Tarihi Araştırmaları Sempozyumu Bildirileri 7, 7-8-9 Nisan, 2003, Istanbul. Istanbul, Mimar Sinan Güzel Sanatlar Üniversitesi Matbaası: 53–56; 201–02 Erdoğan, N. 2017: Mardin Müzesi, Müze Eğitimi ve Etkinlikleri. Mardin, Mardin Müze Müdürlüğü Hubbard, B. 2015: ‘Syrian expert who shielded Palmyra antiquities meets grisly death at ISIS’s hands’ The New York Times 19 August 2015. http://www.nytimes.com/2015/08/20/world/middleea st/isis-palmyra-syria-antiquities-scholarbeheaded.html Kuhrt, A. 1995: The Ancient Near East c. 3000–330 BC. London and New York, Routledge Pulhan, G. 2013: ‘Gre Amer Höyük/Batman: Pers İzi’ Bereketli Hilal: Dicle’ni Kurtarma Kazıları Arkeo Atlas 8: 112–19 Pulhan, G., Blaylock, S.R. 2013: ‘New excavations at the Late Bronze Age and Iron Age site of Gre Amer on the Garzan River, Batman’ in K.A. Yener (ed.), Across the Border: Late Bronze–Iron Age Relations between Syria and Anatolia, Proceedings of a Symposium held at the Research Center of Anatolian Studies [sic], Koç University, Istanbul, May 31–June 1, 2010 (Ancient Near Eastern Studies Supplement 42). Leuven, Peeters: 393–419 — 2016: ‘Gre Amer, Batman, on the Upper Tigris: a rescue project in the Ilısu Dam reservoir in Turkey’ in

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices J. MacGinnis, K. Kopanias (eds), Archaeological Research in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq and the Adjacent Areas. Oxford, Archaeopress: 333–51 Shaheen, K., Black I. 2015: ‘Beheaded Syrian scholar refused to lead Isis to hidden Palmyra antiquities’ Guardian 19 August 2015. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/aug/18/isis -beheads-archaeologist-syria Sinclair, T.A. 1989: Eastern Turkey: An Architectural and Archaeological Survey, 3. London, Pindar Press Sollberger, E. 1972: ‘Mr. Taylor in Chaldaea’ Anatolian Studies 22: 129–39 Taylor, J.G. 1865: ‘Travels in Kurdistan, with notices of the sources of the Eastern and Western Tigris, and ancient ruins in their neighbourhood’ Journal of the Royal Geographical Society of London 35: 21–58 — 1868: ‘Journal of a tour in Armenia, Kurdistan and Upper Mesopotamia, with notes of researches in the Deyrsim Dagh in 1866’ Journal of the Royal Geographical Society of London 38: 281–361

The Telegraph 2015: ‘Khaled al-Asaad, curator – obituary’ 2 September 2015. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/1183962 6/Khaled al -Asaad-curator-obituary.html Van de Mieroop, M. 2005: King Hammurabi of Babylon. Oxford, Blackwell Waraich, O. 2015: ‘Khaled al-Asaad: authority on the antiquities of the Syrian city of Palmyra who was devoted to studying and protecting its treasures’ Independent 20 August 2015. http://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/khaledal-asad-authority-on-the-antiquities-of-the-syriancity-of-palmyra-who-was-devoted-to-10464467.html

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6. The rupture between archaeological ‘sites’ and local communities Sevil Baltalı Tırpan

Prompted by these experiences, I later developed an anthropological research interest in local communities’ conceptualisations and appropriations of places which are also called archaeological ‘sites’, and the politics of archaeologists’ presence among them. I now investigate local people’s changing perceptions of the past as expressed in their ideas about places, as well as the impact of archaeological practice and its knowledge production on those perceptions of past and place. I use the word ‘local’ to refer to people who are from a particular place and live near archaeological sites. In all the locations where I worked in Turkey over the years, I realised that most people living right next to archaeological sites do not comprehend why archaeologists attribute tremendous importance to the long-gone past and its ancient remains. Naturally, they produce their own rationalisations to explain these obsessions. There seems to be a major rupture and a communication problem based on a semantic gap between local communities and archaeological projects. The disconnection between the archaeologists and the local communities, the asymmetrical power relations between them and the ethical obligations of researchers have been discussed by many scholars in the field (Atalay 2012; Atalay et al. 2014; Derry, Malloy 2003; Hamilakis, Anagnostopoulos 2009; Hodder 2000; Meskell 2005; Meskell, Pels 2005; Smith, Waterson 2009; Stroulia, Sutton 2009; Stottman 2014). Many solutions have been posited, under the headings of ‘reflexive’, ‘cosmopolitan’, public/community, transformative and ethnographic archaeologies (see Atalay et al. 2014; Bartu 2000; Castaneda, Matthews 2008; Hamilakis, Anagnostopoulos 2009; Hodder 2000; Meskell 2009; Merriman 2004). Although the aims, scope and methods of various forms of public/community archaeology – including those mentioned above – are very broad, the major goal of public archaeologists is to explain the importance of archaeology and heritage through presenting archaeological data and interpretations to the public. They also desire to engage communities in the process of archaeology by organising site and museum visits, and delivering pamphlets, books and lectures. Public archaeologists also try to incorporate local communities into their projects, promoting collaborative and participatory research.

Introduction Archaeology besides being the study of human activities in the past is also a socio-cultural practice in the present, due to the methods of recovery and analysis it employs. Archaeological sites as well as being the prime areas of investigation for archaeologists are also part of the everyday life, performance, imagination, temporality, memory and identity of the people living nearby to them. For these communities, places we classify as archaeological ‘sites’ are not perceived as separate entities, belonging to different times and people, that are subject to ‘scientific’ studies. Many years ago, while I was working at an archaeological site near Urfa in southeast Turkey as an area supervisor, a man with a group of people behind him showed up, pointing a gun at me and telling me to leave the area immediately, apparently because it was an essential crop field for them. I tried to tell him, with professional authority in my voice, that we had a permit from the Ministry and this field was registered as an archaeological site by the government. Furthermore, I said that this was a very important scientific archaeology project with funding and I had enough academic credentials to supervise the area as a grad student. My explanations were futile, and our case was finally solved by the Jandarm, who, in fact, had to watch over us for a couple of days at the site. The economic concerns, mostly at the level of subsistence, were such that the local people simply did not care about archaeology, heritage production or my credentials. I also remember the first couple of days after our arrival at the site causing great turmoil and even physical violence between occupants of the area with different ethnicities. Leaders came to us demanding that we should hire only workers from their groups. It was obvious that our presence was triggering and/or reviving existing local schisms and power disputes. At that time, my being a Muslim female as well as their boss in the field was also very confusing for them, as it would have been unthinkable for the women in their community to take on such a role. To resolve their anxiety and uneasiness with a Turkish, Muslim female, they decided to place me in a male gender category and called me ‘brother’ (abi). There were obviously major sociocultural differences between us.

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices Most of the time, at least in my experience, archaeologists and local groups come from different sociocultural backgrounds and meaning systems. Consequently, insisting on collaboration and pushing local people to understand the importance of archaeology as the archaeologists understand it risks the danger of producing a top-down approach and reinforcing already existing asymmetrical power dynamics. As Stottman (2014: 192) recently expressed it, ‘collaboration means that all parties need to have some basic knowledge of the issues or subjects at hand.’ Archaeologists cannot presume that local communities will understand why archaeology and its related heritagisation processes are important. I am not assuming clear-cut boundaries and divisions between ‘us’ and ‘them’, especially since we are all participants in dimensions of global flows such as mediascapes, ethnoscapes and financescapes, to borrow Appadurai’s (2000) terms, at different levels. This, however, does not translate into sameness in terms of meaning systems and cosmologies. Therefore, I argue that local peoples’ meaning systems, their perceptions of archaeological sites, and their own senses of the past and ‘heritage’ and the values they give them should be studied through anthropological fieldwork and should be incorporated into the larger goals of archaeological projects.

the University of Chicago, between 1993 and 2012. The project continued under the direction of the Yozgat Museum between 2012 and 2015. Since 2015 it has been under the direction of Scott Branting of the University of Central Florida with numerous collaborating institutions in Turkey and around the world. The site is very well known for using the most recent surveying techniques and technologies, such as satellite imagery, geophysical survey including resistivity, geomagnetic and electromagnetic induction and ground penetrating radar, and GPS 3-D modelling. Large-scale horizontal exposures and geophysical survey have shown the presence of monumental architecture such as palaces, temples, houses and city gates. In spite of the fact that there have been long years of archaeological research at Kerkenes, most of the villagers are still feeling ambivalent, resentful or indifferent towards the project. One of the major reasons for these sentiments is the perceived economic asymmetry between the project and themselves. Most of the people in the village have small agricultural fields, as well as herding cattle and sheep for dairy products. Some young people find temporary jobs in Sorgun (a nearby town and district of Yozgat province) and elsewhere; others work in Europe and come to the village during the summer. Most men in the village wait for the archaeological project in the summer to make some money for the winter. They have conflicted feelings about the archaeological project despite the desired temporary employment opportunity. For the villagers, the archaeological project symbolises the already existing economic and social discrepancies between themselves and the ‘wealthy others’. The perceived economic gap makes them feel sceptical about the archaeologists and the project. They are puzzled about why archaeologists come to their place from all over the world to excavate, and they think that there must be a financial interest and/or possible gain behind it. As one person expressed it, ‘The archaeologists come from distant places with all the expensive equipment, leaving their families and loved ones behind just to find stone houses? No, they must be after something else such as gold or their governments are giving them money to investigate our land.’ Some of them believe that the archaeologists are solely after gold and they ask, ‘Why else would they come here with thousands of dollars and fancy surveying equipment? Of course to find gold.’ They think that the archaeologists are using geophysical surveying equipment to find gold and that their sampling excavations are proof of that. To the villagers, archaeological equipment also confirms the assumption that the archaeologists are wealthy: how else could they afford to buy all the expensive equipment?

Case study: local communities and archaeological practice at Kerkenes In order first to describe the reasons behind the disconnection between archaeologists and local communities, and second to discuss how the locals approach the past, place and ancient remains differently, I present a case study from the village of Şahmuratlı, located next to the well-known archaeological site of Kerkenes. Kerkenes is an Iron Age mountain-top settlement, located in central Anatolia in Yozgat province, Turkey. The village is situated at the foot of the mountain. At Şahmuratlı village, I have been conducting traditional ethnographic methods of participant-observation since 2010. I carried out in-depth interviews and participated in village events. The project illustrates some of the major reasons behind the rupture and miscommunication between archaeological projects and local communities. Kerkenes, as an archaeological site, is the largest known (270 ha) Pre-Hellenistic site in Turkey, with massive stone fortification walls 7 km long (fig. 6.1). Scholars believe that the site was briefly occupied by Phrygians and that it was the capital city of Pteria, mentioned by Herodotus (1.74, 76, 77). The site was surveyed and excavated by Geoffrey Summers, as a BIAA (British Institute at Ankara) project in collaboration with the Middle Eastern Technical University and

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Chapter 6: Tırpan. The rupture between archaeological ‘sites’ and local communities

Fig. 6.1. Aerial view of the archaeological site of Kerkenes The villagers constantly express the fact that they are living at subsistence level and economic concerns are their primary problem. Therefore, their economic expectations from the project are far more important to them than archaeological practice and the knowledge it produces. They are under the impression that the ‘stones’ up at the site are more important to the archaeologists than the people living in the area now. The archaeological site is not perceived by local people as a separate spatial entity with sharp boundaries, the way the archaeologists often view it. The site is part of their landscape and their knowledge about the past, and the present of the place is derived from their immediate practical experiences, memories, dreams and historical narratives. The place is simultaneously economic, recreational, religious, ancestral and historical, and it also evokes medicinal and therapeutic qualities. The presence of an archaeological endeavour in Şahmuratlı has added a new layer to the total meaning of Kerkenes as an archaeological site. For the archaeologists, Kerkenes consists of the space inside the fortification walls. In my in-depth interviews with the local people, I kept asking questions about their relationship to Kerkenes, but they insisted on referring to particular locales within the site. I realised that the site as a monolithic spatial entity was meaningless to them and, instead, they knew it as 16 different locales, each with its

own name and quasi-precise boundaries (fig. 6.2). Almost everyone in the village knows these names and the specific features of the locales such as the presence of seasonal herbs, wild plants and fruit trees. Each locality is also known by them through sensory experience, as they try to describe to me the particular smells and sounds of each place. These locales have always been very valuable grazing land for herding animals and hunting. Before the place was declared an archaeological site, the leading families of the village were involved in competitive fountain construction for the animals and they gave their family names to them. These fountains still continue to mark families’ social status and they also signify dead ancestors. Among the locales within the site that the locals say have medicinal and therapeutic qualities, there are two leech ponds, and leech therapy has been actively used by the local people to treat many physical ailments (see Harmanşah 2015). There is also a well (Uyuz Kuyusu) at the site, with therapeutic and medicinal water that the villagers believe can cure skin and nervous system diseases, as well as infertility. In the imagination of local people this well is personified, because it can get angry with people and stop the medicinal waters if somebody spits in it or if a female bathes there while she is menstruating. They also make wishes by tying knots on the bushes around the well with pieces of cloth.

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices Although the archaeologists stress the Phrygian past of the site, when I asked the villagers about the past of the place, they offered me a variety of historical narratives, which do not follow a chronological/sequential order. The most common story about who built this massive fortification wall involves two brothers, Shah and Murat, from the time of the Persians. According to the story, there was a dispute between the brothers and they started building the wall from opposite directions. After 70 years, they finished and met again and made peace. Some people say that the castle was built by another king, called Keykavus. There is also a story about ‘Battal Gazi’, believed to be a historic Turkic ‘Battle Hero/warrior’ who spread Islam in Anatolia – although some sources say he was Arabic – and lived in the eighth century (see also Ergenekon 1996, 1999). He came to the area disguised as a vendor with camels carrying chests and managed to enter the city walls. After that, soldiers emerged from the chests and battled until the city was destroyed and taken over. Almost everyone in the village grew up listening to these historical narratives. They are also aware of the Phrygian past, but they want to emphasise their own stories. One of the sources of their history-making is the dreams of the religious leaders (‘sheikhs’) and village hocas, who are believed to be oral historians. They inquire about the past and present through the activity of dreaming. They dream about ancient remains under the earth and inform people about their nature and location. There is a narrative about these consistent dreams that suggests the presence of gold buried by the ancient residents of the city. One of the reasons for the local ambivalence and scepticism towards the archaeological project is that, according to the villagers, archaeologists are not interested in local knowledge about the past. The archaeologists either did not listen to their stories or told them their knowledge is not scientific and therefore not valid. It also is a mystery and a matter of disappointment to them that the archaeologists are only interested in the Phrygian remains, which are from the pre-Islamic period. They would prefer that the archaeologists also investigated the Turkic and Islamic past of the place.

Fig. 6.2. Localities within the walled area at Kerkenes (map prepared by Yasemin Özarslan)

They also experience the site as having enchanting, spiritual and mysterious qualities. Years ago, a 12-yearold girl who was possessed by the Jin (spirit) fell inside a well there and from that day on the villagers have believed it is haunted. In addition, the villagers use these features as reference points when they describe actions, directions and personal memories. The site has a religious value because there are also large stones in one of the localities that are believed to be the graves of long-dead Turkish martyrs. One of the martyrs is thought to be a Muslim religious leader. The villagers believe that the most devout Muslims in the village can see a beam of light or divine radiance coming out of the graves every holy Friday. Therefore, this enchanting place has been perceived to be both sacred and ancestral. Before the place was declared an archaeological site, locals were able to take ancient building materials, such as large stones and blocks, to build their own houses. They are nostalgic about those days and cannot always see why everything has to remain intact at the site, as opposed to being recycled. According to them, despite all the other interesting and valuable aspects of the mountain top, the archaeologists insist on studying only the ‘Phrygian stones’.

Discussion In the case of Kerkenes, the reasons behind the disconnection between the local people and the archaeologists lie in divergent concerns, perceptions and values when it comes to the present, the past and the material world. Archaeologists, in my experience, usually assume that the importance of archaeological heritage must be selfevident to locals. Some archaeologists may start a dialogue with locals and try to incorporate them into their

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Chapter 6: Tırpan. The rupture between archaeological ‘sites’ and local communities research, but even then, if they do not have the same basic knowledge, collaboration cannot be achieved, or it can only be imposed top-down. It is also arrogant and unself-reflexive to suppose that locals will want to participate in the production of archaeological knowledge (Handler 2008: 109). I have noted over the years that archaeologists have an attitude whereby they claim superiority over local knowledge based on their perceived disciplinary authority. Archaeology as a discipline grounded in the epistemology of scientific truth and value cannot accommodate alternative ways of constructing the past. As Hamilakis (2010: 440) has also discussed, from the perspective of the modernist official archaeology (by which he means the academic discipline that developed in the 19th century), alternative constructions are often seen as nonsensical and therefore not empirically adequate (see also Hamilakis, Anagnostopoulos 2009: 71–72). Therefore, most professional archaeologists perceive local alternative histories and knowledge as superstition or folklore, illogical, ahistoric and irrelevant. The promotion of archaeological knowledge over local knowledge is often perceived as immensely patronising by the local people. The obsession with scientificity and the belief that scientific knowledge is superior to all other forms of knowledge also resonates with colonial attitudes toward the ownership of the past (Meskell 2003: 154). Archaeology in this way also creates a counter-memory process, because it tells the local people to forget what they know about the past, since it is nonsensical, not provable and therefore not valuable, or valuable only as folktales. Telling local people that their narratives are not valid is a way of silencing their versions of the past (Trouillot 1995). While ‘scientific’ representations of the past are accepted as ‘history’, most local ways, such as oral traditions, are usually referred to as ‘myth’ (Handler 2008: 107). In fact, these forms of representing the past are equally valid, because they are both types of narratives (see De Certeau 1988), but of course this is a matter of ‘ontology and power; that is, who gets to define what is’ (an interview with Herzfeld by Byrne 2011: 156). In a recent ethnography of history on the Greek island of Naxos, Stewart (2012, 2013) studied the diachronic tradition of dreaming as a source of history-making activity, and discussed how part of the local people’s historical consciousness comes from dreams. The islanders are actively engaged in finding answers to how things were in the past, and dreams and visions inform them about that (Stewart 2013: 28–30). This challenging work on different engagements with the past, which Stewart calls ‘historicizations’, makes us question the traditional ‘history’ as defined by Western ways of knowing. Most of the people at Şahmuratlı expressed

that their knowledge about the past and present of the ancient remains should be considered as valid as the archaeologists’ knowledge, and should also be investigated using archaeological methods. The rupture between the archaeological projects and the local communities is also a product of different perspectives and approaches to space and place. The traditional archaeological field consists solely of the space, usually referred as the site, occupied by archaeological remains within finite boundaries. These sites obviously exist as spatial and temporal entities for archaeologists; however, these spatio-temporal entities are also part and parcel of local spatio-temporal continuities. In other words, sites are part of local landscapes produced by local practices and systems of meaning. As I described earlier, the people in Şahmuratlı appropriated the site as part of their landscape through a naming process and by dividing the space into particular locales with specific features, thus making it into a locally meaningful place. The landscape is a key component of the everyday life, historical imaginations, desires, memories and sense of self for local people. When the local landscapes are converted into archaeological sites, the local people are forced to look to some extent at their places with the gaze of the archaeologists, which is similar to the touristic gaze in the sense that both are external, and this may cause resentment and conflicted feelings towards the project. From the perspective of people in Şahmuratlı, the archaeological site constitutes only one of multiple layers of meaning at Kerkenes. Many local people complained that the local ancestral, religious, therapeutic and magical qualities of the place have not been seen as subjects of interest by the archaeological project, as also expressed by Harmanşah (2015: 146), who worked at the site as an archaeologist. Conclusion In this article, I tried to illustrate some of the reasons behind the rupture between archaeological projects and local communities, using an ethnographic case study. I focused on three major issues from the perspective of local people that cause conflicted feelings towards the archaeological project at Kerkenes. The first issue is local resentment towards the asymmetry of the economic and power relationship between the project and the village. While the economic asymmetry is more obvious, the tendency of archaeologists to control and make decisions about all the aspects of the research without consulting the local people is usually perceived as the manifestation of a major power asymmetry. Secondly, local communities in Şahmuratlı perceive the archaeological site as being part of the local landscape, having multiple meanings, and evoking different temporalities

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices simultaneously in the present. Finally, I addressed the issue of alternative pasts, because despite the archaeological knowledge about the site, local people insisted on telling me local narratives about the past. They could not relate to the singular definition of ‘heritage’ that only includes the archaeological. As far as many of them were concerned, the old fountains, the magic well, the leech pond, the cemetery of the Martyrs and their oral narratives about the past of the place should also be valued and treated as relevant. Archaeological projects, by means of ethnographic studies, need to understand how local communities conceptualise and perceive archaeological sites and to form a dialogue with them in order to understand their interests and heritage values.

Hamilakis, Y., 2010: ‘Archaeologies in situ, situated archaeologies’ in A. Stroulia, S.B. Sutton (eds), Archaeology in Situ: Sites, Archaeology and Communities in Greece. New York, Lexington Books: 439– 46 Handler, R. 2008: ‘A dangerously elusive method: disciplines, histories and the limits of reflexivity’ in Q.E. Castaneda, C.N. Matthews (eds), Ethnographic Archaeologies: Reflections on Stakeholders and Archaeological Practices. New York, Altamira Press: 95–118 Harmanşah, Ȍ. 2015: Place, Memory, and Healing: An Archaeology of Anatolian Rock Monuments. New York, Routledge Hodder, I. 2000: Towards Reflexive Method in Archaeology: The Example of Çatalhöyük (BIAA Monograph 28). Cambridge, McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research, University of Cambridge Merriman, N. (ed.) 2004: Public Archaeology. New York, Routledge Meskell, L. 2003: ‘Pharaonic legacies: postcolonialism, heritage, and hyperreality’ in S. Kane (ed.), The Politics of Archaeology and Identity in a Global Context. Boston, Archaeological Institute of America: 149–71 — 2005: ‘Sites of violence: terrorism, tourism, and heritage in the archaeological present’ in M. Meskell, P. Pells (eds), Embedding Ethics. New York, Berg Publishers: 123–46 Meskell, L. (ed.) 2009: Cosmopolitan Archaeologies. Durham, Duke University Press Meskell, L., Pels, P. (eds) 2005: Embedding Ethics. New York, Berg Publishers Smith L., Waterson, E. 2009: Heritage, Communities and Archaeology. London, Duckworth Stewart, C. 2012: Dreaming and Historical Consciousness in Island Greece. Boston, Harvard University Press — 2013: ‘Dreaming and historical consciousness,’ Historically Speaking 14.1: 28–30 Stottman, M.J. 2014: ‘From the bottom-up: transforming communities with public archaeology’ in S. Atalay, L.R. Clauss, R.H. McGuire, J.R. Welch (eds), Transforming Archaeology. Walnut Creek, Left Coast Press: 179–96 Stroulia, A., Sutton, S.B. 2009: ‘Archaeological sites and local places: connecting the dots’ in Y. Hamilakis, A. Anagnostopulos (eds), Archaeological Ethnographies. Public Archaeology 8.2–3: 124–40 Trouillot, M.R. 1995: Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History. Boston, Beacon Press

Bibliography Appadurai, A. 2000: Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. Minneapolis, University of Minnesota Press Atalay, S. 2012: Community-Based Archaeology: Research with, by, and for Indigenous and Local Communities. Berkeley, University of California Press Atalay, S., Clauss, L.R., McGuire, R.H., Welch, J.R. 2014: Transforming Archaeology: Activist Practices and Prospects. Walnut Creek, Left Coast Press Bartu, A. 2000: ‘Where is Çatalhöyük? Multiple sites in the construction of an archaeological site’ in I. Hodder (ed.), Towards Reflexive Method in Archaeology: The Example of Çatalhöyük (BIAA Monograph 28). Cambridge, McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research, University of Cambridge: 101–09 Byrne, D. 2011: ‘Archaeological heritage and cultural intimacy: an interview with Michael Herzfeld’ Journal of Social Archaeology 11.2: 144–57 Castaneda, Q.E., Matthews, C.N. 2008: Ethnographic Archaeologies: Reflections on Stakeholders and Archaeological Practices. New York, Altamira Press De Certeau, M. 1988: The Writing of History. New York, Columbia University Press Derry, L., Malloy, M. 2003: Archaeologists and Local Communities: Partners in Exploring the Past. Washington DC, Society for American Anthropology Ergenekon, B., 1996: ‘Kerkenes Dağı: Bir Dağ Efsanesinin Peşinde’ Atlas 11: 136–44. — 1999: ‘Ethnoarchaeology in Şahmuratlı village by Kerkenes excavations in Turkey’ Caesaraugusta 73: 169–75 Hamilakis, Y., Anagnostopulos, A. 2009: ‘What is archaeological ethnography?’ in Y. Hamilakis, A. Anagnostopulos (eds), Archaeological Ethnographies, Public Archaeology 8.2–3: 65–87

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7. An ‘empowerment’ approach to public archaeology: the Three Peak Sanctuaries Public Archaeology Project Evangelos Kyriakidis

archaeology techniques, events, activities or engagements. The values may exist already in the minds of the local community, but are not connected in the right way, or are not given the importance they deserve. The third, ‘multiple-perspective’, approach recognises the existence of many different groups and stakeholders, who project different values and have different priorities for the same heritage. Through this approach, the voices of the various groups are heard, their views are studied, and ways are found for these multiple values attached to any given example of heritage to be voiced. The multiple-perspective approach is partly educational, in that it makes groups or stakeholders aware of the values held by others, and in some ways a public-relations approach, in that it makes various groups understand the relative importance of values of heritage that others attach to it. Finally, there is a fourth, ‘critical’, approach, which asks questions like: ‘whose vision are we trying to establish here?’, ‘for whom are we doing public archaeology (or anything, for that matter)?’, ‘why do we do things this way?’, and so on. This approach is very important, because it gives us some space to reflect on practices and question our own methodologies and motives. These four different approaches, as mentioned above, overlap with one another. It is the main emphasis of each approach that characterises it, as they all share much common ground in the ways in which heritage is viewed and communicated. I would like to introduce, however, a new type of public archaeology, the ‘empowering communities’ approach, whereby communities or groups are given the knowledge and tools to promote, protect, and manage their own heritage values, as legitimate stakeholders in heritage management. ‘Empowerment’ here is thus used in the sense that, as we shall see below, power is ultimately distributed more equitably (Smith et al. 2014: 5–7) between the key stakeholders, be they state authorities or local communities. Local communities are most often marginal groups when it comes to heritage protection; an ‘empowering communities’ approach in heritage therefore clearly has the sense of giving power to a marginal group and bringing it to the fore (see Batliwala 2007: 561–62, who traces the evolution of the term ‘empowerment’ in India over the last five decades).

Introduction This paper presents the case study of the Initiative for Heritage Conservation’s Three Peak Sanctuaries Public Archaeology Project in Gonies, Crete, part of the greater University of Kent eponymous archaeological project (www.inherity.org), which can serve as an example of how public archaeology can be used for the empowerment of local communities. The aim of the paper is not to provide a blueprint for how an ethnographic engagement project should be designed, but rather to explain the novel techniques that were employed to engage with a unique community. These tools proved to be particularly helpful and it is hoped that that some of them may become usefully employed in the strategies of public engagement programmes elsewhere. Public archaeology and empowerment Public archaeology is a widespread aspect of archaeological research. Merriman (2004: 5–8), Holtorf (2007: 105–29) and Okamura and Matsuda (2011: 5–7) have all attempted to distinguish between different approaches. Matsuda (in this volume), synthesising the others, sees four different trends in public archaeology: education, public-relations, multiple-perspective and ‘critical’ approaches. Although there is much overlap between each approach and these categories have arisen from analytical purposes, it is worth looking a little more into these categories before we introduce a fifth approach. We take here as a starting point a values-based perspective, placing values of heritage at the heart of managing it (e.g., de la Torre 2003: 1–2). In other words, values, or what heritage stands for, are what we want to protect, promote and manage. In this context, the fabric of heritage is consequently conserved as a key element upon which these values are predicated rather than preserved for its own sake. In line with this perspective, we will briefly review each of the four different trends in terms of its relevance to values. The ‘education’ approach introduces new heritage values, or new meaning to local communities. These are values that the community may not previously have been aware of, and which, in a way, are ‘taught’. The second, ‘publicrelations’, approach reconfigures existing values or highlights their importance through an array of public

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices The ‘empowering communities’ approach is much more than what is often termed ‘collaborative archaeology’ (La Salle 2010: 406; Colwell-Chanthaphonh, Ferguson 2008: 9), because in the latter the researchers/archaeologists always have the upper hand. Obviously, this type of public archaeology will often use all the aforementioned approaches, including the ‘critical’ approach. The project described here, like most other public archaeology projects, does not fall clearly into any one single category; rather, it makes use of a combination of ideas and approaches, and it should be treated, criticised and improved with this in mind. One clear characteristic of this project, however, is that it uses community engagement both as a tool, for research and the empowerment of the local communities, and as a goal (see Dudley 1993: 8). Our project in Crete is small, with limited funding and resources. This is because the three archaeological sites that we are working on are modest. The site we will concern ourselves with here, called Philioremos, is a Minoan Peak Sanctuary, a religious ritual space on top of a peak that was used mainly during Minoan times. More than 40 other such sites have been excavated and more than 60 have been identified through survey. None, however, have been fully published. The finds at this and other such sites are mainly of clay; much of the pottery was not fired well and was possibly made solely for the purpose of being deposited there. As all these sites are located on mountain tops, they are exposed to the elements, especially wind, rain, frost and thaw. This means that the finds, not only because of their original poor quality but also due to severe erosion, are very modest, fragmented, unattractive, difficult to work with and uninspiring. Archaeologists are seldom motivated to conduct research at such sites and, as a result, they have not been published, they do not appear in secondaryschool textbooks, and they are not tourist destinations. Visitors are few and funding is typically modest. Yet the scientific importance of the peak sanctuaries is disproportionate to the limited scientific interest they command. As the only unequivocally ritual sites of Minoan Crete, they offer the greatest potential for furthering our understanding of Minoan rituals and religion. They are integrated into the rural economy and may well explain part of what it was to be Minoan. Our project, the Three Peak Sanctuaries project, is the comparative study of three such sites in one area in Central Northern Crete. A common and characteristic element of the peak sanctuaries is their prominence in the landscape, which they visually dominate. A peak sanctuary is an integral part of its surrounding landscape, which is, in all cases, a place of important human economic activity, visually and perhaps functionally unified with the respective peak.

This economic activity may have been multifunctional; it may have included farming and certainly livestock production in Minoan times, judging from the many caprid and bovid clay figurines found at these sites. It was therefore decided that our research should include a focus on the landscape around the peak sanctuaries of our project and that we should gather data about its uses in the present and the recent past from the modern inhabitants of the area, through ethnographic research. Our aims were to achieve a more nuanced and richer view of the dynamics of landscape – how it interacted with human activity, what types of human activity were possible – and thus illuminate our Minoan archaeological research. Thus, an ethnographic element in our work became essential. This work began with the local community of Gonies, the village under Philioremos, one of the three peak sanctuaries of the project, and then expanded into the communities of the nearby villages. The responsible authorities in many countries often do not recognise individuals and communities as key stakeholders in the management of their heritage, and they rarely engage with them. This is indeed the case in Greece (Voudouri 2010: 555–56), which recognises and applies a top-down, ‘academic’ approach, with no involvement of non-expert stakeholders (Fouseki 2009: 49–65). This is not only because of a suspicion that local communities will act against their own heritage, as they often do, but also because of a lack of resources to engage with them in an appropriate manner (see Bintliff 2004: 137–52). Local communities have a different view on ownership (McGill 2010: 476) and often steal from sites, or trespass, destroy, build on and use them for irrelevant and often, in the eyes of the authorities, destructive purposes. This means that local communities, even if not recognised as such, may indeed be stakeholders in their local heritage, albeit sometimes in a negative way. There are, of course, also very many occasions where the local communities have proved to be very responsible and able managers of their own heritage, but these examples are overshadowed by the few negative occasions that mar the overall picture. For example, in the greater Athens area recently, the Philopappou movement in central Athens managed to take legal action over various incursions against local heritage (www.filopappou.wordpress.com), at Keratea local citizens run an open museum that protects and promotes their communities’ local heritage (www.soma.org.gr), whilst in the academy of Plato, locals have lobbied the government to protect their local heritage site (akadimia-platonos.blogspot.gr). This picture is characteristic of every neighbourhood of Athens to the extent that, though they are fragmented, the collective resources of these neighbourhood movements are far superior to those of the state.

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Chapter 7: Kyriakidis. An ‘empowerment’ approach to public archaeology As mentioned, the main part of our early ethnographic work was done at Gonies, a small village that in the late 1930s housed more than 1000 residents, a school, a police station and craft industries. Most men in the village were pastoralists, builders or farmers, and some continue in those professions today. Cereal production in the village must have been considerable, the number of sheep and cattle was large, and building projects were many. Flour mills, olive presses and threshing floors are testament to the once-thriving local economy (fig. 7.1). Nowadays there are only 200 mostly elderly residents, often using the village as a retirement retreat. None of the proto-industrial units still function, and there are no schools or infrastructure to support family life. Initially, our ethnographic project aimed to engage with the local community and identify ways that they used the landscape, both in recent times and historically. We wanted more information about the resources of the area and the place names. The local perspective on the landscape, and our situated cognition of the site, changed our own perspective and made it more nuanced and rich, informed by local experience and tradition. This shift even resulted in the refining of our research questions, making it plain to us that such ethnographic research should precede physical archaeological work, rather than taking place in parallel with it, given that archaeological excavation work must seek to answer specific questions. For example, we initially believed that the many bull figurines that are attested in the archaeological record of the peak sanctuaries were a kind of wishful sacrifice; that is, clay figurines substituted for sacrificing bulls as, we thought, it would have been impossible to have many bovids in such an arid and mountainous landscape. Through ethnographic research we discovered, however, that until 30 years ago, every family owned one or two bovids and that more than a hundred bulls and cows were kept in the village. This changed our interpretation of the figurines entirely. In another instance, peak sanctuary experts had previously noted the visual link between settlements and peak sanctuaries (Peatfield 1983: 274–76; Kyriakidis 2005: 19), but a familiarisation with the landscape that is only possible through living in it, and through hearing the stories of the locals about it, made it obvious that the visual link is much richer than initially thought. Standing at the peak sanctuary, one is able to identify who is doing exactly what in a very large area all around. Moreover, one recalls all sorts of stories, myths or events that took place in the visible landscape, thus viewing a mnemonic map that is inextricably connected to the lives and histories of the community. These are only two of the innumerable examples whereby the

Fig. 7.1. Abandoned threshing floor outside the village of Gonies. Photo Credit: Aris Anagnostopoulos locals, their stories and the way they live in their landscape influenced the way we now think about the peak sanctuary and made our research much more nuanced than before. The fact that the village is in many ways beyond the reach of the state and that the archaeological service, although it officially has full authority over archaeological heritage, cannot (due to limited resources) fully exercise it, means that we only have a few possible ways to guarantee that the heritage site and what it stands for is protected. This is of course a greater problem, which is not exclusive to our project but relevant to many sites all over the world. Moreover, our ambition was not merely to protect the site, but also to render it a sustainable source of inspiration, education, culture and local pride. Of course by achieving the latter, we would also achieve the former. It was therefore decided to devise a public archaeology project that would aim to sensitise the local community to the site and its values, as well as influence the community so as to ensure the site’s long-term good use and protection. Our goals, therefore, were not only academic, but also designed to effect social change. This is in stark contrast to the majority of projects in our field, which have entirely academic, self-reflective goals (e.g., see Matthews et al. 2011: 484). Empowerment was strongly in our minds, as we wanted to enable local communities to look after their heritage and enjoy it. In order to achieve these aims, we needed to make that heritage relevant and important to them. In a way, our ambition was to create an evergrowing community defined by inclusion rather than frequent exclusion (Carman 2011: 499) and comprising all those who care about a given example of heritage and want to protect it, rather than those who consider that heritage theirs alone to control (at the moment, the local archaeological authorities).

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices Our first step was to design a research and engagement strategy around the Peak Sanctuary of Philioremos. The aim was to put the site at the centre of the community’s interests, despite the fact that prior to our programme it was only of marginal importance to them. Furthermore, it was imperative that our work had an effect that lasted beyond our own commitment to the site. Finally, we had to make sure that the locals learned, protected and enhanced the values of the site itself as indeed the educational approach (see above) would have it. We needed, therefore, to 1) inform them, 2) bring this heritage to the fore, 3) connect it with things that were of primary interest to them, so it would gain in relevance and importance, 4) connect them and their lives with the site, and 5) provide them with the tools to look after, enhance and protect the site’s values. Given the resource limitations of our project, this had to be done in a way that did not create any dependencies and did not require any resources on the part of the project in the long term, especially as our aim was to empower the local community. This last condition was very important and had to inform all other conditions, because the creation of any dependency on expertise, human resources or financing would have been detrimental to the future success of the project. Longevity was particularly challenging because we had to achieve long-term sustainability with only a oneoff investment of some – limited – resources on our part. It is worth explaining what is meant by the term ‘resources’ (financial means, expertise and human resources) when it comes to the sustainability and empowerment of a local community. The community we worked with, like any community, had a certain amount of financial resources (limited in this case, as in many others) and a fair amount of human resources. They had ample expertise in areas that we knew nothing about and this was a necessary ingredient in the success of our research project. For example, the shepherds knew everything about good pasturelands and understood their landscape much better than we did; the builders knew much better than us which stones were used in the ancient edifice on the site, what the properties of each rock are, why they were employed and where they could be found; the women in the village knew, amongst other things, much more than we would ever know about the edible and medicinal plants of their mountain and the domestic economy of their recent past. Local residents therefore had the training and education to make our project a complete success, yet information was not connected in the way that we wanted, they had no etic (see Lett 1990: 127–42) view of their own heritage, their priorities were, naturally, not aligned with our purposes, and they understood little of the relative value of the archaeological heritage.

The local community did indeed appreciate the archaeological heritage that we were striving to protect and integrate into their society; as mentioned, they knew the landscape around it, and in regard to several of its values – related to land use, resources, and local flora and fauna – they were the only experts. All these values were, for them, also associated with the peak of the mountain, yet they made no connection between the archaeology at the peak and these values. The archaeology itself they recognised as charming, interesting, something they played with when they were children, but they also saw in it meaningless remnants of a distant past that they did not recognise as theirs, a potential obstacle to their pasturelands or the building of their church (in fact, they had recently expanded the courtyard of their church over part of the archaeological site), and a good place to deposit refuse or unwanted church paraphernalia. So, although they did acknowledge the existence of the site, recognised that archaeology was generally important, and liked the fact that they had remnants in their village of the distant past, the importance they attached to the site was minimal, as was its perceived relevance to things that mattered to them. In order to enhance the relevance and importance of the site to them, we needed to associate it with things at the core of their interests and connect it with things that they already knew, perhaps with some additional information. Tools to achieve this strategy In order to achieve our strategy, we had to develop new tools for ethnography, and for this we had to turn to different disciplines for ideas: mainly psychology, cognitive science and marketing. The ethnographic study as an awareness-raising tool Asking people questions about something raises awareness of its existence and its importance, priming people to take relevant decisions about it. This is because of processes called the ‘availability heuristic’, highlighting and priming. The so-called availability heuristic (Tversky, Kahneman 1973: 207–32) in psychology implies that people attach relative importance to things that they can retrieve readily from memory. So asking people a question about something, such as ‘what are the best examples of your local stone masonry?’, no matter what the answer, brings ‘stone masonry’ to the fore as an important topic. It also brings the content of the answer to the fore and confirms its value as ‘important stone masonry’ of the area. For example, I was recently asked at an airport whether I knew that a certain retailer offered a specific service. I was not aware of the existence of this service, so I answered no. Yet had I

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Chapter 7: Kyriakidis. An ‘empowerment’ approach to public archaeology been asked a second time 10 minutes later, I would have answered in the positive, because the first question informed me of this service. Through the availability heuristic we are made aware of new information, or information that we already knew about is highlighted. Cognitive science often talks of highlighting, whereby an individual or a mechanism brings something to the fore and makes it salient (Goodwin 1994: 606, 609–11). Highlighting can be done with speech and is often synonymous with pointing; for example, ‘look at that bus’, ‘please mind the gap’. The same can happen with action, often using Gestalt laws (see Koffka 1922: 531–85); for example, the use of a different background colour or high contrast for attracting attention to a certain part of a picture, pointing, or the use of flashing lights to attract attention to a post. An outsider asking questions about something or talking about something highlights it and brings it to the fore. Highlighting is a great awareness-raising mechanism.

But it is not only the availability heuristic that is in action when we ask specific questions. Another psychological effect, called priming, is also often active. Through priming, exposure to a stimulus ‘primes’ you for the experience that follows. The influence of the association of what comes first with what will follow is manifested physically, mentally and psychologically. For instance, a group of people that has been ‘primed’ through its exposure to words that are commonly associated with the elderly (commonly known as the Florida effect) walked more slowly to the next task than the group that was not ‘primed’, and much more slowly than the group that was ‘primed’ with words associated with the young (Bargh et al. 1996: 236–38). Priming can evoke certain moods and can make you more likely to do things. Individuals who were ‘primed’, for example, by being in a church or a school, or by bringing such a place to mind (commonly known as the PPP effect), were more likely to support Christian conservative values or a school initiative respectively (Blumenthal, Turnipseed 2011: 561–99). This means that individuals who have been asked about the great stone-built edifices of their village are much more likely to do something about these buildings than if they had not been asked about them and also more likely to feel proud about them. Priming is a very powerful mechanism that has been used widely in marketing and other disciplines. Ethnographic research therefore became in itself a powerful tool of awareness-raising that highlighted the importance of local archaeological and other heritage, priming locals to do things for its protection. Status accreditation Moreover, if the questions are asked by an outsider, and in our case, an academic – that is, someone who is generally recognised as being knowledgeable – this gives a greater status accreditation to the information imparted through the questions. The message imparted through the ethnographic study itself is that ‘expert, knowledgeable outsiders (etics) are interested in us insiders (emics) and what we know, both generally and about this heritage site, in which they are experts. This means that we are important to them and so is this heritage site.’ All these mechanisms are at work when an ethnographer asks locals about an area of interest and invites them to discuss their relationship to a specific heritage site or to intangible heritage (fig. 7.2). This means that the ethnographic study itself, beyond its importance as a research tool, is also a very powerful and discreet mechanism for awareness-raising and motivation. These forces were summoned into play during our ethnographic work; they have been, however, at play as an unintended outcome of every ethnographic research project.

Fig. 7.2. Manolis Nathenas and his dog Zoukov (sic) showing us around the village. Photo credits: Aris Anagnostopoulos. I thank Manolis Nathenas for allowing me to publish a picture of him, as well as Aris Anagnostopoulos and Lena Stefanou for allowing me to use their pictures

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices Using a scientific discourse and framework as an awareness raising / empowerment device Scientific language, when understood by locals, has negative and positive effects. The most common effect associated with scientific language is that it is perceived as an insider’s language for a different group; that is, the scientists, who use a specific conceptual framework (that is, a collection of commonly shared knowledge, jargon and conceptual tools to interpret the world) to communicate with one another but not with others. Thus, when scientific language is used to communicate with the general community, the community very often does not understand what is meant and considers this language off-putting and irrelevant. An example can be seen at museums and heritage sites that use very technical terms to convey the narrative to the general audience, who, in turn, find the narrative irrelevant and therefore uninteresting. In our case, however, this mechanism was used in a different, more subtle way. We invited the locals to come and hear about the peak sanctuary, and the archaeological information we imparted was a repackaged version of the information they had given to us and knew very well, conveyed in scientific language that they could understand fully. This had the premeditated result of the local community recognising their own knowledge in what we were saying, and realising they were keepers of scientific knowledge and actually knew as much, if not more, than the archaeologists when it came to this particular heritage site. Indeed, in the statement of significance created for the site, it was discovered that most of the important values of the peak sanctuary were predicated not on the archaeological material but on the landscape, the locals, and the areas of expertise in which they were better versed than the expert archaeologists. This realisation on the part of the locals was a great confidence booster for them and a great empowering tool, because they discovered that they are the real keepers of knowledge and therefore the soft power over the local site, a site they previously thought they knew little about, but one that is very important to outside experts and visitors. The scientific framework (a public lecture) and the scientific language used in this case acted as an enlightening rolereversal; it put the community in the position of the expert and helped them realise that they are indeed specialists in this and perhaps other heritage sites in their area. It goes without saying that this did not particularly change their view of the outside experts; it just changed the way they viewed their relation to the heritage site and its relevance to them. For us and our project, this was one of the most important breakthroughs for empowering the locals and putting them in a ‘responsible’ position in respect to this heritage site and its protection.

The psychoanalyst tool: awareness raising and empowerment Local communities very rarely have the opportunity to speak about their own heritage or to hear about it. This is because, in any community, everyone knows or is supposed to know about their shared heritage. Living all your life in a group means that the shared knowledge is employed as the basis of everyday life and communication, and it is therefore taken for granted, not being considered special or worth talking about. Like the psychoanalyst, the ethnographer asks questions to which the answers are common sense to the members of the group. Yet answering the questions is not only informative for the person who asks, but also for those who answer and others who are present. Locals voice things through their answers that are never otherwise heard, raising awareness and highlighting the information as valuable, relevant and important to others, priming themselves to do something about it. With these factors in mind, we organised public meetings with all the locals (initially, the attendance rate was 60 per cent) where the main topic of discussion was the heritage of the local community and how it distinguishes them from other villages or parts of Crete. We concentrated on the unique aspects of their village, a topic on which the locals had plenty to say. Possibly talking about these things for the first time in their lives, certainly in such a public context, was a liberating and most informative activity, as much for the community itself as for our research project. Many of the locals gave very positive feedback, requesting more of such events in the future, yet everything they had heard they already knew full well. In the second and third meetings on these topics, we attempted to classify the various traditions and heritage into themes and asked the locals what they were prepared to do for their own heritage. At no point in the discussion did we assume responsibility for doing anything to protect the heritage of this village nor undertake to provide any resources towards that aim. This was an empowering experience for the community, who self-assessed and managed to weed out the less useful proposals, keeping and enriching the plausible and helpful ones. They did so without any help from us, without any guidance, and without any promises of our future engagement. For example, one resident suggested a musical competition, which would have a lot of competition from nearby villages, and this proposal never saw any continuation. Another, however, proposed rebuilding one or more of the local windmills, and this found a lot of support. Indeed, a few months later, the locals arranged the renovation of the windmill that is located at the top of the village and under the peak sanctuary. Apart from orchestrating the renovation themselves, they arranged a special

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Chapter 7: Kyriakidis. An ‘empowerment’ approach to public archaeology event which showcased the traditional skills of milling and flour making, the special recipes of the village, and their music, including some musical instruments which were made in the village. Food, drink and music were all offered, and were locally made, and the event culminated in a walk up to the peak sanctuary. In other words, the locals created an event that would keep their traditions alive, and that would protect their heritage in a unique way, integrating the peak sanctuary into these activities. The event was of high quality and it was entirely inspired, designed and run by the local residents themselves, using their own resources and expertise. For us, this was a great moment of success, since without being directly associated with the event in any way, we saw the locals self-organise and succeed in protecting and enhancing the values of their own heritage, including the site that was important to us as archaeologists.

expertise was necessary. Moreover, in discussions with the community, we were careful to ask the members to propose actions, and we nowhere appeared as assuming responsibility or even offering our opinion on whether something should or should not take place. We simply facilitated the discussion, steering the responsibility onto those participating. Collaborative design and connecting narrative Humans are creatures who relate easily to narratives and stories. Remembering stories is what we do well, and our brains have the capacity to learn them better than, say, names or numbers (Bower, Clark 1969: 181). The narrative about any heritage site is usually irrelevant to local communities because, as mentioned above, academics/archaeologists construct it for one another and not for local communities or the general public. This is seen as a common reason for low interest and visitation on the part of local communities in respect to ‘their’ heritage when it is managed by supra-local or state parties and organisations. In order to tackle this problem, we used collaborative design. Collaborative design made it less likely that the narrative around heritage would exclude the local communities, yet it was uncertain whether it alone would succeed in engaging them with that heritage. It was therefore proposed that some of the information we had gathered earlier should be incorporated into the narrative constructed in collaboration with the local community, in order to make sure it would connect the site to other heritage of importance to them and also to their modern, everyday lives. In this way, the narrative constructed would weave all this information together. Therefore, we designed the information sign that would hang on the church wall next to the site, describing the peak sanctuary, together with the local community at a public meeting. Inspired by previous meetings where we had recorded the heritage of the local community in their own words, as well as by the values of the archaeological material at hand, we identified several points of connection between the heritage and the modern village. The resulting statements, always scientifically correct, about the site and its connections – stone masonry, livestock breeding, the medicinal properties of the mountain, the strategic location of the peak and its relation to a sense of freedom that the locals consistently associate with their mountain – all found a place in the narrative about the peak sanctuary. The process of constructing this sign made the locals feel proud that they were responsible for the final wording, and we are ourselves proud that we managed to engage with them and involve them in the final narrative of the site, whilst maintaining the academic and scientific integrity of the

Not taking responsibility as an important ingredient in the empowerment of communities and groups. Nonparticipatory sustainability It has been widely observed in psychology and other fields that people are not likely to take part in a cause if they feel that there is a sufficient number of other people who will do it. Nisbett and Borgida (1975: 932–43) conducted an experiment with 15 participants in which someone faked a seizure and was apparently going to die while in a meeting with several individuals, all sitting in individual booths, talking about their own problems and lives. When the apparent seizure took place, no one helped immediately, only one helped when the confederate in the experiment stammered that he had had a seizure, three helped at the end of the confederate’s speech, and six never got up at all. A conclusion one could draw is that individuals are less likely to participate in something if they consider someone else will take responsibility, or, to use a popular expression, people are happy to ‘pass the buck’ in any situation. Thus, it is not a good idea for the archaeologist or ethnographer to assume responsibility for tasks as an expert or an outsider, as this may result in no one else taking responsibility, the researcher being recognised, with complacency, as the one accountable. In an empowerment project, this would be a serious mistake. Therefore, our strategy had to be carefully designed so as to make sure that the locals were ready to assume full responsibility and dedicate the resources needed for the protection and enhancement of their own heritage. In this particular instance, it was demonstrated that such a ‘noncommittal’ approach to empowerment can succeed. In our work this took many guises; for example, we always tried to use local institutions as the expediting instruments for running activities, even when our own

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices end product. By ensuring scientific integrity yet also empowering the alternative narratives that are important to locals, we ensured the relevance of the heritage without alienating academic stakeholders (e.g., see McGhee 2008: 580–93; 2010: 240). Working with marginal groups In the multiple perspectives approach in public archaeology, one aims to recognise the views of the numerous stakeholders and groups associated with any example of heritage (Merriman 2004: 7). It was our intention in this project to reach out to all the major groups within the local community and engage with most stakeholders. When it came to the state, representatives of the archaeological service were invited to our communal gatherings as silent, incognito observers, not influencing the procedure but making sure that we did not under any circumstances violate Greek law. During our work, however, we did notice that there was one part of the local population that was not participating, namely, the women. Women, for several different reasons, did not take part in our discussions and did not make up a large number of our informants. We therefore paid particular attention to them, bringing in female ethnographers, and making some modest ‘art’ interventions in the village, such as printing, framing and displaying the women’s stories in a museum-like fashion on the outer walls of the village houses, on the trees and in other locations that these stories were about, or such as painting in orange the tracks of the women queuing for water at the fountain (fig. 7.3). These initiatives did bring the role of women more to the fore. The aim was not only to recognise their crucial role in the life of the village, but also to give them confidence to participate more in the public events, empowering them and giving them a space in the public life of the village. It must be noted that the women’s marginal role was more a result of history and education than of any oppression by their male relatives, who were ready and willing to see the female members of their families participate in the public arena. There were immediate results: our meetings were subsequently readily attended by women and we managed to reach a participation rate of 90 per cent of the permanent population of the village.

Fig. 7.3. Painted steps representing the women of the village queuing for water, ‘To Nosbeti’. Photo credit: Lena Stefanou looking place, attracting young people from elsewhere or from the village diaspora families. We therefore decided to create a summer school on ethnographic archaeology, where we will teach all the issues discussed in this paper and many more to young international and Greek students and will engage with the locals regarding bringing in some outside resources and making the village a fun place to be for at least one month every year. This idea was very well received by the locals, and they were extremely welcoming and positive about the outcomes. This meant that we kept our resource investment to a sustainable level, but also created a small niche that would be our involvement. Even in this case, we tried to use local institutions as the ones expediting the school. We also made clear that we would not be able to do anything further for the benefit of the village, thus managing the expectations of the locals for the future.

Sustainable development Given the size of our project and our own capacity, we could not, as mentioned above, propose to the local community activities that would involve a great engagement on our part so far as resources were concerned. We had to think carefully, however, about what would make our project stronger, using our own expertise, while also making the village a more outward-

Conclusions Our programme employed a variety of novel techniques for ethnographic research, including highlighting, priming, the availability heuristic, status accreditation, the ‘Psychoanalyst’ tool, collaborative design, nonparticipatory sustainability, and marginal-group empow-

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Chapter 7: Kyriakidis. An ‘empowerment’ approach to public archaeology erment, as described above. The result, after four years of engagement at regular intervals, is the empowerment of a local community that not only respects the local archaeological site as its own, but also designs activities for its integration into the cultural landscape of the area and consciously protects it. Locals have been continuously pointing out other ancient heritage sites in their area, and they now use the archaeology which they previously largely ignored as a tool for achieving their political, local and other goals. It is hoped that our own experience may be useful to others engaged in public archaeology. What we argue here, moreover, is that there is a type of public archaeology which can aptly be called ‘empowering’ archaeology. It enables local communities to dynamically use the values of their heritage for their wellbeing. These values thus become a useful part of their lives and something that they wish to protect, preserve and enhance. This is where the ‘power’ part of ‘empowerment’ resides, in that local communities can become powerful managers of values, the values of their own heritage.

Bintliff, J. 2004: ‘Local history and heritage management in Greece. The potential at the village level’ in P. Doukelis , L. Mendoni (eds), Perception and Evaluation of Cultural Landscapes: Proceedings of an International Symposium, Zakynthos, December 1997. Athens, National Hellenic Research Foundation, Research Centre for Greek and Roman Antiquity: 137–52 Bower, G., Clark, M. 1969: ‘Narrative stories as mediators for serial learning’ Psychonomic Science 14.4: 181–82 Blumenthal J., Turnipseed, T. 2011: ‘The Polling Place Priming (PPP) effect: is voting in churches (or anywhere else) unconstitutional?’ The Boston University Law Review 2011: 561–99 Carman J. 2011: ‘Stories we tell: myths at the heart of “community archaeology”’ Archaeologies: Journal of the World Archaeological Congress 7.3: 490–501 Colwell-Chanthaphonh, C., Ferguson, T. 2008: ‘Introduction: the collaborative continuum’ in C. Colwell-Chanthaphonh, T. Ferguson (eds), Collaboration in Archaeological Practice: Engaging Descendant Communities. Walnut Creek, AltaMira Press: 1–34 de la Torre, M. (ed.) 2003: Chaco Culture National Historical Park: A Case Study. Los Angeles, The Getty Conservation Institute Dudley, E. 1993: The Critical Villager: Beyond Community Participation. London, Routledge Fouseki, K. 2009: ‘“I own, therefore I am”: conflating archaeology with heritage in Greece: a possessive individualist approach’ in E. Waterton, L. Smith (eds), Taking Archaeology Out of Heritage. Cambridge, Cambridge Scholars Publishing: 49–65 Goodwin, C. 1994: ‘Professional vision’ American Anthropologist 96.3: 606–33 Holtorf, C. 2007: Archaeology is a Brand: The Meaning of Archaeology in Contemporary Popular Culture. Walnut Creek, Left Coast Press Koffka K. 1922: ‘Perception: an introduction to the Gestalt-Theorie’ Psychological Bulletin 19: 531–85 Kyriakidis, E. 2005: Ritual in the Aegean, the Minoan Peak Sanctuaries. London, Duckworth La Salle, M. 2010: ‘Community collaboration and other good intentions’ Archaeologies: Journal of the World Archaeological Congress 6.3: 401–22 Lett, J. 1990: ‘Emics and etics: notes on the epistemology of anthropology’ in N. Headland, K.L. Pike, M. Harris (eds), Emics and Etics: The Insider/Outsider Debate (Frontiers of Anthropology 7). Newbury Park, Sage Publications: 127–42 McGhee, R. 2008: ‘Aboriginalism and the problems of Indigenous archaeology’ American Antiquity 73.4: 579–97

Acknowledgements This article is dedicated to the memory of Giorgos Kotsyfos, or Patakogiorgis, old mayor of Gonies who was an invaluable informant and keen protector of his village and its patrimony. I would like to thank my collaborators Aris Anagnostopoulos, Nota Pantzou, Lena Stefanou, Celine Murphy, Yiannis Panteris, Nikos Markatatos, Babis Kotsyfos, Yannis and Nikos Fthenos, Irini, Yannis, Kalliope, George and George Markogiannakis, Manolis and Andreas Nathenas, Andreas Smaragdis, Kostas Tsimbragos and so many others for their unique input into the success of this project. The photos are courtesy of Aris Anagnostopoulos and Lena Stefanou, with the permission of Manolis Nathenas. Last but not least I would like to thank the Leventis Foundation, INSTAP, the society of Antiquaries of London, the University of Kent, the Mediterranean Archaeology Trust, as well as Charlie Steinmetz who provided invaluable support for the fruition of this project. The Gonies summer programme continues every year. Bibliography Bargh, J., Chen, M., Burrows, L. 1996: ‘Automaticity of social behavior: direct effects of trait construct and stereotype activation on action’ Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 71.2: 230–44 Batliwala, S. 2007: ‘Taking the power out of empowerment: an experiential account’ Development in Practice 17.4/5: 557–65

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices — 2010: ‘Of strawmen, herrings, and frustrated expectations’ American Antiquity 75: 239–44. McGill, D. 2010: ‘The public’s archaeology: utilizing ethnographic methods to link public education with accountability in archaeological practice’ Archaeologies: Journal of the World Archaeological Congress 6.3: 468–84 Matthews C., McDavid, C., Jeppson, P. 2011: ‘Dynamics of inclusion in public archaeology: an introduction’ Archaeologies: Journal of the World Archaeological Congress 7.3: 482–89 Merriman, N. 2004: ‘Introduction: diversity and dissonance in public archaeology’ in N. Merriman (ed.), Public Archaeology. London, Routledge: 1–17 Nisbett, R., Borgida, E. 1975: ‘Attribution and the psychology of prediction’ Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 32(5): 932–43

Okamura K., Matsuda, A. 2011: ‘Introduction: new perspectives in global public archaeology’ in K. Okamura, A. Matsuda (eds), New Perspectives in Global Public Archaeology. London, Springer: 1–18 Peatfield A. 1983: ‘The topography of Minoan Peak Sanctuaries’ Annual of the British School at Athens 78: 273–79 Smith, D., Tiwari, R. Lommerse, M. 2014: ‘Navigating community engagement’ in R. Tiwari, M. Lommerse, D. Smith (eds), M2 Models and Methodologies for Community Engagement. Singapore, Springer: 1–23 Tversky A., Kahneman, D. 1973: ‘Availability: a heuristic for judging frequency and probability’ Cognitive Psychology 5: 207–32 Voudouri, D. 2010: ‘Law and the politics of the past: legal protection of cultural heritage in Greece’ International Journal of Cultural Property 17.3: 547–68

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8. Promoting innovative forms of cultural participation Erminia Sciacchitano

The two main reasons given for not visiting museums are ‘lack of interest’, at 41.8 per cent of the total, and ‘I prefer to spend my time differently’ at 23.7 per cent of the total. ‘There are no museums in the place I live’ was the reason given in 14.5 per cent of cases.

Introduction Italy is well known for its extensive cultural heritage, a product of the overlap and intermixture of cultural expressions of different civilisations, manifested in a multiplicity of centres for artistic production, often still operating today, as in the case of the Capodimonte Porcelain manufactory. Italian experts call the close interconnection between sites, artworks and landscapes museo diffuso. Until 2004, in Italian cultural heritage policy the emphasis was placed on the preservation and conservation of this huge wealth, rather than on access and participation. The combination of strong protection measures managed by a widespread public system and a number of research and training centres of excellence and highly qualified experts produced positive results over time, raising the overall quality of Italian historic environments and landscapes. A recent survey (Istat 2015) has identified around 5000 heritage sites, publicly or privately owned and open to the public: 4158 museums and galleries, 282 archaeological sites, and 536 monuments or complexes. This means one museum for every 12,000 inhabitants. Evidence shows a discrepancy, however, between this huge and widely distributed cultural heritage and visitor participation rates. According to the latest Eurobarometer survey on Cultural Heritage (European Union Directorate-General for Communication 2017), Italy is among the lowest-ranked European countries in terms of cultural participation. Respondents in Sweden (88%), the Netherlands (83%) and Denmark (80%) are the most likely to have visited a historical monument or site in the last 12 months, compared to 51 per cent (vs. 47 per cent who haven’t visited such a place) of those in Italy. Data of the National Institute of Statistics show that in 2015, 23.6 per cent of respondents visited an archaeological site or monument, and 29.29 per cent visited a museum or an exposition once in the last year. An average of 30 per cent as visitors may sound satisfactory, but in reality, it means that seven out of ten of the Italian respondents did not visit a cultural heritage site in a year; that is, more than two thirds of the population. With regard to museums, the non-participation rate is slightly lower in big cities (59.6 per cent) but increases to 73.3 per cent in small villages (below 10,000 inhabitants). A great part of the population is therefore excluded from access to cultural heritage.

A closer look at the Italian scene: from heritage to people There is no Italian museum in the top-ten list of the Worldwide Museum Attendance Numbers published by The Art Newspaper (Pes, Sharpe 2015). The Uffizi Gallery ranks 21st. Indeed, Italian museums are mostly small to medium-sized institutions, spread and rooted in their territories, and cannot host massive numbers of visitors, but the geographical imbalance is relevant: in 2015, 31.9 per cent of the 110.6 million people that visited the 4976 Italian heritage sites and museums (of which 59.2 million visited museums, 11.9 million archaeological areas and 39.3 million monuments) were concentrated in 20 places, and three out of four heritage sites and museums were visited by fewer than 10,000 people a year. The 438 museums directly managed by the Italian Ministry of Culture (Ministero dei beni e delle attività culturali e del turismo - MiBACT) are 8.8 per cent of the total and attract 47 million visitors (42.6 per cent of yearly visitors in Italy). The museums and heritage sites located in three regions attract half of the visitors for the entire country: Lazio (22.3%), Toscana (20.6%), and Campania (9.2%). An ad hoc survey carried out by MiBACT in 2009 revealed that Italians visit museums and archaeological sites more often when they are abroad. At the same time, fast-growing shopping malls and designer outlets began to attract, every weekend, crowds of families, couples and singles. Why, with such a wealth of heritage and culture, do Italians prefer to queue up on Sundays in shopping districts, at ‘village’-style retail centres, shaped like historical centres, rather than visiting the real heritage that surrounds them? And why do they change their habits when they go abroad? The causes have been attributed to infrastructural problems, such as the limited autonomy of museums and heritage sites in Italy, which restrict the options of those managers who are willing to set up a different relationship between the museum and its public. It must

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices also be said that the Ministry of Culture had to deal with severe cuts in funding, from a peak of €2,240 million in real expenditure in the MiBACT budget of 2001, to €1,595 million in 2014, decreasing from 0.39 per cent to 0.19 per cent of the state budget in a decade. Moreover, staff numbers were dramatically reduced – from 25,000 in 2005 to 18,875 in 2013 – and a block on recruitments prevented the Ministry from hiring the experts needed to face the emerging challenges: managers, experts in communication, economists, and so on. But the debate was not giving sufficient weight to the necessity of better understanding people’s needs and expectations in order to build efficient audience development policies. An increase in visitor numbers was seen mainly as a factor in damaging heritage. Scarce attention was given to the key role of the accessibility of the cultural offer to people with no specialist knowledge of heritage. For example, the ongoing debate on the impact of big cruise ships in Venice focuses mainly on environmental or economic issues. Only few raise attention to the lack of opportunities for tourists to learn more about Venetian history and values, and the life of its inhabitants. It was evident that there was margin in Italy for more strategic action in order to promote wider access to and participation in cultural life. The turning point was in 2004, when the new objective ‘to promote knowledge of cultural heritage, and to ensure the best conditions for its public use and enjoyment, also by disadvantaged people, in order to promote the development of culture’ was introduced within the national legal framework (MIBACT 2004). In 2009, MiBACT started developing a new strategy designed to improve the accessibility, comfort and quality of visitors’ experience at heritage sites in Italy. Emphasis was placed on adopting a participatory approach in a wide spectrum of actions and activities, through territorial governance, management models and public-private partnership. When setting up this new policy, the Ministry wanted as well to take into consideration the diversity of the values attached by each community to the cultural heritage with which it identifies, and the importance of representing different groups and cultures in the current globalised dimension. ‘You can’t treat visitors as individuals until you actually know what is unique about each of them’ (Simon 2010: 39). The Ministry commissioned a study with the aim of reviewing national and international research in the field of visitor studies (research by Bollo 2016). The results showed that in Italy there is a lack qualitative data on visitor access and participation, and the little information that has been collected is not easily available or in comparable formats. The research also revealed a prevalence in Italy of visitor surveys rather than visitor

studies (probably visitor surveys are considered a standard tool abroad and are no longer published). The Ministry started to reflect on its new strategy for audience development, devised on the basis of a classification of different audiences, as follows: ‘Central audiences’, who access the cultural offer habitually and whose involvement does not require tackling cultural or social barriers, with low ‘activation costs’ in terms of efforts and resources that need to be invested to attract them. ‘Occasional audiences’, who make sporadic use of the cultural offer (‘blockbuster’ events, visits to museums in holiday destinations, and so on) and may encounter cultural barriers (for example, contemporary arts) and have medium ‘activation costs’. ‘Potential users’, who currently do not visit cultural institutions, but who might be interested in doing so and may be attracted through specific policies and measures, but with high ‘activation costs’. ‘Non-users’, who are far away from the cultural institutions, whose needs and expectations are the most difficult to analyse, and who are often indifferent – or even hostile – to the cultural offering, with negative preconceptions or attitudes towards culture. Reaching and involving non-users in the activities of cultural institutions seems possible only through specific and medium- to long-term cultural and educational policies involving schools and families. It became clear that Italian museum and heritage sites needed to open their doors to non-traditional audiences and initiate new, closer relationships with their visitors, giving voice to the needs, expectations, life experiences and knowledge systems of individuals. There was a need to adopt new approaches, making heritage fully part of local communities and proposing new heritage-based narratives that spoke to more diverse audiences. In a few words, the whole system had to ‘shift its centre’ from heritage to people. In order to turn the wheel of this complex system and encourage wider participation by Italian citizens in arts and culture, another step was to look at the Cultural Conventions of the 20th century, where the shift from ‘how’ to protect and conserve cultural goods, to ‘why and for whom’ heritage is transmitted is clearly reflected – from the UNESCO conventions on Cultural Diversity and Intangible Heritage (UNESCO 2005, 2003), to the Council of Europe’s European Landscape Convention (Florence 2000), to its Convention on the Value of Cultural Heritage for Society (Faro 2005). In particular, the Faro Convention focuses on the right of people to participate in cultural heritage and highlights the social and economic

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Chapter 8: Sciacchitano. Promoting innovative forms of cultural participation value of cultural heritage and its role as a resource for dialogue and democracy. The signing of the Faro Convention by Italy in February 2013 was therefore a fundamental step in building awareness among the community of specialists of the need to put people at the heart of heritage policies – an approach that has recently been confirmed at EU level in the Council’s ‘Conclusions on cultural heritage as a strategic resource for a sustainable Europe’ of May 2014, the European Commission Communication, ‘Towards an integrated approach to cultural heritage for Europe’ of July 2014, and finally, the ‘Council conclusions on participatory governance of cultural heritage’ of November 2014 (Council of the European Union 2014a, 2014b; European Commission 2014). Moreover, the people-centered approach is at the heart of the European Year of Cultural Heritage 2018. Another important opportunity was offered by the establishment of the Open Method of Coordination working group to promote better access to and wider participation in culture, in the framework of the Work Plan for Culture 2011–2014 (European Agenda for Culture 2012). The focus of the group was the exchange of good practices at European level about member states’ policies on allowing equal opportunities for enjoyment of culture. Professionals in the Italian Ministry for Culture, Heritage and Tourism started to show interest in the new, people-centred approach but asked for tools to put it into practice. Officers in the ministry are mostly trained in heritage preservation, with no experience in audience development, marketing strategies, intercultural dialogue, or communication. We therefore decided to focus on communication tools, in consideration of the fact that state museums are often criticised for the texts of the panels and captions, which are considered too long and difficult for non-specialists. Moreover, at most sites, information is available only in Italian.

overall value that communication processes play in terms of individual and collective benefits. Comparison of the new study with data collected through a similar study conducted ten years earlier revealed that the public for state museums are more mature, aware and demanding of information than they were ten years ago. While the educational background of visitors is unchanged in ten years (they are mostly well-educated people, 60 per cent of whom have university degrees, and there is a slight majority of women, at 56 per cent), they now ask for more information and wish to be more actively engaged. Sixty per cent of museum visitors searched for information on collections and their locations prior to arrival. Rather than detailed information about the objects themselves, visitors wanted to know more about the historical and geographical context, the relations between objects and the territory, and the building or monument that hosts the museum. The survey revealed as well that the number of young visitors, aged 14–24, decreased by half in ten years, while the number of visitors aged 65 years or more tripled from 4.5 to 13 per cent. Despite an incredible number of publications in museology and museography in Italy, we discovered there is no literature on text labelling and interpretive texts. After a long period of research, we wrote the first guidelines ever to improve the accessibility and the quality of communication tools in state museums (da Milano, Sciacchitano 2015). Those guidelines have been further developed and tested through a series of pilot projects. One was ‘Brera: Another Story’2 at the Brera Picture Gallery in Milan, a museum which has run several intercultural projects in past times. Although Brera Picture Gallery is located at the very heart of the city, it is visited mostly by foreign tourists and experts from around the world. People from Milan rarely pass through its doors. Moreover, Milan is home to the largest foreign community in Italy. Few of them visit the museum either. It is to be noted that in the gallery there was no interpretive text; therefore, access to and understanding of the meaning and the value of artworks is often challenging for the non-specialist visitor. The idea underlying ‘Brera: Another Story’ is that, today, museums of ancient art no longer talk to people, but in fact every museum is a ‘jewel case’ full of the many different stories that the artworks embody: those of

Talking to the public and letting them talk back to you: examples and remarks MiBACT launched, in 2010, the visitor survey: ‘The listening museum. New communication strategies for national museums’,1 which brought new insights into the

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The answers to 4500 questionnaires were collected between December and May 2011 in 12 state museums: Museo di Palazzo Ducale, Mantova; Pinacoteca di Brera, Milano; Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Cividale del Friuli; Pinacoteca Nazionale di Bologna; Galleria Palatina, Firenze; Museo Nazionale di Villa Guinigi, Lucca; Galleria Nazionale dell’Umbria, Perugia; Galleria d’Arte Antica a Palazzo Barberini, Roma; Palazzo Massimo, Roma; Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Napoli; Museo di Capodimonte, Napoli; Museo Nazionale d’Arte Medievale e Moderna della Basilicata, Matera. Study coordinated by Prof. Ludovico Solima, Associate Professor of Management of Cultural Organizations, Second University of Naples. The author of this chapter coordinated the project for MiBACT.

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The project was designed by Simona Bodo and Silvia Mascheroni, art historians/researchers with a particular interest in intercultural heritage education issues, Maria Grazia Panigada, expert in theatre and storytelling techniques in museums, and Emanuela Daffra and Paola Strada of the Brera Education Services.The author of this chapter coordinated the project for MiBACT.

Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices the works of art themselves, those of the artists who created them, but also those of the visitors questioning them and finding unexpected resonances with their feelings, memories and life experiences. Italians are probably too used to the beauty that surrounds them, a beauty that we tend to forget. But, as often happens, the perspective of a foreigner may help you to rediscover your values. The museum trained a group of museum mediators with immigrant backgrounds (from Bosnia, Brazil, Egypt, Peru, Philippines, Senegal, Taiwan and Hungary) in the development of intercultural trails and permanent audio-visual aids for the museum visit. The main goal was not only to open the museum to a currently under-represented audience (adults with an immigrant background), but also to promote new ways of looking at the collections for all visitors, whether they were regular or potential, ‘native’ or ‘migrant’. By bringing their different perspectives, experiences and knowledge bases into dialogue with each other, museum mediators and staff developed intercultural trails to help all visitors to explore and interpret the complex layers of meaning, as well as the evidence of past and present cross-cultural encounters, hidden in the museum collections. Instrumental were the relationships between the personal biographies of the mediators and the biographies of objects. The first participative project in Italy, ‘Capodimonte per te’ (Solima, Sciacchitano 2014), which aimed at strengthening links with the local community and improving visitor experience, was developed in 2012 at the Museo di Capodimonte, Naples. The opening of the new wing ‘Ottocento a Capodimonte’, the private apartments of the Bourbon and Savoy Royal Family, provided an opportunity to actively engage citizens of Naples in the co-planning of captions and panels for the new section. In the process of determining the information to be included in the display, their needs would be identified and better met. A key strategy was to ensure visitor engagement at an early stage of text drafting, while at the same time respecting the roles and expertise of the curators and guaranteeing the scientific quality of the information. It took around six months to build consensus between the research team and museum staff and to fine tune a common approach to the methodology by all participants. In the first phase, over a hundred citizens volunteered to take part in the project and were allowed to enter the new wing – still closed to the general public – for a preview. The whole collection was left ‘silent’, without any information or labels about the art objects, in order to provoke spontaneous questions. Visitors were asked to write down the main questions raised for

them by the individual exhibits and the display as a whole. From over 1000 questions/comments gathered, curators were able to draw up a priority list of subjects to be included in the information provided in the exhibition spaces. The second phase took place two months later, with 50 citizens visiting the new wing in a provisional setting, complete with draft information materials. Five focus groups were organised to provide their feedback on issues ranging from the quality of the information to the comprehensibility of written texts, and so on, thereby providing curators with useful recommendations for the final revision of the new display. Finally, in 2012, the Directorate General launched a call for proposals, addressed to Italy’s 420 state-owned museums, archaeological precincts and historical sites, to help them rethink their communication tools and processes through a participatory approach which would promote the active involvement of target groups, whether through consultation or participatory planning. The aim of the call was to encourage national cultural institutions to develop innovative forms of participation; to promote a more systematic knowledge of audiences and their needs, as well as a more thorough evaluation of processes and outcomes; to sustain those institutions that had already developed expertise in this field, so as to promote a legacy, progression and institutional change; and to create a community of practice that facilitated the transferability of expertise. In order to access funding, museums were asked to strengthen their territorial partnerships with other institutions; for example, city museums, national archives and libraries, non-profit organisations, universities and research centres. Finally, it was decided that the project should be developed and implemented by the institutions’ own staff, as its main objective was to build the internal capacity of the state-owned museums to manage the change. We provided guidelines and assisted the institutions that were willing to apply. The call was a success in terms of attention and commitment of the sites. The Directorate General received 50 applications, 17 of which were selected by an ad hoc commission. The projects, which began in early 2013, are now mostly completed. Their subjects range from redesigning visit trails and improving services and communication tools in partnership with local organisations (including centres for the elderly and writers’ academies), to employing new digital tools, developed in cooperation with local schools, engaging younger generations. Most of the projects involved the development of an extensive network of partners, from schools to local authorities, NGOs, libraries and archives.

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Chapter 8: Sciacchitano. Promoting innovative forms of cultural participation As an example of these projects, I have selected ‘Al Museo con... Patrimoni narrati per musei accoglienti’, a joint initiative of the National Museum of Prehistory and Ethnography and the National Museum of Oriental Art in Rome (almuseocon.beniculturali.it). Both these organisations are among the oldest and richest in Italy. They frequently open up a widened cultural perspective to the public and serve to promote cross-cultural understanding, historical knowledge and respect for cultural diversity. In particular, the National Museum of Oriental Art, dedicated to the arts of the Orient, from the Middle East to Japan, and housing a notable collection of artefacts from the Gandhara area, is situated in the Esquilino district of Rome, where most of the city’s Asian communities are located. Participants in the project included several communities of people with immigrant backgrounds from the countries of origin of the objects in the museums. There were also people with disabilities and young students from the national institute for training in the audio-visual sector. The objective of the project was to enlarge the usual ‘central public’ of the museum – universities, families, enthusiasts and experts in the field, and tourists – with new ‘potential’ and ‘occasional’ visitors, and to do so by involving migrants, people with disabilities, and associations with interests in the field. The project adopted a narrative approach through dedicated laboratories of storytelling and writing, and the methodology of the ‘Circle of Stories’. It built ‘narrated paths’, allowing the museum objects to ‘regain voice’, and bringing into the museum institution the intellectual and emotional input of the people involved. The participatory approach allowed the shared construction of meanings through a dialogic and relational approach, building a bridge between the museum and the communities. The paths were developed through innovative forms of communication, including augmented reality and full use of multimedia in order to address different audiences.

in Italy. In order to do this, we have, in many cases, collected evidence before deciding on the most relevant methodology. Although these endeavours are not likely to create an immediate impact that will be visible in the near future, we believe that the seeds have been sown and have started to grow. Bibliography Bollo, A. 2016: Il monitoraggio e la valutazione dei pubblici dei musei. Gli osservatori dei musei nell’esperienza internazionale. Rome http://musei.beniculturali.it/wpcontent/uploads/2017/01/Il-monitoraggio-e-lavalutazione-dei-pubblici-dei-musei.-Quaderni-dellavalorizzazione-NS-2.pdf Council of Europe 2000: European Landscape Convention (Florence) — 2005: Framework Convention on the Value of Cultural Heritage for Society (Faro Convention) Council of the European Union 2014a: Conclusions on Cultural Heritage as a Strategic Resource for a Sustainable Europe. Brussels — 2014b: Conclusions on Participatory Governance of Cultural Heritage (2014/C 463/01) Da Milano, C., Sciacchitano E. 2015: Linee guida per la comunicazione nei musei: segnaletica interna, didascalie e pannelli. Rome http://musei.beniculturali.it/wpcontent/uploads/2017/01/Linee-guida-per-la-comunicazione-nei-musei-segnaletica-interna-didascalie-e-pan nelli.-Quaderni-della-valorizzazione-NS1.pdf European Agenda for Culture 2012: A Report on Policies and Good Practices in the Public Arts and in Cultural Institutions to Promote Better Access and Wider Participation in Culture. http://ec.europa.eu/assets/eac/culture/policy/strategic -framework/documents/omc-report-access-toculture_en.pdf European Commission 2014: Communication from the Commission to the European Parliament, the Council, the European Economic and Social Committee and the Committee of the Regions: Towards an Integrated Approach to Cultural Heritage for Europe (COM[2014] 0477 final). Brussels European Union Directorate-General for Communication 2017: Special Eurobarometer 466: Cultural Heritage. https://data.europa.eu/euodp/data/dataset/S2150_88_ 1_466_ENG Istituto Nazionale di Statisca (Istat) 2015: Indagine sui musei e gli istituti similari. https://www.istat.it/it/files/2016/12/Report-Musei.pdf

Concluding remarks Despite some proposed actions not having been further developed, the actions carried out in 2009–2012 by the Italian Ministry for Culture, Heritage and Tourism marked a turning point in heritage policies in Italy. These policies are marked by an increased interest in putting people and their stories into the same framework as the heritage itself. Some examples that have not been mentioned in this paper aim at understanding visitors and their needs, and integrating their interpretation into the official and expert-led displays and presentations. All these efforts ultimately focus on creating innovative ways of inviting new ‘publics’ into heritage institutions

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices MIBACT 2004: Decreto Legislativo 22 gennaio 2004, n. 42: Codice dei beni culturali e del paesaggio, ai sensi dell'articolo 10 Legge 6 luglio 2002, n. 137. http://www.beniculturali.it/mibac/multimedia/MiBAC /documents/1240240310779_codice2008.pdf Pes, J., Sharpe, E. 2015: ‘Visitor figures 2014: the world goes dotty over Yayoi Kusama’ in The Art Newspaper (2 April 2015). http://web.archive.org/web/20170312101243/http://t heartnewspaper.com/news/museums/visitor-figures2014-the-world-goes-dotty-over-yayoi-kusama Sciacchitano, E. 2015: ‘Dall’Europa, uno sguardo nuovo al patrimonio culturale’ Il Giornale delle Fondazioni (15 January 2015). http://www.ilgiornaledellefondazioni.com/content/% E2%80%8Bdalleuropa-uno-sguardo-nuovo-al-patrimonio-culturale

Simon, N. 2010: The Participatory Museum. Santa Cruz, Museum 2.0 Solima, L., Sciacchitano, E. 2014: ‘La progettazione partecipata nei musei: l’esperienza di Capodimonte per te’ Economia della Cultura Anno 24.1: 99–108 UNESCO 2003: Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage. Paris — 2005: Convention on the Protection and Promotion of the Diversity of Cultural Expressions. Paris

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9. Publicising archaeology and heritage: the role of education and local museums Veysel Apaydin

programmes that will be unique and worthwhile for communities in Turkey. In order to succeed, it is necessary to be analytical and to consider advantages as well as obstacles in Turkey. Below I will discuss two significant aspects of public archaeology, arguing that it is first formal and then informal education which are the most effective agents for the protection and preservation of heritage sites – from the global perspective and in the context of Turkey – using case studies from Çatalhöyük, Ani and Hattuşa. Then I will discuss the construction of heritage perception within communities, which I argue is one of the most important aspects of public archaeology projects.

Introduction Public archaeology… [is] concerned with any area of archaeological activity that interacted or had the potential to interact with the public (Schadla-Hall 1999: 147) Public archaeology should not be restricted to any definition. Rather, it covers any area, including heritage and museum studies, which aims to increase heritage awareness among the public and, in turn, achieve better protection and preservation of past objects and sites. One of the first and most important aims of public archaeology is to be as effective as possible in developing public awareness. The most important and effective tool available is education – both formal and informal – about the past, which can reach large numbers of people. The process of developing archaeological education and putting forward different approaches has brought many other existing problems and issues to the fore, as well as creating new ones. I argue that the term ‘archaeological education’, and the way it has been applied within schools, museums and archaeological projects, is due for re-consideration. The old approaches are not answering current needs or enabling the effective development of awareness among communities who have various and complex understandings of the past and past objects. In addition, the approaches are not sufficient for the effective teaching and learning of archaeology in museums or schools. Nevertheless, great results have been achieved in many places; for example, community archaeology projects by the Museum of London, which collaborated with dozens of schools across London (see www.mola.org.uk/projects/researchand-community/archaeology-sessions-schools), and the project ‘built heritage’, led, again, by the Museum of London (www.mola.org.uk/blog/hackney-communitycollege-students-help-record-local-built-heritage), which aims at increasing awareness of local heritage perception. In the case of Turkey, the concept of public archaeology is quite recent. It needs to be developed correctly and effectively by considering works formerly undertaken elsewhere from a critical perspective, particularly projects in Europe, then developing education

Formal education and protection of archaeology and heritage sites Without doubt, schools are one of the most effective means we have of spreading knowledge. Schools shape societies because those who attend them do so from a very early age up to young adulthood, the period when their knowledge, personality and character are shaped. Therefore, schools are very powerful institutions and their influence is immense over the adults of the future, who will have a role in shaping their societies. In the context of better protection and preservation of heritage and increasing public awareness, schools are also the most important places for children to obtain knowledge of the past, regardless of the period. The school years provide an opportunity to broaden children’s horizons on the role of heritage and the need for its protection. However, in Turkey and many other countries, the centralised education system does not allow for teaching more detailed and elaborate archaeology and heritage-related subjects (Corbishley 2011). As a result of obtaining only limited knowledge of past materials and cultures, children grow up without any broader understanding of the past to inform their awareness. As Stone (1985) emphasises, the only way of reducing the destruction of heritage is by raising the level of public awareness through education, and most importantly, the awareness of children. These kinds of efforts can be more effective with efficient and targeted learning and teaching strategies, from primary to high school. However, there are

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices numerous issues with textbooks and curricula in many countries (Kasvikis et al. 2007: 129). For instance, a major problem is that archaeology, heritage or the study of the past is often given less importance than any other subject (see Doughty 2007). There are many problems associated with teaching the past in Turkey (Apaydin 2015), as in many other countries (Copeland 2004; Henson 2004: 16–19; Corbishley 2004: 69). In Turkey, major issues include overcrowded curricula, unstructured teaching, insufficient practical education (such as in museums or other heritage-related places), and teachers neglecting to teach the past, because they consider heritage and past-related subjects irrelevant to modern society (Apaydin 2016b). I argue that amongst these issues, the most significant is that the understanding of the concept of heritage and the past is wrong, because their high relevance to current society and importance in creating a sustainable future have not been established in Turkey. For this reason, heritage and past-related subjects are currently given an insignificant place in formal education. For instance, the recent social sciences curricula-level 5 shows that the prehistoric past and material culture of the past are treated as insignificant (Apaydin 2016b), while other histories are given more space and detail. It is not, therefore, surprising that looting, destruction or neglect of past materials is increasing in Turkey. Having limited knowledge about archaeological remains and other cultures’ pasts does not help to protect and preserve heritage sites. In addition to Turkish, Ottoman and Islamic periods’ past and heritage, the prehistoric past and antiquities should also be given prominence in formal education in order to better protect our heritage sites. Another of the most important issues in formal education is that the design and structure of the curriculum does not allow teachers to teach history in an active way that could make history seem more relevant to the present. As a consequence, teachers are finding it difficult to make history enjoyable, comprehensible and valuable for children. The current structure of the curriculum dictates how subjects should be taught, and the curriculum is never altered in a way that would help children to have a broader perspective (Apaydin 2016b). In relation to history education in Turkey, as well as issues of curricula, there are other problems that have an impact. The roles of schoolteachers and archaeologists should be carefully considered. Teachers play an important part in providing knowledge to students within the framework of the curriculum, or outside it. Although most teachers in Turkey do not give sufficient importance to archaeological education in their flexible times – for instance, during visual and practical teaching – it is

also necessary to remember that teachers in Turkey do not have the resources or capacity to teach archaeology. For example, secondary teachers in Turkey are not given sufficient education on how to teach history in schools. There are no archaeology or heritage courses, nor resources for teaching archaeology and heritage, offered to history teachers in Turkey. Of course, archaeologists and archaeology educators also play a great role in the insufficiency of heritage awareness. Academic archaeologists have demanded that archaeology and heritage-related subjects should be taught by teachers in schools, but they must also support and provide the resources for teachers, as has been the case in the UK since the 1970s (Corbishley 2011; Halkon et al. 1992; Henson 1996). In some parts of the world, however, archaeologists have failed to do this (Zimmerman et al. 1994). Turkey is one of those countries where most academic archaeologists have no interest in developing resources or offering courses or training for history teachers to help them to develop the knowledge and the ability to teach archaeology and heritage in history classes in schools. The main reason for this is that archaeologists in academia in Turkey have a heavy workload, sometimes teaching seven or eight courses in a term and consequently have no time to be involved in school education. Individual university archaeology departments can, however, take the initiative to develop resources for schools and teachers. It should also be acknowledged that academic archaeologists do not have adequate knowledge of the education system, curriculum structure and teaching methods at schools in Turkey and would need to collaborate with education specialists in order to develop resources. The archaeology department at Southampton University researched the archaeological resources needed by teachers during the 1980s (Corbishley, Stone 1994: 385), and during the 1990s in Bayern, Germany, an archaeological information packet was prepared for schools (Gaedtke-Eckardt et al. 1999). Additionally, some universities, such as the University of Reading, have produced broad resources for teachers. The Archaeology Data Service (ADS: see http://archaeologydataservice.ac.uk/learning) in the UK has a large digital database offering learning and teaching aids for researchers, teachers and the general public (Corbishley 2011: 17). Although the roles of archaeologists and teachers are crucial in increasing heritage awareness in order to counter the looting, plundering and destruction of heritage and archaeological sites, they are also restricted by the centralised education system. Nevertheless, in the Turkish case, informal education institutions can be strengthened and their efficiency increased, as will be discussed below.

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Chapter 9: Apaydin. Publicising archaeology and heritage: the role of education and local museums people (Museums Australia 2000) and pointed out that all Australians have the right to see objects of their own culture preserved in museums, in order to have knowledge of their pasts. Museums help local communities to understand concepts of the past and of heritage and its importance for establishing a sustainable future for their societies, but they are also a significant resource for people who had no chance to get a formal education (Merriman 2000: 1; Chadwick 1980; Millas 1973). This is particularly meaningful in the case of local communities in Turkey’s rural areas, as there are many community members in the villages and towns who are illiterate (see Apaydin 2017). Museums are a tool that can close the gap between the schooling process and uneducated members of communities by taking a significant role in informal education through public archaeology projects. Past objects and material culture of the present are social and cultural productions that encompass knowledge and power (Smith 2006: 14–15). According to Foucault (1991), anything that encompasses knowledge is related to power; therefore, heritage could also be seen as comprised of powerful objects or discourses that can also be used for developing heritage awareness. Hence, the public needs to have the possibility of accessing it; in other words, opportunities must be provided for the public to see objects in museums. Most members of local communities in Turkey, however, do not have the opportunity to visit museums, the ultimate destination of most objects from archaeological sites, since they are mostly located in the city centres. I argue that one of the greatest misunderstandings in relation to preserving objects is that hiding or placing them where the public cannot reach them protects them. On the contrary, touching the objects (see Pye 2007), seeing and feeling them, will make people more aware of their importance. For instance, I discussed elsewhere (Apaydin 2017) that most of the communities around Çatalhöyük, a Neolithic site in Konya, and Ani, a medieval site in Kars, pointed out a lack of museums in their regions where they could easily go and see their local heritage. One of the community members in Çumra-Konya clearly observed that:

The role of informal education: museums and archaeology projects Although formal education is the most effective tool for developing heritage awareness among communities, great attention should also be paid to the roles of museums and archaeology projects. They are significant because their work amongst communities in local areas can create opportunities for local people who were deprived of learning about the past through formal education processes. During the late 19th and early 20th centuries, museums were used as a tool for the construction of nation states (Macdonald 1998; see also Aronsson, Elgenius 2011) and the consolidation and survival of national identity. National museums were usually seen as places where collective memory was stored and exhibited in order to promote and support national identity (Cuno 2008). The National Archaeological Museum, the Byzantine and Christian Museum, the Museum of Greek Folk Culture and the National Historical Museum of Greece (Gazi 2011) are examples. Another example is the Slovak Museum society, founded in 1895 in order to promote the nation-building process. After the fall of communism in the region, the museums of Slovakia were often used in political agendas, during the 1990s and afterwards (Hudek 2011). In recent decades, the concept and understanding of museums has greatly changed and their public role has been actively investigated. Museums are one of the publicly funded institutions that provide access to knowledge about humanity’s heritage; however, most museums in Turkey and many other parts of the world have failed in this basic role. Displaying objects alone is not enough. Museums must be able to reflect the diversity and needs of the population (Merriman 2000: 1). I argue that museums should provide critical knowledge and explain the connections between social and historical processes, as well as providing knowledge about any historical periods that could help current communities to understand society today. Arenas and Obediente (1994: 53) emphasise that ‘museums should be didactic tools enabling people to connect facts, objects, and pictures of real life… and provide incentives for reflection and for the private study of history.’ Museums should also be able to reflect all identity groups within communities, for example, different genders and age groups (Crooke 2007: 88). Crook (1972: 39) pointed out that the main aim of the museum is general use by the public and the benefit of the public. One of the most striking examples of this model is the National Museum of Australia, which developed a Cultural Diversity Policy. Although it still has many issues in practice, the policy emphasised the rights of the

the Konya museum is one hour away and Ankara museum (where the objects of Çatalhöyük are exhibited), four hours away from here. There is no possibility for most of us to go and see the objects. If we don’t see them and feel them, what on earth we are expected to have heritage awareness … Almost all community members from Çatalhöyük and Ani also answered the question, ‘Would you be

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices interested in seeing the objects from the site and taking part in museum activities if you had local museum nearby?’ with ‘Yes’ (Apaydin 2017). The communities of Hattuşa/Boğazköy in Çorum pointed out the importance of the local museum in their town and how effective it was in developing awareness about protecting and preserving local heritage. Therefore, it was not surprising that 11 out of 11 interview participants answered the question, ‘Have you ever or more than once visited the local museum?’ with ‘Many times’ (Apaydin 2017). The potential for informal education by museums in Turkey should not be underestimated. There are over 200 state museums and over 200 private museums in Turkey (see http://www.kulturvarliklari.gov.tr/TR,43253/bakanligimiza-bagli-muzeler.html [state]; http://www.kulturvarliklari.gov.tr/TR,43980/ozel-muzeler.html [private]). Given their prevalence, these museums can reach large numbers of local people to offer knowledge of the past, thus increasing heritage awareness among communities. However, most of the museums either do not have the capacity or education specialists, or do not have sufficient budget to run public archaeology projects for communities, although both perceived importance and budget have increased in recent years in comparison to past decades. Mardin Museum, located in southeast Turkey, could be a good example for other museums in terms of developing education programmes. Their aim fits with a 21stcentury understanding of the museum concept, as it gives importance to identities, the different pasts of different groups, and learning different historical processes. Such an approach will automatically lead to developing heritage awareness among children, youths and locals. To add to that, the museum archaeologists have also worked with education specialists from universities, making the situation even more promising. One of the other problems of running education programmes, not only in Turkey but also worldwide, is that none of them assess their own effectiveness and, therefore, nobody can be certain whether they are successful or not. Assessing or, in other words, testing the success of the education programmes could make it possible to change the programmes for the better, developing new techniques and perspectives and raising different and viable ideas (for more details on how to assess and develop effective education programmes, see Apaydin 2016a). In addition to the significant role museums play in informal education, archaeology projects could also take initiatives in this area by offering knowledge of the past to their local communities. In 2014, the total number of excavations and surveys in Turkey was around 300

(www.kulturvarliklari.gov.tr/TR,126076/2014-yili-kazive-yuzey-arastirma-faaliyetleri.html), which is probably higher than in many other countries, but the neglect of archaeology education and outreach programmes by archaeologists also continues during the fieldwork seasons. Most of them have no interest in either running education programmes or collaborating with local communities, apart from using locals as a workforce. This has two implications: (1) the isolation of the archaeologists from the communities who are the natural guardians of the heritage and archaeological sites (Pearson, Sullivan 1995) and (2) creating obstacles between past objects and locals, who need to see and understand the importance of their past in order to establish a sustainable community. The communities of the Neolithic site of Çatalhöyük and the historic city of Ani, which are on UNESCO’s World Heritage List (http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/1405; http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/1518), mainly complain about the lack of engagement between archaeologists and local community members. For instance, although the Çatalhöyük research project runs outreach projects every year, one of the community members who lives in the nearby village Küçükköy points out: Except running the one-day Çatalhöyük festival every year, where we [community members] are invited, there is no interaction at all between archaeologists and villagers … they live in their camp and don’t get involved with locals at all, therefore, we don’t much know what is going on at the site. The lack of interaction between archaeology projects and locals is even more obvious in the region of the site of medieval Ani, as no outreach projects have been run there at all (Apaydin 2017). One community member, who is among the oldest residents of the village Ocaklı/Ani and has witnessed excavation and restoration projects since the 1950s, says: There have been on-and-off excavations continue at the site, but we have never, ever been informed about the process of the excavation and what has been done at the site … The practice of archaeologists in regard to communicating and interacting with communities about the site are different at Hattuşa. Although there have not been any systematic community education or outreach projects there, the knowledge and approach of the local communities completely differs from at Çatalhöyük and Ani. The main reasons for this are the long duration of excavations at the site – almost 100 years – and the efforts of the German archaeologists, who managed to

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Chapter 9: Apaydin. Publicising archaeology and heritage: the role of education and local museums minimise colonialist views, to interact with community members. As also discussed above, having a local museum in the town has had a great impact on people’s knowledge and perception (Apaydin 2017). Therefore, effective and good communication between archaeologists and locals is another factor of utmost importance, in addition to effective public archaeologies, in increasing heritage awareness among communities and, in turn, achieving better protection and preservation of the sites.

As I discussed above, formal education in Turkey is not sufficient to develop broader heritage awareness, as it contains little teaching of the prehistoric past and antiquities. Hence, most members of local communities have little knowledge or no knowledge at all about the prehistoric and antiquity-related past (Apaydin 2016b). As a result, their heritage perception is limited to only the Turkish, Ottoman and Islamic periods. Because of the limited and restricted subjects on offer in formal education, most people’s interpretation and understanding of heritage is relatively narrow and does not include, for example, the Byzantine, prehistoric and antique periods. Hence, neglect of the past and its artefacts is increasing among communities. These other histories should be given their place alongside the Turkish, Ottoman and Islamic pasts. It should also be pointed out that most of the community members in rural areas have a low level of education because of their socio-economic status. For instance, the economic condition of the communities of Ani is very low and most people cannot further their education beyond secondary school (Apaydin 2017). Nevertheless, the content of formal education is not the only agent that affects communities’ perception, understanding and interpretation of the past. It is also important to examine the relationship of individuals and communities with the places in question (Apaydin 2018b); in this case, with heritage sites. Because the requirements of daily life lead to different uses of these places, there are also different practices among communities and different memories associated with the sites. Most importantly, the relationship between place and people has a great impact on interpretation of the past by communities. Bourdieu (1990) emphasises the practical sense between individuals and place and this must be examined, because it influences subjective understanding of life for each individual and community. The communities of Çatalhöyük, Hattuşa and Ani have lived in the same regions for generations and have developed personal and practical relationships with the local heritage sites. Over generations, this praxis has led to the build-up of memories. The three communities have used the heritage sites as farming and grazing areas, or in the case of Ani, as residences, since locals literally used to live in the caves there. Therefore, the interpretation and understanding of the past differs between these communities as a result of their divergent practical relationships with the sites. This circumstance in turn has a great impact on heritage perception, alongside the effects of education. Therefore, if the aim is to increase heritage awareness in order to better protect heritage sites, these internal factors must be taken into account and public archaeology projects should be designed accordingly.

Understanding and interpretation of the past The past as a matter of experience and interpretation… offers a totally different impression of diversity and multifariousness. Difference in space and time is overwhelming. We experience a permanent change of views on the essential nature of what history is about. Accordingly, the representation of the past in the cultural orientation of human life reflects this difference and variety to such a degree that it is difficult to identify one specific form as essentially historical (Rüsen 2007: 2) Individuals and communities differ from one another because of their ways of living, cultural customs, and, most importantly, ways of thinking, although some similarities may be found in terms of social and political backgrounds and cultural characteristics. The main reason for the differences is in the processes by which communities are formed and the ways in which individuals are shaped and affected by many different agents and the cultural environment they live in. Furthermore, each individual’s life can also vary even within the same society and community, since the individual’s life experience reflects his or her perception of the world, politics and, surely, the past and its material remains. Individuals’ diverse ways of thinking produce different pasts simultaneously. As humans, we make histories and the material of the future in our everyday lives and these also shape the identities of individuals and communities. Ways of producing the past and the intangible and tangible heritage of the future, and ways of understanding, interpreting, and approaching past materials and the construction of consciousness may be different from one place to the next – for instance, between urban and rural areas – in many parts of the world (Freire 2005; Apaydin 2018a). Therefore, the most important aspect of community education and outreach programmes designed to increase heritage awareness among local communities is to assess those communities’ perceptions and knowledge of the past before starting any kind of public archaeology projects with them. Such assessments will result in the right kinds of programmes and their effectiveness.

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices — 2017: ‘Heritage values and communities: examining heritage perceptions and public engagements’ Journal of Eastern Mediterranean Archaeology and Heritage Studies 5.3: 349–63 — 2016a: ‘Effective or not? Success or failure? Assessing heritage and archaeological education programs – the case of Çatalhöyük’ International Journal of Heritage Studies 22.10: 828–43 doi: 10.1080/13527258.2016.1218912 — 2016b: ‘Development and re-configuration of heritage perception: history textbooks and curriculum’ AP Online Public Archaeology Journal 6: 37–50 — 2015: ‘Toplum Arkeolojisi: Dünya ve Türkiye’deki Yeri, Önemi ve Problemleri (Public archaeology: meaning, importance and issues in the world and Turkey)’ in Ç. Çilingiroğlu, P.N. Özgüner (eds), Değisen Arkeoloji: 1. Teorik Arkeoloji Grubu-Turkiye Toplantisi Bildirileri (Changing Archaeology: Proceedings of The 1st TAG – Turkiye Meeting), Izmir (May 9–10, 2013). Istanbul, Ege Yayınları: 175–91 Arenas, V.I., Obediente, M.S. 1994: ‘Education and the political manipulation of history in Venezuala’ in P.G. Stone, R. MacKenzie (eds), The Excluded Past. Archaeology in Education. London, Routledge: 50– 59 Aronsson, P., Elgenius, G. (eds) 2011: Building National Museums in Europe 1750–2010: Conference Proceedings from EuNaMus, European National Museums: Identity Politics, the Uses of the Past and the European Citizen, Bologna 28–30 April, 2011 (Linköping Electronic Conference Proceedings 64). Linköping, Linköping University Electronic Press Bourdieu, P. 1990: The Logic of Practice. Stanford, Stanford University Press Chadwick, A. 1980: The Role of the Art Gallery in Community Education. Nottingham, Department of Adult Education, University of Nottingham Copeland, T. 2004: ‘Interpretations of history: constructing pasts’ in D. Henson, P.G. Stone, M. Corbishley (eds), Education and the Historic Environment. London, Routledge: 33–41 Corbishley, M. 2004: ‘English heritage education: learning to learn from the past’ in D. Henson, P.G. Stone, M. Corbishley (eds), Education and the Historic Environment. London, Routledge: 67–73 — 2011: Pinning Down the Past: Archaeology, Heritage, and Education Today. Woodbridge, The Boydell Press Corbishley, M., Stone P.G. 1994: ‘The teaching of the past in formal curricula in England’ in P.G. Stone, B.L. Molyneaux (eds), The Presented Past: Heritage, Museums and Education. London, Routledge: 383–97

Conclusion In this paper, I have intended to emphasise the best ways to protect and preserve archaeological and heritage sites by bringing out the pitfalls and potentials for increasing heritage awareness among communities. As discussed, the most effective way of improving heritage awareness is to increase the quality and contents of textbooks, and develop new reflexive teaching and learning strategies in formal education. In Turkey, however, the teaching of archaeology and heritage subjects is problematic and its importance has not yet been properly established, due to difficulties associated with the central education system, which does not allow teachers to develop and create effective ways of teaching different pasts, such as the prehistoric and antique periods, rather than only focusing on the Turkish, Ottoman and Islamic periods. For these reasons, pupils cannot gain a broader understanding of the past or properly understand the relevance of the past to their current and future societies. Of course, having limited knowledge about different pasts also affects the protection and preservation of the material cultures of different periods, and therefore, neglect, looting and in some cases destruction increase in many parts of Turkey. Lack of learning about archaeology and heritage in schools may be addressed by providing informal education through museums and archaeological projects. This is all the more possible in Turkey because there are hundreds of museums and archaeology projects, as mentioned above. As the concept of public archaeology is quite recent in Turkey, its projects need to focus on how to more effectively increase heritage awareness among communities. One of the first aims should be to learn more about the social, political and economic backgrounds of the communities and to measure their heritage perception; in other words, to assess their understanding and interpretation of the past and past knowledge and then follow up by assessing or testing the heritage education programmes for certain periods to determine their levels of success or failure among communities. Bibliography Apaydin, V. 2018a: ‘Who knows what? Inclusivity versus exclusivity in the interactions of heritage and local communities’ in V. Apaydin (ed.), Shared Knowledge, Shared Power. Engaging Local and Indigenous Heritage. New York and London, Springer: 29–44 — 2018b: ‘Introduction: approaches to heritage and communities’ in V. Apaydin (ed.), Shared Knowledge, Shared Power. Engaging Local and Indigenous Heritage. New York and London, Springer: 1–8

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Chapter 9: Apaydin. Publicising archaeology and heritage: the role of education and local museums Kasvikis, K., Vella, N., Doughty, L. 2007: ‘National curricula and the politics of archaeology’ in I. Hodder, L. Doughty (eds), Mediterranean Prehistoric Heritage: Training, Education and Management (McDonald Institute monographs). Cambridge, University of Cambridge: 129–45 MacDonald, S. 1998: ‘Exhibitions of power and powers of exhibition: an introduction to the politics of display’ in S. Macdonald (ed.), The Politics of Display: Museums, Sciences, Culture. London, Routledge: 1–21 Merriman, N. 2000: Beyond the Glass Case: The Past, the Heritage and the Public. London, Institute of Archaeology, University College London Millas, J.G. 1973: ‘Museums and lifelong education’ Museum 25.3: 157–64 Museums Australia 2000: Cultural Diversity Policy. Civic Square, ACT: Museums Australia Incorporated Pearson, M., Sullivan, S. 1995: Looking After Heritage Places. Carlton, Melbourne University Press Pye, E. (ed.) 2007: The Power of Touch: Handling Objects in Museum and Heritage Context. Walnut Creek, Left Coast Press Rüsen, J.T. 2007: ‘Introduction’ in J. Rüsen (ed.), Time and History: The Variety of Cultures. New York, Berghahn Books: 1–7 Schadla-Hall, R.T., 1999: ‘Editorial: public archaeology’ European Journal of Archaeology 2.2: 147–58 Smith, L. 2006: Uses of Heritage. Abingdon, Routledge Stone, P.G. 1985: ‘Education: an opportunity and an obligation?’ Rescue News 37:2 Stone, P.G., MacKenzie, R. 1994: ‘Introduction: the concept of the past’ in P.G. Stone, R. MacKenzie (eds), The Excluded Past: Archaeology in Education. London, Routledge: 1–11 Stone, P.G., Planel, P. (eds) 1999: The Constructed Past: Experimental Archaeology, Education and the Public. London, Routledge Zimmerman, L.J., Dasovich, S., Engstrom, M., Bradley, L. 1994: ‘Listening to the teachers: warnings about the use of archaeological agendas in classrooms’ in P.Stone, B. Molyneaux (eds), The Presented Past: Archaeology, Museums and Public Education. London, Routledge: 359–74

Crook, J.M. 1972: The British Museum. Harmondsworth, Penguin Press Crooke, E. 2007: Museums and Community: Ideas, Issues and Challenges. London, Routledge Cuno, J. 2008: Who Owns Antiquity? Museums and the Battle over our Ancient Heritage. Princeton, Princeton University Press Doughty, L. 2007: ‘The Turkish case’ in I. Hodder, L. Doughty (eds), Mediterranean Prehistoric Heritage: Training, Education and Management (McDonald Institute Monographs). Cambridge, University of Cambridge: 138–41 Foucault, M. 1991: ‘Governmentality’ in G. Burchell, C. Gordon, P. Miller (eds), The Foucault Effect: Studies In Govermentality. With Two Lectures by and an Interview with Michel Foucault. London, Wheatsheaf Harvester: 87–104 Freire, P. 2005: Education for Critical Consciousness. London, Continuum Gaedtke-Eckardt, D., Kempcke-Richter, C., Nübling, V., Damm, S. 1999: ‘Ur- und Frühgeschichte im Schulbuch’ Archäologische Informationen 22.2: 293– 97 Gazi, A. 2011: ‘National museums in Greece: history, ideology, narratives’ in P. Aronsson, G. Elgenius (eds), Building National Museums in Europe 17502010: Conference Proceedings from EuNaMus, European National Museums: Identity Politics, the Uses of the Past and the European Citizen, Bologna 28-30 April 2011 (Linköping Electronic Conference Proceedings 64). Linköping, Linköping University Electronic Press: 363–400 Halkon, P., Corbishley, M., Binns, G. (eds) 1992: The Archaeology Resources Book. London, Council for British Archaeology and English Heritage Henson, D. (ed.) 1996: Teaching Archaeology: A United Kingdom Directory of Resources. York, Council for British Archaeology Henson, D. 2004: ‘Archaeology in schools’ in D. Henson, P.G. Stone, M. Corbishley (eds), Education and Historic Environment. London, Routledge: 23– 32 Hudek, A. 2011: ‘National museums in Slovakia: nation building strategies in a frequently changing environment’ in P. Aronsson, G. Elgenius (eds), Building National Museums in Europe 1750-2010. Conference proceedings from EuNaMus, European National Museums: Identity Politics, the Uses of the Past and the European Citizen, Bologna 28-30 April 2011 (Linköping Electronic Conference Proceedings 64). Linköping, Linköping University Electronic Press: 817–46

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10. From site management to public archaeology in Turkey Işılay Gürsu

Although often disconnected from contemporary society, archaeology is a well-established discipline in Turkish academia (for different aspects of the history of Turkish archaeology, see Özdoğan, 1998 and Redford, Ergin 2010). There are currently 14,840 registered conservation sites, 95 per cent of which are archaeological sites (Ministry of Culture and Tourism, General Directorate for Cultural Assets and Museums 2015). One-hundred-and-fifty-six excavations, in addition to 99 archaeological field surveys, were conducted in 2015. Dependent on permissions from the Ministry of Culture and Tourism, and also subject to close control by the same central body, archaeological fieldwork in Turkey is defined by a set of rules and regulations. As the sole owner of all archaeological sites, the Ministry also has a central role in decisions regarding the management and presentation of archaeological heritage, an issue that has raised a lot of interest in the last decade. This heightened interest is reified by the promulgation of certain regulations introducing new concepts and tools in this field, one of which is the site management plan. Initially employed only by a handful of projects (for example, Pamukkale and Çatalhöyük), the number gradually rose after the official recognition and definition of these plans in 2004. In order to understand the current dynamics of the governmental approach to the presentation of archaeology, it is essential to provide a closer look at the initiatives designed to produce and promote site management plans, as well as to investigate various reasons why this tool has become commonplace in Turkey. This discussion is expected to shed light on whether there is any possibility of understanding and improving the relationship between society and archaeology through site management, in order to say how site management and its related activities relate to public archaeology.

Introduction The lands that comprise modern Turkey host traces of a deep history, materialised in the ruins belonging to many different civilisations over the millennia. The vast extent of archaeological remains makes them an inseparable part of the daily landscape. At times, in the minds of the beholders, these are associated with buried, long-lost golden treasures that are waiting for their fortune hunters (see Pulhan, this volume), or are revealing themselves in the dreams of religious leaders (see Tırpan, this volume). At times, they are connected with mystic stories, and they are often believed to be the resting places of souls (Shankland 2000). Contemporary communities that live beside these ruins sometimes internalise and embrace them as part of their own ‘heritage’; however, most of these archaeological remains belong to unknown, unwelcome or even precarious histories. Such an alienation from host communities represents a risk to archaeological heritage in Turkey, but certainly not the gravest risk. A rapidly expanding construction industry, endemic illicit excavations and looting, and ongoing armed conflict in the southeastern provinces and neighbouring countries are all potential threats. These human-induced risks are, in one way or another, the results of decisions taken by certain groups – including politicians, landowners, locals and the wider society – on what to do with these ruins. This complex and dynamic context demands a new and challenging examination of the methods and motivations that can be adopted to understand the values assigned to heritage by the different groups who create it, consume it, live beside it or even destroy it (Viejo-Rose, Stig Sørensen 2015). Public archaeology, as it investigates and seeks to improve the relationship between society and archaeology (Okamura, Matsuda 2011), embodies a comprehensive approach in pointing out deep-rooted problems, which in turn require an equally diligent response. This chapter argues that public archaeology, still in its infancy in Turkey, has the potential to offer an innovative perspective on the panorama of Turkish archaeology and its often fragile relationship with society, especially the local communities who live beside the archaeological sites.

Site management in Turkey Since the early 2000s, there have been many changes in the regulations that set the operational and theoretical framework for the management of archaeological heritage in Turkey. The main law in this field is titled the Law on Conservation of Cultural and Natural Property

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices (no. 2863). Enacted in 1983, it remained almost unchanged until 2004, the time which marks the beginning of a new era for cultural heritage policies. The official introduction of the site management concept occurred within this wave of legal restructurings. It was defined through an amendment to the abovementioned law no. 2863 and further explained in a dedicated regulation (no. 26006, enacted on 27.11.2005; English version of no. 2863 available at the UNESCO web-site: http://www.unesco.org/culture/natlaws/media/pdf/turkey/ turkey_lawconservationculturalnaturalproperty_1_entof). Partially inspired by the general political mood of the time, which was dominated by neo-liberal policies, these changes had a significant impact on the presentation and valorisation of archaeological heritage. Briefly, site management regulations designate what a plan should address, by whom it should be prepared and what the approval mechanism is, with targeted sections such as principles of site management. It defines a role for a site manager, and lists the qualifications required for those who will be appointed to the coordination, supervision and advisory commissions, as well as detailing which places fall within the management boundaries. For the site management plan to be approved, the commissions, composed of experts with a variety of qualifications, need to work together and in coordination with local authorities, NGOs, local communities and private landowners. Gülersoy-Zeren and Ayrancı describe the site management plan as a strategic plan bringing together related authorities and NGOs, with a focus on stakeholders (Gülersoy-Zeren and Ayrancı 2011) . Although there has been a lot of background work done on the site management issue (Madran 2009; Madran, Özgünel 2005; Orbaşlı 2013), we mainly owe the concept to Turkey’s increasingly successful attempts to have more sites inscribed on the UNESCO World Heritage List (WHL) over the last decade (for a detailed reading of the history of Turkey-WHL relations in a wider political and cultural context, see Atakuman 2010). Since 1994, new candidates for the list have been asked to submit a site management plan along with their application to the WHL (Cleere 2006). Subsequent to this requirement coming into force, up until 2011 only one site from Turkey (the Archaeological Site of Troy) had made it onto the list, in 1998 (Eres, Yalman 2013). After Troy, the first site to put together a site management plan leading to the inscription on the World Heritage List was Selimiye Mosque and the surrounding building complex in Edirne in 2011. This inscription opened the way for a new wave of applications from Turkey. As the number of site management plans increased, so did the nominees to the list.

The emergence, evolution and mechanisms of site management plans in Turkey have been discussed by different authors (for example, see Saraç 2014; Özgönül, Öz 2007; Kortanoğlu 2014). What makes the site management plan interesting for the purposes of this paper is that it is one of the first documents to provide a place for local communities to express their opinions. In the site management regulation (no. 26006), a relatively short document (2458 words in the Turkish version), civil society organisations are mentioned nine times and local communities and the public are mentioned four times (in Turkish, yerel toplum, yerel halk, toplum). In contrast, the main law (no. 2863), although five times longer than the regulation, does not make any reference to communities except where the site management concept is introduced. Over the last decade, various institutions have taken initiatives to prepare site management plans targeting different sites. The legislation formally authorises only two institutions (municipalities and the Ministry) to prepare plans. However, depending on the type of cultural property in question (for example, archaeological site, urban site, historical site, et cetera), site management plans have also been embraced by excavation and/or conservation and restoration teams, academics, or related experts like cultural heritage managers. This has led to the division of these initiatives into categories such as plans approved by the Ministry and submitted to UNESCO, draft plans that are being assessed by related commissions, or plans that do not seek official approval but are being employed as tools for site presentation, interpretation or other academic purposes. Table 10.1 lists some examples of Turkey-based site management plans along with the initiatives and motivations behind them. All plans that have been officially approved can be found in the list; the rest have been mentioned in the Yearly Excavation Results Reports (the Kazı Sonuçları Toplantısı series; see http://www.kulturv a r l i k l a r i . g o v. t r / T R , 4 4 7 6 0 / k a z i - s o n u c l a r i toplantilari.html), or are run as part of excavations or independent academic research projects (for example, through the Kaplan Fellowship at Koç University’s Research Center for Anatolian Civilizations) and advertised through various channels. Since the number of independent projects is on the rise as I write, the list is not meant to be exhaustive. According to the findings, these projects could be roughly categorised under four headings, which are not necessarily mutually exclusive. The first and most populated category is comprised of plans prepared by local municipalities (either metropolitan, metropolitan district, provincial or district). They are usually imple-

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Chapter 10: Gürsu. From site management to public archaeology in Turkey mented either by a dedicated office within the municipality or under the leadership of an independent expert as head of the project team. The second category involves projects led by archaeological excavation teams or university departments, or projects that are the product of independent academic research projects. In the third category, the ministry is directly involved in the preparation and implementation of the plan. Private initiatives, like foundations established for the sites in question or development agency-led projects, form the last category. Although it is too early to talk about numbers, initial observations indicate that the site management project’s host institution plays a great role in the way projects are shaped and delivered. The first point of interest is the already-mentioned link between the UNESCO WHL and the site management plans and their approval status; out of 24 examples, 18 of them are either on the WHL or on the tentative list. More than half of the management plans for the WHL sites have been prepared by municipalities. The roots of the heightened involvement of the municipalities can be found in their desire to promote their cities, or sites within their cities, as cultural tourism destinations. A closer look into the activities organised by municipalities confirms that local municipalities allocate more resources: for example, by having a dedicated office for site management with full-time staff, or by covering the expenses of a group of experts to write the plan. The commonplace practice of outsourcing the plan to a consulting company results in increased professionalism. However, as these companies are resultsoriented, longer negotiations with stakeholders or time spent listening to local communities’ demands are usually neglected. The short time span devoted to the preparation and delivery of the plans reflects these exclusions. One might think that local authorities would be more responsive to the needs of local communities, but projects end up placing great emphasis on expert opinion for the sake of efficiency, an issue which will be discussed below. Projects that are led by excavation teams or universities, on the other hand, have the potential to overcome this problem. They tend to focus on long-term needs and contributions to scholarly knowledge, which in itself requires documentation of different aspects of a site, including the traditions, perceptions and attitudes of local communities. Projects of this type are, however, usually under-funded and also at a disadvantage when negotiating with authorities who might be favouring increased tourism activities at the expense of scientific research. In some rare cases, projects start off as academic-based and then change to municipality-funded (for example, the Mudurnu Site Management project) – this both guarantees quality and increases the likelihood of implementation.

When the Ministry is directly involved in the preparation of the plan, as in four cases shown in Table 10.1, the central authority in the field is claiming ownership of the project. In comparison to an independent academic or private initiative, this involvement ensures an easier implementation, or at least a more straightforward approval process. However, site management might end up as yet another bureaucratic duty on the shoulders of already overworked personnel and affected by a chronic lack of resources. This set of circumstances would again compromise the time devoted to understanding communities. A brief look at the key concepts that can be extracted from the ‘aims’ sections of the site management plans (see Table 10.1) reveals that conservation and/or protection (19 out of 24) seems to be the most common theme. As a response to the current threats to archaeological heritage, this theme actually points to the need to keep cultural assets safe and ensure that they are not destroyed as an outcome of construction or development. The idea of conservation has always been the dominant discourse in cultural heritage policies in Turkey. A closer look would perhaps identify its origin in the Ottoman laws for preventing a black market in antiquities. This approach is characterised by prioritising efforts to stop the illegal transfer of antiquities out of Turkey – and this has been an impediment to pouring more energy into the development of innovative ideas for the presentation of antiquities to wider publics. The second observable category of ‘aims’ indicates a slow but visible shift in the discourse. It reflects increasing emphasis on the UNESCO WHL, tourism, coordination of authorities and the legacy for future generations. The newly emerging stance is also shaped by a much more complex set of laws that sees archaeological tourism as an economic resource to exploit. Accordingly, the fact that Turkish policymakers are now increasingly recognising site management as a viable option for the future of archaeological heritage hints at a changing mentality. Parallel to global trends and the rise of neo-liberal policies, this new mentality is characterised by a desire to introduce principles of economic efficiency into public services. The terminology used for this movement, ‘new public management’ (NPM), focuses on improved efficiency, effectiveness and financial stability (Ciarniene et al. 2005). NPM has served as the underlying philosophy in Turkish public-sector reform from 2002 onwards (Demir 2004). The archaeological assets are owned and conserved by the state and have traditionally been managed in a very centralised way. Their management is thus considered a public service as well and has not been exempt from this movement. Turkey’s increased

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices Management Plan (MP)

Location

Setting

Type

Institution

Çatalhöyük Site ÇumraMP Konya

rural

Archaeological site

Ministry & excavation team (draft plan within a EU Project)

Selimiye Mosque Complex MP

Edirne

urban

Istanbul Historical Peninsula MP

Istanbul

Key Concepts in the Aims Statements

Ministry UNESCO Approval WHL Site

coordination; conserva- yes tion & evaluation; universal value (UNESCO); future generations Urban conserva- Municipality (EU and conservation; future yes tion site & regis- International generations tered monument Relations Office)

yes

urban

Urban, archaeological & natural site, several registered monuments

Metropolitan Municipality (Site Management Directorship office)

yes

Bursa and Bursa Cumalıkızık MP

urban

Municipality (Site Management Directorship office)

Pergamon and Bergama/ its Multi-layered Izmir Cultural Landscape

urban

Urban conservation site, archaeological sites & several registered monuments Urban & archaeological site

participation of users & yes locals; coordination; universal value (UNESCO); transfer of the values of the site to the future conservation; intangible yes & tangible; universal heritage

conservation; coordination; future generations; creating a mechanism

yes

yes

Alanya Castle MP

Alanya/ Antalya

urban

Urban, archaeo- Municipality logical, historical & natural site

protection; sustainability; management; local citizens; visitors

no

tentative

Mudurnu Site MP

Mudurnu/ Bolu

urban

Urban conservation, archaeological site and several registered monuments

conservation; future yes generations; balance b/t protection & development; sustainable development; cultural tourism

Harran Site MP

Harran/ Urfa

rural

Urban & archae- Regional (GAP) conservation; tourism ological site Development Agency

yes

tentative

Göbeklitepe Site GöbekMP litepe / Urfa

rural

Archaeological site

Ministry / EU Project UNESCO; tourism

yes

tentative

Ephesus Management Area MP

Selçuk / Izmir

urban

Archaeological site

Ministry & District conservation; sustainMunicipality, support ability; participatory; from Development innovative approaches Agency

yes

yes

Commagene Nemrud MP

Adıyaman rural

Archaeological & natural site

University with conservation through Development Agency cultural tourism; improvement; development; sustainability

no

yes

Archaeological site

Geyre Foundation and conservation; evaluMinistry, prepared by ation; development; university meeting the cultural/educational needs of society

yes

tentative

Aphrodisias MP Aydın

rural

District Municipality

Municipality with District governorship, Tourism Foundation, Development Agency

Table. 10.1. List of sites with site management plans (2004–2006)

84

yes

yes

tentative

Chapter 10: Gürsu. From site management to public archaeology in Turkey Management Plan (MP)

Location

Setting

Type

Institution

Key Concepts in the Aims Statements

Ministry UNESCO Approval WHL Site

Ani MP

Kars

rural

Archaeological site

Ministry

mediate the cultural importance; protection; sustainability; users & visitors

yes

Aspendos Sustainable Development and Site MP

SerikAntalya

rural

Archaeological site

Excavation team & Foreign Research Institute

presentation; visitors; no conservation; local communities

tentative

participatory; coopera- yes tive management; conservation for future generations

yes

Diyarbakır Diyarbakır urban Fortress and Hevsel Gardens Cultural Landscape Site MP

Urban, archaeo- Municipality logical & natural site

Arslantepe Site MP

OrduzüMalatya

rural

Archaeological site

UNESCO; promotion; Excavation team & Municipality & dedi- use-conservation balcated Foundation & ance; tourism support: ‘Future Lies in Tourism’

Çaltılar Site MP ÇaltılarAntalya

rural

Archaeological site

Excavation team / development; protecno independent academic tion; local communities research

Küçükyalı Arkeopark MP

urban

Urban & archae- University and ological site excavation team, support from Development Agency

conservation; development; promotion in national and international arena; future generations

no

no

Güvercinkayası: Aksaray Prehistoric Cultural Heritage Site MP

rural

Archaeological site

Excavation team / graduate thesis

sustainable preservation; no documentation of traditional local communities’ lifestyles

no

Iznik Site MP

Bursa

urban

Archaeological & historical site

Provincial Municipality with support from Bursa Metropolitan Municipality

UNESCO

tentative

Sinop Historical Sinop Prison and its Surroundings Site MP

urban

Historical monument

Common Cultural functionalisation; urban no Heritage Preservation design; coordination; and Dialogue UNESCO betweenTurkey & the EU

no

Savur Site MP

urban

Archaeological & historical site

Regional (GAP evaluation through Southeast) Develtourism opment Office & İller Bankası

no

no

Divriği Site MP Sivas

urban

Historical monument

Foundation for Divriği

conservation

no

yes

Istanbul Land Walls Site MP

urban

Archaeological & historical site

Independent Academic

conservation; public access; monitoring of damages; re-development

no

yes

Istanbul

Mardin

Istanbul

85

no

yes

no

tentative

no

Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices emphasis on the UNESCO World Heritage List is a perfect example of how NPM affects archaeology. Salazar’s definition of world heritage sites as ‘par excellence, global heritage products’ (Salazar 2010: 135) is in line with the realisation of the economic potential of archaeological assets, mostly via tourism, and also with attempts to benefit from this underexploited resource. Another interesting outcome of NPM has been the introduction of Development Agencies in Turkey, where they were made governmental bodies by a special law in 2006 (Turan 2016). As Table 10.1 indicates, these agencies have started taking an active role in management plans, either by becoming directly involved in their preparation (for example, the Commagene Nemrud Site Management Plan), or by providing financial support (for example, the Mudurnu Site Management Plan, or the Küçükyalı Arkeopark Management Plan). Although not directly linked to site management, the Museum Card project is another example that reflects the new public management mindset regarding archaeological heritage. When the card was first promoted in 2008, for a very reasonable price (20 TL, around 6 euros based on the exchange rate in 2015) it gave Turkish visitors unlimited, year-round access to ministry-owned archaeological sites and museums. It was greatly welcomed by frequent visitors to museums, and 3,636,847 cards were sold from June 2008 to December 2012 (these numbers come from reports released by the Ministry of Culture Revolving Funds Administration in 2013). However, in 2013 the privileges of the card were changed substantially. In addition to a steep price increase (as of 2015, it costs 40TL), the number of times that a visitor could enter one museum/site was limited to two per year. When the card was first launched, the Culture Minister explicitly mentioned that its creation served to promote awareness about cultural properties and museums. He described it as a ‘social responsibility project that encouraged Turkish citizens to discover their own history and cultural richness’ (Haberler 2012). In due course, the card changed its social impetus to a commercial one, resulting in disappointment for its users (see Aktüel Arkeoloji 2013 and Sabah 2013). Nevertheless, it is still of extreme importance because, for the first time, officials were making reference to the lack of bonds between visitors and the archaeological sites and museums in Turkey. More than this, for the first time they were offering a product that might have an impact in that area. The museum card suffered from the same problem as site management plans: it was stuck between the realisation that local communities matter and neoliberal policies.

Beyond site management: alternative approaches to public archaeology in Turkey In line with its conceptualisation in this volume, public archaeology has two components, one is the analysis of the nature and general context of the relationship between archaeology and contemporary society, and the other is the attempt to improve this relationship (Okamura, Matsuda 2011). For the second component to happen, there needs to be a tight connection between practice and academic research: any fieldwork project needs to be planned and informed by the understanding of the wider theoretical and methodological issues and, vice versa, these need to be grounded in a direct experience with people. With this in mind, I do welcome the introduction of site management into the Turkish archaeological arena as an opportunity to create awareness and stimulate discussions about the future of archaeological heritage. There are some reservations, however, which stem from the fact that most of these projects are expert-led, and in general involve minimal interaction with the people who live beside the places subjected to site management. Although the abovementioned site management regulation envisages meetings that include local communities, the setting in which these people are expected to speak their minds is a very official one and therefore often represents an intimidating context. Further to this, the same regulation officially allows civil society organisations (CSOs) to participate in site management planning, potentially providing a venue for local groups to express their interests in the process. At present however, their contribution is rather negligible. In the Turkish context, the most relevant type of CSOs dealing with archaeological heritage are the “associations” (in Turkish: dernek); that is, non-profit groups formed by at least seven real or legal persons (Ministry of Interior, Department of Associations 2004, Law no. 5253). Associations are easy to establish and there are almost 110,000 of them working in many different spheres of Turkish society, collectively representing 14 per cent of the total population. But while the phenomenon of the dernek is an important aspect of civil participation, their relevance to the preservation of archaeological heritage in Turkey is still limited. As an example, out of 22,000 dernek operating in Istanbul (the largest UNESCO site in Turkey), only 60 (0.27%) are related to the protection of historical monuments (Ministry of Interior, Department of Associations 2015). Another reason why site management fails to raise and answer questions that matter to public archaeology is grounded in its translation into landscaping projects by many authorities. Landscaping projects refer to interventions into the sites for presentation purposes and usually

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Chapter 10: Gürsu. From site management to public archaeology in Turkey entail the construction of a visitor centre, parking lot and related service areas. The reflection of the emerging interest in site management and landscaping projects can in turn be seen in the way archaeologists working in Turkey have started to shape their projects. Although it is not very straightforward in every case to know whether they are taking this action willingly or have been directly or indirectly asked by the governing bodies to do so, the number of projects engaged in activities of this kind is on the rise. One of the sources that can back up this argument is excavation reports published by the Ministry of Culture and Tourism. Since 1979, the ministry has organised a yearly conference to bring together all the archaeologists working in Turkey to share the results of their work. An annual publication, which is a compilation of the reports on the previous year’s work, is one of the outcomes of this conference. The reports are a good way to see the changing trends in archaeology in Turkey. Özgüner has, for instance, used them as historical texts in order to look at the changing problems of archaeology in Turkey as well as communication between the state and the archaeologists since 1980 (Özgüner 2014). A simple comparison between the reports of 1990 and 2014 sheds light on how many excavation directors talk about landscaping projects, visitors and public/local communities (fig. 10.1). Fifty reports were submitted to the 1990 publication and, of these, 10 per cent mention landscaping projects and three include the word ‘visitor’. It was only in one report that ‘visitor’ and ‘landscaping project’ were mentioned together. The reading of 2014 reports is naturally richer in this regard, since the number of excavation reports has increased from 50 to 113. Almost 32 per cent of 112 reports mention ‘landscaping project’ and ‘visitor’. Most of these talk about overlap; in cases where they do not, a careful reading reveals that there is no doubt about for whom these landscaping projects were undertaken (visitors). When visitors are mentioned without reference to a landscaping project, it is usually the case that the project was completed in earlier years, so there is no need to list it again. Only one report mentions the concept of site management; instead, landscaping projects seem to be the tool adopted by excavation projects. One interesting finding is that public and local communities were not mentioned at all in the 1990 reports. However, 7 out of 112 reports in 2014 talk about public and local communities. The content refers either to the desire to share the information coming from scientific investigations with the general public or to create awareness among them about the site. Events organised

Fig. 10.1. Frequency of mentions of particular concepts (data from excavation results reports, 1990 & 2014: http://www.kulturvarliklari.gov.tr/TR,44760/kazisonuclari-toplantilari.html) for local communities are also mentioned. This development is an indication of an alternative approach to public archaeology that is not limited to site management or landscaping projects. Although the term itself has recently come into use in Turkey, the issues that public archaeology deals with were already at stake. One of the earliest examples was connected with the work of a legendary archaeologist, Halet Çambel, in Karatepe-Aslantaş, situated in the Taurus Mountains – a very difficult location to work in – in the late 1930s. The establishment of an open air museum at this inaccessible site and ensuring its protection by founding a national park around it, along with involvement in the daily life of the local communities so as to identify their needs and wishes and thereby encourage them to participate in the sustainable management of the site are testimonies to Çambel’s multi-disciplinary, multi-vocal and people-centred approach to archaeology (Özdoğan, Başgelen 2010). In 2004, Çambel received The Prince Claus Award in the Netherlands ‘for her dedicated scholarship and for her unique role in expanding the possibilities for interaction between people and their cultural heritage’ (Prince Claus Fund 2004). If this approach had become the exemplar for projects that followed in Turkey, we would probably have had very different results from a reading of the yearly excavation reports. This is not to say that there are no cases of good practice. Currently in Turkey, there are some exciting examples that fit very well with all the aims of public archaeology, such as the Children’s Limyra project, the

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices Aktopraklık ArkeoPark, the Sagalassos cultural heritage management project, and projects related to the local communities in Çatalhöyük. One outcome of this latter work was the publication of the site guard Sadrettin Dural’s story by a major American publisher (Left Coast Press). According to Stroulia and Sutton this ‘constitutes a radical break with archaeology-as-usual and opens a promising possibility for dialogue between locals and archaeologists. What makes this publication groundbreaking is that it focuses not on the site or the archaeologists working there but rather on the author’s life and its problems’ (Stroulia, Sutton 2009: 136). All of these examples are run as part of excavation projects, and I believe that excavation projects have more likelihood of connecting with society if they can distance themselves from the authorised heritage discourse (for this concept, see Smith 2006). Therefore, embracing site management as a tool and putting in enough effort to build a meaningful relationship with society, where the rules of engagement are also dependent on the mutual exchange of ideas, is the way forward. This is the approach that sets the theoretical background for the BIAA’s cultural heritage management project.

With this general principle in mind, the first leg of the project concentrated on the ancient city of Aspendos, located 30 km from Antalya in a rural part of Serik district. This part of the project was carried out alongside excavations on site directed by Assoc. Prof. Veli Köse, from Hacettepe University’s Archaeology Department. The Sustainable Development and Site Management project for Aspendos has two main aspects. The first is to understand the meaning and significance of Aspendos to the people living beside it or visiting it. The second is to better present ongoing scientific works at the site in line with the expectations of locals and visitors, as revealed by the first aim of the project. The initial necessary step was to ask people what their current attitudes and expectations were. This was achieved through the efforts of Güldem Baykal, a social anthropologist from Istanbul University, who conducted interviews with the local community in order to understand their attachment to and perceptions about Aspendos. Moreover, Hakan Tarhan from Boğaziçi University conducted on-site interviews for a visitor survey, speaking with 300 international and Turkish visitors and 50 professional tour guides. I myself conducted in-depth visitor interviews at the site with a smaller group of visitors. These three sets of interviews have revealed interesting results, which help the team to understand the ways in which visitors and local people interpret the site, and shed light on the ‘everydayness’ of an archaeological site visit. The results from the long conversations with the local communities can be studied from an anthropological perspective (see Baykal Büyüksaraç, Gürsu 2017) but they also led to some both expected and unexpected findings, which have been integrated into the site management plan. In addition to the quantitative data collected by face-to-face questionnaires, in-depth interviews with visitors, and information collected through participant observation method in the field survey and the excavations, these results form the base of our people-centred approach to site management. The second aspect was to better present the site in the light of new scientific investigations in order to respond to the needs of the people who were interviewed. In this context, plans for the new visitor centre for Aspendos, as well as designs for information boards and visiting routes, were prepared by the project with the involvement of architect Emrah Koskeroglu. It was particularly important to design them in such a way as to ensure that there will be spaces available for the local community to use for activities. The emphasis placed on interaction with communities on the ways they want to be integrated is the strongest public archaeology component of the project, which would otherwise be just another conventional site

Case studies: the Aspendos and Pisidia Projects The Cultural Heritage Management (CHM) project of The British Institute at Ankara (BIAA) was set up in 2013 and has largely been funded by the Headley Trust, the BIAA and private sponsors. Since its inception, this project has concentrated on the ancient city of Aspendos in Pamphylia and on the ancient Pisidia region. Both projects aim at creating a ‘road map’ that lays out guidelines for the implementation of an archaeological heritage management plan. The road map focuses on the documentation and preservation of archaeological sites, with local collaboration, for sustainable socio-economic benefits. A principle of public archaeology which the project aims to adopt is collaborative engagement to promote local awareness of a site’s rich and diverse archaeological and landscape heritage. This can be achieved through a mutual learning process. The current level of knowledge and interest in archaeology and landscape, as well as local perceptions of the past, and issues of heritage and ‘ownership’ or ‘guardianship’ need to be better assessed by experts. In turn, the community needs a better understanding of the work of archaeologists and the processes used to create archaeological arguments and knowledge. It is through engagement of this kind that the people ‘living by the ruins’ will be equipped with the skills to maintain and present their heritage to visitors in the most meaningful way.

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Chapter 10: Gürsu. From site management to public archaeology in Turkey management project. For the sake of fostering this interaction and in an attempt to convey the local communities’ perceptions about the site to visitors, a question-andanswer day was organised in conjunction with writing the contents of the new information boards. A number of selected local people (among them, workmen from the excavation, women who worked at the excavation house, and a retired tourism professional who settled in the village nearby) were given a tour of the site and encouraged to ask what they would like to know about the monuments and the place in general. In another effort designed to foster the role of Aspendos in the economic, social and cultural dynamics of the local communities, a ‘meeting with the children’ day has been organised every year. Since 2015, the archaeology team has met and spent a day with local children during the excavation season. Although various games – including setting up an excavation pool with pre-buried ceramics inside – seem to be the highlight of the event, the aim is not to ‘educate’ the children or teach them how to do archaeology or define what it means. The idea is to spend some time together which will be memorable for everyone and to make the effort to replicate the work that archaeologists are doing in the ruins, work which is still a source of curiosity and fascination for the children. The attempt to create this link with the host communities’ children, is actually a response to Merriman’s findings from a public attitudes survey in the UK about people’s attachment to the past and heritage (Merriman 1991). The survey revealed a distinction between personal past and impersonal heritage. In Turkey, people, especially locals, tend to see ancient remains as impersonal heritage, if heritage at all. Therefore, in order to foster care and awareness, it is crucial to build a relationship between children and the archaeological sites, so that the sites become part of their personal past. The second leg of the BIAA’s CHM project regards Pisidia. Pisidia is the ancient name of a region in southern Turkey that lies within the boundaries of the modern provinces of Antalya, Isparta and Burdur. This highland region stretches north from the coastal plain of Antalya as far as lakes Burdur, Egridir, and Beysehir. It has many exquisitely preserved archaeological sites. Amongst them, Cremna, Ariassos, Sia, Pednelissos, Selge, Melli, Adada, Kapıkaya, Sagalassos and Termessos are the best known. These sites, which are hidden amongst the beautiful forests of Pisidia, offer a unique and quasipoetic experience to their rare visitors. Archaeologists affiliated with the BIAA have conducted research in Pisidian cities for almost 30 years. Over the course of that time, they have witnessed worsening conditions at most of these sites due to illicit digging and neglect.

As a possible solution to these problems, the second part of the BIAA’s cultural heritage management project, ‘Archaeological and Eco-tourism for the Ancient Region of Pisidia’, is directed at this region. The project aims to promote the cultural and natural heritage of the region for visitors who enjoy off-the-beaten track experiences, and to implement a sustainable management plan which will enable the local communities to offer proper visitor facilities within the guidelines of eco-tourism. It plans to do so by creating awareness about the archaeological heritage of the region among both people who live beside the ancient ruins and tourists who could potentially visit these sites. This ambitious approach to archaeological heritage management required employing an innovative method to address the whole region as one destination, and to understand the needs and expectations of different communities. It was equally important to make sure that the method was not too academic or complex, so that it could be easily communicated to both the public and the officials whose approvals, permissions and support would be needed at different stages. One initiative in this context has been the Pisidia Heritage Trail, which is a long-distance trekking trail. The concept of long-distance walking trails is becoming quite well known in Turkey, thanks to earlier examples like the Lycian Way and St Paul Trail. An increasing number of people have been walking these trails: visitors to the Lycian Way, a 540 km-long trail, have reached 30,000 per year, making a visible impact on the local economy. For example, when the Lycian Way was first established in 1999, there were seven accommodation units available; this rose to 80 pensions in 2014 (personal communication with Kate Clow, the Culture Routes Society). Creating such a trail in Pisidia made it possible to address all the issues at stake when promoting a whole region as one destination by targeting an interested and sensitive group of visitors who were welcomed by the locals, and using the already-existing fame of the Lycian Way to communicate our aim. The Pisidia Heritage Trail connects different archaeological sites located in the ancient region of Pisidia to one another, using the remnants of 2000-year-old ancient roads. Where these ancient roads are not traceable, narrow paths that are still used by local villagers are chosen. Following several weeks of fieldwork, the trail has now taken its final shape. Nine individual routes amount to a total of 370 km, connecting 12 major archaeological areas. The Pisidia Heritage Trail not only concentrates on trekking per se, but also reflects a holistic approach which was intended to promote understanding of various characteristics of the region, including its geography, archaeology, plants and most importantly its present-day living culture. This knowledge has been

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices accumulated as a result of 30 years of archaeological fieldwork in the region in addition to the work of the current cultural heritage management project and the various experts that the project is consulting. The Pisidia Heritage Trail involves archaeologists willing to communicate the importance and meaning of their work to the general public in order to raise awareness of cultural heritage. It promotes a people-centred approach to the protection and interpretation of heritage.

Ciarniene, R., Sakalas, A., Vienazindiene, M. 2005: ‘Strategic thinking in New Public Management’ Frontiers Of E-Business Research 4: 760–74 Cleere, H. 2006: ‘The World Heritage Convention. Management for and by whom?’ in R. Layton, S. Shennan, P. Stone (ed.), A Future for Archaeology. London, Routledge: 65–74 Demir, Ö. 2004: Kamu Yonetiminin Yeniden Yapilandirilmasi ve Kamu Yonetimi Temel Kanunu Tasarisi. Eres, Z., Yalman, N. 2013: ‘National concerns in the preservation of the archaeological heritage within the process of globalization: a view from Turkey’ in P.F. Biehl, C. Prescott (eds), Heritage in the Context of Globalization: Europe and the Americas. New York, Springer: 33–35 Gülersoy-Zeren, N., Ayrancı, İ. 2011: Koruma Alanlarında Yönetim Planı. Istanbul, İTÜ Çevre ve Şehircilik Uygulama ve Araştırma Merkezi Haberler 2012: ‘Günay’dan Önemli Açıklamalar’. http://www.haberler.com/bakan-gunay-erken-rezervasyonda-2013-hedefi-2-5-4184171-haberi Klamer, A. 2014: ‘The values of archaeological and heritage sites’ Public Archaeology Journal 13.1–3: 59–70 Kortanoğlu, M.S. 2014: ‘Arkeolojik alanlarda alan yönetimi planlamasının hukuksal ve kuramsal boyutu’ in A. Özfırat (ed.), Veli Sevin’e Armağan. Arkeolojiyle Geçen Bir Yaşam İçin Yazılar (Essays in Honour of Veli Sevin A Life Immersed in Archaeology). Istanbul, Ege Yayınları: 387–93 Madran, E. 2009: Alan Yönetimi. Istanbul, TMMOB Madran, E., Özgünel, N. 2005: Kültürel ve Doğal Değerlerin Korunması. Istanbul, TMMOB Merriman, N. 1991: Beyond the Glass Case: The Past, the Heritage, and the Public in Britain. Leicester, Leicester University Press Ministry of Culture and Tourism, General Directorate for Cultural Assets and Museums 2015. Statistics on the number of registered sites. http://www.kulturvarliklari.gov.tr/TR,44973/turkiyegeneli-sit-alanlari-istatistikleri.html Ministry of Interior, Department of Associations 2004: Associations Law, No, 5253, Date and Issue of Official Gazette: 23/11/2004 No: 25649. https://www.dernekler.gov.tr/en/Statute/Compiledstatute-Laws/5253_Associations-Law.aspx — 2015: Statistics related to associations in Turkey. https://www.dernekler.gov.tr/en/default.aspx Okamura, K., Matsuda, A. 2011: ‘Introduction: new perspectives in global public archaeology’ in K. Okamura, A. Matsuda (eds), New Perspectives in Global Public Archaeology. New York, Springer: 1–19

Conclusion In his brilliant synthesis regarding the valorisation of heritage, Klamer mentions that once an artwork or a site of historic importance is valued by outsiders, it is more likely to be noticed by the communities who create or live beside it. In many cases, it is through the appreciation of others that they come to value their own heritage. In this vein, he states that ‘the UNESCO World Heritage List, or, for that matter any listing of heritage has that very purpose: to make people aware of the values of certain heritage items’ (Klamer 2014: 63). Seen from this perspective, the idea of the WHL and Turkey’s attempts to have more sites on the list, in parallel to site management professionalisation, might have an impact on the relationship between society and archaeology. However, as this paper has tried to demonstrate, the way site management plans are currently being practised in Turkey is more inspired by neo-liberal policies, resulting in movements like new public management, than by trying to better situate archaeology in contemporary society. Currently, most site management literature is coming from urban planners, architects and/or conservators in Turkey, but it is time to integrate anthropologists, sociologists and even psychologists for a deeper understanding of the relationship between society and archaeology and cultural assets. This is the case because any arrangement for the management of archaeological heritage has to consider the people who live beside, visit, protect, damage or consume this heritage in their different ways. Bibliography Aktüel Arkeoloji 2013. ‘Museum card problem’. http://www.aktuelarkeoloji.com.tr/muze-kart-sorunu Atakuman, Ç. 2010: ‘Value of heritage in Turkey: history and politics of Turkey’s world heritage nominations’ Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 23.1: 107–31 Baykal Büyüksaraç, G., Gürsu, I. 2017: ‘Local economy and women’s labour in the context of cultural heritage: the Aspendos (Belkıs) case’ in G. Şimşek (ed.), Women and Cultural Heritage. Aydın, Adnan Menderes University: 339–57

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Chapter 10: Gürsu. From site management to public archaeology in Turkey Orbaşlı, A. 2013: ‘Archaeological site management and local development’ Conservation and Management of Archaeological Sites 15.3–4: 237–53 Özdoğan, M. 1998: ‘Ideology and archaeology in Turkey’ in L. Meskell (ed.), Archaeology Under Fire: Nationalism, Politics and Heritage in the Eastern Mediterranean and Middle East. London, Routledge: 111–23 Özdoğan, M., Başgelen, N. 2010: ‘İş’i Görev, Arkeoloji’yi Bilgi, Bilim’i Değer Olarak Gören Bir İnsan: Prof. Dr. Halet Çambel’ in M. Özdoğan, N. Başgelen, A. Öztan (eds), Halet Çambel - Nimet Özgüç T.C.Kültür Bakanlığı 2010 Yılı Kültür - Sanat Büyük Ödülü. Istanbul, Arkeoloji ve Sanat Yayınları: 5–36 Özgönül, N., Öz, B.N. 2007: ‘Arkeolojik alanların yönetiminin anahatları’ in E. Madran, E. Bozkurt (eds), Korumada Yeni Tanımlar Yeni Kavramlar Alan Yönetimi. Ankara, TMMOB: 267–70 Özgüner, P. 2014: ‘Türkiye arkeolojisinde problemler ve farklı kimliklerin oluşumu: kazı sonuçları toplantısı yayınlarının incelenmesi’ in P. Özgüner, Ç Çilingiroğlu (eds), Changing Archaeology, Proceedings of the 1st TAG-Turkey Meeting. Istanbul, Ege Yayınları: 105–21 Prince Claus Fund 2004: Award justification. https://orientationtrip2010.files.wordpress.com/2010 /02/prince-claus-fund-in-turkey-nigeria-and-mali.pdf Redford, S., Ergin, E. (eds) 2010: Perceptions of the Past in the Turkish Republic: Classical and Byzantine Periods. Leuven, Peeters Sabah 2013: ‘A back step in Museum Card’. http://www.sabah.com.tr/turizm/2013/01/21/muzekar tta-geri-adim

Salazar, N.B. 2010: ‘The globalization of heritage through tourism: balancing standardization and differentiation’ in S. Labadi, C. Long (eds), Heritage and Globalization. London, Routledge: 130–47 Saraç, D. 2014: ‘Site management in Turkey’ in S. Thomas, J. Lea (eds), Public Participation in Archaeology. Woodbridge, The Boydell Press: 161–75 Shankland, D. 2000: ‘Villagers and the distant past: three seasons’ work at Küçükköy, Çatalhöyük’ in I. Hodder (ed.), Towards Reflexive Method in Archaeology: The Example at Çatalhöyük. London, British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara: 167–77 Smith, L. 2006: Uses of Heritage. Oxon, Routledge Stroulia, A., Sutton, S.B. 2009: ‘Archaeological sites and local places: connecting the dots’ Public Archaeology 8.2–3:124–40 Turan, H.T. 2016: ‘Reconstruction of regional development policies in Turkey through development agencies’ in Y. Demirkaya (ed.), New Public Management in Turkey: Local Government Reform. New York, Routledge: 128–52 UNESCO 2005: ‘Regulation on the Substance and Procedures of the Establishment and Duties of the Site Management and the Monument Council and Identification of Management Sites’, number 26006. http://www.unesco.org/culture/natlaws/media/pdf/tur key/turkey_regulationsubstanceproceduresestablish mentsitemanagementmonumentcouncil_15_entof Viejo-Rose, D., Stig Sørensen, M.L. 2015: ‘Cultural heritage and armed conflict: new questions for an old relationship’ in E. Waterton, S. Watson (eds), The Palgrave Handbook of Contemporary Heritage Research. Basingstoke, Palgrave Macmillan: 281–96

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11. Informal tourism at the edge of a tangible heritage: feminised performances of street vending in Aspendos/Belkıs Güldem Baykal Büyüksaraç

muttered: ‘I’d better go jaunting. It’s no fun to linger here.’ Hasan responded to her: ‘Why did you come over here today?!’ ‘Only to rest,’ Elif replied. ‘We’re chatting, killing time,’ Hatice added. The locals would usually avoid being explicit about their real purpose in spending most of their day at the souvenir stalls. They wanted to look as if they came over to aqueducts every day to pass the time rather than to bring money home, yet one could sense that competition was in the air.

Introduction: reflections from the field Belkıs, 3 February 2016 Morning – It was a sunny and breezy day in Belkıs. I was hoping to mingle with the women as they waited for tourists around the ancient aqueducts. ‘Serving Turkish delights could be a good start,’ I thought. I was feeling a bit restless, because gift-giving in the field is a serious thing – one should be tactful about what to give and how to give it. I swung by each and every souvenir stall to serve the sweets. I was much relieved when the first exchange of pleasantries was over. Then I walked toward the stall that looked the most crowded.

Elif was talking to Füsun: ‘No tourists at all! Zerrin has already packed her stuff and left. Let’s go, too. It’s too cold to wait here.’ Füsun (early sixties) was knitting a shawl as she chatted. They didn’t feel like packing up, instead, they kept talking about their husbands, daily chores, meals they cook, their illnesses and so on. Hatice was knitting booties at the next stall. She used to sell one pair for 10 euros when the business was profitable, whereas now the daily income from a souvenir stall was no more than 20 euros.

Noontime – ‘Heeeyy! I collected peanuts in the morning… I’m going home to deal with them.’ That was Hafize,1 a sweet, amusing woman in her seventies. Hasan (early forties), one of a few male street vendors (tezgahçı) in the village, could not miss the chance to tease the old woman: ‘Sure you can! You came too early in the morning!’ Hafize would not admit it: ‘No way! Your stall had been set up when I came here!’ ‘That was yesterday!’ Hasan responded. ‘First come first go,’ Elif (late fifties) cut in. It was extremely significant for all vendors who set up their stalls early in the morning, who sold what and who earned how much during the day. It seemed that the daily conversations in Belkıs mostly revolved around these issues, leaving aside the talks about the harvesting and selling of fruit, or land-use conflicts with the state. I had been loitering around the stalls until Elif invited me over, pointing at the empty chair next to her. ‘It’s chilly today,’ she said. I was both eager and hesitant to start a conversation: ‘Yes, a windy day indeed!’ Meanwhile, Hasan, Elif and Hatice (mid-fifties) continued to chitchat. It was all small talk, which barely helped kill time while waiting for tourists, and at times it sounded like monologues. Hasan broke the silence: ‘Uncle Ali finally sold his oranges…’ Next, Elif 1

Elif was first to see the approaching tour bus: ‘There’s one coming, gözünüz aydın (congratulations)! Allah hayırlı müşteriler versin herkese (May God grant everyone good customers)! Are they from Japan?’ It turned out that she was wrong, and the bus was full of domestic tourists. (I was clueless about how she made a guess anyway.) Some visitors rushed into the village, passing through the aqueducts, while others began strolling around the stalls. A young man approached Elif’s spot, greeting her in Turkish: ‘Hello, good luck with that.’ ‘Welcome! Welcome!’ Elif greeted him in return. The man turned around to make a quick announcement to the group: ‘These valuable people are selling nice souvenirs. Feel free to buy!’ A few visitors had already started to bargain while the rest of the group barely glanced at the items. ‘How much is a cup of pomegranate juice?’ a woman asked Elif. ‘One euro for tourists (non-Turkish), which makes 3 liras. You can have it for 1 lira though!’ A couple of minutes later, another woman came over to bargain for anything she saw on the counter. Right at that moment we noticed that

I use pseudonyms for all the individuals mentioned in this chapter.

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices a cup of (the very same) fruit juice was being sold for 3 liras at the next stall. ‘3 liras! What a shame!’ Elif murmured quietly. Her own customer, in the meantime, would try her luck for every item she thought of purchasing, but only to put it back, as they never agreed on a price. In the end the woman gave up shopping, obviously annoyed: ‘May God bless your business, dear (Allah satış versin canım)!’ Elif was quick to reply: ‘Goodbye (hadi güle güle)!’ As soon as the woman left, Elif began grumbling: ‘I’ll never give that for free! I sell it for 10 euros!’ Then she turned to me and said, ‘You can’t do business with the Turks anyway!’ Meanwhile, two cars had been parked next to the tour bus, one with a license plate number of Ankara and the other of Kayseri, both full of ‘foreigners (ecnebi).’ As a middle-aged man was approaching the stall, Elif greeted him first in English: ‘Hellooo!’ The man just smiled as he nodded his head, not uttering a word. Elif would not finish the day without selling anything, so she went on asking:

restricted and bureaucratised; street vendors, for example, are not allowed to sell their items inside the acropolis. Others are political and economic: inhabitants are excluded from planning and policy-making, and neoliberal heritage management policies usually work against local expectations of tourism income. A major concern of this study is how such processes of marginalisation complicate people’s daily interactions with the archaeological ruins that they live next to. In this piece, I will focus on the economic aspect of these interactions, exploring how the Belkıs women try to cope with the structures of power and economic forces through the everyday strategies and tactics they deploy to find their niche in heritage tourism. The discussion here is based on the field research I intermittently carried out between 2014 and 2016 around the Pamphylian city of Aspendos (modern-day Belkıs in Antalya province, southwest Turkey), as part of a cultural heritage management (CHM) project designed with a ‘people-based approach’ (Gürsu, Vandeput 2015).2 The overarching question that framed this larger project was what it means for the locals to live by the ruins of Aspendos, a ‘heritage site’ recently added to the tentative UNESCO list (April 2015). The acropolis of Aspendos is situated on a flat-topped hill near the ancient Eurymedon River (now the Köprüçay), standing some 30 m above the surrounding plains that are today home to a shrinking rural population, including the Belkıs community among which I conducted my fieldwork (for a more detailed description of Aspendos, see Kessener 2000: 104–05; Lanckoronski 1890: 115–23, cited in Kessener 2000). Belkıs is one of the 66 neighbourhoods (mahalle) of the Serik district (ilçe belediyesi), having lost its municipal (belde belediyesi) status in 2014 due to a local government reform that entailed municipal boundary readjustments.3 Its local community is largely composed

‘Deutch? Guten Tag! Hello! Name? Name?’ ‘Reinhardt,’ finally came a response. ‘Kinder? Ein? Zwei?’ ‘Zwei.’ Afternoon – I was now in company with Melek (Elif’s elder sister in her early sixties), Füsun and Fatoş (midthirties). Perched on chairs, we were enjoying the sun in Melek’s ‘garden,’ an empty green space behind her souvenir stall. (It was a garden without fences – an oxymoron for modern times.) The other side of the aqueducts, where I had spent almost half of my day, was still shady and windy. Elif, having finally packed up her stuff, stopped by on her way back home to chitchat with us for a minute or two. As she served the leftover Turkish delights, I asked, ‘How was business today?’ She looked bored: ‘Two more buses came, that’s it.’ Then she got up and made her way home to cook dinner. We said goodbye to her and carried on chatting. I turned to Melek, and asked: ‘Aunt Melek, you are one of the earliest street vendors of the village, right?’ She nodded and started to tell her story.

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In this chapter, I stroll around the edges of a heritage site, witnessing how the women of a nearby village are engaged in an informal tourist economy. ‘Edge’ is key to this case, providing a metaphor for the very marginality that marks the ethnographic context I engage with. Marginalisation operates in these women’s lives as various intersecting axes of displacement, dispossession and disempowerment. One axis is spatial: local residents’ interactions with the built environment are highly

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This work has been supported by the British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara, the Headley Trust, and Istanbul University Scientific Research Project (BAP) Office (Project Code: BYP-2017-26831). Special thanks are due to Işılay Gürsu and Lutgarde Vandeput for giving me the opportunity to collaborate with them on their Aspendos project, and to the Belkıs community for being very generous in offering help and time. I am also grateful to Gürsu and the reviewers for their constructive comments on the original version of this chapter. Law No. 6360, issued in 2012 as a sequel to an earlier act that similarly nullified the municipal status of certain districts (Law No. 5747 in 2008), abolished the legal entity of settlements with fewer than 2000 inhabitants. Based on the same law, many Anatolian cities (including Antalya) were granted metropolitan municipality status, and as of April 2014, all their villages (köy) and town municipalities (belde) that could not meet the population criterion were transformed into neighbourhoods under the same names. For the historical background of the recent local government reform, see Bayraktar, Massicard 2012

Chapter 11: Baykal Büyüksaraç. Informal tourism at the edge of a tangible heritage of patrilineal and patrilocal families (self-named Türkmen) with a common tribal (yörük) past, whose ancestors are known to have settled down around Aspendos at the beginning of the 20th century. The population (today estimated at around 1800) has been steadily decreasing as a consequence of emigration due to unemployment and/or conservation-related limitations on villagers’ relationships with the built environment (for example, restrictions on construction activities, including minor housing renovations). The quarter next to the Roman aqueducts, locally called Camili Küme Evleri, was selected as the main ethnographic site for this study, largely because it is a significant tourist destination where at least five or six tour buses arrive on a daily basis. The area around the aqueducts is the only location where the locals are officially allowed to sell souvenirs. Street vending is an important commercial activity in Belkıs, and this is the case especially for women. The annual calendar runs from early October through June, by which time the temperature has already reached 30 degrees centigrade. A drastic decrease has been observed in the contribution of street vending to household economy, partly as a consequence of the crisis currently being experienced in international tourism in Turkey; however, in the recent past it was a crucial source of income for local families, and moreover, a site of women’s agency, as will be argued in this chapter.

Such emphasis on state territoriality concerning natural sites is suggestive for our understanding of conservation in general, including the preservation of archaeological heritage. The law (No. 2863 in the Turkish context) commands that all immovable cultural assets and conservation areas are subject to state ownership and protection in trust ‘for the use and benefit of the public’ (Pulhan 2009; see also Özel 1997). This implies that the state retains the authority not only to control and supervise the heritage sites,4 but also to impose restrictions on locals’ access to public domains (de facto common lands) and even to intervene in alterations to the fabric of private properties in the immediate vicinity. The crux of the matter lies in the idea of ‘public benefit.’ For not only is ‘what is beneficial for the public’ a highly contested matter, and not only is there usually a remarkable gap between experts’ and local communities’ definitions of benefit, but also one is not always certain what ‘public’ stands for in real life. This uncertainty begs the question of who will use the heritage site and for which purpose. Kamu, ‘public’ in Turkish, is a highly ambivalent term. It stands for the entire body of state institutions in charge of civil service, on the one hand, and it indicates the body politic, assumed to comprise all the people in a particular country to whom the state extends its services, on the other. In either case the category of public is tightly connected with the state. The law of conservation in Turkey, however, especially in its recent shape, seems to nullify an idea of public benefit, or public good, or public interest that is conventionally opposed to private interest. Since the early 2000s, a significant shift has been observed in the Turkish state’s perspective on conservation areas, as a typical result of neoliberal cultural policies on the rise (Pulhan 2009). It is not that the recent legal regulations nullify state authority over archaeological sites, but they serve to institutionalise a highly pragmatic understanding of CHM,5 paving the way for speedy privatisation and decentralisation.6 More

Aspendos as an archaeological site and tourist destination Similar patterns and processes of conservation recur across the world, because its conception ‘lies with the origins and characteristics of the modern state, particularly the assumption of territorial sovereignty, and, more generally, with the expression of modernity as a project of rational ordering to achieve “progress” and “development”’ (Neumann 2004: 184). If we look at the early examples of natural conservation in the West/North – but through the writings of revisionist historians – we see that the preservation of ‘wilderness’ goes hand in hand with the history of reservations, with the devastating invasion of Native American lands, with the history of dispossession, displacement and enclosures of the commons (that is, the transference of lands and resources from communal ownership to public or private ownership). Thus, as a state project of socio-spatial ordering, conservation is akin to sedentarisation, concentration and reservation. All these processes entail exclusion and marginalisation of certain population segments: nomadic groups, indigenous peoples, forest dwellers and rural residents, alienated from control over territory and resources (Zerner 1996).

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The main institution in Turkey responsible for protecting the heritage sites is the Ministry of Culture and Tourism. ‘Site management’ was legally recognised in 2004 with the amendments made to the Law of Conservation of Cultural and Natural Assets (No. 5225). The new regulation was officially interpreted at the time as a necessity to establish a legal framework for site management plans to be proposed in applications for the inclusion of cultural assets in Turkey on the UNESCO World Heritage List. The following laws were enacted in the 2000s to promote involvement of the private sector in the management and preservation of heritage sites and to transfer authority over them to local governments: the Law of Conservation of Cultural and Natural Assets (No. 2863), the Law of Incentives for Cultural Investments and Enterprises (No. 5225), the Law on Conservation by Renovation and Use by Revitalization of the Deteriorated Historical and Cultural Immovable Property (No. 5336), the Foundation Law (No. 5737). For more details on recent legislation concerning cultural heritage management, see Pulhan 2009.

Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices precisely, they promote the involvement of the private sector in the management and preservation of heritage sites, and also transfer authority over these sites to local governments. As a result, public-private partnerships are established in museums and archaeological sites to implement profit-oriented management models. In the ancient city of Aspendos, for example, there are currently (as of 2016) six different revenue-generating spots inside: the ticket office operated by the Turkish Travel Agencies Association (TÜRSAB) and the facilities (parking lot, photo service, lavatories, snack bar and gift shop) managed by Bilintur Inc. The Central Directorate of Revolving Funds (DÖSİMM), operating under the Ministry of Culture and Tourism, has similarly signed protocols with both operators for the management of many other heritage sites and museums across Turkey. With all these developments indicating a CHM policy fixated on the economic aspect of heritage,7 it is not surprising that in a city like Antalya – which until recently attracted 10 to 11 million tourists annually – archaeological sites or cultural assets are often treated almost exclusively in terms of their potential for tourism. Aspendos, which in 2015 hosted 335,636 visitors and made an annual revenue of 5,226,085 Turkish Liras from entrance fees alone, is particularly appreciated for being among the top ten most visited and most profitable museums and ruins in Turkey. The Roman Theatre of Aspendos is of central importance for the tourism economy of the city. Originally built as a venue for performing arts in the second century AD, the theatre has been used for various purposes up to this day: as a palace during Seljuk times, as a wrestling arena until the 1970s on Atatürk’s advice, as an international festival venue operated by the Turkish State Opera and Ballet from the mid-1990s onwards, and occasionally as a stage leased out to dance companies such as the popular Turkish group Anatolian Fire. The theatre can be regarded as an opportunity for the local community’s economic improvement and wellbeing in that it provides employment opportunities at least in high seasons. The ongoing excavation at the ruins near the theatre is yet another income resource for the Belkıs residents, particularly for young men keen on earning money at a summertime job with social insurance.

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The formal tourism industry in Antalya, and around Aspendos in particular,8 works in conjunction with an informal retail and service sector, as is the case in many other parts of Turkey. Past experience in the informal sector is marked by gender-based division of labour. In times when state regulations were somewhat less strict, local men would bring ‘guests’ to the ruins and the ancient theatre, whereas women would serve them homemade gözleme and fresh fruit juice and sell handicrafts. Locals’ share in tourism revenue has recently decreased in Turkey to great extent, mainly due to the privatisation process mentioned above, and the case of Aspendos is no exception to this trend. I will now return to the tourism labourers of Belkıs, leaving to the final section a broader discussion of how neoliberal CHM policies are implemented in Turkey at the expense of local expectations of tourism income. The female street vendors of Aspendos Regarding the Antalya province in general, agriculture, largely based on small-scale family farming, sharecropping and land tenancy, has been vital to the livelihood of the rural population, with cotton and grain production the most significant source of income until the 90s. Farmers today are forced to comply with the globally effective neoliberal policies that dictate what is called the ‘third food regime’ in underdeveloped and developing countries (see, for example, Aydın 2016; Günaydın 2009). International sanctions on agriculture have left rural producers with only the option of shifting from conventional food crops to alternative ones with higher market value, such as fruit, vegetables and flowers. While this whole process aims at the ‘successful’ integration of agricultural producers at all scales into globalised capital accumulation, its overall effects on the rural people in Antalya, as in other regions of Turkey, can only be phrased in negative terms: de-agriculturalisation, unemployment and impoverishment, migration to towns and cities, proletarianisation, et cetera. As family farming becomes economically less viable, villagers intend to engage in alternative sources of income, often commuting to Serik for work – as some of my interlocutors do – or starting a new life in a more distant town or city. In this research, I have been most curious about women’s ways of coping with the problem of subsistence under current conditions, and that is how street vending comes into play, as primarily a woman’s activity in the Belkıs case.

As a matter fact, the government’s bias towards tourism in the context of conservation is not as neoliberal as it seems, but rather a well-established state attitude; this is clearly seen in master plans issued from the early 70s onwards for protection and use of the national parks in Turkey.

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By ‘formal tourism,’ I am referring to institutionalised private and semi-private enterprises such as hotels, restaurants, entertainment places and sales units within the ancient city and theatre.

Chapter 11: Baykal Büyüksaraç. Informal tourism at the edge of a tangible heritage Selling goods ‘on the street’ is an occupation that dates back to the 60s or 70s, when young women used to sell handicrafts to visitors they came across as they grazed their cattle around the Aspendos ruins. In later times, with the emergence of ‘village house tourism,’ informal touristic retail was also experimented with in private spaces, but only briefly due to legal obstacles. Nonetheless, it is crucial to mention it here if we are to demonstrate how retail and service go hand in hand in the context of informal tourism, how it is more of a woman’s domain than a man’s, and what sort of labour is demanded or supplied in this sector. A major aspect of the service economy is its fixation on the customer’s experience, and tourism is a typical example, to which feminised affective labour is indispensable (on the gendered nature of tourism labour, see Adkins 1995; Adkins, Jokinen 2008; Kinnaird et al. 1994; Ladkin 2011; Pritchard 2007; Sinclair 1997; Veijola 2009; Veijola, Jokinen 2008). What is absolutely expected of tourism employees, be they women or men, is a fulsome dedication to the customers’ affective and bodily wellbeing, a kind of service that is intended not only to satiate people’s appetite but also to make the entire experience of consumption a joyful, pleasurable, unforgettable one. If this is the case for tourism in general, how can we describe rural women’s labour in (informal) heritage tourism? What female retailers offer today to the visitors of Aspendos is not only junky trinkets made in China, or a machine-made foulard; it is something beyond a mass product or fresh orange juice served in a plastic cup. As they stage a so-called authenticity (MacCannell 1999) in a village house, in an orange garden, or at a souvenir stall, with their smiling faces and a few German words they slur, the women of Belkıs are displaying ‘Turkish hospitality’ relentlessly, every day. While the relevant literature has tended to focus on the tourist’s experience of authenticity (e.g., Heitmann 2011), I am interested rather in the labour aspect of informal tourism at a heritage site, examining the ways in which people appropriate what they think authentic and commodify culture in their daily business. Here I would like to point out the ambiguity, or the impossibility, of ‘authenticity’ when it comes to (heritage) tourism as a global phenomenon. This is not exactly to say that women have nothing to offer other than ordinary copies (that is, mass products). Following Bruner (1994), I would say that we have at least two reasons to be highly sceptical of the authenticity of any cultural item or experience offered in a touristic transaction or service. First, authenticity is spoiled, or polluted, at the very moment of consumption by the

presence of the tourist, who is assumed to desire the experience of local culture. Second, culture itself is a site of symbolic contestation to define what is authentic and what is not. I agree that authenticity is not a given and scalable quality of an item or performance, and that the social conception of it is always negotiable (Cohen 1988). Such negotiation, however, may be too complex a process to be viewed merely in terms of the interaction between the tourist and the local salesperson or service provider (refer Cohen 1988; Wang 1999). To elaborate, I will return to Melek, a female street vendor I briefly introduced in the opening section, who claims to have been the first to try out what I call ‘village house tourism’ in Belkıs. Years ago, Melek needs to have her house repaired, and she consults with the tourist guide who regularly brings visitors to her place. The guide warns that she shouldn’t use concrete for the floor, because it does not look pretty and would ‘spoil the ambiance of a village house.’ Melek listens to his advice, also arranges an oriental room (şark odası) inside the house, with walls covered with carpets. ‘I did that for tourists,’ she says, and adds: ‘I cooked local meals, served food on the floor. Just in nomadic way (tam yörük usulü)!’ With the advice she got from the guide, Melek turns her home into a touristic spot, a commercial space, promoting the ‘Turkmen life’ with an ‘oriental’ twist to it.9 In a way, she presents her own brand of heritage, alluding to both Anatolian nomadism and settled peasantry. The significance attached to street vending changes according to the woman’s age and position within the household. Melek tells me that she was supposed to look after her husband, a bus driver who had to quit his job due to illness. Taking in tourists and selling souvenirs was Melek’s only option for making money without having to leave home. She feels thankful to God that she could have a house built for her son and see her daughter married with the money she got from souvenirs. Now a widow living on her deceased husband’s pension, Melek still sells souvenirs in front of her house. For younger women, however, street vending is only a temporary occupation to quit as soon as they find a job with social benefits. Nonetheless, the handicraft market in Belkıs has been, at least for a while, a battle worth fighting for those who aspire to be self-reliant or need to support their family. It thrives when tourism is booming. Hatice (35, married), for instance, raised two children, all with what she earned selling trinkets on a tea tray:

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The word ‘oriental,’ in the way Melek uses it, refers to an image of a generic Anatolian culture.

Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices Utility bills, the boy’s diapers, the girl’s outfit… They get sick once a week… I did it all with what I sold on a small tea tray… Back then [5–10 years ago], 200 tourists would come here every day, only 20 of them walking as far as our spot. Thank god, they were eager to buy everything. But now, when we ask for how many years they have visited Turkey, they reply, ‘seven years, ten years.’ ‘I’ve already got all this stuff at home,’ they say… If there were as many tourists as in the past, I would now be saving up for the kids’ university education.

I said to Vedat [Melek’s husband], ‘Get in the car!’ ‘I will talk to the Lieutenant,’ I said, and we went over to him [The Serik District Gendarmerie Command]. My husband [was] experiencing tremors. [Vedat Bey suffered from Parkinson’s Disease until he passed away a couple of years ago.] ‘You allow me to set up my stall, or you’ll have to take care of this man!’ [My husband] had been sick at home. The commander called me in. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. I said, ‘I am Melek, the thief of the village!’ Someone had sold a kerchief for 35 euros, and then [the villagers] reported that it was I who had done it. I said to the commander, ‘And now they call me thief! You allow me to set up my stall, or you’ll have to take care of my husband!’ The commander said, ‘All right, sister, don’t worry, we know who did it. Go now and get back to your business this Saturday.’ I went back home, but the municipality didn’t allow me to set up my stall. I went everywhere [to get permission]… To the Museum... To the Police Station… To the Municipality… Nothing worked out. My husband got worse and worse. Later, an acquaintance intervened to help out, and they finally let me set up my stall. My husband got better because he was now in good spirits. Then, one day, I went to the mayor and collared him. ‘Who the hell are you!’ I yelled. ‘You should be serving me. Servant! (Sen benim çobanımsın, çobanım!)’

Another example is Leyla (18, single), who two years ago earned enough to support her parents when they bought an apartment in Serik. Her father, Erhan (midforties), is now paying his debts, including the mortgage, with the rent coming from the new apartment. When I met Leyla in the winter of 2016, her mother, Gülcan (43 years old), was working as a room attendant at hotels for six months a year, but still knitted goods for the souvenir stall run by her mother-in-law. Leyla has changed jobs three times within the last year. After a hotel job and catering at a public school, she now works as an assistant in a drugstore in Serik. Today, tourism is not a reliable source of income for the women of Aspendos. Those of working age pursue jobs, preferably with social benefits, if they are not already employed. As for the souvenir stalls, most of them were packed up long ago somewhere near the aqueducts, to be set up again only when international tourism is revived.

I have shared this conversation to give an idea about people’s daily scuffles with the bureaucracy, which they cannot avoid if they want to keep touristic retail as an option for subsistence. It also indicates Melek’s courage to confront the state, her ability to make money on her own and to take care of her family, as well as her social networking skills. She made many friends during the days she hosted tourists in her ‘garden’ (a public domain from the state’s perspective). A telephone number can be a lifesaver, as narrated in the anecdote below. Melek tells how a ‘VIP’ visitor lent a hand to try to outwit the law after she received her demolition notice:

Conflicts, tactics and rivalry Although not being an inherent characteristic of heritage tourism, conflict arises quite frequently at many destinations across the world. As Porter and Salazar (2005: 363) noted earlier, the challenge is whether we are able to identify in each case the particular forces that make heritage tourism highly conflictual. It can be only a matter of time before conflict arises where a local community makes strong historical and cultural claims over a heritage site while not holding the stewardship rights. And yet, as they also argue, stakeholders might not always clash over the significance and management of a cultural patrimony, and sometimes crises arise in purely economic terms. Aspendos, where the situation gets further complicated due to strict conservation measures, provides an example of the latter. Let us return to Melek’s story, swinging between the days when she renovated her house to start up a business with limited capital and the hard times when she needed to prove to the law and to the community that she was not doing anything illegal or illegitimate.

A family from Ankara had paid a visit to my home years ago. We ate and drank. They thought I would charge them a lot. ‘Melek Hanım,’ they asked, ‘how much should we pay?’ ‘Give me a stick [to knock you over the head]!’ I said. ‘If I were to come to your place, would you charge me? Your money’s no good here.’ They were so pleased. The guy, Hasan Bey, had run for MP from the Z Party but didn’t win. When I got this threatening letter [demolition notice], I called up Hasan Bey. He phoned the [Provincial] Director, and I got a letter saying, ‘no one will meddle with you

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Chapter 11: Baykal Büyüksaraç. Informal tourism at the edge of a tangible heritage even if you put a five-storey building here.’ [The Provincial Director of Culture and Tourism at that time was also affiliated with the Z Party.] I still have the letter here… If you were a know-nobody poor fellow, [the state] would crush you underfoot!

serving orange juice to a man at your father’s age. If they see that he has kissed you on the cheek when saying goodbye, you’re finished! They would start gossiping about you right away. Surveillance within the community, and the policing of neighbours’ irregularities in particular, is also interesting in two other respects. First, I believe there are economic motivations (or rather concerns) behind the self-patrolling of the villagers. When a case of overpricing is reported to authorities (as in Melek’s case), or when people ‘snitch on’ those who do not pay their taxes (being not enrolled in the Chamber of Traders and Craftsmen, as in Hatice’s case), such acts can be regarded as competitive responses to an increasingly unequal distribution of economic resources, including heritage tourism as in Aspendos. And yet, there is another dimension to self-patrolling that reveals how the everyday politics of street vending is conditioned by local structures of power and privilege as much as by state policies and practices. When we look closely at daily social interactions around the souvenir stalls, we realise that surveillance is not as mutual as assumed but mostly directed at the women, who try to eke out their livelihoods from touristic retail while at the same time having to cope with patriarchal domination and censorship. These are the most remarkable aspects of the local dynamics of heritage tourism around Aspendos, which I could only sketch out within the confines of this chapter. As I conclude, I will briefly contextualise this study within the literature accumulating on heritage economics and more particularly on the tourism aspect of heritage governance.

While Melek overcomes some of the bureaucratic obstacles thanks to her social capital, the Belkıs women can also use various other coping strategies and tactics of resistance under the conditions of tightened state surveillance (Scott 1990). Hatice, for example, resorts to poaching (de Certeau 1984), a tactic of touristic retail that is more often observed in public places with high trade potential, or in cases where a black market emerges (Castañeda 1997): The [earlier] mayor wouldn’t let us pass through the aqueducts. He would put his men (municipal police) next to Muammer’s house [remote from the forbidden areas]. We weren’t allowed beyond that point… I have raised two kids with the trinkets I sold on a tea tray. As Castañeda (1997: 108) points out, tactical responses to political control should not simply be considered oppositional in a binary sense: ‘Close inspection of these tactics, both of control and resistance, [reveal] the limits and nature of the policing mode of control and authority that the state [seeks] to impose on the unruly [street vendors].’ The tactics of self-policing would be a particularly good example to demonstrate how state control can be translated into social surveillance and self-patrolling (Castañeda 1997). To elaborate, I quote from another conversation between me and Hatice.

In place of conclusion We have a lot more to learn about archaeological tourism and its socio-economic implications for the Global South. This is a current subject calling for more nuanced analyses than regionalist accounts that often end up overgeneralising, more thorough understandings of the social life surrounding a heritage destination. There are at least two major understudied issues in this field that this chapter has only touched upon: the increasingly unequal distribution of tourism income, and the impact of neoliberalism on the ideologies and practices of heritage tourism. These two issues can be considered together through a question we now need to ponder urgently: In what ways do neoliberal CHM policies influence local tourist economies in the Global South? In the Turkish context, through their ‘prestige projects,’ private companies managing archaeological sites claim that they have made a great contribution to publicising the cultural and historical heritage of Anatolia. The Ministry of

- If I find a job, I’ll quit street vending. I’m not fond of doing it. When you sell an item for 10 liras, they say, ‘Oh, she sold it for 20.’ It’s a small place. They breathe down your neck to check how much you make: have you charged the customer too much or too little? They stand over you when you’re serving the customer. […] You begin to feel so uncomfortable that you cannot tell the price you have in mind. - Who breathes down your neck? - Our own relatives… I’m sick and tired of these people for 15 years [Hatice came to Belkıs as a bride 15 years ago]. It’s just like working at the same company for a long time. For example, they say to my babalık, ‘Hatice broke a record today [that is, she earned a lot]. She did this, she did that.’ When you tell my babalık something like that, he gets mad and starts nagging. He won’t shut up! […] Imagine you’re

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Public Archaeology: Theoretical Approaches and Current Practices Culture and Tourism finds this claim convincing in so far as it brings income to the country. However, all this has a not always explicit, but undeniable cost to communities living next to archaeological destinations. In the case under discussion here, street vendors find themselves in an increasingly marginalised position, where they can hardly find a niche in heritage tourism around Aspendos. From this vantage point, it seems that heritage tourism in Turkey follows a more or less similar pattern to that in most other developing countries, where touristic income is not transmitted to the site and the community living by, but on the contrary, local people, just like the archaeological heritage itself, find themselves bearing the burdens of mass tourism (Timothy, Nyaupane 2009). Nevertheless, one should also pay due attention to the particular conditions of this heritage landscape, under which neoliberalism is being implemented, negotiated and at times circumvented. Partly inspired by John Urry’s notion of ‘gaze’ (1990), social theories on tourism have been preferentially engaged with the tourist experience,10 trying to analyse the dialectic and dialogic dimensions of the relationship between places and tourists, and it seems this preference also applies to research on heritage destinations (e.g., Staiff et al. 2013). Studies have increasingly focused on the performative character of heritage travel (e.g., Bærenholdt et al. 2004) that defines the travellers’ encounters, engagements, and entanglements with places and objects through processes that are representational (e.g., Jenkins 2003; Morgan, Pritchard 1998; Staiff, 2010; Waterton, Watson 2010), as well as nonrepresentational, affective, and embodied (e.g., Byrne 2013; Cameron, Mengler 2013). On the other hand, the production- or supply-side of tourism (as opposed to the consumption of leisure and touristic pleasure) has attracted limited attention, for example, among economic geographers, who are almost exclusively engaged with the spatial patterns of production (e.g., Shaw 1994), while the workforce and labour aspect of heritage tourism has to await the interest of economics or its derivative disciplines of heritage economics, tourism management, and economic (or tourism) anthropology. Heritage economics in particular has mostly focused on heritage industries in the Global North at the expense of tourist economies and small-scale local entrepreneurship in the Global South (e.g., Hermann 2011; Hewison 1987; Merriman 1991). Recently, there has been a growing interest in situating these latter themes within the context

10 Let me note that the tourist, featured ‘as a modern subject’ in this literature, ‘resides in the post-industrial, global north’ (Winter 2010: 117). For a critique of Western-centric conceptions of tourism, see Connell 2007, 2009; Winter et al. 2009.

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