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Durham Anthropology Journal
Volume 16(1) 2009. Copyright © 2009
ISSN 1742-2930
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/
Volume 16, Issue 1, 2009
General Editor: Stephen Lyon
Special Postgraduate Issue
Guest Editors: Emma OʼDriscoll, Jeremy Brice and Erica Borgstrom
Guest Book Reviews Editor: Damien Boutillon
Setting the Syrian Stage: A case study of Dance and Power
3
Amilla Maria Anthi Kastrinou-Theodoropoulou
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/kastrinou-theodoropoulou-1.pdf
Applying the ʻUncomfortable Scienceʼ: the Role of Anthropology in
Development
13
Emma OʼDriscoll
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/odriscoll.pdf
Advocacy in Anthropology: Active engagement or passive scholarship? 22
Peter Kellett
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/kellett.pdf
Lʼengagement du style Romen dans lʼesprit du spectateur : dʼun icônisme
statique à la mobilité des registres
32
Damien Boutillon
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/boutillon.pdf
Towards a Qualitative Follow-Up of a Randomised Trial on the Post-Natal
Ward
57
Catherine Taylor
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/taylor.pdf
Retention in Randomised Trials Project
Dawn Mee
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/mee.pdf
DAJ 16/1
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Volume 16(1) 2009. Copyright © 2009
ISSN 1742-2930
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/
Book Reviews
Jasna Èapo Žmegaè. 2007. Strangers Either Way: The Lives of Croatian
Refugees in Their New Home. New York: Bergham.
71
Reviewed by David Henig
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/henig.pdf
Kneebone, Susan and Felicity Rawlings-Sanei eds. 2007. New regionalism
and asylum seekers. Challenges ahead. Berghahn Books Ltd.
73
Reviewed by Damien Boutillon
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/boutillon-2.pdf
Lawrence, Christopher M. 2007. Blood and Oranges: Immigrant Labor and
European Markets in Rural Greece. Oxford: Berghahn Books.
76
Reviewed by Maria Kastrinou-Theodoropoulou
Nonini, Donald M. ed. 2007. The global idea of "the commons". New York:
Berghahn Books.
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Reviewed by Rachel Douglas-Jones
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/douglas-jones.pdf
Conference Review
Reflections on the International Conference on African Culture and
Development (ICACD) 2008 – What culture?
Erica Borgstrom
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/borgstrom.pdf
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Volume 16(1) 2009: 3-12. Copyright © 2009 Maria KastrinouTheodoropoulou
ISSN 1742-2930
Setting the Syrian Stage: A case study of Dance and Power
Amilla Maria Anthi Kastrinou-Theodoropoulou
Durham University
Abstract
This article first presents the Syrian stage of official dance representations as portrayed by the Ba’thist
regime. Second, it criticises the official ideology on the basis of anthropological/ philosophical
understandings. Third it shows how criticisms are always already embedded within the official ideological
discourse. The aim, thus, is twofold: on one hand it strives to underlie the necessity for more political
ethnographic studies of dance, and on the other, it aspires to show how, in the context of the ideological
populism of the Syrian regime, alternative readings resisting and challenging authoritarian hegemonic
ideological writings, are already embedded not only in the ideological contradictions of the official portrayal,
but even in the syntax and the grammar the official rhetoric employs.
Keywords
Syria, folklore, dance, power, politics, ideology
Introduction
“Pleasure and power do not cancel or turn back against one another; they seek out, overlap, and reinforce
one another. They are linked together by complex mechanisms and devices of excitation and
incitement.” (Foucault 1976: 48)
Anthropologists have long suspected that dance entails much more than body movements in the vicinity of
music (Blacking and Kealiinohomoku 1979; Cowan 1990; Gell 1985; Hanna 1988; Lomax 1968; Schieffelin
1976; Shand 1998; Spencer 1985; Steingress 1998; Washabaugh 1998). More interestingly, dance appears to
occupy the intersection between concepts and practices of pleasure, power and the technology of the body
(Bourdieu 1977; Foucault 1975, 1976), through the ways by which it embodies (Bourdieu 1977: 87-95) and
negotiates the boundaries of cultural performances (Bauman 1977; Bateson 1972; Butler 1990; Cowan 1990;
Goffman 1974; Kirtsoglou 2004). Yet, the anthropological study of dance remains limited. Although recent
anthropological theories converge on the point that dance constitutes a site of “both gender struggle and
class struggle” (Washabaugh 1998: 9), much of this literature has emphasised the study of gendered (AbuLughod 1985, 1986; Cowan 1990; Hanna 1988; Butler 1990; McNay 1992; Kirtsoglou 2004- but see Manuel
1988 for a different view) contestations rather than its potential in terms of agency (Gell 1998) and political
consequences.
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The representations of Syrian folklore dancing through the official website of the Syrian Ministry of Tourism
hint at the greater complexities surrounding dance, politics, and power simultaneously along discourses of
tradition, modernity and legitimacy in contemporary Syria. Inspired by Gilsenan’s (1996) anthropological literary – performative analysis of narratives, and Foucault’s notion of power (1982) as well as the role of the
body in modern episteme (1975,1976), this article first presents the Syrian stage of official dance
representations as portrayed by the Ba’thist regime. Second, it criticises the official ideology on the basis of
anthropological/ philosophical understandings. Third it shows how criticisms are always already embedded
within the official ideological discourse. The aim, thus, is twofold: on one hand it strives to underlie the
necessity for more political ethnographic studies of dance, and on the other, it aspires to show how, in the
context of the ideological populism of the Syrian regime, alternative readings resisting and challenging
authoritarian hegemonic ideological writings, are already embedded not only in the ideological
contradictions of the official portrayal, but even in the syntax and the grammar the official rhetoric employs.
The Syrian Stage: The Case of Folklore Dances through the Syrian Ministry of Tourism
Changes in modern societies had robbed many traditions and things that characterized life in the past. Now
every thing is moving swiftly and hastily. Even folklore dance had lost its characteristics, originality and
distinctive movements, and joined modernism which deformed every beautiful and original thing in our
artistic, cultural and social life. (Syrian Ministry of Tourism1 )
“Even folklore dance had lost its characteristics” the Syrian Ministry of Tourism informs its visitors through
millions of electronic circuits and digital bytes, employing the past tense of the verb ‘to have’. The official
government rhetoric that flows through the opening passage and the rest of the document entitled “Folklore
Dances in Syria”, divides ‘modernity’2 and ‘tradition’ in such a (crude) way that modernity is conceptualised
as something “moving swiftly and hastily”, that which “deforms” beauty and originality, a modernity with
clear yet underlying ‘made-in-the-West’ connotations:
“Swift and noisy rhythms now overwhelm the world and reflect states of boredom, restlessness and
hopelessness.” (Ibid.)
Tradition becomes the precise opposite of the corrupted, impure and deformed “modern societies”. Ideas of
originality and distinctiveness are connected to the concept of asala (authenticity, descent, root from asl: see
Salamandra 2004: 17-19; Abu-Lughod 1986: 41), where “in the Middle East generally, calls for authenticity
often take the form of Islamist, nationalist, or nativist arguments against Western cultural imperialism, the
West’s cultural invasion (al-ghazu al-thaqafi)”(Salamandra 2004: 19) while “ ‘authentic culture’ is the stuff
of social distinction in contemporary Syria, and lies at the heart of arguments over who is perceived to rule,
1
http://www.syriatourism.org/index.php?module=subjects&func=viewpage&pageid=2044 Accessed 12 February 2009
2
For a discussion on the ‘enlightened’ dichotomies of modernity see Sahlins 1999; Argyrou 2002; Wise 1997; Latour 1993;
Kastrinou-Theodoropoulou 2007: 14- 16. For a historical as well as theoretical discussion on the topic of music and dance and
modernity, see Washabaugh 1998: 1-26.
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who once ruled, and who no longer rules” (Ibid.). As ideas of original and authentic tradition are directly
connected with aspects of power and political rule, as well as legitimisation of historical memory, it is not
surprising, as the rhetoric goes, that tradition is also portrayed as fragile and weak in comparison with the
modern Western Goliath: tradition, thus, is in need of saving, or better, in need of a saviour.
This saviour is, of course, connected and implied in the past tense of the verb ‘to have’: “changes in the
modern world had robbed many traditions” but not anymore, not in Syria anymore. The past tense tells a
story of rulers, the victorious writers of Syrian contemporary history: tradition and culture and all the
beautiful things that characterized past times have been saved by the Ba’th revolution of 1963 (Hinnebusch
1991, 2001) and have found a saviour and a ‘corrective’ protector and patron in the face of Hafez al-Asad
(Seale 1986; 1991), and now in his patrilineal successor, his son Bashar (Strindberg 2004; Ziadeh 2008). In
the recent past, an intensification of cultural festivals celebrating ‘Syrian’ culture and tradition have been
patronised by the State (Salamandra 2004; Cooke 2007), the most impressive of which is the Silk Road
Festival, an annual celebration organised by the Ministry of Tourism since 2002, “to demonstrate to the
world how nations in the past got over conflicts through constructional interaction between civilizations,
where Syria, as geographically being the heart of the ancient world, played an essential role to attract the
world trade to meet on its land and exchange goods and ideas …”3. The political strategy of celebrating and
patronising ‘tradition’ as a source of legitimisation is, of course, confined neither to Syria, nor the Middle
East. ‘Inventing traditions’ (Hobsbawm 1983, 1990) for the political ramifications of nationalisms are
abundant (Anderson 1983), and maybe specifically efficient or necessary in Middle Eastern contexts: the
invented traditional camel races in the Gulf states (Khalaf 2000), the state’s patronage of the Jordanian
Bedouin heritage (Layne 1989), the Israeli (Patai 1976) and Palestinian (Muslih 1987) formation and
struggle for national identities, are local examples of what Alonso (1994) calls ‘the politics of space, time
and substance’.
‘Had’, the choice of past, thus, plays a strategic role in the Ministry’s rhetoric and the official state view it
represents: not only does it enforce the modernist enlightened dichotomy between ‘modernity’ and
‘tradition’, not only does it cast tradition in a positive homogenous and harmonious light as original,
beautiful and certainly more humane, but it makes sure that the intended readers of the document, a global
audience on the internet, will find an authentic and legitimate champion of this tradition in the face of the
ruling regime. Tradition, or a selected representational ideal, is used as a political tool for the legitimacy of
the authoritarian ruling party over a ‘dissident’ (Cooke 2007) politically, religious and ethnically diverse
body of Syrian citizens (Antoun 1991). Dancing is the primary example of the physical rescue of traditionthe epitome in both ideological and practical embodied grounds, since “the appropriating by the world of a
body thus enables to appropriate the world” (Bourdieu 1977: 89). This is the ground, then, on which the
Ba’th Party cadres “beat the ground hard with their feet to express their strength and vivacity” (Syrian
Opening Speech of Mr.Sadallah Agha Al-Kala’a, Syrian Minister of Tourism, 2007;
http://www.syriatourism.org/modules.php?op=modload&name=News&file=article&sid=1411&q=Festival, 19/04/08.
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Ministry of Tourism website), and where the President initiates the Syrian Dabka: “Folklore dance in Syria
was not merely a Dabka (beating the ground with feet in regular steps), but rather it was accompanied by
rhythmic movements with men carrying swords” (ibid.). The sword signals local and global signs: silencing
internal opposition and proudly facing external hegemons who label the state as part of the ‘axis of evil’.
Who, whether Syrian, Arab or otherwise oppressed by such hegemony, would doubt the fair forcefulness of
such performance?
Interlude on the Methodology of Deconstructing Meanings
From a philosophical perspective, Derrida (1976), many years ago, showed that any logical argument
assuming primacy and fixed supremacy over any other has its logical deconstruction(s). The richness of
multileveled interpretations of cultural stories has also been exemplified from Geertz (1973) through his
thick description. Ethnographically, maybe the most vivid portrait of the play of power and resistance,
domination and subversiveness, comes from Gilsenan’s Lords of the Lebanese Marches: Violence and
narrative in an Arab society (1996). Gilsenan collects stories told by the people of Akkar, the northernmost
province of Lebanon, and through exploring the “discourse and imagination of power” (Gilsenan 1996: xiii)
he studies the “narrative structures of social life” (Gilsenan 1996: 57), i.e. how social life is structured in
narratives and the ways people enact and embody such stories, the perception of what social life is through
story-telling: the structure of events, their uses and timings and roles, their varying symbolisms. Concerned
with “the social practices of narratives-in-use in the everyday life and history” (Gilsenan 1996: 57), Gilsenan
engages in a literary analysis of the anthropological fieldwork experience. Hence, not only does he record
stories, but he explores the different threads of meanings as they emerge relative to the performative contexts
of their telling. Thus, through a careful and very scholarly literary and anthropological analysis, Gilsenan is
able to reveal how one story can have, as it often does, many different and sometimes conflicting and
ambiguous meanings.
Gilsenan uses oral narratives as excuses or opportunities to study power relations through a methodological
literary analysis of everyday practices. Similarly, using the official textual dance representations as
narratives, an anthropo-literal analysis of the multifold interplays of power and politics within interpretations
as well as in cultural embodied performances such as dancing, becomes necessary and fruitful in depicting
the inherent contradictions of the official rhetoric as well as the spaces for alternative subversive readings.
The literary margins of doubt or the weak weapons of the powerful
The narrative analysis of the official portrayal of ‘folklore dances’ opens up for criticism. Firstly, as already
noted, it adopts an ideological framework which depicts tradition and modernity as ‘natural’ essentialised
complementary oppositions, which is an enlightened Kantian dichotomy, a historically recent notion in itself.
As the official website argues the case of tradition by accepting the dominant structural dichotomy, it falls
victim to the ‘modernism’ against which it directs its rhetoric. Furthermore, the medium by which the
Ministry chooses to disseminate the knowledge and the rescuing of tradition is itself a recent ‘modern’ ,even technological - advance closely related both to the West and to capitalism (Castells 1996):
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the Internet. Using such ‘modern’ technological developments underlies the contradictions and ambiguities
within the official rhetoric since the Ministry’s argument is not clear at all on whether it advocates a
traditional revival or an alternative modernity.
Not only, thus, the medium becomes the message (McLuhan 2003), not only the message contradicts the
medium, but, politically, such rhetoric presupposes and accepts the dominant structures of the power it seeks
to challenge (Bourdieu 1994), falling victim to the Gramscian notion of hegemony. The argument not only
doesn’t challenge modern western hegemony but Orientalises itself (Said 1978) by presupposing Occidental
structures of thinking (Fox 2002). Therefore, a second reading of the official document reveals not only the
political manipulation of concepts like tradition and embodied acts like dance as tools for legitimacy, but
also the weak weapons of the powerful: the inherent contradictions within any rhetoric that appeals to fixed
and constant ideas. Hence, the strength of everyday resistance(s) such as the “weapons of the weak” (Scott
1985) can be said to lie in their fluidity, while the weapons of the powerful become weak as soon as they try
to impose monolithic readings, since words, by themselves networked webs of signification (Saussure 1983),
are always already open to interpretation.
An Inconclusive Conclusion
“It is the whole technology of power over the body that the technology of the ʻsoulʼ […] fails either to conceal
or to compensate, for the simple reason that it [the body] is one of its tools.” (Foucault 1975: 30)
In Discipline and Punish (1975) Foucault argues that discursive changes occurring since the 17th century
shifted the meaning of the body in that it became a tool or a medium for something else: “ one no longer
touched the body, or at least as little as possible, and then only to reach something other than the body
itself” (1975: 11). Foucault further explores this argument in The History of Sexuality (1976), where he
identifies how the relationship between the body and power transformed along with the movement from the
“right of death” to the “power over life” (1976: 135–159): “now it is over life, throughout its unfolding, that
power establishes its domination; death is power’s limit, the moment that escapes it” (1976: 138). Tracing
this transformation, Foucault notes that power over life evolved in two general forms, the first of which is
the body as a machine:
“its disciplining, the optimization of its capabilities, the extortion of its forces, the parallel increase of its
usefulness and its docility, its integration into systems of efficient and economic controls, all this was
ensured by the procedures of power that characterised the disciplines: an anatomo-politics of the human
body.” (1976: 139)
As the body became a medium to reach one’s ‘soul’, to form, use and control an essentialised ‘identity’, it
also became a way through which the modern episteme ‘disciplines’ its subjects, physically and otherwise,
subjugating them through more subtle forms of control over both body and mind. Therefore, the body
becomes repressed in a quite different way from, let’s say, the Victorian body - it becomes a field of and for
power as “action upon other action” (Foucault 1982); it becomes repressed in its portrayal as a machine: a
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tool that leads somewhere else other than itself. Yet, because of this transformative discourse, the body, as a
basic field of power relations, proliferates in all its hybridity (also see Latour 1993). Hence, the body
becomes at once central as well as centrifugal: central because it is the body which must be disciplined,
centrifugal because the disciplined body is a machine or a tool with which to discipline something else. Of
course, the fact that power has to depend on the body not only in order to discipline it but to discipline that
something else, gives the body its centrality in both discourse and practice, and simultaneously attacks or
reveals the fabricated and fragmented “technology of the ‘soul’” (Foucault 1975: 30)- thus, causing the body,
or the discourses of the body to proliferate in such a way as to challenge the power discourses.
Foucault’s discursive body - or, rather, his conceptualisations of the interplay between power and body interestingly connects with the way the Syrian Ministry of Tourism portrays the dance, as a way of
employing the body as tradition and hence presenting itself as the legitimate hero for saving tradition. The
Ministry portrays the dance like Foucault describes the actions of power over the body: similarly to the body,
dance is portrayed as a machine and a tool for something else other than the dance itself. Dance becomes the
medium through which the Ba’th regime links itself to Syrian national tradition and history, a historicfolkloric link which, by connecting itself to some great past, serves to politically and socially legitimise itself
in the present. As dance becomes a medium and a machine, like Foucault’s technology of the body, then it
also becomes harder “to conceal or to compensate, for the simple reason that it is one of its tools” (Foucault
1975: 30). Thus, dance too becomes simultaneously central and centrifugal: forming and yet concealing a
Syrian (however loosely bounded) body of history and tradition through its political appropriation and
manipulation while revealing the antinomy of an autonomous act, a dance and a body.
And so it is: the more the Syrian Ministry tries to ascribe to the dance a monolithic reading, the more the
dance proliferates the inherent rhetorical, grammatical as well as physical and corporeal ambiguities: the
dance begins and there is always something that escapes and disregards official definitions and projections,
as these always depend (in their futile attempt to surpass it) on the body of the dance.
In this exploration of Syrian Ministry of Tourism representations of Syrian folk dance, it becomes apparent
that dance and power are bounded together in a prism of multiple and complex relations - relations at which
this article can only hint. It is not just the literary margins of doubt that are already embedded in the official
rhetoric, nor only the weak weapons of the powerful or the weapons of the weak, nor even Foucault’s
descriptions of discursive changes on the body of power: probably, these and many more factors shape the
power of the dance or the dance of power. And, literary or even philosophical analysis remains groundlessly
awkward without the richness of thick ethnographic description (Ortner 1995), while, furthermore, there
exist anthropological suspicions, from the interconnection between anthropology and popular culture, that at
the level of the masses boundaries, always embodied and performative, can be set defining or exposing the
frailty of authority (Aronoff 1986) in which moments of freedom (Fabian 1998) and resistance can emerge
within any embodied practices.
Bodies dancing with power signal that the Syrian dabka has just begun…
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index.php?module=subjects&func=viewpage&pageid=2044. Accessed 12 February 2009.
Washabaugh, William. (ed.) 1998. The Passion of Music and Dance: Body, Gender and Sexuality. Oxford:
Berg.
Wise, MJ. 1997. Exploring Technology and Social Space. London: SAGE Publications.
Ziadeh, R. 2008. “The Economic and Political Changes during the ‘Third Republican’ in Syria”. Paper
submitted in Conference on Economic Transaction in Syria, St. Andrews, April 11-12.
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Applying the ʻUncomfortable Scienceʼ1: the Role of
Anthropology in Development
Emma OʼDriscoll
Durham University
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/odriscoll.pdf
Abstract
This essay will evaluate the potential of anthropological contributions to international development. I hope
that by tracing applied anthropology to its colonial roots, examining the inherent contradictions of applying
anthropology to development issues, and anticipating what the future holds for both disciplines I will
demonstrate that, despite significant obstacles, anthropology does have a significant role to play in
development.
Keywords
Development, applied anthropology, colonialism
“One recalls the not altogether unfair stereotype of an anthropologist living in a village for years and
emerging at the end with the view that the villagers are all splendid chaps who ought to be allowed to get on
with agriculture in their own way, regardless of the fact that the world around them will not allow them to do
so.” (Simmonds, cited in Nolan 2002)
Development is undoubtedly the key challenge of our time. With two thirds of the world’s population
struggling to survive on fewer than two dollars a day (Nolan 2002:30), it is literally “a matter of life and
death” (Edelman and Haugerud 2005:1). Huge sums have been invested in development projects in the postwar period, yet the vast majority of these projects have been viewed as “unremitting” failures (Ferguson
1990:8). The poor success rate of development initiatives has been attributed to a lack of awareness of the
social and cultural implications inherent to planned change: “As fifty years of development experience has
shown, development efforts that fit with their surroundings will work, whereas those that disregard salient
aspects of context will usually fail, sooner or later.” (Nolan 2002:25)
Nolan and many others would argue that development is therefore a natural arena for the social
anthropologist, that we are “uniquely placed to further understanding of poverty” (Sillitoe 2007:154). It may
well be true that anthropology “offers powerful analytical tools for integrating culture, power, history, and
economy into one analytical framework” (Edelman and Haugerud 2005:20). However, the involvement of
anthropologists in development is nothing if not problematic. A history tainted by colonialism, a reputation
as the “flies in the ointment” (ibid: 46) of development, and a general disregard for the application of
1
Firth 1981:198
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anthropology among academics have all served to relegate anthropology to a minor role in the development
process. Furthermore, a “crisis of representation” (Clammer 2000:1) between the interests of donor agencies
and those of recipient communities has led many development anthropologists to question the moral
implications of their involvement.
This essay will evaluate the potential of anthropological contributions to international development. I hope
that by tracing applied anthropology to its colonial roots, examining the inherent contradictions of applying
anthropology to development issues, and anticipating what the future holds for both disciplines I will
demonstrate that, despite significant obstacles, anthropology does have a significant role to play in
development.
The history of applied anthropology
“Applied anthropology is an occupation for the half-baked.” (Mair, quoted in Gardner and Lewis 1996:35)
There is considerable disagreement over the origins of applied anthropology. That it burgeoned and
flourished during the colonial era, however, cannot be denied. Indeed, it was the intention of several
prominent early anthropologists that ‘practical’ anthropology, as Malinowski called it, be used to improve
the efficiency of the colonial administration (Grillo 1985:11). Even Nolan, the staunch defender of applied
anthropology, concedes that “anthropology served European expansion well, as the history of the discipline
clearly shows.” (Nolan 2002:65)
One of the “best-known early advocates” (Gardner and Lewis 1996:31) of the use of applied anthropology to
facilitate the process of colonial rule was Radcliffe-Brown. His ‘School of African Studies’ at the University
of Capetown, developed in an effort to reduce conflict between the white and black populations, paved the
way for an increased anthropological presence in the British colonial system (ibid:32). However, “the
question of a practical role for anthropology provoked considerable controversy among anthropologists …
[who] tended to view local, non-Western culture as something to be preserved, almost at all costs, against the
ravages of colonialism.” (ibid:31) It was this same sentiment that led to criticism of American
anthropologists, among them Margaret Mead and Ruth Benedict, whose ethnographies of Japanese
Americans during the Second World War were used to great effect by the United States government in their
efforts against Japan.
Yet for all their discomfort with the colonial label, many anthropologists were in no hurry to vindicate
themselves with the dawn of the development era. On the contrary, some of the earliest proponents of
modernisation theory were anthropologists. They figured prominently in the early editions of Economic
Development and Culture Change, a journal that emerged in the 1950s as a forum for debate on economic
development in poor countries. Furthermore, as Little and Painter demonstrate, anthropologists played a role
in “articulating modernization theory as something that could be implemented as policy… In most cases,
anthropologists stated their recommendations in neutral, technocratic language that portrayed as scientific
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fact assertions that the living conditions of the poor in Latin America, Africa and Asia would improve
through processes of modernization” (1995:604).
Despite anthropology’s prominent role in development in the 1950s, application was still seen as a
“stepchild” to academia (Nolan 2002:67). This was due in part to the exploitation of anthropological
expertise by Western governments: American anthropologists, for example, had been recruited during the
Second World War to assist in the forced relocation of Japanese Americans or to subdue occupied peoples in
the Pacific (Gardner and Lewis 1996). Moral objections aside, modernisation theory in the 1950s proposed
“a far-reaching and fundamental transformation of society from ‘traditional’ forms which constrain economic
growth to ‘modern’ forms which promote it and which resemble our own.” (Hoben 1982:352). This aim was
the antithesis of the “anthropological commitment to the preservation or at least protection of diverse
indigenous beliefs, values, and practices” (ibid:367). As Belshaw points out, anthropologists are often
characterised by “a detachment from, a disenchantment with, and a critique of their own societies” (cited in
Robertson, 1984:293). It seems unlikely that a society that left them ‘disenchanted’ would be one that they
would want to replicate elsewhere.
The split between academic and applied anthropology paved the way for what was eventually assumed to be
a fundamental distinction between ‘development anthropology’ and the ‘anthropology of
development’ (Edelman and Haugerud 2005:40). When anthropologists, buoyed by the moral righteousness
of dependency theory, began to reassert themselves in development from the 1970s onwards, it was the
development anthropologists who sought work in donor agencies such as the World Bank. Anthropologists
of development, on the other hand, were characterised more by a “radical critique of, and distancing from,
the development establishment” (Escobar 1997:498). The distinction has recently been reconsidered and
deemed to be problematic (ibid), not least because it “obscures the inextricability of both types of
knowledge, thus encouraging practitioners to view everything not written in report form as ‘irrelevant’ and
researchers to ignore the practical implications of their findings.” (Gardner and Lewis 1996:50).
Anthropologists in the development industry
“While anthropologists are trained to be cultural relativists, development agencies are usually committed to
universal principles of progress.” (Gardner and Lewis 1996:77)
It was not until the late 1970s that the dominant institutions began to accept the need for a social element to
their projects. The introduction of social soundness guidelines by USAID (Hoben 1982:358) seemed to
provide a niche for social anthropologists. However, although the number of people with graduate degrees
in anthropology working for USAID increased steadily to around seventy-five in the mid-nineties (Little and
Painter 1995:603) very few were in roles that specifically required anthropological experience.
There are several reasons for the rather cool relationship that still exists to a certain extent between
anthropologists and practitioners. Ironically, it has been argued that the divide is largely cultural (Nolan
2002). While anthropologists think it necessary to spend long periods of time in the field, policymakers
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work to tight deadlines. Furthermore, when the results of the anthropological evaluation do finally come in,
they are considered meaningless and irrelevant to the task at hand: “We have to avoid the label of peddlers in
useless information or exotica.” (Sillitoe 2007:157)
Anthropologists, for their part, face difficult questions when they become involved in development projects.
The need to develop communities at all is very often counter-intuitive: “We face the uncomfortable
proposition that applied anthropology is using people’s knowledge to advance development when we
consider their cultures already well-developed in their own way.” (Sillitoe 2007:157) More pertinent is the
question of the use or misuse of information provided. “Many anthropologists fear that their work may
inadvertently harm the people they wish to protect, perhaps by bringing them to the attention of officialdom
or predatory economic and political forces.” (Robertson 1984:296).
The fine balance between protecting a community’s interests and satisfying a client’s requirements is often
difficult to achieve: “If we cannot persuade them, then we either fall in line or get out” (Nolan 2002:85). It
is easy and no doubt very common for anthropologists to “compromise their skills and interests” in order to
fall in line with donor policy (Redclift 1985:199). However, Cerneau does not agree that applied
development in an institutional setting needs to be inherently compromising: “I didn’t see…the position of
the anthropologist as one in which you must accept what you are told and simply help to execute
it.” (Cerneau 2007:345)
Finally, the reality of working for development institutions can become highly objectionable to the
sensibilities of the anthropologist. Despite their apparently favourable stance on social issues, donor
agencies still see economic progress as the real benchmark for development. It is perhaps for this reason that
there is “a tendency to bring in the anthropologists only when things begin to go wrong, rather than having
them involved from the start.” (Gardner and Lewis 1996:46). Many commentators including Nolan and
Sillitoe, argue that anthropologists should be involved in every stage of a project, from planning to
conclusion. This would at the very least allow for the participation of local people in processes that are
intended to transform their lives (Chambers), and would steer development away from the frankly abhorrent
social engineering of the past.
Opposition to development anthropology
“I consider ʻdevelopment anthropologyʼ a kind of neo-colonialism.” (Leach 1982:50)
The involvement of anthropology in development is not universally popular. There is even some continuing
doubt over whether or not it actually has a role to play. It is indeed disconcerting that “although
anthropology has been involved with international development for decades, the discipline has yet to have a
determinant influence on how development is done” (Nolan 2002: preface). Gardner and Lewis agree: “It is
extremely difficult to identify specifically what it is, in practical terms, that professional anthropologists do
have to offer development” (1996:130). The anthropological obsession with the specific as against the
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general has been a source of consternation: “the insistence that each little world should be evaluated on its
own terms has created awkward disjunctures, and made comparison very difficult.” (Robertson 1984:298).
Many critics of development anthropology find their grievance not in anthropology but in what they call the
development ‘discourse’ (Escobar 1995). These writers base their argument on Foucault’s groundbreaking
text ‘The Order of Things’ (1970), in which he reveals that discourses of power, while presented as objective
and natural, construct their subjects in particular ways and exercise power over them. Knowledge is
therefore inherently political (Gardner and Lewis 1996). Escobar applies this principle to development,
claiming that the development discourse is merely a way for donor agencies in the West to impose and
maintain power over developing nations. He goes as far as to say that development anthropologists working
within the context of development inevitably perpetuate and reproduce its doctrine, and criticises them for
not questioning the true nature of that doctrine: “How unanthropological, one might say, to accept an entire
historically produced cultural field without probing its depths.” (Escobar 1991:661)
Those opposed to development anthropology are also quick to point out that anthropological research isn’t
nearly as objective and scientific as it was originally thought to be. Classical anthropologists such as
Malinowski went to great lengths to assert the validity of their subject as a scientific discipline, although
later figures including Evans-Pritchard would have disagreed. It is generally accepted now that
anthropologists do not arrive in communities as a blank sheet, ready to absorb the local culture, but do in fact
carry preconceptions and biases. With this in mind, I must admit to being rather shocked by Nolan’s
assertion that anthropologists carry ‘few preconceptions’ about the subjects of their research (2002). I find
this remark at best highly optimistic, and would be more inclined to agree with Escobar: “In their studies,
and in spite of themselves, development anthropologists impose upon local realities social and political
analyses that have travelled well-known terrains … not merely neutral frameworks through which ‘local
knowledge’ innocently shows itself.” (1991:659). Even ethnography, seen by many as anthropology’s
greatest asset, has difficulty shaking its colonial origins: “Ethnography is not neutral but unavoidably tied
into historically shaped webs of meanings and power.” (Rossi 2004:557)
The benefits of an anthropological perspective
An anthropological training gives the analytical means to understand the heterogeneity of local actors and
their interests, to see the multiple links in their social lives and appreciate their everyday strategies, to tap
into local understandings and comprehend resistance to perceived outside interference. (Sillitoe 2007:154).
In the face of a compromised past and a constricted present, can anthropology hope to have any positive
effect on development in the future? The majority of commentators believe it can. Gardner and Lewis, for
example, argue for an anthropological overhaul of development from within and without: “anthropology can
contribute to more positive forms of developmental thought and practice, both by working in development
and also by providing a critical account of development” (1996:25). In particular, they reject the simplistic
binary oppositions that permeate development discourse: “anthropological insights can provide a dynamic
critique of development and help push thought and practice away from oversystemic models and dualities
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(traditional as opposed to modern; formal as opposed to informal; developed versus undeveloped) and in
more creative directions” (ibid:2).
Sillitoe (2007) points to anthropology’s potential as a force for creating a multidisciplinary approach to
development issues. “Anthropologists are well-equipped to negotiate not only cultural boundaries, but also
disciplinary ones,” (2007:151) he argues, adding that “we have to consider changing ways of doing
anthropology in view of its changing role in an emerging era of ‘transdisciplinarity’” (ibid:150). He also
sees a role for anthropologists in raising awareness of what he terms ‘indigenous knowledge systems’ (IKS).
Although Sillitoe emphasises what he considers to be the benefits of incorporating indigenous knowledge
into development practice, Clammer dismisses IKS as one of development anthropology’s “contortions” in
order to be “needed”, to “(re)establish its credentials” (2000:1). Escobar likewise criticises the
anthropologists’ tendency “to foster the impression that they have a monopoly on such
contributions” (1991:671).
There is no doubt that, even if anthropology does have a contribution to make, the above suggestions are
only practicable within the context of the development paradigm. As a result, issues such as the ethical use
of anthropological research, the “extent to which the mindset and actions of development anthropologists are
shaped or constrained by the fact that they have to operate within the scope of mainstream development
institutions” (Escobar 1991:666), and the abandonment of traditional methodologies in favour of less
rigorous studies are not resolved, merely avoided. The truth is that for an anthropologist, working from
within the development discourse will always be inherently compromising. Whether it is therefore
impossible to make any sort of contribution is an issue that I hope to resolve in the final subsection of this
essay.
Should anthropology get involved?
“Is it better that anthropologists get involved in development on the wrong side, for the wrong people, for the
wrong reasons, than that they stay motionless on the touchline?” Redclift 1985:200)
It has been argued, very persuasively, by some commentators that anthropology should play no part in
development. Many call instead for a post-development era in which the preconceptions and generalisations
of the discourse are abandoned in favour of localised, community-specific initiatives (Escobar 1991). These
ideas, while laudable, are somewhat optimistic at present. We must not forget that the development industry
wields vast fortunes and is potentially capable of reinventing itself ad-infinitum in an effort to stay on top.
Given that this is the current state of affairs, it is tempting to advocate that anthropology withdraw from
development altogether. This approach may ostensibly appear to avoid furthering “the loss of cultural
integrity” (Bennett 1988:2) of development recipients. However, I feel that anthropologists cannot escape
involvement in development, whether they consciously avoid it or not.
Grillo (1985:17) argues that anthropologists who were active in the colonial era were inevitably part of the
colonial system, whether directly involved in administration or fiercely opposed to it. Colonialism, he
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explains, was a power relationship between dominating and dominated cultures, providing a structural
context in which anthropology was a subject-discipline. I would argue that the same is true of the
‘development’ system today. Not only does the development discourse shape our ideas and preconceptions
of the communities that we study, but the information we produce as a result of our studies “can be drawn
upon subsequently (and used or misused) by practitioners” (Gardner and Lewis 1996:133). As Sillitoe points
out, “it is dangerous to pretend that intellectual discourse somehow isolates itself from the wider
world.” (Sillitoe 2007:155).
We are therefore involved in development whether we like it or not. Our only option is to accept our
responsibility to the communities that we study. This could mean becoming a practitioner and trying to
change development from the inside, but it doesn’t have to. Ferguson (1990) has advised anthropologists not
to get involved in the work of international development agencies: he argues that, even though the “promise
of real ‘input’ …makes the ‘development’ form of engagement such a tempting one for many intellectuals,
…pointing out errors and suggesting improvements is an integral part of the process of justifying and
legitimating ‘development’ interventions” (284 – 285). He suggests instead that anthropologists offer their
specialist knowledge and experience to more counter-hegemonic organisations such as indigenous rights
movements. I would like to recommend two other possible alternatives to development work that may be
open to anthropologists.
First, we need to make anthropological research available to a wider audience. The relative prestige of
academic anthropology and the intense competition involved in reaching the higher echelons of the
profession mean that too much valuable research is published in highbrow journals that are read only by a
small elite, written in overly complicated jargon that renders it out of reach for practitioners and the general
public. This has led to an unusual situation in which modernisation theory – all but dismissed by academics
as early as the 1970s – still permeates the lay consciousness.
Second, we need to turn our ethnographic efforts away from developing communities and towards the
development institutions themselves. There are “relatively few anthropologies of development” (Nolan).
Ferguson (1990) and Mosse (2005) are notable exception, yet even their seminal ethnographies barely
scratch the surface of what is still a highly obscure system. Unfortunately, at present anthropologists are
more keen to study small, local NGOs than large donor agencies (Edelman). This is to be expected, give the
anthropological concern with the particular; however, in neglecting studies of the larger institutions we may
well be losing an invaluable opportunity to make a real contribution to the development debate.
Conclusion
The involvement of anthropologists in development is problematic. It forces us to question some of our
most deeply-held convictions and even to compromise between the interests of the communities we
represent and those of donor agencies, who use the development discourse to achieve and maintain a
position of power. Yet development is in constant dialogue with both applied and academic anthropology:
non-involvement is therefore not an option for the anthropologist. “Development is happening, it might be
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said, much of it bad, but some perhaps useful and wanted by those who are affected, with or without the
participation of anthropologists. But there is a reasonable chance that the application of anthropological
knowledge will moderate the bad and enhance the good.” (Grillo 1985:30).
Bibliography
Bennett, J. (1988) Introductory Essay. In Production and Autonomy: Anthropological Studies and Critiques
of Development. John Bennett and John Bowen, eds. pp. 1-30. Lanham, MD: University Press of
America/Society for Economic Anthropology.
Cerneau, M. and J. Freidenberg (2007) “Development Anthropology is a Contact Sport”: An Oral History
with Michael M. Cernea. Human Organisation 66(4):339-353.
Chambers, R. (1983) Rural Development: Putting the Last First. Longman.
Clammer, J (2000) A critique of ‘cognitive’ development anthropology. Anthropology Today 16(5):1-3.
Edelman, M. and A. Haugerud (2005) The Anthropology of Development and Globalization: From Classical
Political Economy to Contemporary Neoliberalism. Oxford: Blackwell.
Escobar, A. (1991) Anthropology and the Development Encounter: The Making and Marketing of
Development Anthropology. American Ethnologist, Vol. 18(4) 658-682
Escobar, A. (1995) Encountering Development: The Making and Unmaking of the Third World. Princeton:
Princeton University Press.
Escobar, A. (1997) Anthropology and Development. International Social Science Journal 154:497-515
Ferguson, J. (1990) The Anti-Politics Machine: “Development”, Depoliticization and Bureaucratic Power in
Lesotho. University of Minnesota Press.
Firth, R. (1981) Engagement and Detachment: Reflections on Applying Social Anthropology to Social
Affairs. Human Organisation 40(3): 193-201.
Foucault, M. (1970) The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences. Pantheon Books.
Gardner, K. and D. Lewis (1996) Anthropology, Development and the Post-modern Challenge. Pluto Press.
Grillo, R. (1985) Applied Anthropology in the 1980s: Retrospect and Prospect. In Grillo, G. and A. Rew
(1985) Social Anthropology and Development Policy. Cambridge University Press.
Grillo, G. and A. Rew (1985) Social Anthropology and Development Policy. Cambridge University Press.
Hoben, A. (1982) Anthropologists and Development. Annual Review of Anthropology 11:349-375.
Leach, E. (1982) Social Anthropology. Oxford University Press.
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Little, P. and M. Painter (1995) Discourse, Politics and the Development Process: Reflections on Escobar’s
‘Anthropology and the Development Encounter’. American Ethnologist 22(3):602-609
Mair, L. (1969) Anthropology and Social Change. London: Athlone Press
Mosse, D (2005) Cultivating Development: An Ethnography of Aid Policy and Practice. London: Pluto
Press.
Nolan, R. (2002) Development Anthropology: Encounters in the Real World. Westview Press.
Redclift, M.R. (1985) Policy Research and Anthropological Compromise: Should the Piper Call the Tune?
In Grillo, G. and A. Rew (1985) Social Anthropology and Development Policy. Cambridge University
Press.
Robertson, A. (1984) People and the State: An Anthropology of Planned Development. Cambridge
University Press.
Rossi, B. (2004) Order and Disjuncture: Theoretical Shifts in the Anthropology of Ad and Development.
Current Anthropology 45(4):556-560
Sillitoe, P. (2007) Anthropologists Only Need Apply: Challenges of Applied Anthropology. Journal of the
Royal Anthropological Institute 13, 147-165
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Volume 16(1) 2009: 22-31. Copyright © 2009 Peter Kellett
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Advocacy in Anthropology: Active engagement or passive
scholarship?
Peter Kellett
Durham University
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/kellett.pdf
Abstract
In this paper I will examine issues of advocacy in anthropology in a number of ways. I will begin by discussing terminology and then raise some of the key questions relevant to this topic. These will then be explored in depth by taking two contrasting cases where anthropologists have adopted radically different positions about the appropriateness of advocacy. Finally, the paper ends with some reflections on the relevance
of this debate for 21st century anthropology.
Keywords
Advocacy, applied anthropology, ethics, neo-colonialism
“I went up to Chagnon and said, ʻYou know these people are really sick. Some of them could die.
I think we should go and get medical help.ʼ Chagnon told me that I would never be a scientist. He
said, ʻNo. No. We didnʼt come to save the Indians. We came to study themʼ” Tierney (2000:60)
“Those who have the good fortune to be able to devote their lives to the study of the social world
cannot stand aside, neutral and indifferent, from the struggles in which the future of that world is at
stake” Bourdieu (cited in Hillier and Rooksby, 2005:7).
“If you wish to shatter the social fabric, you must not expect your Professor of Social Anthropology
to aid and abet you” Frazer in his augural lecture (cited by Kuper, 1996:95).
Introduction
One of the most memorable lines of Karl Marx is his assertion that “The point is not merely to understand
the world, but to change it.”1 With reference to anthropology we might re-phrase it to read: “Is the role of
the anthropologist to try to change the world or to ‘merely’ understand it? Can (and should) anthropologists
act as advocates for the rights of people they study, or does this compromise their objectivity?
This inevitably engages with fundamental questions about the role of anthropology: What is anthropology
for? Who is it for? Why should anthropologists strive for ‘objectivity’? These questions go to the heart of
anthropology by revealing some of the unresolved tensions inherent in the history of its development into an
academic discipline. As the ‘bastard child of European colonialism’, from the very beginning proto1
Source: http://quotes.gaia.com/Karl_Marx (accessed 17 April 2008).
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anthropologists were engaged directly or indirectly, with varying degrees of enthusiasm and complicity, in
the colonial project or its legacy (Asad, 1973; Kuper, 1996; Barnard, 2000; Ervin, 2000; Sillitoe, 2007). The
unequal power relationships of colonialism are echoed today in continuing global inequalities and injustices
between north and south, as well as between the rich and powerful and the poor and dispossessed within
countries. It is in this complex, messy and uneven scenario that most anthropologists find themselves involved, usually at the micro-level with individuals and local communities. Should the anthropologist act to
try to improve the circumstances of local people? Should the anthropologist act as intermediary and voice
on behalf of local people, particularly when requested to do so? Should anthropologists engage as active
agents of change?
To do so would of course draw the anthropologist away from detachment towards engagement. Many of the
founding fathers of anthropology were originally from a natural science background (e.g. Haddon, Rivers,
Malinowski) who brought with them ideas of positivism and objectivity associated with the ‘scientific’
method. Those advocating such an approach treated ‘native’ people as objects of study and attempted to retain a distance from them. They believed that their endeavours were ‘purely scientific’, but their effects
were certainly applied, even if not recognised. We now realise that neutral objectivity is a myth within the
social sciences (and some would claim for the natural sciences also, for example Feyerabend). We cannot
separate ourselves from the material world within which we act: ‘subject and object merge in a world of “betweeness”’ and ‘fieldwork is now openly recognised as a personal encounter and ethnography as an intersubjective reality’ (Hastrup and Elsass, 1990:302).
In this paper I will examine these issues in a number of ways. I will begin by discussing terminology and
then raise some of the key questions relevant to this topic. These will then be explored in depth by taking
two contrasting cases where anthropologists have adopted radically different positions about the appropriateness of advocacy. Finally, the paper ends with some reflections on the relevance of this debate for 21st
century anthropology.
Terms and definitions
There are a number of overlapping terms which are used when discussing the application of anthropology
(Sillitoe, 2007) including: applied anthropology, action anthropology (including Participatory Action Research), praxis anthropology,2 engaged anthropology, practical anthropology, as well as advocacy anthropology; and there is a similarly wide range of possible practices covered by these terms (Sol, 1975; Paine, 1990;
Singer, 1990; Stewart and Strathern, 2005; Rilko-Bauer et al, 2006). Ervin (2000:2) attempts to clarify by
offering a continuum, with academic anthropology at one end and applied at the other.
2
Praxis anthropology attempts to ‘bridge the gap between theory and applied anthropology’ (Ervin, 2000:9). This relates to the
work of Bourdieu (1977).
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Table 1: Types of Social Anthropology (Ervin, 2000:2)
Socio-cultural anthropology
Academic anthropology
Applied anthropology
Theoretical and ethnographic Studies of social Policy analysis Academic applied research Practicing anthropology
research
issues
This appears to position theory against practice, reflection against action, and ‘pure’ against applied, whereas
the reality is more nuanced and complex. Such simplistic dualisms are not helpful, and ‘distort anthropology’s dynamism as a discipline and a profession’ Sillitoe (2007:161). According to Bennett (1996:S23) “applied anthropology in the United States emerged as a mixture of New Deal humanitarian liberalism and progressive industrial management ideology and in Britain as a humanitarian advisory function for colonial administration in Africa.” Today much applied anthropology is connected with international development
agencies, NGOs, and a range of consultant and corporate organisations. In most cases it is commissioned by
organisations who may want socio-cultural background knowledge but who normally ‘expect concrete recommendations for specific purposes’ (Ervin, 2000:4). In contrast to ‘academic’ anthropology, the topic is not
selected by the anthropologist, and theory is usually less prominent. Several authors suggest that there is an
implicit hierarchy within anthropology which privileges academic, theoretical anthropology and regards any
applied activity as inferior and second best (Stewart and Strathern, 2005).3
Advocacy anthropology may be considered as a sub-group within applied anthropology, and whilst sharing
several common features, particularly methodologies, there are usually significant differences related to
time: consultancy work is usually strictly time limited (‘the quicker the better’), whereas academic ethnographies are generally accorded higher credence with greater length. There is also a crucial distinction to be
made between anthropologists contracted to research, interpret and possibly represent local people, to the
situation of ‘academic’ anthropologists who in the process of carrying out ethnography find themselves with
the dilemma or opportunity of moving beyond research to engage in advocacy on behalf of ‘their people’. It
is this second category which is the focus of this paper.
Why advocate?
There are a number of arguments used by those supporting advocacy. These range from pragmatism and effectiveness to more fundamental issues around morality and ethics. It can also be argued that from an epistemological perspective all anthropologists are in some ways acting as advocates through documenting and
communicating their informants’ perspectives to others: “Advocacy derives naturally from the practice of
anthropology… it is an integral part of the process of representing other people’s views” (Layton 1996:40).
3
This is the opposite case in my own discipline of architecture where the design and realisation of building projects are seen as
‘real architecture’ - in contrast to academic study which is generally not accorded high status (although some of the most admired
designers are also theorists).
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Singer adds: “From this perspective all of anthropology is advocacy, because all activity is goal-oriented and
has consequence in social life" (Singer 1990:548).
Although advocacy is promoted because of its potential to make a difference to people’s lives (Layton,
1996), and also because it may help the anthropologist obtain access or achieve better collaboration and
hence collect better quality data, the main debate centres around the ethics and morality of intervention by
outsiders in promoting a particular cause or speaking on behalf of others (or ‘the other’). This debate goes to
the centre of anthropology as a discipline and practice.
Wade (1996) raises the issue of the ‘inherent reflexivity of anthropological practice’. He reminds us that in
many parts of the world (he makes specific reference to Colombia) local anthropologists are directly engaged in social problems and political struggles. Central to these processes is the production, control and
communication of knowledge - which is highly controlled and unequally distributed. He argues for enhanced reflexivity through methods which ‘subvert’ normal communication channels ‘to try to create an
arena in which anthropologists can engage politically and speed up, so to speak, the cycle of reflexivity’
(Wade, 1996:4).
He defines advocacy as ‘a particular mode of engagement or reflexive academic practice’ and in common
with other forms of political engagement is inevitably problematic: Who and how to represent? Whose interests to privilege? How to deal with divided communities? He uses the term ‘direct advocacy’ and argues
that because such action inevitably means engagement at ‘the sharp end’ of these problems, this is not a good
enough reason for not engaging.
Moral engagement in anthropology
Scheper-Hughes argues for a radical approach which is politically committed and morally engaged. She believes that anthropology must be ethically grounded and that cultural relativism, which she equates with
moral relativism, is no longer appropriate. She is critical of the anthropologist as a ‘neutral, dispassionate,
cool and rational, objective observer of the human condition’ (Scheper-Hughes, 1995:410).
The personal story of her transformation ‘from “objective” anthropologist to politically and morally engaged
companheira’ (410) is illuminating. As a Peace Corps volunteer she worked in a poor favela in Brazil as a
‘politically committed community organiser’. Twenty years later she returned to the same favela, but this
time as an anthropologist (and mother) to study infant mortality and chronic hunger (Scheper-Hughes, 1992).
Rather than participate in community action she tried to focus on her research, but was challenged by the
women in the favela: “Why had I refused to work with them [as before]? Didn’t I care about them personally anymore, their lives, their suffering, their struggle?
Why was I so passive, so indifferent?”
(1992:17-18). She replied: “my work is different now. I cannot be an anthropologist and a companheira at
the same time.” But this argument was rejected by the women who insisted that “the next time I came back
it would be on their terms, that is as a companheira, ‘accompanying’ them as I had before in the struggle and
not just sitting idly by taking field notes. ‘What is this anthropology to us anyway?’” (1995:411). She
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agreed, and on subsequent visits divided her time and loyalties between anthropology and political work in
support of her friends and informants.4 In the process she came to the realisation that the more she engaged
with the public world beyond the favela ‘the more my understandings of the community were enriched and
my theoretical horizons were expanded’ (ibid: 410). Here she argues that politically engaged advocacy is not
only morally correct, but theoretically valid and practically advantageous.5
Her engagement with extremes of violence, poverty and social exclusion in many countries6 led her to believe that “there was little virtue to false neutrality in the face of broad political and moral dramas of life and
death, good and evil, that were being played out in the everyday lives of people. …What makes anthropology and anthropologists exempt from the human responsibility to take an ethical (and political) stand on
events we are privileged to witness?”(1995:411).
In a similar way to Wade (1996) she reminds us that the idea of an ‘active, politically committed, morally
engaged anthropology’ (Scheper-Hughes, 1995:415) is more common in countries of the south where anthropology is ‘at once ethnographic, epistemologic, and political’ and local anthropologists commonly have
more engagement and communication with ‘the polis’ and ‘the public’. She argues that ‘those of use who
make our living observing and recording the misery of the world have a particular obligation to reflect critically’ ( ibid: 416), and to produce “politically complicated and morally demanding texts and images capable
of sinking through the layers of acceptance, complicity and bad faith that allow the suffering and the deaths
to continue” ( ibid: 417).
She argues for accountability, commitment, engagement, responsibility, solidarity, empathy, compassion and
interestingly suggests that such an approach would be ‘more womanly’. She believes that a change is required which would turn the anthropologist from ‘spectator’ to ‘witness’, and explains why ‘neutrality’ is not
an option - as non-involvement is also an ethical and moral position.
Her position echoes Bourdieu’s criticism of a synoptic view of activity - in which the viewer attempts to
stand apart from the action, as opposed to a participatory view which regards the world from a participant’s
4
Sometimes she was reluctant to be drawn into the political campaigns and strikes to which she had been assigned: ‘My reluctance to do so was born out of my own natural anthropological inclination to want – as Adlai Stevenson once put it – just to sit
back in the shade with a glass of wine in my hand and watch the dancers.” (Scheper-Hughes: 1995:411).
5
But it can also be personally dangerous. Here is her description of squatter camps in the Western Cape in South Africa: “At
times the shanty town or the squatter camp resembles nothing so much as a battlefield, a prison camp, or an emergency room in a
crowded inner-city hospital, where an ethic of triage replaces an ethical regard for the equal value of everyday life” (ScheperHughes, 1995:418).
6
She has worked as “an activist and with social movements in Brazil (in defence of rural workers, against death squads, and for
the rights of street kids) in the United States (as a civil rights worker and as a socialist-anarchist Catholic worker for the homeless
and mentally ill, against nuclear weapons research) and internationally (in defence of the rights of those who sell their kidneys).”
She has also worked in Cuba, Ireland and in South Africa at the time of independence, where she joined the ANC and spoke up
against violence in the squatter camps. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nancy_Scheper-Hughes (accessed 24 February 2008).
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standpoint (Hillier and Rooksby, 2005:21). We are all actors within a social reality and cannot be neutral,
disengaged spectators. Therefore according to Scheper-Hughes (1995: 417, 418) we have a responsibility to
be involved: we cannot flee ‘from local engagements, local commitments, and local accountability’ but must
use our ethnography as ‘a tool for critical reflection and for human liberation.’
Is advocacy incompatible with anthropology?
Hastrup and Elsass articulate an opposing view, based on their involvement with an isolated indigenous
group (Arhuacos) in the mountains of northern Colombia. This is an appropriate case to compare with
Scheper-Hughes, as in both situations the local people themselves specifically requested the advocacy of
outside professionals; both deal with marginalised groups in Latin America; and both potential advocates had
developed close, long-term, trusting working relationships with the people requesting their help.
Hastrup and Elsass7 were requested by some Arhuacos to help promote a ‘development’ project to increase
their autonomy within Colombian society. Their limited traditional land was under threat from encroaching
peasant farmers and the proposed irrigation project was meant to increase yields. The project aimed to revitalise traditional cultural patterns through its combined ‘ecological and cosmological overtones’ and the main
beneficiaries would be women. Elsass and Hastrup believed the proposal was sound, but on reflection decided that they would not act as advocates.
They gave a number of reasons. Firstly, that they were not needed, that some of the educated Arhuacos
could do what was required; secondly, they were concerned about their relationship with the Bureau of Indigenous Affairs; thirdly, they questioned why they should privilege the Indians over the peasants; and fourthly, they felt their participation would be patronising and an extension of romantic notions attached to the
European vision of the Indian as the ultimate ‘other’. They ask: “in what sense could we ‘speak for’ them
without possibly inflicting romantic post-colonial views upon them to the exclusion of a thorough understanding of the complex Colombian context?” (Hastrup and Elsass, 1990:304).
They were also concerned about apparent divisions within the community: ‘they want to present themselves
to the outside world … as a united community and therefore tend to be silent on issues of local conflict. We
cannot take this self-presentation at face-value; it masks a divided truth. Ultimately, our uncovering this
“truth” may enable the Arhuacos to speak more convincingly for themselves’ (307)
They are correct to point out divisions, and to ask ‘whose voice’ should be represented. There are dangers in
speaking for one particular interest group against another, but no community is homogeneous and their response appears patronising – as they expect unanimity within the community as a precondition for advocacy.
Why should they expect this of the Arhuacos? They attempt to reinforce their position by citing literature
which argues that the advocacy discourse is “over-emotional, oversimplified, rhetorical, over-dramatic, ex7
Hastrup and Elsass had been involved in various ways with the Arhuaco Indians over a 15 year period, including several film
projects (http://www.nafa.uib.no/nafanet/nafa96.html - accessed 15 April 2008).
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aggerated, single-minded, without footnotes: in short the exact opposite of our academic writing” (307).
This is an unhelpful generalisation as advocacy can equally well be ‘dispassionate, empirical, substantiated,
careful in the way it is framed, and based on very substantial information and research’ (Ervin, 2000:129).
Concluding discussion: advocacy or anthropology?
Hastrup and Elsass argue that the rationale for advocacy is never ethnographic and that advocacy is incompatible with anthropology as scholarship: ‘what is required of the anthropologist as scholar... is to raise the
context awareness of the people themselves so that they may eventually become better equipped to plead
their own cause” (306). Neither do they believe that any ‘cause’ can be legitimated in anthropological terms
as: ‘advocacy has its own discourse because it is directed towards specific goals. The pursuit of these goals
cannot be legitimated in terms of anthropology, though it can be informed by it.’ (307). They also emphasise
the differences in terms of knowledge by claiming that ‘ethnography is legitimated by established canons of
scholarship and the creation of knowledge, while advocacy rests on moral commitment and the use of
knowledge’ (302). They conclude that to become advocates anthropologists have to ‘step outside’ their profession.
It is difficult to avoid concluding that in justifying their inaction and non-advocacy (passivity) they are constructing an alternative narrative for anthropology which defines the subject in a narrow sense to avoid confronting the complex issues which many would argue require action. In this case the Arhuacos themselves
specifically requested their support. Grillo (1990:308) points out that Hastrup and Elsass propose an ‘amoral
relativism’ and ‘an austere, persuasive definition of anthropology and a rather narrow view of the principles
on which the subject and its practices are based and of what they can and should comprise.’ In contrast
Scheper-Hughes insists on the central importance of morality: ‘if we cannot begin to think about social institutions and practices in moral or ethical terms, then anthropology strikes me as quite weak and useless” (
ibid: 410).
It is relevant to be reminded that ‘the people who find themselves being researched are rarely content with
academic studies of their communities. They want information that can improve their lives rather than furthering someone’s career’ (Ervin, 2000:129). They can also legitimately expect some form of reciprocity,
and as Kirsch (2002) points out: “activism is a logical extension of the commitment to reciprocity that underlies the practice of anthropology." This is illustrated by Burr (2002:6) who deeply regretted not taking a
more active role to protect her young informants from HIV infection, and concluded that a ‘social activist
route would have been preferable.’ 8
There are multiple ways of ‘doing’ anthropology and given the complexity of most situations the call by
Paine (1990) for ‘a professional statement about the kind of things we do, or should do as anthropologists’
8
Even well-meaning actions can lead to unpredicted consequences and tensions. Unni Wikan (1980:12-15) attempted to help her
friends in the Cairo neighbourhood she was studying by distributing clothes (from the Norwegian community in Cairo). This created serious conflict and rivalries between neighbours and led to a deterioration of relationships.
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would seem unnecessary. The ASA Ethical Guidelines9 already recognise that ‘anthropologists … are faced
increasingly with competing duties, obligations and conflicts of interest’ and to create more detailed proscriptive rules would undermine the autonomy of each anthropologist to interpret the guidelines in accordance with their professional judgement, personal beliefs and understanding of the context in which they are
operating.
There is an inevitable tension within participant observation between greater observation (passive) and more
participation (action), but effective research requires ‘active engagement with our subjects’ (Crapanzano,
1995:421). Cultures are never static and change is inevitable. Even the presence of the researcher in the
field changes the situation however apparently minimally, and hence I would argue that the role of the anthropologist is to recognise and embrace our active role as agents of change. Heightened reflexivity is a precondition to using our insights, knowledge and skill in attempting to guide change in what appear to be more
positive directions, however modest and small scale, and despite the potential pitfalls. For some this must
include direct advocacy.
This contrasts with Hastrup and Elsass (1990:307) who concluded that “we should never forget that a commitment to improving the world is no substitute for understanding it.” This can hardly be an unknowing inversion of Marx’s maxim with which we opened this paper. There is little doubt that the lives of many people in the world are desperately in need of improvement and as anthropologists I believe we have a responsibility to support them. Concern for their condition is not sufficient: “the issue for us [all] is how to translate
concern into action; and an anthropologist without concern is no anthropologist at all.” 10
Bibliography
Asad, Talal (ed.) (1973) Anthropology and the Colonial Encounter, Reading: Ithaca Press (re-published by
Humanity Books in 1998).
Barnard, Alan (2000) History and Theory in Anthropology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Bennett, John, W. (1996) ‘Applied and Action Anthropology: Ideological and Conceptual Aspects’ Current
Anthropology, Vol. 37 (1), Supplement: Special Issue: Anthropology in Public, S23-S53.
Bourdieu, Pierre (1977) Outline of a Theory of Practice, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Burr, Rachel (2002) ‘Shaming of the Anthropologist: Ethical Dilemmas during and in the Aftermath of the
Fieldwork Process’ Anthropology Matters Journal,
http://www.anthropologymatters.com/journal/2002/burr_2002_shaming.htm (accessed 13 February
2009).
Carrithers, M. (1990 ‘Is Anthropology Art or Science?’ Current Anthropology, Vol.31, No.5, June 1990, 263282.
9
The ASA Ethical Guidelines for Good Research Practice can be found at http://www.theasa.org/ethics/guidelines.htm (accessed
8 May 2008).
10
Cohen quoted by Paine (1990:310)
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Crapanzano, Vincent (1995) Comments on Nancy Scheper-Hughes ‘The Primacy of the Ethical: Propositions
for a Militant Anthropology’ Current Anthropologist, Vol. 36 (3), 420-421.
Davies, Brian (2002) Is action research good for you?’ in Welland, T. and Pugsley, L. (eds.) Ethical Dilemmas in Qualitative Research, Aldershot: Ashgate, 4-18.
Ervin, Alexander, M. (2000) Applied Anthropology, Boston, London: Allyn and Bacon.
Grillo, Ralph (1990) Comments on Hastrup, Kirsten and Peter Elsass ‘Anthropological Advocacy: A Contradiction in Terms?’ Current Anthropology, Vol.31 (3), 308.
Hastrup, Kirsten and Peter Elsass (1990) ‘Anthropological Advocacy: A Contradiction in Terms?’ Current
Anthropology, Vol.31 (3), 301-311.
Hillier, J. and E. Rooksby (eds.) Habitus: A Sense of Place, second edition, Aldershot: Ashgate.
Kirsch, S. (2002) ‘Anthropology and advocacy: a case study of the campaign against the Ok Tedi Mine.’ Critique of Anthropology 22: 175-200.
Kuper, Adam (1996) Anthropology and Anthropologists: The Modern British School (third edition) London:
Routledge.
Layton, R. (1996) in Wade, Peter (ed.) Advocacy in Anthropology: the GDAT debate 1995. Manchester, Department of Social Anthropology, University of Manchester.
Paine, Robert, (1990) ‘Advocacy and Anthropology’ American Anthropologist, Vol. 92 (3), 742-743.
Panayiotopoulos, Prodromos (2002) ‘Anthropology consultancy in the UK and community development in
the Third World: a difficult dialogue’ Development in Practice, Vol.12 (1), 45-58).
Rylko-Bauer, Barbara, Merril Singer and John van Willigen (2006) ‘Reclaiming Applied Anthropology: Its
Past, Present, and Future’ American Anthropologist, Vol. 108 (1), 178-190.
Scheper-Hughes, Nancy (1992) Death without Weeping: The Violence of Everyday Life in Brazil, Berkeley:
University of California Press.
Scheper-Hughes, Nancy (1995) ‘The Primacy of the Ethical: Propositions for a Militant Anthropology’ Current Anthropologist, Vol. 36 (3), 409-440.
Sillitoe, Paul (2007) ‘Anthropologists only need apply: challenges of applied anthropology’ Journal of the
Royal Anthropological Institute, 13, 147-165.
Singer, Merill (1990) 'Another perspective on advocacy', Current Anthropology, 31: 5, 548-550
Stewart, Pamela and Andrew Strathern (eds.) (2005) Anthropology and Consultancy: Issues and Debates,
Berghahn Studies in Applied Anthropology, New York, Oxford: Berghahn.
Tax, Sol (1975) ‘Action Anthropology’ Current Anthropology, Vol.16 (4), (December 1975), 514-517.
Tierney, Patrick (2000) ‘The Fierce Anthropologist: Did Napoleon Chagnon’s expeditions harm one of the
world’s most vulnerable tribes?’ The New Yorker, 9 October 2000, 50-61.
Wade, Peter (ed.) (1996) Advocacy in Anthropology: the GDAT debate 1995. Manchester, Department of Social Anthropology, University of Manchester.
Wikan, Unni (1980) Life Among the Poor in Cairo, London: Tavistock Publications
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Wright, Robin (1988) ‘Anthropological Presuppositions of Indigenous Advocacy’, Annual Review of Anthropology, Vol 17. 365-390
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Volume 16(1) 2009: 32-56. Copyright © 2009. Damien Boutillon
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Lʼengagement du style Romen dans lʼesprit du spectateur :
dʼun icônisme statique à la mobilité des registres
Damien Boutillon
Durham University
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/boutillon.pdf
Abstract
The following text is the third chapter of the dissertation Mobilités de textes et reconnaissance corporelle:
les représentations d’un ethos tzigane au théâtre Romen de Moscou presented at the School of Advanced
Social studies (EHESS) in September 2007. The object in this section is to engage with the interplay
observed between the actors at the Dramaturgical-Satyrical Theatre ROMEN, a Muscovite Gypsy
performance arts centre. Drawing on data acquired through interviews and observation of the plays, I
propose that the performers create a community of shared knowledge during the play, community in which
the audience is awarded a certain degree of language and historical competency. This is done through a
skilful management of stagecraft, and the presentation of particular visual and auditive 'Gypsy' references in
the play. I then contend that the artists withdraw and/or limit this awarded 'competency' in order to enhance/
diminish the meanings that the drama (story) has set forth about the social life of Gypsies in Russia. This
systematic play on references and audience competency allows the artists a greater degree of freedom as to
their craft, and contributes to the illusion of natural, instinctive, Gypsy performance.
Keywords
Gyspy, performance, skat, mobility of genres, stylistic alternations, competency.
Les acteurs nous présentent une vision de leur travail et de leurs objectifs. Le discours est centré sur une
existence atemporelle d’un certain « être gitan », au travers des avatars de son histoire. Le décryptage de
ce discours contraint à construire un objet anthropologique qui ne repose plus sur un texte appréhendable
hors du contexte du spectacle. En effet, les clefs de l’identité tzigane que l’acteur nous propose semblent
lui être inhérentes, et pouvoir persister en dehors même de la réalisation du spectacle. Or ce que nous
voyons à l’œuvre au Romen est une mobilité essentielle. Au fur et à mesure de la construction de mon
objet d’étude, je voyais l’efficacité des rhétoriques scéniques –qui conservaient toute la charge
atemporelle et statique que leur confèrent acteurs et spectateurs– reposer en réalité sur une dynamique
d’alternances. C’est parce que les différentes parties présentes s’accordent sur une capacité à représenter
diversement l’ethos gitan que ce dernier advient au cours du spectacle et perdure au-delà. Cet accord de
mobilité, avec tout ce qu’il contient de paradoxal, est pour moi le véritable objet anthropologique et la
véritable force derrière la création d’une identité au Romen : c’est l’ethos Romen.
Un sens visuel donné au jeu Les positionnements des acteurs lors des chants polyphoniques et danses solo
Techniquement, les performances du Romen se passent sur une scène, cet espace restreint dévolu aux acteurs
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et limité par la salle spectatrice à l’avant, et par l’arrière-salle des machineries de décors dans son fond. Ce
sont là les limitations physiques du cadre d’expérience de l’acteur, mais non les limitations de son cadre de
praxis, qui lui s’étend à l’ensemble scène-salle. Cet espace est occupé par des corps, des aides à la
représentation physiologique d’un texte (costumes), et des orientations géométriques (axes de déplacement
des acteurs) qui elles aussi constituent des aides à la représentation visuelle du texte. J’aborde ici deux idées
de front : tout d’abord le fait que l’espace scénique est un lieu occupé par des objets matériels et des corps, et
ensuite que ces objets et corps sont utilisés pour illustrer un texte. La mise en scène d’une représentation est
une convocation ordonnée d’un ensemble de techniques et d’objets dans un but de matérialisation –dans le
sens de donner corps à, matérialiser- d’un script. Cette conjonction m’amène à deux types d’observations
distinctes : quel répertoire technique/matériel trouve-t-on au Romen, et comment ce répertoire est-il utilisé
pour illustrer des textes qui ne doivent pas porter le même message ? En d’autres termes, quel est le
vocabulaire acquis par l’acteur au Romen, et comment indexicalise-t-il ses productions vocales 1 ?
Gestuelle des acteurs durant ces chants
Le répertoire technique des acteurs, que je regroupe sous le terme de chorégraphie, adjoint à la gestuelle des
acteurs les sonorités des musiciens et les déplacements spatialement coordonnés des acteurs-danseurs.
J’utilise le terme de chorégraphie car il me semble contenir en un mot les notions de corporéité, d’évolution
dans l’espace, et de textualité (graphos). Il ouvre ainsi une porte sur l’identification de l’espace scénique
comme habité par un texte – quel que soit le médium d’expression de ce texte. Par ailleurs, une chorégraphie
va souvent de pair avec une composition musicale, or cette composante est constante dans les représentations
du Romen. Chacun de ces éléments contribue à divers degrés à la construction d’un lieu partagé par la
troupe. Lors des représentations auxquelles j’ai assisté, j’ai été marqué par deux moments, récurrents de
spectacles en spectacles, au cours desquels l’élaboration d’un espace commun aux acteurs apparaissait plus
particulièrement. Je présenterai ci-dessous ces deux instants de jeu scénique, en les distinguant selon un
critère de construction temporelle.
Dans le contexte général des représentations théâtrales, si l’espace partagé et les répertoires restent les
mêmes, c'est-à-dire la scène elle-même et les combinaisons décors/corps/mouvements des acteurs sur scène,
le partage de cet espace est vécu selon au moins deux temporalités différentes. D’une part l’instant présent
du jeu théâtral, au cours duquel les acteurs improvisent, répondent à la salle, enchaînent pour masquer une
erreur de l’un de leurs collègues, et ainsi de suite ; d’autre part le moment de réalisation de l’œuvre,
combinant instant présent de la représentation et moments préalables de préparation de la pièce avec le
metteur en scène. Le cadre de partage qu’est la scène est donc vécu par les acteurs avec des différences de
qualités temporelles : instantanéité et durée. Ceci se traduit au Romen dans les instanciations suivantes : les
chants conduits en duo/trio et les danses solo menées par un acteur auquel la troupe réplique par une danse
répétitive.
Les parties chantées des spectacles conduites en duo, donnent à entendre un exemple limpide du partage
1 Richard Bauman et Charles L. Briggs, « Poetics and Performance as Critical Perspectives on Language and Social Life »,
Annual review of Anthropology, Vol. 19, 1990, p. 59-88
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spatial dans l’instant. Laissez-moi dépeindre une succession de cadres scéniques qui ont été reproduits au
cours de chacun des spectacles que j’ai pu observer.
Deux acteurs initient un chant, soit par phrasés/réponses, soit en duo synchronisé. Les deux acteurs sont
largement séparés l’un de l’autre, et éloignés des points « forts » de la scène, à savoir éloignés des points
d’attache des microphones sur la scène, d’où leurs voix peuvent prendre une nouvelle amplitude sonore. A
cet instant, comme il m’a été expliqué, il est difficile pour chacun de deux acteurs-chanteurs de produire à la
fois une puissance vocale suffisante à atteindre les rangs du fond de l’auditoire et une qualité vocale
compatible avec celle du partenaire – la nécessité de puissance vocale jetant nécessairement chaque chanteur
dans des tonalités personnelles, et donc généralement différentes de celles du chanteur opposé. Puis,
graduellement, les deux chanteurs se meuvent l’un vers l’autre, et ensemble vers l’un des points « forts » de
la scène. De conserve avec ce rapprochement physique, et avec ce déplacement scénique, les deux voix
s’accordent, et percent dans un registre commun. Techniquement, il va sans dire que le rapprochement vers
le microphone permet à chacun des chanteurs de moins pousser sa voix, et donc d’en moduler les sonorités
pour atteindre un registre commun, même si ce registre n’est pas le plus confortable pour chacun des
protagonistes. Si l’on déconstruit ce mouvement vocal-géographique, certains éléments sont notables. Tout
d’abord, les deux acteurs n’ont pas nécessairement besoin de se rejoindre autour d’un même microphone
pour produire un duo synchronisé et communiquer au public, au travers de ce duo, une image de symbiose.
Ils n’ont pas non plus nécessairement besoin de moduler leurs accents vocaux naturels pour produire un
chant commun harmonieux. Enfin, un duo peut très bien débuter, et finir, sur un modèle de phrasé/réponses.
Or il se trouve que lors de chacune des pièces auxquelles j’ai assisté, les moments où la troupe donnait, de
par leur chant, l’impression la plus évidente de vouloir véhiculer vers le public une impression de symbiose,
ces trois éléments étaient présents : rapprochement corporel autour d’un point « fort » de la scène,
coordination des voix autour d’une fréquence commune, abandon des phrasés individuels pour un texte
commun. En outre, cette progression d’un chant sans microphone vers un chant sonorisé fabrique une
illusion spatiale de perspective, au sens géométrique du terme ; une voix puissante sans micro n’est pas
équivalente à une voix plus douce sonorisée. On utilise souvent dans les mises en scènes le passage de l’un à
l’autre pour créer un effet de lointain-rapproché. La voix naturelle parait « off », dans le lointain, simplement
à distance, alors que la voix sonorisée impose sa présence au premier plan (effet de proximité ou d’autorité).
Ces jeux de voix augmentent en quelque sorte les dimensions et repoussent les limites de l’espace scénique
pour des effets réalistes.
A ces éléments je peux ajouter une liaison physique tangible pour le public. A de nombreuses reprises le
point fort choisi était le pilier droit de l’avant-scène ; et invariablement, lors du final de leur duo, les mains
des deux chanteurs se trouvaient liées ensembles et posées sur ce pilier supportant le micro, marquant ainsi
visuellement pour le public non seulement un lien entre eux, mais aussi une attache élémentaire à l’espace
scénique. De façon semblable, les bras des chanteurs de la chorale étaient fréquemment posés sur les épaules
de leurs partenaires 2. Je vois là une instance de partage d’un espace scénique dans l’instant du spectacle. Les
2 Ce que ce que je viens de décrire dans le cadre d’un partage spatial purement scénique entre les acteurs pourrait être
partiellement repris comme point de départ pour comprendre la création d’un espace de partage scène-public.
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deux voix, de spectacles en spectacles, ne trouveront sans doute pas la même fréquence hertzienne, mais le
processus de conjonction des voix et des corps créeront toujours un espace partagé de manière analogue.
Pour leur meilleure appréciation, je regarderai maintenant cette même succession d’images sous un autre
angle. A chacune des occasions où j’ai assisté à cette évolution physique et sonore, l’image plus connue des
chanteurs polyphoniques corses ou basques m’est venue à l’esprit. Je retrouve dans les chants tziganes
certaines sonorités qu’on y perçoit : les vibratos d’amplitude limitée et les « tenues » d’une note particulière,
par exemple.
Entretien avec Anne Harley et Vadim Kolpakov, décembre 2005 :
- [Question] Vous m’aviez dit que la musique ne pouvait pas être jouée sans
engager son corps totalement.
- Pour ce qui est du chant, des moments où le chanteur peut respirer, se
reposer, le chant tzigane est bien plus flexible que les autres chants. Par
exemple, il n’est pas rare que l’on prolonge une note, et d’attendre
véritablement que le corps n’en puisse plus et demande une respiration pour la
note suivante. Et l’accompagnement des guitares va suivre ton tempo, les
guitares attendront : lorsque tu chantes, c’est véritablement toi quoi est en
charge de la performance. Du chant. Les guitares peuvent suggérer, mais en
aucun cas mener ; si tu pars sur une fausse note, elles suivent, un faux tempo,
elles suivent. Pas le contraire. C’est cette liberté que l’on n’a pas dans le
chant classique, où [le performeur] est divorcé, en quelque sorte, de son
corps. En effet dans le chant classique, le corps doit suivre ce que tes yeux
ont retiré, ce que la partition te donne en termes de division du temps…
[…]
- Les personnes de l’orchestre réagissent aussi à une même division du temps, à
des stimuli visuel. Mais dans la tradition rom russe, la musique est bien plus
organisée selon des principes acoustiques, et donc l’on ne pense pas aux
divisions de tempo.
- [Question] donc c’est un peu comme en jazz, avec un guide sur lequel on peut
évoluer ?
- [Intervention d’Oleg] Oui, un peu, mais en réalité, il y a une plus grande
liberté encore, car il n’y a pas de partition qui soit donnée.
Plus encore, le processus audible de deux voix se cherchant et s’accordant, lié au déplacement visible des
deux corps se rapprochant et démarquant ainsi un espace commun me semblait indéniablement rappeler les
chants polyphoniques. Visuellement, le cercle composé par les chanteurs basques projette sans ambigüité
l’image d’une circularité sonore associée à la délimitation d’une sphère partagée. Les regards et les corps
tournés vers cette sphère, d’où s’élève la performance, constituent un des cadres de l’expérience du chanteur.
Gestuelle des acteurs durant les danses solo
Différent de ce partage de l’espace scénique dans l’instant du spectacle, existe aussi un vécu de la scène par
le duo performeurs/auditeurs –donc aussi un vécu de l’espace performatif- qui incorpore une construction
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chronologiquement ante-spectacle de l’espace à celui de l’élaboration coordonnée dans l’instant de la
chorégraphie. Je rappelle ici l’hypothèse, formulée il y a longtemps par les auteurs et les critiques de
mouvements littéraires comme celui du « nouveau roman » en France dans les années 1950 (Robbe-Grillet,
Sarraute, Barthes, Ricardou) et utilisée dans les diverses formes de spectacle vivant contemporain, selon
laquelle le créateur d’une œuvre artistique –musicien, danseur, acteur, le performeur- est autant spectateur de
sa propre œuvre que créateur. Durant toute son élaboration, mais plus particulièrement au moment où son
œuvre est exposée aux yeux du public, elle devient extérieure à son expérience unique de créateur, et par là il
devient spectateur extérieur au même titre que le public pour lequel il a créé son objet d’art. De manière
encore plus évidente, le performeur est en même temps créateur et spectateur : dans le même espace
temporel où l’acteur fait advenir l’œuvre, celle-ci lui est extérieure car immédiatement arrachée par la
perception du public. Le performeur est donc dans le même instant créateur, spectateur de la création des
partenaires scéniques à laquelle il doit s’ajuster en temps réel et spectateur de sa propre œuvre. Il est vrai que
la création de l’œuvre est séquencée entre la préparation (hors vue du public) au cours de laquelle le
performeur sera davantage créateur, et le moment d’avènement (jour du spectacle) au cours duquel l’œuvre
advient véritablement, mais il est indéniable que l’espace-temps où la pièce est créée (par opposition à
élaborée) est celui de la scène. C’est aussi cette particularité du statut de l’artiste qui m’a incité à distinguer
le partage du cadre de l’expérience de la performance (la scène) selon deux vecteurs spatiaux-temporels : le
partage dans l’instant immédiat de la création, et le partage qui inclue la temporalité de l’élaboration du
spectacle. Ce partage particulier de l’espace scénique par les acteurs est perceptible pour les membres
présents dans la salle. Il se retrouve dans certains passages dansés et chantés des spectacles, dont ceux que je
présenterai ici. Préalablement à toute description, je dois préciser quelques points, pour assurer la lisibilité de
mes exemples. Les danses dont je parle sont, à l’instar des duos chantés, récurrentes dans le spectacle
Romen. Un acteur y effectue des pas en solo, tandis qu’un groupe lui donne la réplique dansée. Parfois ce
groupe se trouve être la troupe entière. L’acteur solo récite son script puis se lance dans une illustration
physique de la réplique qu’il vient d’énoncer. Cette illustration est codifiée stylistiquement et
temporellement, mais l’acteur semble avoir une marge de manœuvre certaine, s’il désire se départir des
cadres stylistiques de sa danse. Les pas, par exemple, doivent être reconnaissables, mais leur nombre, leurs
enchaînements ne sont pas strictement fixés. De même, l’acteur-danseur peut choisir de faire durer son
illustration, ou de se déplacer plus libéralement que prévu sur scène. Le danseur principal est donc
susceptible de produire une illustration du script en partie improvisée, improvisation à laquelle le reste de la
troupe devra se conformer en termes de temps, stylisations et tonalité des sentiments véhiculés. Toutefois, le
groupe qui lui donne la réplique est davantage assujetti à sa préparation ante-spectacle et aux cadres formels
de la danse tzigane : les pas sont moins variés, moins exubérants aussi. L’individualité corporelle s’efface
devant l’expression plus monolithique de codes traditionnels. Le chœur sert d’écrin et de cadre à la
performance individuelle de l’acteur principal, enchâssant son exubérance dans une tonalité rigoureusement
tzigane. Lors de ces danses, il n’est pas rare d’observer un décalage progressif entre le danseur solo et la
troupe qui le suit. Au début de la danse, la cohésion entre le soliste et son accompagnement confère à la
troupe un rôle double : celui d’encadrer la danse principale et celui de participer à l’illustration du script au
même titre que cette dernière. Par la suite, tandis que le danseur principal étend son interprétation sur un
registre individuel, ses accompagnateurs se trouvent relégués dans les schémas préparés durant les
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répétitions. Les improvisations du soliste rompent sa coordination initiale avec la troupe qui doit ensuite le
suivre, tant bien que mal. Le chœur se trouve progressivement confiné dans l’illustration codifiée de la
danse de l’acteur principal, au fur et à mesure que la liberté individuelle de celui-ci croît. Lors de ces danses,
un couple visuel se forme pour l’auditoire entre l’illustration textuelle du performeur soliste et l’illustration
de sa danse par la troupe accompagnatrice. J’ai mentionné qu’à cet instant de la danse, le partage scénique
était vécu par les acteurs dans un rapport au temps divergeant : le soliste vit dans l’instant de son
improvisation alors que la troupe continue de répéter les instants de sa préparation pré-spectacle. Plus la
danse s’étend dans la durée, plus les deux membres du couple deviennent indépendants, séparés. Le partage
de l’espace scénique change donc de nature, au cours de cette danse. Plus la cohésion de la troupe se
désagrège, plus le spectateur reconnaît le jeu « tzigane » encadrant la mise en scène de l’histoire. L’espace
qui lui est présenté n’est plus partagé par une troupe unie autour de l’expression d’un texte, mais il est investi
par une troupe scindée entre l’interprétation d’un script et l’enchâssement de cette interprétation dans un
cadre typiquement tzigane. A cet instant est renforcé, paradoxalement, la lisibilité du spectacle comme
spectacle tzigane, pour le spectateur. Les techniques mises en œuvre par les acteurs lors de leur
performance offrent donc une grille de lecture de l’espace scénique. La troupe crée un espace commun, et
les acteurs vivent cet espace commun en fonction du type de jeu produit.
L’auditoire est affecté par l’évolution du message qu’il reçoit, message qui change sous ses yeux au gré du
partage variant de l’espace représentatif. En réponse à cette mobilité du message, l’auditoire du Romen
s’associe à la performance par des manifestations qui semblent être attendues tant par les professionnels sur
scène que par les membres de l’assistance. Les réactions marquées de la salle, vocales ou gestuelles,
répondent aux situations scéniques du moment. Ces approbations grandiloquentes, répétitions et mimiques,
ne provoquent pas de réactions désapprobatrices d’autres membres du parterre. Pour autant, les personnages
sur scène ne réagissent pas à ces interruptions : au fil des entretiens avec les acteurs, il m’a été clairement
expliqué que si ces réactions étaient recherchées et bienvenues, même dans leurs caractères les plus
interruptifs, elles ne devaient modifier ni le cours du spectacle ni la performance de l’acteur. A cet instant,
l’importance de la participation de l’auditoire au spectacle parait problématique : nous fait-elle basculer hors
du spectacle vers une performance ritualisée, selon les critères établis par Turner ? L’assistance, au Romen,
« participe », certes, et très activement. J’aurais pourtant garde de considérer que des réactions de joie,
d’excitation, ou autres réponses à l’action sur scène, fassent nécessairement basculer le spectacle vers une
performance ritualisée. La distinction entre spectacles et performances que les textes sur les rituels Ndembu
et le genre théâtral3 élaborent, repose notamment sur trois distinctions: entre un auditoire observateur et un
auditoire participant, entre un but de divertissement et un but d’efficacité, entre une temporalité du spectacle
du moment présent et une temporalité du rituel-performatif du moment symbolique. Le spectacle Romen,
celui du théâtre de Moscou, ou bien les formes apparentées qui se produisent sur d’autres scènes (des scènes
moscovites au Kremlin, et aux scènes internationales comme l’Olympia) visent bien au divertissement. Les
nombreuses comparaisons qui m’ont été suggérées avec le théâtre du Bolshoï mettaient en exergue non
seulement la différence de répertoires, la différence du public (plus éclectique au Romen), mais aussi la
3 Victor Turner, The anthropology of performance, New York, Performing Arts Journal Publ., 1986
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différence de but poursuivi: le spectacle au Romen associe sources de réflexions graves et intermèdes/
modulations comiques. L’efficacité de ce spectacle n’est pas, il me semble, comparable au type d’efficacité
d’un rituel : la conviction qui émane de l’acte central du spectacle et influe sur l’auditoire ne vise pas, par
exemple, à modifier les relations interpersonnelles des participants. L’acte lui-même ne répond pas non plus
à une demande bien précise et spécifique de l’auditoire : le spectacle est composé par le metteur en scène/
réalisateur, en fonction de son interprétation personnelle d’un script. Son but est de présenter une nouveauté
au spectateur. Une seule demande monte de la scène vers l’auditoire : que le public écoute et se passionne
pour la pièce qui se déroule devant lui. C’est une demande de patience : comment, sans elle, un spectateur
pourrait-il se prendre au jeu des acteurs et se laisser convaincre ? La fonction impérative ne va donc pas de la
salle vers l’acteur-interprète, mais de l’acteur vers l’auditoire. Cet ensemble d’éléments contribue à définir le
spectacle du Romen comme un divertissement, et non un rituel. Ses performances comportent néanmoins
certains traits qui ne sont pas de nature, si l’on peut dire, spectaculaire.
C’est, à mes yeux, une conjonction de facteurs qui donne aux spectacles du Romen un biais performatif. Les
interruptions expriment moins des réactions que des appréciations et c’est là une différence essentielle : le
public est venu pour être convaincu, au-delà du jeu théâtral, au-delà de l’histoire présentée sur les planches.
Il est venu pour être convaincu par une adéquation entre le jeu de scène et les individus tenant les rôles. Les
réactions portent non seulement sur la qualité technique des acteurs, mais sur l’adéquation –l’attente
comblée- entre le caractère du tzigane hors les murs du Romen (donc en grande partie lié à l’origine sociale
des acteurs et ce qu’il en transparaît au travers de leur jeu scénique), le caractère du personnage représenté
sur scène, et sa contrepartie dans la tradition tzigane. Lorsque l’acteur principal, dans la pièce Muy,
Tziganie crie d’une voix déchirante, « Budu, Budu ! », il ne prononce pas seulement le nom du personnage
(Budulaj) qu’il joue dans l’instant, mais aussi celui du héros mythique tzigane : il appelle de tout son être,
avec toute sa force de conviction scénique le peuple tzigane en entier –ses traditions, ses mythes, ses
personnages, ses voix ! L’auditoire perçoit une adéquation entre l’homme-tzigane sur scène, le personnagetzigane joué et le héros-tzigane, et c’est cela qui déclenche son appréciation.
Gestuelle associée aux onomatopées « Dane Danou Danaï ! » et autres scat rythmant le
chant
La chorégraphie associe une symbolique visuelle aux sons des instruments et de la voix. Cet engagement
corporel est la fondation sur laquelle s’élève, selon les musiciens, le véritable esprit rom ; ce serait lui qui
confère au son produit cette sonorité si particulière et reconnaissable. L’importance de la puissance
musculaire (car c’est en ces termes que le phénomène me fut expliqué) pour ce qu’elle est susceptible
d’insuffler à la musique, apparaît immédiatement dans le discours rom. En marge de la définition de leurs
prouesses vocales comme résultant d’un engagement physique total, les performeurs insistent sur l’existence
dans leur musique d’une autre qualité sonore particulière, cette fois liée aux types d’accords joués et à une
vibration spécifique des cordes vocales. Un chanteur du Romen, durant la narration de son parcours
personnel, justifia de la « qualité naturellement tzigane de sa voix », en expliquant que ses cordes vocales
n’avaient jamais été modifiées par un apprentissage classique du chant, et conservaient donc toutes les
qualités originelles qui en faisaient une voix « romanii ». Interrogé sur la nature exacte de ces qualités, il ne
sut me répondre autrement que par une anti-explication : au lieu de m’en définir les qualités intrinsèques, il
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me narra l’histoire d’un professeur d’opéra russe qui refusa de lui enseigner les rudiments de la technique de
chant classique russe, au titre du danger encouru de « perdre [sa] voix tzigane » (il citait là les paroles du
professeur). Leur rencontre se fit dans les circonstances suivantes : il y a quelques années, l’obligation de
devoir se produire tous les soirs sur la scène du Romen, fatiguait sa voix ; il désirait aussi que sa technique
progresse. A ce stade, il n’avait jamais encore reçu d’instruction classique. Il visita donc le professeur
d’opéra russe dans l’optique d’approcher un autre style de chant, puis d’acquérir, selon ses propres termes, le
bagage technique qui lui faisait défaut, l’obligeant à solliciter ses cordes vocales plus qu’il ne lui semblait
nécessaire. Loin d’accepter de suite son nouvel élève, le professeur le mis fortement en garde, insistant sur
l’irréversible changement qui s’ensuivrait. Me rapportant ces mots, qu’il accompagnait de gestes vers son
cou et son visage, mon informateur m’expliqua que la structure musculaire de sa gorge et de sa cavité
buccale se seraient trouvées modifiées à tout jamais par l’exercice du chant classique.
Connaissant la sensibilité des chanteurs, dans quelque tradition de chant qu’ils professent, à la fragilité de
leur gorge et cordes vocales, je retiens surtout de cette conversation l’affirmation d’une imperméabilité
apparente (tout du moins affirmée) des deux chants, tzigane et russe. Cette étanchéité, selon mon
interlocuteur, était également admise par les deux communautés.
Plusieurs mentions m’avaient été faites par ailleurs du danger réel de perdre sa voix gitane, alors que la
possibilité d’acquérir une telle voix n’était jamais évoquée. Une barrière à sens unique s’élevait là, qui
permettait une reconnaissance immédiate et infaillible d’un artiste tzigane. Franchir cette frontière marquait
nécessairement l’altérité dans le corps. En décrivant la perte immédiate de ses qualités vocales qu’encourait
l’artiste qui acquérerait les bases d’une tradition externe, le chanteur du Romen posait à la fois les modalités
d’une identification et les garanties d’authenticité de son art. On retrouve dans cet exemple deux thèmes
marquant la culture tzigane, et consécutivement son anthropologie: corporéité et corruption. Cette idée de la
corruption des capacités du chanteur tzigane semble avoir été débattue dans l’enceinte du Romen depuis le
début du vingtième siècle.
Après ces références récurrentes au corps tzigane, mes interlocuteurs rom passent rapidement à une
explication détaillée pour distinguer leurs tonalités (pour la voix) et leurs accords (pour les instruments) au
regard de ceux de la musique russe. Ces distinctions furent confirmées à maintes reprises par des nontziganes de langue maternelle russe. Tous établissaient sans la moindre hésitation une série de différences
entre la diction tzigane de lyriques cyrilliques et une diction perçue comme normale, normalnaii, dans la
conduite du chant russe. Par exemple, l’alternance d’amplitude caractérisera le chant tzigane, dans la
prononciation de la stance. Chanté ‘normalement’, le couplet conservera tout au long de son déroulement un
niveau sonore contenu, quelque soit le choix de tonalité : basse ou ténor, le chanteur russe ne joue pas
excessivement sur les variations d’amplitude pour marquer un moment émotionnel du phrasé, au contraire
du chanteur tzigane. Il le marquera par une conjonction de la variation d’amplitude (piano à forte) et du
vibrato – ce vibrato qui n’est pas employé par le chanteur tzigane. L’auditoire est plus sensible aux variations
du volume des voix gitanes parce que leur mode d’émission est plus forcé, et ceci de manière volontaire. Le
chant tzigane débutera généralement sur une base presque inaudible pour croître graduellement et finalement
exploser, à pleine puissance, en fin de mélodie. A ces intonations variées s’ajoutent des exclamatives
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rythmiques et autres chants scat qui scandent, en unisson avec les heurts des talonnettes sur le bois de la
scène, le dialogue des personnages.
Lorsque Jean-Pierre Martin4 dépeint le scat, ou plutôt revêt le jazz d’une enveloppe sonore heurtée, je
retrouve le regard du guitariste rom qui affirmait avoir appris à jouer de quatre instruments : la guitare, la
voix, les mains, et les pieds. Loin d’appréhender chacun de ces instruments individuellement, il les associait,
les travaillait ensemble utilisant l’un pour répondre à l’autre, dérivant une rythmique des doigts pour guider
la progression des pas dansés, entrelaçant la mélodie de la guitare d’un frappé de la paume sur les bords de la
rosace.
« Dans le scat et le skaz, on entend du bruit, comme un ‘slap’ –comme lorsqu’on tire sur la corde de la
contrebasse pour qu’elle frappe et claque sur le manche, comme lorsqu’on la frappe de la paume de la main,
à moins que l’on émette à l’aide de la langue une sorte de claquement en même temps qu’on joue la note à la
clarinette ou au saxophone. Le jazz est aussi cette manière libre de jouer la voix entre le bruit du corps et le
son de la musique, de donner au rythmos d’une contrelyre ou d’un textophone la prédominance sur le melosquitte à réveiller l’oreille d’Aristote, encore sensible à Milt Hinton, comme à Barney Bigard, comme à Molly
Bloom. » (1998, pp 62)
Quelques lignes auparavant, l’auteur relevait, se référant à David Lodge, l’origine slave du mot skaz, qui
désignerait en russe « un genre de narration à la première personne qui a les caractéristiques du parlé plutôt
que de l’écrit ». (ibid.) En effet, le mot skaz vient du verbe russe skazats (parler).
Ces narrations rythmiques, corporelles ou chantées, constituent activement l’identité du texte sonore élaboré
par les performeurs. Cette identité sert aussi de vecteur de positionnement dont les musiciens se servent pour
déterminer l’appartenance musicale et nationale de leurs partenaires. A l’occasion d’une séance de relecture
critique de leur performance5, des musiciens du Romen ont profité de la présence de leur vidéaste pour
projeter à mon intention et commenter la prise de vue d’un concert où la guitariste principale scandait son
morceau avec des « Laï ! » sonores, en même temps qu’elle frappait la table de sa guitare. La chanteuse du
groupe me fit remarquer que ce choix de scansion soulignait l’appartenance de la musicienne à une tradition
scénique roumaine. Or, dans un contexte où la partition provenait clairement d’un répertoire russe, ces
interjections semblaient parfaitement inadaptées. Chacune des exclamations de la guitariste, sorte de
percussions vocales, soulevait l’hilarité du groupe, qui ne voyait là pas une déficience technique, ni une
méconnaissance de la musique, mais bien une marque culturelle qui leur semblait plus étrange et amusante
que dénaturante musicalement. Pour autant, ce passage semblait ancré dans leur mémoire collective comme
l’instant d’exposition de l’origine nationale d’une artiste au travers de ses choix de scat. Les modalités qui
autorisent un artiste à en répertorier un autre touchent plusieurs aspects du jeu, ainsi que cela me fut
expliqué. Certains musiciens qui avaient appris à jouer de la guitare à sept cordes dans l’enceinte même du
Romen me rappelaient l’intransigeance de leur professeur, qui refusait au nom de la tradition de jeu au
4 Jean-Pierre Martin, La bande sonore, Paris, José Corti, 1988
5 Entretien avec le groupe Talisman, Boston, décembre 2005, janvier 2006.
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Romen d’intégrer à son panel musical certains accords et certaines fins de phrases parfaitement acceptées
dans d’autres cercles roms. A mes questions, les instrumentistes confirmaient qu’ils s’en tenaient toujours au
principe de leur maître, lorsqu’ils jouaient les pièces classiques du répertoire.
Le scat est une constante dans le jeu tzigane. La caractéristique principale de ce scat est la vocalisation de
syllabes proches du système de chant indien Tarana; il est aussi l’illustration vocale d’une performance
gestuelle et la reprise de la ligne mélodique. Les onomatopées telles « ra, na, dane, danou danaï » sont les
plus fréquentes au Romen. Bien souvent, après une première prise de voix du soliste plus longue que les
suivantes, au cours de laquelle le couplet entier est chanté, le chœur reprend la séquence à partir de la dentale
explosive « -d-ane, danou danaï ». Cette reprise peut se poursuivre durant un passage de quelques minutes,
sans que l’ensemble n’introduise le moindre vocabulaire porteur de sens littéral. Ces reprises de lignes
mélodiques présentées quelques instants auparavant par les instruments, qui continuent souvent
d’accompagner le scat durant toute sa tenue encadrent une performance gestuelle strictement stylisée.
Il est associé bien souvent dans le jeu du Romen aux deux éléments que sont la consommation rituelle d’un
verre de vodka et le pas de danse central des perfomances masculines, où le danseur frappe alternativement
en un mouvement suivi les paumes des deux mains, le haut de la jambe d’appel et le côté de sa chaussure. Le
pas de danse et l’absorption de vodka peuvent être présentés en succession immédiate ou séparément. Avant
de décrire le déroulement précis de ces deux accompagnements, je voudrais m’arrêter sur la signification qui
leur est attribuée. Mes interlocuteurs présentèrent l’ingestion de liqueur comme une tradition russe nontzigane, tandis que le pas de danse était typiquement rom. Nous avons donc ici une itération sur le mode scat
dont la séquence et l’utilisation à bon escient servent aux professionnels à distinguer leurs affiliations
culturelles respectives. Ce scat lui-même encadre soit une performance traditionnellement russe, soit une
instanciation de danse tzigane, soit la conjonction des deux. Le sens visuel attaché au scat du Romen
comporte donc, au choix des performeurs et du metteur en scène, soit un pont vers le monde russe, soit une
concentration de symbolique rom.
La surcharge symbolique entourant lʼauditoire et la troupe : Lʼefficacité des symboles
entourant la salle sʼimpose, avant et après le spectacle
L’expression artistique de « l’être tzigane » par le redoublement gestuel de la phrase sonore intervient dans
un espace lui aussi surchargé de significations. L’espace que j’entends ici est celui qui s’étend depuis la salle
de spectacle jusqu’à la façade extérieure donnant sur le boulevard Leningrad. C’est un espace où se meut le
spectateur, avant et après le spectacle, parfois durant celui-ci. C’est alternativement un lieu de passage où la
vitesse de transition d’une salle à l’autre prime, et une scène d’attente où l’on rencontre des gens et où l’on
se montre sous ses plus beaux autours.
Ce qui m’intéresse ici est la surcharge symbolique créatrice d’identité –factice ou réelle, ce n’est pas ma
question– présente au Romen et qui marque un lieu où les gens vont, au final, pour entendre vibrer une
corde « tzigane ». Le cadre donné à la voix tzigane a, en dehors même de la salle de spectacle, une grande
importance. En posant cette question, il n’est pas à craindre que l’on se perde entre identité et émotion, car
nombre de textes ont déjà prouvé que si l’émotion part d’une voix énonciatrice, alors sa force performative
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tient à la mise en contexte de cette voix.
Gardant à l’esprit que mon propos n’est pas ici de définir l’identité rom en général mais d’analyser comment
le narratif en scène concourt à différents niveaux d’identification, il me faut prendre en compte l’impact du
système narratif sur sa principale référence : le matériel. Cela nous amènera à constater que le matériel n’est
pas rigoureusement enfermé dans son système narratif, mais garde la force intrinsèque d’un garant d’identité.
Le matériel garde une force expressive hors articulation par les mots, une immédiateté d’« être au matériel ».
Par l’utilisation des écrits d’Edwin Hutchins, je désigne un facteur essentiel à la compréhension de l’impact
ressenti par le visiteur lors d’une entrée au Romen. L’environnement matériel qui accompagne le spectateur
dans sa traversée du bâtiment relaie continument le même corpus d’informations à l’individu ou au groupe
dont l’individu peut faire partie. Plus encore, il offre un mode de partage commun avec les autres spectateurs
et le monde artistique du Romen avant même que le public n’entre dans l’échange théâtral avec l’acteur.
Cette immédiateté qui advient avant même le discursif du spectacle est essentiel au conditionnement de
l’auditoire dans une « espérance » du tzigane.
Dans son analyse des interactions des équipages à bord de vaisseaux militaires, Edwin Hutchins 6 présente
plusieurs situations où des individus doivent établir une base commune d’informations pour une manœuvre
et, de là, décider de la marche à suivre. Hutchins examine ces événements dans un contexte où les individus
se parlent, raisonnent ensemble pour constituer une plate-forme commune de savoir. Il démontre que « la
structure d’un corpus de vocabulaire impose une contrainte sur les spécificités cognitives du groupe »7
différente de la contrainte qu’elle imposerait sur un individu seul.
« La quantité d’informations véhiculée par un vocable n’est pas seulement fonction de la dimension de la
structure de ce vocable [….] L’expressivité du code peut conditionner les propriétés cognitives de l’ensemble
du système. Le succès d’une équipe à organiser un atterrissage amphibie peut dépendre de l’éventail des
nuances intelligibles dans le langage des organisateurs »8. A l’évidence, comme le souligne Huchins, la
structure d’une proposition impose des contraintes sur les propriétés cognitives d’un vocabulaire; ceci étant,
il semble que dans le cas de la relation du Romen au matériel, la structure du corpus de langue ait les mêmes
propriétés cognitives pour un individu isolé que pour un groupe humain interagissant. Un danseur qualifié,
par exemple, peut identifier quel est le pas effectué par un groupe, simplement en écoutant la séquence
rythmique de claquements sur les planches. S’il doit verbaliser ses observations pour un autre marin, il ne lui
importe pas de communiquer un jeu d’interactions sociales au sein de la troupe qui correspondrait à la
coordination durant la danse, mais bien plutôt de présenter l’ensemble des informations nécessaires à
intellectualiser, pour l’autre danseur, la situation matérielle. Dans le cas qui nous occupe, le point de
6 Edwin Hutchins, Cognition in the Wild, Cambridge, Massachusetts, The MIT Press, 1995
7The « structure of a lexicon constrains the cognitive properties of the group.» Ibid ., p. 230.
8 « The amount of information that is conveyed by a given utterance is not the simple function of the volume of the structure of the
utterance. […] The expressiveness of the code may determine the cognitive properties of the larger system. Whether a team of
planners can mount a successful amphibious landing may depend on the range of the distinctions that can be made in the
language spoken by the mission planners.» Ibid ., p. 231.
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transmission de savoir est donc antérieur au passage final d’information : on transmet une situation
matérielle dont la structure de base relaie continument le même volet d’informations.
En outre, Hutchins explique à juste titre que les individus modifient le contenu de leurs paroles dans le but
d’influer sur le « relevé » ( mapping ) de l’information véhiculée. L’objectif est là de rejoindre le schéma, ou
« relevé » d’information, que le destinataire de l’information est censé posséder. Nous avons vu par
l’analogie de « l’alignement conversationnel» qu’il n’en allait pas autrement dans la salle du Romen. En
termes simples, le locuteur adapte son langage à ce que l’allocutaire est supposé comprendre. Les
connaissances s’ajustent les unes aux autres afin de communiquer une information relative au matériel9, ou
aux stéréotypes sociaux, dans le cas qui nous occupe. L’individu ne modifie pas le substrat de son
information (la situation matérielle précise) pour la transmettre, car la situation matérielle ne change pas, et
par définition, ne changera pas après qu’elle soit avenue; en revanche, les mots et les référents pour la
représenter, changent. Ainsi se construit encore un niveau supplémentaire d’identification.
La capacité de chacun à manipuler (depuis « utiliser ou s’affronter à » jusqu’à « jongler avec », la gamme est
grande) les tournures de « langage matériel » que sont à la fois les textes au théâtre (textes sonores,
incarnés…) et les symboles matériels présents autour de la salle du Romen et sur sa scène, la capacité de
chacun à manipuler ces langages définit le niveau de compétence et d’intensité auxquels l’individu est
impliqué (dans l’élaboration d’une identité au Romen). En outre, cela devient un moyen de reconnaissance
sélective entre participants du théâtre : la précision et le niveau technique des propos et manipulations
permettant aux professionnels rompus au métier de se reconnaître entre eux, et aux spectateurs de se situer
en un organigramme de « ratification » plus ou moins grande, si l’on peut reprendre un terme goffmanien.
Lʼalternance au Romen Le monde tzigane se laisse voir comme un monde grave ou rien ne serait de l’ordre du hasard ou d’une
ornementation musicale et gestuelle produit d’une fantaisie artistique innocente. Sous le « décoratif », les
lieux et les objets parlent lourdement. Au Romen, tout a sens et poids, une sorte d’obsession de l’identité qui
apparaît, s’incarne et se déplace tour à tour, telle un feu follet. L’importance des instants de partage d’une
variation de registre par deux interlocuteurs compétents (c’est à dire connaissant bien les limites acceptables
d’extension ou de variation de leurs registres) m’ont été directement explicités par deux fois, lors d’une
variation du registre de danse et dans le cas une variation du registre lexical ; j’ai pu aussi l’observer à
d’autres moments, dont je retiendrai la formulation d’une critique sur la prononciation d’une chanteuse et la
correction des gestes d’un acteur lors d’une répétition. En chacune de ces occurrences, le point focal sur
lequel l’attention commune du performeur et de son spectateur était centré – ou sur lequel le performeur
tentait d’attirer son auditoire – était plus l’acceptabilité d’une telle évolution que la nature même du
changement dans le registre.
9 Autre exemple du domaine marin relevé par Hutchins, qui illustre le passage d’information entre deux personnes qui n’utilisent
pas les mêmes terminologies pour désigner des objets similaires: les repères visuels transmis par l’homme de barre au navigateur.
L’homme de barre doit par exemple exprimer le mot et l’image d’un môle au lieu de la graduation du compas qu’il suit et qu’il
associe naturellement au môle, et selon lequel il pense, car le navigateur, lui, a devant lui sur la carte l’alternative d’un môle ou
d’une jetée, mais ne connaît pas la position exacte du navire à cet instant précis.
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Le 17 août 1908, Victor Segalen écrivait :
« Commencer par la sensation d’Exotisme. Terrain solide et fuyant. Ecarter vivement ce qu’elle contient de
banal : le cocotier et le chameau. Passer à la belle saveur. Ne pas essayer de la décrire, mais l’indiquer à ceux
qui sont aptes à la déguster avec ivresse…
Puis tout le plan ci-contre… dans une série d’Essais bien définis. Citations peu nombreuses. Ceci n’est pas
de la critique littéraire.
Puis étendre peu à peu la notion d’Exotisme, telle celle du Bovarysme10 (procédé hindou) :
- à l’autre sexe. Aux animaux (mais non pas aux fous en qui nous nous retrouvons si bien !) ;
- à l’histoire. Passé ou Avenir. Fuite éperdue du Présent Mesquin ;
- à Tout. L’Exotisme universel. Le pouvoir de Concevoir autre.
Opposer à la saveur de l’Individualisme. En faire un beau ressort. Un bel aliment. Un beau spectacle. »
Ce que Segalen décrit ici, je le vois, je l’entends véritablement à Moscou : la « sensation d’Exotisme » nait
d’une présentation vivement écartée du banal aguichant, pour une présentation autre à un auditoire apte –
l’auditoire ratifié de Goffman que je retrouve dans mon spectacle. Puis Segalen suggère, comme je le relève
au Romen, une série de transitions, du particulier à l’universel, du concevoir soi au concevoir autre (que
l’auteur comprend lui-même comme un concevoir sonore !). Dans les chapitres précédents, j’ai observé le
cadre dans lequel ces alternances prenaient place, et pourquoi elles touchaient plus qu’au genre théâtral, en
se faisant le reflet d’une ambivalence d’état du Romen dans la société russe rom. Je propose sous ces
quelques lignes une série d’exemples de ces mobilités, sans vouloir en expliciter définitivement et
complètement le rôle (que j’espère pouvoir rechercher ultérieurement, dans une autre étude), mais
simplement pour marquer l’importance de ces instants où l’exotisme devient spectacle intentionnel.
Alternance linguistique Russe /Rom : Le mystère de la langue romani ajoute en véracité à la
production du Romen
A chaque instance d’apparition des musiques et chants au Romen, je fus systématiquement confronté au
phénomène de balancement entre langue russe et romani. Cette alternance, au premier abord une
formalisation simple de l’exotisme d’abord, et l’illustration de la longue histoire de cohabitation des deux
communautés, puis elle se révèle source d’une force de conviction artistique.
Les chants, les pièces crées au Romen tout au long de ce siècle sont parsemés d’alternances codiques, de
10 « L’amour des autres mondes, par exemple sonore. Dépouiller l’exotisme de ce qu’il a de ‘géographique’. » (Note de Victor
Segalen.) Je conserve ici la mise en page telle qu’elle apparaît dans l’œuvre. Victor Ségalen, Essai sur l’exotisme, Paris, Fata
Morgana, 1978
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« loan-words11 », et de variations linguistiques altérant le vocabulaire russe. Je n’en constituerai donc pas ici
une liste, ni ne m’attarderai sur une analyse particulière des vocables ainsi modifiés : je désire surtout
explorer les indications de mes interlocuteurs, qui désignent l’importance primordiale de la présence de ces
alternances, au-delà de leurs significations littérales. Je présenterai plus loin le cas où un groupe de
performeurs décida de conserver un accent non-rom mais distinctement non-russe pour donner une note
d’exotisme rom dans un spectacle sur le sol russe.
Le romani est régulièrement utilisé dans les scripts du Romen. Des unités de sens sont prononcées en rom,
sous formes de salutations, d’exclamatives, d’introductions de dialogue, ou de mots isolés sont inclus dans
un chant, dans une phrase, à la place de leur équivalent russe. Outre ces occurrences, divers informateurs se
souvenaient de syllabes ou terminaisons « rom » ajoutées à des mots parfaitement russe. Cette multiplicité
d’entrées de la langue romani en lieu et place d’éléments russes ne passe pas inaperçue du public, qui en
relève avec délectation les diverses apparitions, comme l’on relèverait les signes « d’authenticité » d’un
spectacle exotique.
Entretien avec Vadim Kolpakov, Boston, décembre 2005 :
- Dans l’histoire, avant que la musique tzigane ne devienne à la mode, les
gitans, Roma, en très grande majorité (et cette observation provient des
quelques cas d’études que je mène dans mon travail universitaire) jouaient pour
des non-tziganes. Ils étaient le miroir de la musique locale. Ils adaptaient ce
que les gens autour d’eux font dans leurs performances, et en exagèrent les
traits, par exemple. Voilà ce pourquoi Stecha, la grande diva tzigane, était
connue: elle adaptait les chants folk russes. Dans ce sens, les performeurs
roms russes ont joué de cette histoire, et continuent d’adapter les chants, de
traduire en langue rom. Les mélodies restent très proches l’une de l’autre,
mais sont devenues tziganes. Pour te donner ne serait-ce qu’un exemple,
l’exemple le plus commun, d’un point de vue musical : la musique des tziganes
roumains, par exemple, est très instrumentale, c’est tout fondé sur les
violons ; la musique tzigane russe est au contraire très vocale, vraiment comme
les chants russes locaux. Tout est dans le chant, en Russie. Les mélodies, les
harmoniques… Il y a quelque chose d’essentiellement rom dans ces harmoniques,
cette structure ; les lignes sont très orientales, il y a certaines choses qui
dans le chant, perdurent d’avant le mélange avec les chansons locales russes.
Peu de personnes dans l’assistance du théâtre sont en mesure de comprendre le vocabulaire romani qui y est
prononcé. Singulièrement, l’un des buts poursuivi à l’origine de la vie artistique du théâtre avait été de
préserver la langue romani par la production de spectacles entiers dans cette langue. Ce mouvement fut
rapidement abandonné, car les acteurs rencontraient de grandes difficultés à fixer les prononciations et les
différences dialectales au sein de la troupe même. Je présume aussi qu’ils durent faire face à une difficulté
11 B. W. Andrzejewski, « The role of Broadcasting in the Adaptation of the Somali Language to Modern Needs», Language Use
and Social Change: Problems of Multilinguism with Special Reference to Eastern Africa, éd. W. H. Whiteley, Oxford University
Press, 1971, p. 262-273
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plus éminemment financière, et durent abandonner une telle poursuite artistique pour fidéliser la clientèle
moscovite. Nous voyons toutefois que la présence du romani n’a en aucune manière été abandonnée dans les
productions modernes.
L’intelligence lexicale des alternances codiques est donc mise hors de portée du public moyen mais il
conserve la compréhension syntaxique. D’autres éléments encore soulignent cette primauté de la variance
syntaxique sur le sens lexical des modulations de la phrase. Lors d’une visite au domicile d’un guitariste rom
et de sa compagne, chanteuse dans le groupe musical qu’ils menaient, j’eus l’illustration de l’attention
accordée au principe d’alternance par la variation syntaxique dans les présentations de concerts tziganes. Le
groupe en question venait de terminer une série de concerts durant la période des fêtes de Noël et analysaient
les défauts de leurs productions et les éléments susceptibles d’amélioration. Dans une perspective de
production à venir en Russie, la performance de la chanteuse, qui n’était ni de langue maternelle slave ni
tzigane, fut examinée en détail. Sur quelques points de prononciation de vocabulaire romani, il fut déterminé
que son élocution était approximative. Sans la moindre hésitation, et bien qu’il ait précédemment corrigé de
façon extensive la gestuelle et les scats accompagnant les frappés de talon de la danseuse, le guitariste –rom–
se prononça pour la conservation du défaut de prononciation. En retour à ma question, il exprima l’opinion
que cette différence d’élocution serait plus sensible à un auditoire russe que ne le serait la prononciation
exacte romani. La nature de la différence lui importait peu, expliqua-t-il, pour autant que le public slave soit
mis en mesure de percevoir une différence, et d’y attribuer
« A certain charm ; they’ll hear that and it will charm them, even if they don’t know ». (« Un certain
charme ; ils [les spectateurs] entendront cela et seront charmés, même s’ils ne savent pas [d’où la différence
provient]).
On voit dans cette réaction une recherche certaine pour donner au public une certitude d’altérité et de
séduction, avant même de rendre une interprétation exacte linguistiquement.
Le répertoire du Romen est également travaillé pour offrir au public diverses facettes des textes qui
constituent la trame de ses spectacles. Certains textes semblent neufs après le remaniement d’une nouvelle
mise en scène ; certains thèmes connus varient dans leur interprétation, mais conservent la stricte succession
du script originel ; d’autres enfin sont familiers, textes au contenu inchangé mais dont l’interprétation varie.
Lorsque je mentionne que le visiteur est confronté à une mise en perspective des textes, je ne fais pas
seulement mention d’une mise en abîme d’une même textualité. En effet, nous avons vu combien la troupe
joue des nombreux supports à sa disposition pour proposer à l’auditoire une modulation autour d’un même
stigmate. Elle use de la multiplicité de ses instruments scéniques (voix, déplacements, corps, décors,
accessoires) pour présenter synchroniquement sur scène un stéréotype qui stigmatise diachroniquement le
monde rom en dehors du théâtre.
Dans le cas présent, je désire atteindre ces cas où la troupe use de la même diversité d’outils pour présenter
diachroniquement sur scène (à divers moments du spectacle) plusieurs représentations d’un même texte (que
ce soit un texte vocal ou musical) qui vit synchroniquement de par le monde: chez les disquaires de Moscou,
dans les partitions musicales des écoles de musique, au théâtre…Les allocutaires perçoivent là des
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modulations préexistantes qui sont, en définitive, les variantes instances des référents sociaux. Je comprends
ces expositions de modulations préexistantes de textes comme un appui nécessaire et préalable au
phénomène d’alignement entre locuteurs et allocutaires à partir duquel les partis présents dans la pièce de
spectacle s’accordent sur une définition commune des référents sociaux.
Un enchaînement de circonstances sur le terrain m’ont fait prendre conscience de l’existence au Romen de
ce phénomène parallèle aux alignements « conversationnels » intra-spectacles.
A la suite d’une journée où nous avions, mon interprète et moi, étudié les textes et accompagnements
musicaux entendus sur la scène du Romen, certains passages furent isolés qui semblaient être des reprises de
chansons largement diffusées et connues par le public russe. Le lendemain et quelques jours suivants furent
donc en partie consacrés à un cheminement de magasins de disques en écoles de musique pour localiser les
diverses concentrations de musique Rom et les récurrences des disques exposés, et pour tenter de localiser
les accompagnements que nous avions reconnus. Aux productions des musiciens et chanteurs sur scène
s’ajoutent ainsi des enregistrements de pistes « classiques » qui ont une affinité de sujet avec le thème
principal de la pièce, ou bien sont repris par les instrumentistes, sur scène. Ces chansons, interprétées et
reprises par divers artistes dans l’industrie du disque, sont comprises et mémorisées par le public car presque
tous les textes y sont en langue russe, avec de brefs surgissements de langue rom qui mettent en relief
certains mots, certains personnages. Le phénomène entre dans une spirale de circulation quand ces
enregistrements, dirait-on populaires, sont réinclus dans le spectacle vivant sur le plateau du Romen, les voix
enregistrées entrant en résonnance avec le chant rom « vrai ».
La piste 11 du disque Zolotuie roçipi romança par Igraph Iochka servit ainsi d’accompagnement, pour la
pièce Tabornié Igri. Joué en musique de fond, ce morceau présentait les deux qualités d’être à la fois reprise
par les musiciens sur scène en « live », et de faire indéniablement écho au sujet principal de la pièce, puisque
le conflit moral d’une jeune fille contrainte par son père de suivre la diaspora contre son gré constituait le
sujet des deux produits. Leur parallélisme était souligné par l’alternance linguistique présente dans chacun
d’eux. La pièce est représentée à la fois en Russe et en tzigane, et le texte même de la chanson alterne entre
les deux langues:
« Tchaiorni né lomaiçia[…] cobiraïcia » : jeune fille [en tzigane] ne fait pas la difficile … prépare toi [à
partir]. Finalement, et ceci n’est qu’une interprétation personnelle, la vocalisation en romani de « jeune
fille », mettant en exergue au sein de la chanson le caractère féminin, focalisait d’autant plus l’attention du
spectateur sur les personnages centraux –féminins– de la pièce.
Je me trouvais naviguer entre différentes utilisations d’une même ressource textuelle. D’un côté un texte qui
vit sur une scène dramaturgique/comique; d’un autre côté le même texte vit sur une scène économique et
nationale, et est tendu vers un public qui en reconnaît la stylisation avant de reconnaître le sens des mots et/
ou les variances techniques. Ces avatars des textes rom entrent dans des mondes de circulations
commerciales étrangères à leurs origines, pour éventuellement revenir servir d’illustration musicale, en voix
off, au théâtre où la diffusion de musique enregistrée lors d’une représentation sur une scène peuplée de
musiciens semble paradoxale, sinon qu’elle convoque un fois encore la réalité dans l’univers fictionnel. On
peut donc visualiser, dans le quartier du théâtre Romen, deux moments de vie d’un même texte, et plus
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avant, deux cadres d’existence et de manipulation d’un même texte, entièrement hétérogènes.
A ces congrégations spontanées d’utilisations différentes d'un même texte, congrégations tributaires des
goûts du public et de l’histoire des circulations des commodités telles que Igor Kopytoff les décrit, s’ajoutent
un monnayage volontariste et marchand, à son tour producteur de textes. La présence stratifiée de ces
avatars des textes aux abords même du Romen, et au-delà à l’infini (je retrouve certains de ces
enregistrements chez les disquaires new-yorkais ou londoniens), est signifiante bien au-delà d’un procédé de
marketing du type merchandising fabrication de produits dérivés d’un produit culturel célèbre pour la vente
au grand public – et qui suscite un achat souvenir, culte, nostalgie, parfois sélect, selon la qualité de
fabrication de l’objet.
Alternance stylistique : music-hall, phrasé rom
Un spectacle dʼalternances de genres : déplacements des critères de véracité du spectateur et
conservation dʼune unicité de lʼidentité rom.
Les phénomènes d’alternances entourant les performances au Romen ne concernent pas uniquement des
changements linguistiques. Elles sont aussi visibles dans une évolution des genres de jeu et dans les choix de
danses proposées au public. Des alternances stylistiques du jeu des acteurs sont présentes dans tout spectacle
de scène ; ce sont généralement des évolutions entres des styles préalablement connus de tous les publics
(drame, comédie…). Ce que je perçois de particulier au Romen, c’est la faculté des acteurs et metteurs en
scène de manipuler la position du spectateur vis-à-vis des préconçus sur l’identité tzigane. La troupe procède
par une évolution savamment orchestrée de ces changements de registres théâtraux. J’ai été particulièrement
étonné par l’un des spectacles, qui constituera ma source principale de réflexion. Ce spectacle donnait non
seulement à voir la panoplie complète du comédien du Romen, m’offrant par là même une complexité
d’alternances rarement atteinte durant les autres soirées, mais il avait la particularité de donner au spectateur
–et à l’ethnographe– une représentation in-situ de l’usage des ressources humaines extérieures au monde rom
dans un but de diversification et d’approfondissement du spectacle tzigane. Nous examinerons donc cette
instance théâtrale en deux temps, pour ensuite visiter un moment de travail pré-spectacle durant lequel les
acteurs firent le mouvement inverse, et utilisèrent non pas des ressources extérieures pour illustrer une
capacité interne à la diversité, mais de ressources internes préexistantes. Durant une répétition, ou plutôt
durant une mise en place très précoce des personnages, les acteurs durent décider de quel groupe tzigane ils
devaient faire une représentation gestuelle pour donner le plus de force à leurs caractères, et comment
traduire cette origine en une gestuelle appréhendable par le public.
Le spectacle Beguité, Kohn, Beguité (Cours, petit cheval, cours) met en scène une farce aux accents
dramatiques autour de l’histoire d’une famille gitane luttant pour s’extraire de la pauvreté et de sa condition
ouvrière. La scène commence à la fin d’une journée de travail à l’usine ; les cinq frères vaquent à leurs
divers emplois, rangeant les outils, fermant les coffres, balayant leur lieu de travail. L’usine est
métaphoriquement représentée par une série de quatre larges piliers, couvert de bas-reliefs en forme de
boulons, vis, outils, angles. La luminosité est faible, et le restera durant toute la pièce : les personnages sont
éclairés individuellement par une lumière vive, pour ne pas dire brutalement blanche : tout au long de la
pièce, les âpretés de chaque personnage seront ainsi mises à nu. Les vêtements sont caractéristiquement
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modernes : blouse de travail en usine, costumes à vestes croisées, et, dans un autre registre, vestes de toile
délavée, bandanas, chaînes ornementales diverses. Nous sommes là jetés dans une thématique ultra-réaliste,
surtout en regard de la société russe et de la prégnance sociale de l’image ouvrière. Le spectateur comprend
parfaitement le sujet qui lui est proposé : celui d’une famille de déconsidérés, assujettie aux plus dures tâches
et en proie aux plus grandes difficultés financières. Les choix de costumes nous donnent toute semblance de
limpidité, et nous poussent plus avant encore dans l’ultra-réalisme: les personnages riches sont en completsvestons, les plus pauvres ont une tenue des plus simple, parfois élimée… L’histoire continue à dérouler cette
vraisemblance lorsque l’un des frères enjoint ses proches à le rejoindre dans un projet de création d’une
échoppe de diseur de bonne aventure. En effet, quoi de plus normal qu’un tzigane engagé dans un commerce
de voyance ? Pourtant, nous entrons dès cet instant dans une thématique tout autre : celle de l’alternance des
genres, celle de la multiplicité des voix. Le cadre et l’histoire restent dramatiques ; l’entreprise, elle, nous
emporte dans un genre satirique et induit une voix dénonciatrice des préjugés sociaux. Plus encore, le
spectacle tourne à la farce, lorsque l’un des frères, révolté par son nouveau moyen d’existence, décide de
convaincre son entourage de transformer l’échoppe en maison de diseurs de bonne aventure « honnête » !
Bien évidement, les réactions de ses frères sont des plus diverses et des moins favorables. La suite de la
pièce poursuit l’alternance entre registres tragiques, la famille se déchirant autour du statut moral de
l’échoppe et de rivalités amoureuses, registres satirique avec la poursuite des dénonciations de préjugés
sociaux, et enfin registres de farce par un jeu burlesque.
J’ai choisi de présenter dans le détail ce spectacle particulier car il me semble offrir clairement tous les
éléments qui font du Romen un lieu de présentation unique de l’identité tzigane. Les acteurs offrent au
public une multiplicité d’interprétations de la condition sociale tzigane sur la base d’un mode de jeu
alternativement satirique, dramatique, ou de farce. La mobilité de l’expression artistique n’est pas un
évènement anodin. Elle m’a été expliquée dans les termes les plus simplement économiques : selon les
administrateurs du théâtre, si la salle est comble tous les soirs, c’est parce que le public désire voir une
multiplicité de styles, et non une interprétation monolithique à laquelle il pourrait assister ailleurs, dans l’un
des innombrables théâtres de Moscou.
Mais cette multiplicité de jeu recèle une force qui va au-delà d’une simple question mercantile d’appel à la
clientèle. Elle est centrale au positionnement du spectateur dans un dialogue mouvant sur l’identité par
l’acteur Romen. Le spectateur reste dans ce sujet unique, toujours prégnant, mais chaque tableau n’est en
réalité qu’une enclise dans un maelström de visions scéniques mouvantes mais organisées d’une même force
de l’identité.
Une maîtrise de la mobilité des genres qui illumine lʼambivalence des acteurs dans leur choix de
ressources : la perméabilité ambivalente du Romen aux arts extérieurs.
Pour la réalisation de ce spectacle finalement assez moderne en regard des productions habituelles du
Romen, une troupe de danse contemporaine extérieure au théâtre fut invitée pour présenter des tableaux
dansés dans un style musique-hall. Cette troupe n’était pas intégrée durant le spectacle, ni aux séquences de
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jeu récitatif, ni même aux autres interventions dansées, qui furent menées comme à l’habitude par les acteurs
du Romen. Les présentations se succédaient donc à intervalles réguliers, marquant souvent une fin de scène
ou un changement de lieu dans l’histoire. Les tonalités visuelles et sonores changeaient aussi, lors de
chacune des interventions de la troupe : lumières tamisées, musique d’accompagnement d’un music-hall tout
à fait conventionnel. Le spectateur observait donc une mise en place synchronique d’une satire sur le monde
tzigane enchâssé dans une mise en scène véritablement réaliste, orné d’un rappel du monde artistique
extérieur. Ce rappel, de par sa forme dans la construction du spectacle, de par sa séparation systématisée et
ses tonalités sonores et visuelles individualisées, donnait un relief encore plus grand au thème tzigane de la
pièce. En effet, la question posée par cette intrusion d’un art étranger à la tradition du théâtre, plus encore,
d’une troupe étrangère au théâtre, était celle de la place que le spectateur devait accorder à la normalité. La
normalité se situait-elle dans le music-hall, et dans ce cas le public prenait le rôle d’un étranger extérieur au
monde tzigane pour endosser une certaine responsabilité des stéréotypes gitans, ou bien la normalité étaitelle contenue dans la performance des danses et chants du Romen –auquel cas le spectateur se voyait confier
le rôle de satiriste contenu dans l’histoire de la performance ?
Au-delà d’un positionnement particulier du spectateur, ce que je retiens de cette intervention d’une extranéité
tangible pour le public est un effort de mise en abîme, tel que nous l’avons vu se dérouler dans l’utilisation
des accompagnements sonores non-joués par la troupe des musiciens. Cette mise en abîme de la présentation
de l’ethos tzigane procède d’une utilisation des variances entre sources extérieures et intérieures au Romen,
et d’une imposition au public du principe d’alternance dans la présentation d’un même sujet.
A l’inverse de cette assimilation de ressources externes en une mobilité interne, l’une des répétitions du
groupe m’a fait prendre connaissance de leur usage des variations internes entre cultures tziganes (variations
telles qu’ils les percevaient) lors de l’élaboration d’un « exotisme » pour le public. La scène, ou devrais-je
dire la mise en place des personnages concernait, en l’occurrence, cinq individus : l’acteur sur scène, le
directeur du Romen présent pour l’occasion, le chorégraphe de la pièce, une actrice et une personne
« soufflant » le texte depuis la salle. L’acteur devait jouer le rôle d’un courtisan goûtant un verre de vin, et
l’actrice interprétait le rôle dansé de l’objet de ses poursuites. A la suite de quelques pas sur scène, le
chorégraphe ainsi que le directeur enjoignirent à la danseuse de se départir des origines russes de sa danse,
pour véritablement incarner son rôle plein de flammes et de passion. En leurs propres mots, ils lui
expliquèrent qu’il lui fallait devenir une tzigane espagnole, ou imaginer que sa mère était espagnole –mettre
plus de violence dans ses gestes, plus de passion. Dans le même temps, le chorégraphe se tourna vers son
interprète masculin et lui emprunta sa canne pour démontrer avec quel maniérisme se déplace un anglais : il
lui fallait incarner ce maniérisme dans sa dégustation du vin, pour rendre la correcte interprétation du
personnage. Cet usage des diversités culturelles, tziganes pour la danseuse, et nationale pour l’acteur, me
frappèrent d’autant plus que cette scène se déroulait le surlendemain du spectacle dont je viens de parler.
L’auditoire est mis en face d’une pluralité d’expériences qui offrent chacune un angle d’approche et de
représentation isolable de l’identité tzigane. Dans un contexte d’énonciation discursive de cette identité, la
progression conjointe des deux locuteurs (acteurs et auditoire) vers un alignement presque conversationnel
(en cela que l’acteur fonde la progression de son jeu sur une reconnaissance et un acquiescement à chaque
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évolution, par son allocutaire –l’auditoire–, des stylisations présentées) autour d’une identité tzigane repose
sur l’alternance constante des registres. Nous avons pu voir, au travers des exemples proposés, que les
prémisses conditionnant la normalisation de l’identité tzigane changent, au gré des alignements successifs de
l’auditoire sur les registres qui lui sont proposés. C’est l’importance initiale des alternances pour
qu’advienne cet alignement qui est irréductible, si l’on veut en comprendre la complexité, aux schémas
performatifs, d’identité, et de dualité place/espace. En effet, l’étude des performances permettent une
appréhension du rôle que tient l’incarnation dans l’élaboration d’un pathos commun avec l’auditoire autour
de la personnification des stéréotypes tziganes. Pourtant, les relations aux référents sociaux illustrés dans le
spectacle ne sont pas là atteints dans leur dimension de présentation discursive par un organe qui est à la fois
–du fait des alternances scéniques- une voix officielle et une voix d’expériences individuelles. Les théories
de l’identité russe, et des identités tziganes répondent à cette mobilité de voix en représentant les capacités
d’évolution entre identités, si l’on reprend le titre de S. Fitzpatrick, qui se revêtent tels des masques. Aucune
de ces approches ne rend compte des raisons qu’a le public d’accepter la systématisation des alternances
présentées sur scène, alternances qui le meuvent dans sa compréhension de ce qui était auparavant fixe et
conjointement élaboré au début du spectacle : les stéréotypes de la musique tzigane. Or, la dualité entre place
(locus de représentations fixes) et espaces (locus de transition et d’autodéfinition) dans l’anthropologie russe
offre l’appui nécessaire pour comprendre pourquoi le spectateur moscovite intègre aisément le principe de
mobilité, lorsque l’on parle d’identité représentée, entre l’espace scénique et les places idéelles. La mosaïque
de ces approches est nécessaire à l’approche du phénomène de création d’un ethos Romen dans sa cohésion.
Conclusion
Initialement, nous avons saisi le Romen comme un espace de performance théâtral d’où proviennent une
définition et une exemplification de ce qu’est la culture musicale et scénique tzigane. Pour établir
correctement le terrain, les lieux, personnes et productions ont été positionnées. Toutefois, pour atteindre
cette capacité que semblait posséder le jeu des acteurs à imprégner son auditoire d’une vision de l’identité
tzigane, le cadre des études de la performance a été largement dépassé, versant dans les domaines adjoints au
sujet que sont la perception spatiale en Russie, les ressorts de l’échange linguistique entre le performeur et
son auditoire, et enfin bien évidement, les études tziganes proprement dites.
Cette conjonction de sources ethnographiques a permis d’établir que, en parallèle d’une multiplicité des rôles
qui a jusqu’alors marqué la fonction sociale du Romen, les acteurs eux-mêmes jouent sur une présentation de
la multiplicité pour s’acquérir leurs spectateurs. Le texte des identités tziganes telles qu’elles sont
représentées au Romen fonde sa capacité à atteindre son lecteur sur une co-présence dans l’échange des
locuteurs (acteurs/spectateurs). Cette co-présence est celle d’une multiplicité des registres et d’une capacité
du jeu à l’empathie, à l’exotisme reconnu à-priori.
Les alternances, les basculements de genres que l’on voit au Romen ne vont pas à l’encontre de la
reconnaissance à-priori d’un exotisme par le visiteur. Au contraire, c’est de ces évolutions scéniques
incessantes que surgit la capacité du performeur et de l’auditoire participant à créer un trajet commun.
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Volume 16(1) 2009: 57-62. Copyright © 2009. Catherine Taylor
ISSN 1742-2930
Towards a Qualitative Follow-Up of a Randomised Trial on
the Post-Natal Ward
Catherine Taylor
Durham University
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/taylor.pdf
Abstract
This paper provides a summary of a proposed PhD project that will be attached to a large randomised control
trial (RCT) designed to explore an intervention on the post-natal ward. The research will expand on the findings of the NECOT (North-East Cot) trial by adding a qualitative dimension. The main aims of the NECOT
trial are to examine the impact of different cot types used on the post-natal ward and their effect on breastfeeding duration. It is hypothesised that the use of side-car cribs will result in longer duration of breastfeeding than standard practice rooming-in. This project follows-up on the NECOT findings by examining the
impact of the intervention on mothers’ breastfeeding behaviour and infant sleep location once they have returned home. Additionally, the acceptability of side-car cribs among the post-natal ward staff will be assessed in order to identify factors that may increase or impede their future use within hospital maternity
wards.
Keywords
Breastfeeding, RCT (Randomised Control Trail), Post-natal, intervention, SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome)
Overview
The proposed project will be a qualitative investigation of at-home infant feeding and sleeping arrangements
among participants of a large, ongoing, randomised control trial (RCT). The NECOT (North-East Cot) trial
is an 1100 participant RCT examining an intervention in post-natal ward care designed to improve
breastfeeding duration. The proposed PhD project will augment this trial by adding an in-depth qualitative
research component to the current quantitative protocol. The NECOT Trial, funded by the NIHR Research
for the Patient Benefit Programme, is being conducted at the Royal Victoria Infirmary, Newcastle upon
Tyne, by Prof. H. Ball (anthropologist), Dr. M Ward Platt (paediatrician), J Gray (statistician), and Ms H.
Gray (midwifery sister). Recruitment for the NECOT trial commenced in January 2008.
Background
It is well documented that breastfeeding has numerous long and short-term benefits for both mother and
baby, which cannot be replicated via infant formula (see WHO 2008 for list of publications). The World
Health Organisation recommends that mothers should breastfeed their infants exclusively for six months and
continue to breastfeed alongside complimentary foods for two years or more (WHO 2002). Department of
Health statistics have revealed that few women in the UK achieve this goal and figures from the most recent
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Infant Feeding Survey conducted in 2005 show that of the prevalence of breastfeeding fell from 76% at birth
to 63% at one week, and to 48% at six weeks. At six months, only a quarter of mothers (25%) were still
breastfeeding. Furthermore, three-quarters (73%) of breastfeeding mothers who gave up within the survey
period said that they would have preferred to breastfeed for longer (Bolling et al 2005).
The initiation of breastfeeding is facilitated by skin-to-skin contact immediately after delivery and avoidance
of mother-baby separation, which has additional physiological and psychological benefits for both mother
and child (Christensson et al 1995; Fairbank et al 2000; Winberg 2005). A recent NICE review on effective
action for improving breastfeeding initiation and duration in the UK recommended that hospital practices
should ensure unrestricted mother-baby contact during the post-natal stay(Dyson et al 2006). However,
there has been little research conducted to assess ways of promoting close mother-baby contact in the postnatal period in relation to breastfeeding success and duration. A recent 2006 study by Ball et al observed the
effects of randomised infant sleep location on night time breastfeeding behaviour during the first two postnatal nights on the ward. This study found that babies who shared their mother’s bed or slept in a side-car
crib with unhindered opportunity to breastfeed showed greater breastfeeding effort, both in attempting to
feed and breastfeeding successfully, than babies who slept in stand-alone cots. Follow-up data from this
initial trial suggest that the increased breastfeeding effort observed on the post-natal ward has positive
implications for breastfeeding duration. Additionally, the study also showed that unhindered access for
mother and baby can be achieved safely through the use of side-car cribs for the duration of the post-natal
ward stay. These findings underpin the NECOT trial as they suggest that mothers who sleep in close physical
contact with their baby in the initial post-natal period have enhanced breastfeeding success with prolonged
breastfeeding duration and exclusivity.
The NECOT Trial
The NECOT trial is designed to test the hypothesis that the use of side-car cribs for babies on the post-natal
ward results in a longer duration of breastfeeding than standard practice rooming-in. The study design is a
RCT consisting of 1100 newly delivered mothers. Exclusion criteria for NECOT are: no prenatal intention
to breastfeed, multiple pregnancy, foetal abnormality, maternal illness following delivery and/or infant
admission to special care. Participants will take part in a telephone follow-up of breastfeeding behaviour on
a weekly basis for six months using an automated telephone key-pad data entry system developed and
piloted for the trial.
Qualitative Follow-up of the NECOT Trial: The follow-up research will augment the NECOT trial by
adding a qualitative dimension to the study. This will involve interviewing mothers and post-natal ward staff
involved in their care.
Qualitative Follow-up Rationale: Despite the known and potential benefits of using side-car cribs on the
post-natal ward, there are unanswered questions regarding subsequent infant sleep safety in the home
environment. An elevated risk of SIDS (sudden infant death syndrome) and fatal accidents involving infants
are associated with some forms of parent-infant sleep proximity, and the Department of Health discourages
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all sofa-sharing for infant sleep and direct bed-sharing infants less than three months (DoH 2007). This
potentially impacts the effectiveness of the intervention outside the confines of a trial since the intervention
may send out conflicting messages to mothers who may then engage in potentially dangerous sleep
behaviour once returning home. Although the NECOT trial will obtain prospective weekly data on infant
sleep location in the home, these important issues concerning infant sleep safety can only be fully explored
using a qualitative approach. Therefore appending this project to the NECOT trial will enhance the
interpretation of the quantitative findings and contribute to the feasibility of future side-car crib use and
health service delivery.
Main Objectives
1) assess the impact of the intervention on mothers’ breastfeeding experiences and behaviour after returning
home;
2) examine infant sleep location and assess the impact of the intervention on infant sleeping arrangements at
home;
3) explore mothers’ attitudes towards breastfeeding, co-sleeping, and night-time feeding;
4) investigate the acceptability of side-car cribs among post-natal ward staff and ascertain their willingness
to engage in the intervention outside of the context of the trial;
5) identify factors that may inhibit and improve side-car crib acceptability, widespread usage, and
promotion.
Methods
Maternal Interviews: 96 mothers will be interviewed; 48 from each randomised condition. Participants will
be recruited from the 800-900 newly delivered mothers who are anticipated to engage with follow-up for the
NECOT trial, therefore this qualitative project will involve 10-12% of the larger trial sample. Exclusion
criteria for NECOT are: no prenatal intention to breastfeed; multiple pregnancy; foetal abnormality;
maternal illness following delivery; infant admission to special care. Purposive sampling will be employed
to select 96 mothers from within this pool of participants in order to generate an interview sample reflecting
a diversity of backgrounds in order to maximise the potential range of views captured. Interview selection
variables will be maternal age (<25; >=25 years); parity (0, 1+); delivery type (vaginal, surgical) according
to the following grid:
Randomised
condition
Age group
Parity group
Vaginal delivery
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Side-car
<25 years
Rooming-in
25+ years
<25 years
25+years
Parity= 0 Parity=1+ Parity=0 Parity=1+ Parity=0 Parity=1+ Parity=0 Parity=1+
6
6
6
6
6
6
6
6
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Surgical delivery
6
6
6
6
6
6
6
6
Therefore from each arm of the NECOT trial six mothers will be interviewed from each cell of the
recruitment grid. This will permit comparison of behaviours and attitudes of mothers belonging to different
age groups and parity, and with different delivery experiences, in relation to breastfeeding and sleep
environment outcomes. Each variable is selected as having a significant impact on breastfeeding initiation
and duration in the UK (Bolling et al 2005; Hamlyn et al 2000). Maternal interviews will be conducted faceto-face at two months postpartum in either the participants’ homes or at their local health visitor clinic.
Those who are breastfeeding at two months will be contacted for a follow-up telephone interview at four
months and again at six months, if breastfeeding was ongoing at four months, in order to develop a
longitudinal picture of breastfeeding experience and infant sleep environments. Approximately ~50% of
participants are anticipated to be breastfeeding at four months and ~25% at six months, therefore 70-80
follow-up telephone interviews are predicted.
Staff Interviews: A purposive sample of 8-12 post-natal ward staff involved in or affected by the delivery of
the intervention will be interviewed towards the completion of the NECOT trial. The sampling strategy will
encompass all grades of post-natal ward staff from day and night shifts, plus managers. Face-to-face
interviews will be scheduled at a convenient time and suitable location within the hospital. Staff interviews
will focus on acceptability and perceived impact of the side-car crib intervention, difficulties and benefits
encountered, and reflections on staff attitudes to the trial and the potential for change in post-natal wards
procedures.
Transcription and Analyses: For all face-to-face interviews, a semi-structured interview technique will be
employed since this method allows the interview to remain open-ended while following an interview guide
in order to gain detailed information about the proposed topics (Bernard 2001). This method also allows the
participants to volunteer additional information they feel to be relevant, which serves to enhance the quality
of the data collected. For transcription purposes, all face-to-face interviews with mothers and staff will be
digitally recorded with the participants’ permission. For telephone follow-up interviews, handwritten notes
will be made on a pre-formatted interview schedule. Interview transcripts will be subjected to qualitative
thematic analysis. This will involve identifying patterns and themes within the data and interpreting findings
objectively from both an etic and emic perspective to ensure validity (Bernard 2001). Qualitative software
tools (e.g. NVIVO) will be employed in this process. The sample size will also permit extraction of some
quantifiable data from the interviews which will be coded and analysed in conjunction with numerical
follow-up data extracted from the main NECOT trial database.
Ethical Considerations
An extension to NHS ethics approval will be sought for the NECOT study in order to encompass this
proposal. Ethical concerns for this project will be guided by the recommendations laid out by the ASA
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(1999) and will involve informed consent, confidentiality, and anonymity for interviews with both mothers
and staff, and recognition that mothers participating in the NECOT trial should not be overburdened with
research requests. Prospective participants will be provided with written and verbal information about this
additional project and consent will be obtained. Participants will be advised that interviews will be recorded
and confidentiality and anonymity will be assured, except where legal obligations exist i.e. child neglect/
abuse. During interviews, undue intrusion into the participants’ privacy will be avoided and research will be
conducted in a respectable manner. Participants will be informed that they may withdraw from the
investigation at any stage during the study without affecting their involvement in the NECOT trial or their
NHS care.
Value to Public Health, Medical and Social Sciences
Increasing the duration of breastfeeding is an important public health activity. In addition to protecting
mothers and infants from a variety of health problems (relating to infant, childhood and lifetime health)
breastfeeding is cost effective for both the government and individuals. In the UK, millions of pounds are
spent treating childhood illnesses that may be avoided by exclusively breastfeeding for the recommended
period of six months (NICE 2006). It was estimated in 1995 that the NHS spends £35million per year
treating gastroenteritis in formula-fed infants and that for each 1% increase in breastfeeding at 13 weeks, a
saving of £500,000 in the treatment of gastroenteritis would be achieved (DoH 1995). Many women who
choose to breastfeed face unexpected difficulties in the initial post-natal period, which leads to early
curtailment of breastfeeding. The NECOT trial hypothesizes that side-car cribs will extend breastfeeding
duration and exclusivity by facilitating breastfeeding in the post-natal period which is essential for
stimulating milk production and establishing effective long-term breastfeeding practices. However, issues
relating to infant safety and acceptability of the intervention need to be addressed before side-car cribs can
be brought into general use, which requires qualitative, in-depth investigation. A medical anthropological
perspective recognises that breastfeeding and sleep proximity are both biomedical and socio-cultural issues.
Therefore, this project will be focused on uncovering the impact of the intervention on behaviours and
attitudes and in identifying the factors that may enhance or impede future use of side-car cribs in post-natal
wards. A key strength of this investigation is that it considers the effect of the intervention from both a
patient and a health professional viewpoint, which serves to provide a broader understanding of the issues
under examination.
Bibliography
Association of Social Anthropologists of the Common Wealth. 2006. ‘Ethical Guidelines for Good Research
Practice.’ ASA Website (http://www.asa.anthropology.ac.uk/ethics2.html). Accessed on 11.8.06.
Ball, H.L., M.P. Ward-Platt, E. Heslop, S.J. Leach & K.A. Brown. 2006. ‘Randomised Trail of Infant Sleep
Location on the Postnatal Ward.’ Archives of Disease in Childhood 91: 1005-1010.
Bernard. 2001. Research Methods in Anthropology: Qualitative and Quantitative Approaches 3rd ed. Walnut
Creek, CA: AlterMira Press.
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Bolling, K., C. Grant, B. Hamlyn & A. Thornton. 2005. ‘Infant Feeding Survey 2005.’ Department of Health
Publication. London: The Information Centre.
Christensson, K., T. Cabrera, E. Christensson, et al. 1995. ‘Separation Distress Call in the Human Neonate in
the Absence of Maternal Body Contact.’ Acta Paediatrics 84: 468-73.
Department of Health. 1995. ‘Breastfeeding: Good Practice Guidance to the NHS.’ Department of Health
Publication.
Department of Health. 2007. ‘Reduce the Risk of Cot Death: An Easy Guide.’ Department of Health Publication. Available from Department of Health website
(http://www.dh.gov.uk/en/Publicationsandstatistics/Publications/PublicationsPolicyAndGuidance/DH_
4123625). Accessed on 30.6.08.
Dyson, L., M. Renfrew, A. Macfadden, F. McCormick, G. Herbert, J. Thomas. 2006. ‘Effective action briefing on the initiation and duration of breastfeeding: Effective action recommendations.’ York: NICE.
Fairbank, L., S.O’Meara, M.J. Renfrew, M. Woolridge, A.J. Sowden & D. Lister-Sharp. 2000. ‘A systematic
review to evaluate the effectiveness of interventions to promote the initiation of breastfeeding.’ Health
Technology Assessment 4: No. 25.
Hamlyn, B, Brooker S, Oleinikova K & S Wands. 2002. ‘Infant Feeding 2000.’ Department of Health Publication. London: The Stationery Office.
NICE. 2006. ‘Postnatal care: routine postnatal care of women and their babies: Costing report.’ NICE
Clinical Guidelines: No 37 London: NICE.
WHO. 2002. ‘The Optimal Duration of Exclusive Breastfeeding: A Systematic Review.’ WHO Publication
(http://www.who.int/child-adolescent-health/New_Publications/NUTRITION/
WHO_CAH_01_23.pdf). Accessed on 30.6.08.
WHO. 2008. ‘Infant and Young Child Feeing: List of Publications.’ WHO website
(http://www.who.int/nutrition/publications/infantfeeding/en/index.html). Accessed on 30.6.08.
Winberg, J. 2005. ‘Mother and Newborn Baby: Mutual Regulation of Physiological and Behaviour- A
Selective Review.’ Developmental Psychobiology 47: 217-229.
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Volume 16(1) 2009: 63-70. Copyright © 2009. Dawn Mee
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Retention in Randomised Trials Project
Dawn Mee
Durham University
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/mee.pdf
Abstract
Research within different disciplines has been conducted on ways of reducing attrition (drop out rates) in
randomized control led trials, for example: relationship based interventions (such as Cooley et al. 2003);
incentive based interventions (for example Martinson et al. 2000); and prepaid and promised monetary
incentives (see Church 1993; Singer et al. 2000). The Retention in Randomised Trials Project (RRTP)
examines these types of interventions from an anthropological perspective, where both biological (in
particular game theory and reciprocal altruism) and social (for instance, gift exchange and building
obligations) theories can apply. The study will use a subset of the participants recruited for the North-East
Cot Trial (NECOT). These interventions will test the impact of an enhancement on the normal procedures,
such as providing the participants with a £10 thank you gift voucher on completion of the trial, to be adopted
in the NECOT trial. Furthermore, prepaid and promised incentives will also be assessed. The normal
NECOT procedures will apply to the control group and there will be no further enhancement for this group;
each intervention group however will receive either a relationship based or incentive based enhancement.
Keywords
Attrition, Game Theory, Reciprocal Altruism, Gift Exchange, Building Obligations
Introduction
Research within different disciplines has been conducted on ways of reducing attrition (drop out rates) in
randomized control led trials, for example: relationship based interventions (such as Cooley et al. 2003);
incentive based interventions (for example Martinson et al. 2000); and prepaid and promised monetary
incentives (see Church 1993; Singer et al. 2000). The Retention in Randomised Trials Project (RRTP) will
look at an example of these types of interventions from an anthropological perspective, where both
biological and social theories can apply, by using a subset of participants (450 in total) from the North-East
Cot Trial (NECOT). The NECOT trial is a randomized clinical trial with 1100 participants being conducted
at the Royal Victoria Infirmary Hospital, Newcastle to assess the effect that two different cot types - a
standalone cot or a side-car crib - used on the postnatal ward, may have on breastfeeding. When the
participants return home they are asked to ring an automated phone system (free-phone number) to answer
four questions on a weekly basis for 26 weeks. This will provide the data required to assess the effect of the
two cot types. For the purpose of the RRTP study, a drop out will be classed as a participant who is
randomized into a cot type but does not call for three or more consecutive weeks in the 26 week follow-up
period.
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Background literature
There are two main types of intervention that have been used to increase retention rates - one type is to
provide incentives. Several studies have been conducted on the effectiveness of incentives, for instance:
Martinson et al. (2000) put participants, who were adolescents, randomly into four incentive groups: no
incentive, $2 cash incentive, $15 cash incentive, or $200 prize draw incentive. They found that the $15 cash
incentive group increased the response rate, which suggests that participants responded better to an amount
that was guaranteed and was more substantial. Similarly, Roberts et al. (2004) performed a study in North
and West Birmingham where the incentive to complete a postal questionnaire was a £100 gift voucher draw.
They found that the incentive had no significant effect on the response rate. Perneger et al.’s (1993) study of
young adults aged 20 years and under in Geneva looked at monetary incentives, postcard reminders, and a
combination of both; it showed that after two weeks, the intervention which used a combination of both
methods yielded the highest response rate. When this method was applied to all participants for the
remainder of the study period, the response rate was almost equal across the board.
Studies have also evaluated the timing of providing an incentive. Singer et al. (2000) studied the
effectiveness of promised and prepaid incentives to answering a telephone survey, and found that the prepaid
incentive increased the response rate. This echoed a meta-analysis of 30 studies, using different types of
rewards, which found that prepaid incentives, whether monetary or not, were more effective than promised
incentives, and that the prepaid monetary incentive yielded the highest response rate (Church 1993).
Other studies (e.g. El-Khorazaty et al. 2007; Motzer et al. 1997; Moore 1997; Gross et al. 2001; Hellard et
al. 2001; Aitken et al. 2003) have highlighted the importance of continual contact with the researchers
throughout the trial. For example, Dias et al. (2005) recorded that around 90% of the participants in their
study stated that the staff and their manner towards the participants was why people continued to participate,
along with the standard of care they received. Jepson et al.’s (2000) review of screening programmes also
listed continual contact as being beneficial to reducing attrition, with rewards and incentives being less
effective. Contact is not necessarily verbal or face-to-face, but as Motzer et al. (1997) note, thank you letters
and certificates of appreciation can also give a personal touch and a sense of achievement. Also, the use of
logos can instil a sense of identity and belonging which can help reduce attrition (Motzer et al. 1997; Aitken
et al. 2003).
Participants withdraw from clinical trials for a variety of reasons. For instance, changes in the participant’s
personal circumstances may result in them being ineligible to continue in the trial, such as moving away
from the area (Hellard et al. 2001). Another common theme is that participants can be unhappy with their
allocation. Kerr et al. (2006) found that participants expressed a feeling that allocation to the control group
is of no benefit to them. This was also apparent in Burns et al.’s (2007) longitudinal study and appeared to
affect the drop out rates as 45% (n=70) dropped out of the control group and only 13% (n=20) dropped out
of the intervention group. There have also been studies showing that demographic reasons such as: people
who are of a younger cohort (Ball 2007; Tough et al. 2007; Danoff et al. 1994), on a lower but not
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necessarily low income (Ball 2007; Tough et al. 2007), lower educational attainment, single mothers (Tough
et al. 2007), and non-Caucasian women (Tough et al. 2007; Danoff et al. 1994) can result in attrition. This is
reiterated by Areán and Gallagher-Thompson (1996) who state that many researchers feel that older adults
are more committed to research and are less likely to drop out.
Theories
Reciprocal Altruism
Reciprocal altruism is where altruistic acts between a pair of individuals occur over time, with both taking
the role of the giver and the receiver. It is not necessary for the behaviour to be like for like, i.e. grooming
can be returned by coalition, and thus the benefits outweigh the costs (Boyd and Silk 2003). There are three
stages to reciprocal altruism, which according to Trivers are: 1) interaction between the pair must happen
often so that the altruistic act can be reciprocated, 2) the pair need to be able to register support given and
received from particular partners, and 3) the individual must provide support to the one who gives support
(Boyd and Silk 2003:222).
Tit-for-Tat Game Theory
Axelrod set up a challenge to 14 game theorists in the 1970s as an experiment, from which the Tit-for-Tat
model was postulated by Anatol Rapport (Hargreaves Heap and Varoufakis 2004). The first move is cooperative and the subsequent moves copy the opponent’s last move. Thus, if the opponent defects then they
will be punished in the next round and if they co-operate this will be met with cooperation (Hargreaves Heap
and Varoufakis 2004).
Free Rider Game Theory
Free rider is where the player benefits from the actions of others without having to make any contribution
and thus receives high benefits for no cost to them (Hargreaves Heap and Varoufakis 2004).
Obligations
Marcel Mauss ([1925] 1967) suggested that gift giving is comprised of three obligations: the obligation to
give, accept, and reciprocate. It is a form of social interaction where exchange is a medium for
communication which needs to be reciprocated but does not have to be the same thing, i.e., sending a letter
may be reciprocated with a visit from the receiver to the sender (Hendry 1999).
Gift Exchange
Sahlins (1972) wrote of three different types of exchange: generalised, balanced and negative. Generalised
exchange is a weak obligation to reciprocate and usually takes place amongst family members with no
specific time set for return. Balanced exchange usually occurs as a direct exchange; gifts are given at the
same time or within a short period of time, and are of equal value. Negative exchange is where there is an
attempt to gain something at the expense of others. Relationships are harmed by this exchange as it is
impersonal and for self gain, normally between strangers.
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The RRTP Study
There will be approximately 20 weeks between recruiting the mothers at their 20 week antenatal scan
appointment and them giving birth, and a further 26 weeks from when they give birth to completion of the
trial. This is a long period to keep participants engaged in the study and could result in attrition occurring.
Therefore, the RRTP study aims to introduce interventions to reduce attrition by addressing those who are
likely to drop out by implementing a selection of interventions that may appeal to the different cohorts of
participants (listed in Table 1.).
Table 1. RRTP Interventions
Intervention Group Regular Newsletters
Calendar and
Congratulations
Card
Regular money-off £10 thank you gift
vouchers
voucher sent
1
√
√
Prepaid
2
√
√
Promised
3
Prepaid
4
√
Promised
These interventions will be either incentive or relationship based, or a combination of the two and will test
the impact of an enhancement on the normal procedures to be adopted in the NECOT trial (detailed in Table
2).
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Table 2. Normal Contact and Incentive Procedures of the NECOT Trial
12 Week Scan
Approach expectant mums and provide them with a leaflet
20 Week Scan
Recruit volunteers
22 Weeks
Post a welcome letter to each new recruit
34 Weeks
Send participants a cot allocation letter and sticker
After the Birth
Reminder postcards are posted to the mums on a weekly basis for 26 weeks
Missing calls
If participants do not ring for 3 consecutive weeks they are contacted by a member of
the team
26 Weeks
Forward a £10 thank you gift voucher to the mum
The participants will be equally allocated into one of the 4 intervention groups shown in Table 1, or the
control group who receive the normal procedures only (as detailed in table 2). Participants’ eligibility will
be addressed as part of the normal procedures to be adopted by the NECOT trial. Criteria include ensuring
that the mother gives birth to a live, healthy baby, and has reached 37 weeks gestation. The newsletters act
as a vessel of communicating important information to reduce attrition. For instance, the second newsletter,
which the participants in intervention groups 1 and 2 will receive when they are 34 weeks pregnant, provides
a synopsis of the importance of control groups. As stated (Burns et al. 2007), control groups can have the
highest attrition in a trial; Motzer et al. (1997) found that providing more information can help counteract
this. To ensure that younger cohorts, less educated, lower income, single mothers or non-Caucasian women
do not withdraw, both the monetary and relationship based strategies could encourage a level of interest in
the trial amongst these mothers. For instance, the relationship based intervention may create a sense of
identity and belonging or may establish a relationship through contact between researchers and participants.
Also being examined is the effect of prepaid and promised incentives by altering the timing that the £10
thank you gift vouchers are sent to the participants, that is either when they have given birth (prepaid
incentive) or when they have completed the trial (promised incentive).
How the Theories Apply to the Interventions
Prepaid Monetary Incentive
(£10 gift voucher as a prepaid incentive)
If participants receiving a prepaid incentive complete the study then this could be an example of Axelrod’s
‘tit-for-tat’ game theory (Hargreaves Heap and Varoufakis 2004). Or it could suggest that Mauss’s ([1925]
1967) three obligations are at play here. Free riders (Hargreaves Heap and Varoufakis 2004), or negative
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exchange (Sahlins 1971) may apply to participants who received the £10 thank you gift as a prepaid
incentive and subsequently drop out of the trial.
Promised Monetary Incentive
(£10 gift voucher as a promised incentive)
If the participants phone each week then this could represent an altruistic act, which will be rewarded with a
£10 thank you gift voucher on completion of the study. Trivers termed this interaction ‘reciprocal
altruism’ (Boyd and Silk 2003). This interaction also suggests the obligation to give by the participants.
Regular Monetary Incentives
(Money-off vouchers)
Again reciprocal altruism, tit-for-tat game theory, or building obligations could apply to this intervention
where the receipt of regular money-off vouchers is reciprocated with making the weekly phone calls and
thus completing the trial.
Relationship Based Interventions
(Regular newsletters, congratulations cards, calendar)
Regular contact created through sending newsletters will act as a co-operative move which it is expected will
be responded to by co-operation of the participants. Thus this will also illustrate reciprocal altruism, tit-fortat game theory, and building obligations.
Predictions
Hypothesis 1: Participants who receive regular contact with the research team will be less likely to drop out
of the NECOT trial.
Hypothesis 2: Participants who receive their ‘thank you’ gift when they have given birth will have lower
attrition compared to the control group.
Hypothesis 3: Receiving regular money-off vouchers will have an affect on reducing attrition compared to
those participants in the control group.
Hypothesis 4: Those who receive both regular contact and their ‘thank you’ gift when they have given birth
will have the lowest attrition rate.
Hypothesis 5: It is expected that those in the control group will have a higher attrition rate compared to the
intervention groups.
Conclusion
The results from the RRTP study will determine what procedures will be adopted by the NECOT trial for the
remainder of the study. At present, 450 participants from the NECOT trial have been allocated into either a
control group or an intervention group. Intervention groups 1 and 2 are underway and the second issue of
the newsletter has been posted to the participants. The RRTP study will monitor attrition within the 450
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participants from the point of enrolment up to when they are due to complete the trial. Therefore the data
collection will be completed by 31 March 2009.
Bibliography
Areán, P.A. and Gallagher-Thompson, D. 1996. ‘Issues and Recommendations for the Recruitment and
Retention of Older Ethnic Minority Adults Into Clinical Research.’ Journal of Consulting and Clinical
Psychology. 64(5):875-880.
Aitken, L., Gallagher, R. and Madronio, C. 2003. ‘Principles of recruitment and retention in clinical trials.’
International Journal of Nursing Practice. 9:338-346.
Ball, H.L. 2007. ‘Bed-Sharing Practices of Initially Breastfed Infants in the First 6 Months of Life.’ Infant
and Child Development. 16:387-401.
Boyd, R. and Silk, J.B. 2003. How Humans Evolved. 3rd Edition. New York: Norton.
Burns, T., Catty, J., Becker, T., Drake, R.E., Fioritti, A., Knapp, M., Lauber, C., Rössler, W., Tomov, T., van
Busschbach, J., White, S. and Wiersma, D. 2007. ‘The effectiveness of supported employment for
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Danoff, N.L., Kemper, K.J. and Sherry, B. 1994. ‘Risk Factors For Dropping Out Of A Parenting Education
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Hellard, M.E., Sinclair, M.I., Forbes, A.B. and Fairley. C.K. 2001. ‘Methods used to maintain a high level of
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Martinson, B.C., Lazovich, D., Lando, H.A., Perry, C.L., McGovern, P.G., and Boyle, R.G. 2000.
‘Effectiveness of Monetary Incentives for Recruiting Adolescents to an Intervention Trial to Reduce
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Book Reviews
Jasna Èapo Žmegaè. 2007. Strangers Either Way: The Lives
of Croatian Refugees in Their New Home. New York:
Bergham.
Reviewed by David Henig
University of Durham
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/henig.pdf
Žmegaè’s book, which was originally written in Croatian, is an important contribution to the discipline of
anthropology in three different, but interrelated, ways. This book is written by a native (Croatian)
anthropologist about her indigenous field. In the last few years we have witnessed a strong wave of
criticism that has emerged in Central and Eastern Europe concerning the production of anthropological
knowledge about the region. Žmegaè’s book is such a voice from the margin, which represents the body
of knowledge produced inside the region. Also, it is a contribution to the anthropology of the Balkans and
to Croatia in particular. Moreover, it is a serious book about the study of migration, especially the study of
refugees and displaced persons due to war, and her book could inspire other scholars to re-think some of
the concepts that they work with.
This book is based on the author’s fieldwork on Srijem newcomers, originally from the Croatian area in
Serbia, who have been settled in a village in the Republic of Croatia. These refugees were forced at the
beginning of the nineties to leave their homes and move to their “national home” because of the war and
their Croatian ethnicity. Simultaneously, Serbs from Croatian villages moved, or had been moved to
Serbia. Žmegaè describes how the process of mutual Croat-Serb resettlement was in many cases entirely
the result of informal non-violent exchanges (of houses and lands) between two ethnic groups at an
individual level, where the Croatian state assisted only indirectly (p. 16-18).
She describes the process of forced migration studied in her fieldwork as coethnic migration, rather than
forced displacement. Coethnic migration is “a special case of migration that homogenizes the nation state
ethnically, but since it also enhances cultural differences it might lead to divisions within the nation built
along the borderline between the immigrants and the local population” (p.111). This definition is key to
understanding what has happened after the migration of Croats from Serbia to their politically defined
“right home”. Since there were ambiguous feelings on both sides, between the local population and the
newcomers, mutual integration has seemed to be more than problematic.
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She borrows from Georg Simmel’s classical paper Stranger, where Simmel argued that the immigrant is
perceived as a stranger and she amplified the argument by writing that the immigrants perceive the
homeland population as strangers as well; indigenous people and aliens are foreigners to one another (p.
3). To understand those processes of differentiation, Zmegac employs anthropological approaches to the
study of ethnic boundaries (Barth), communities (Handelman, Cohen), and ethnicity and nationalism in
general (Eriksen). Those concepts give her a tool how to understand the processes that emerged in a
village after New Croats had arrived, and which have continued to more than seven years after their
immigration. She describes how the individual immigrants identified themselves with the (ethnic) group
of immigrants rather than with the local population (p.23) and vice versa. Nobody paid attention to the
newly created common Croatian nationality.
Her findings are clear and are explained as a continuation of cultural incompatibility and concludes that
“for both migrants and locals, socialization and cultural similarity are much more important categories for
defining boundaries of the groups than common ethnic (national) belonging” (p.111). This argument is
supported by several very clear ethnographic examples (e.g. newcomers’ different approaches to
entrepreneurial activity that evokes to local people former strategies of Serbs; use of different
vocabularies, etc.). Furthermore, Homeland Clubs and the Community, which are institutions newly
founded by the government to solve immigrants’ problems, in fact have fed cultural differences and
boundary erection and their maintaining for several years, and so made the process of integration more
difficult.
In many respects her findings are comparatively close to the studies of coethnic migration and to the
difficulties of immigrants’ experience in integrating in other parts of Europe. For example, movements of
Greeks and Muslims after the fall of the Ottoman Empire to Greece and Turkey respectively. The massive
exodus of Germans since the end of the second World War, firstly from former German territories, later
from East Germany to the West Germany, and their difficulties with integration, is comparatively very
strong. What is however missing is a comparison with Serbians who moved from Croatia to the Republic
of Serbia. This missing point of view is the weakest side of Zmegaè’s book.
The first and the last chapters are devoted to anthropological epistemology, methodology and reflexivity
respectively. Žmegaè is trying to escape from the trap of anthropological authority, and in her text she
frequently and richly juxtaposes recorded interviews of her informants equally with her own thick
descriptions. In that sense her text is polyvocal, which is expressed in the organization of the particular
chapters, where some of them are like art products – a compounded collage of informants’ utterances and
interviews without any interpretation (p. 37-48). In the last chapter, devoted more generally to reflexivity
and anthropologists’ accountability, she describes her personal struggle as to how to present her findings
to (i) the studied community; (ii) the public, because her research was funded by state institutions, and she
was critical of the state’s nationalist propaganda. She poses questions that should be raised at the end of
any serious anthropological research.
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Kneebone, Susan and Felicity Rawlings-Sanei eds. 2007.
New regionalism and asylum seekers. Challenges ahead.
Berghahn Books Ltd.
Reviewed by Damien Boutillon
Durham University
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/boutillon-2.pdf
This edited volume elaborates a thorough comparative analysis of policy responses, during the past forty
years, to the challenges of forced migration; through 10 case studies the book defines the geographical nexus
–regionalism- in which migration and asylum issues must be now understood. Published for the series
“Studies in forced migration”, this book assembles a wide range of expertise, from migration and refugee
studies, to international law and human rights. Although this contribution does cover social studies concerns,
it is neither an anthropology publication, nor is it an introductory foray into global migration issues: the
technical complexity of the texts demands prior knowledge from the reader. The merits of this volume lie in
two elements. Firstly the comparative nature of the presentation goes beyond simple contrasts to extract the
modular nature of ‘regionalism’, explaining why it has become a global concept used to ‘think’ migratory
flows, yet how it remains locally-specific, influenced by the history of varying legal institutions, and shaped
by volatile economic policies. Secondly, the precision and depth of this compilation of texts leaves very few
stones unturned, paying particular homage to legal sources.
The text is organised in 10 sections, covering five geographical areas: the USA-Canada region, the European
region, Australia, South Asia and the wider ‘South’. The essays question whether regional responses and
cooperation can satisfy the protection needs of asylum seekers and new challenges of global migratory
flows. However the paradigm ‘regionalism’ itself is not challenged; it is acknowledged as a correct
framework within which critiques should be construed. Together, the texts conclude that regionalism can
satisfy protection needs. The essays attempt to outline first the new challenges of regional cooperation, then
how best to respond to these problems.
The introduction, in reality a first case study in itself, contextualizes the notion of regionalism by introducing
the reader to old regional policy models. The Organisation of African Unity and the 1984 Cartagena
Declaration models rested on a principle of harmonised standards and procedures, under the overreaching
ethical direction of the UNHCR. Susan Kneebone proposes that this model’s success was partly due to the
co-presence of States and one global community ethical body –the UNHCR. However, burden sharing
between nation-states regarding refugee relocation remained unbalanced and heavily taxing for developing
countries. The third model presented, the Comprehensive Plan of Action was plagued by similar problems.
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In the following two chapters, Castles and Koser introduce the second theoretical drive that will provide the
thread for the rest of the book. The inability of policies to respond accurately to asylum requests derives
mainly from an inaccurate understanding by governments of the forces acting behind migration flows.
Castles determines for instance that the ‘migration-asylum nexus’ policy cannot resolve modern challenges:
it requires treating all migrants with restrictive entrance measures, which in itself diminishes governmental
capacity to distinguish between forced migrants and economic migrants. Treating a migration flow by
separating clearly the population into economic migrants and forced migrants presupposes a correct
understanding of how to make such a distinction, which present governments seem incapable of doing.
Koser argues that present-day national policies have very little effect on inter-regional migration. For Koser,
governments lack an accurate definition of methods and causes for migration –smuggling in particular
creates a blur of migrant trajectories. As a result, nations produce single policy responses targeting a group
that, in fact, responds to multiple and unrelated mobility patterns –the policies becoming thereby rapidly
ineffective. In chapter 3, Gibney takes up this notion of intra-regional concentration, and uses it to highlight
a need for stronger development programs. The 1980s’ ‘engineered regionalism’ in his view caused the
concentration of displaced population in countries adjacent to their country of origin. This mounting, static
population of refugees in developing countries creates social and economic imbalances that can only be
reduced by development schemes or population resettlement. The reader is here introduced to an
overreaching solution that is advocated throughout the book; although pragmatically sensible, I see it as
problematic for the coherence of the book.
Upon closing chapter 3, the reader has been introduced to the four parallel views that drive the reflection on
forced migration in this collection: states and global entities such as UNHCR must have interlocking roles;
the principle of burden sharing is imbalanced and must be compensated by development programs; adequate
tools to categorise the migrant population are lacking; and finally migratory flow are concentrated in-region.
Chapters 4 to 8 are regional studies that provide contextual precision to the themes outlined above. In the
European region, Ghanea notes the lack of refugee law and that policies are rooted in asylum laws. Beyond
this legal inadequacy, successes are attributed to the close counsel kept by the EU with UNHCR, and to the
European consensus on human right laws. The chapters on Australia and the USA-Canada region focus on
the effects of intra-regional movements and policies. Here the authors seek the pitfalls of regionalism: the
policies in place have an effect akin to protectionism, and create an ‘exclusionary concept of citizenship’ (pp.
225). Results are the persecution of asylum seekers, bounced between their country of first arrival (by which
they transited) and their country of final arrival; similarly different levels of legality appear, which gives to
the state the power of refoulement, summary repatriation of refugees, should it choose that route. Finally, the
penultimate chapter combines the solutions uncovered by the book. To correctly engage with the new
challenges of global migration, policies should be rooted in regional cooperation and within a context of
development; seek durable solution within the initial trinity of voluntary return, integration in country of 1st
asylum and resettlement in 3d country; and acknowledge the international standards of refugee protection.
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The collection of essays concludes that regional and collective responses can satisfy to the protection needs
of asylum seekers, if the global picture is taken into account. As a product of a comparative workshop, this is
a depiction of existing data and models, and little novel theory is sought. The authors acknowledged a state
of affairs and elaborated a thorough presentation from this template, building a clear understanding of future
challenges and possible responses. The expressed goal is to provide a critical analysis of present migration
problems, within a political framework valid for the immediate future. I find the pragmatic and detailed
approach to be a foremost quality of this collection. By rooting their analysis in existing policies, the
participants engage their reader with an intimate view of the political dissentions, economical duress, and
social rifts. Conversely, due to this epistemological choice, we cannot envision new groundbreaking theory,
nor should we expect on a linear, entirely coherent argument: often in this collection of essays, insoluble
dilemmas, or unsolved ethical problems are presented. When Castles, Shaw, and Gibney discuss the effects
of monetary compensation in burden-sharing policies, they acknowledge the fact that the migrant is given a
negative monetary value by developed nations who prefer to see him remain in southern developing states.
The migrant is here commoditized and defined as a burden. Yet beyond this acknowledged problem, the
authors have the sense to maintain the debate within the paradigm of development and North-South
economical exchange, as it is the type of dialogue that currently prevails, and is likely to continue prevailing
in the near next years. The ethical dilemma is here left unsolved, but treated in depth within the correct
framework, much to the honour of the edited volume.
For its many qualities, I find this volume lacking in several ways. The legal language used throughout is
accurate but unqualified, un-historicized. This lack of precision does serious injustice to the reader and
damages the analysis: novice audiences will not understand correctly, for instance, the essential divergence
of ‘regionalism’ used under European law , public international law, and international relations theory; nor
can terms such as non refoulement be understood without being explicated at length. Further, there is a
notable and disturbing dissociation between the legal terminology used and the surrounding text. While the
former is precise, infallibly exact in using correct national legal terminology, the latter is surprisingly and
recurrently emotional, judgmental. As a social science reader, I am not certain that this book needed such an
advocating slant: the disclosed elements speak for themselves, and do not lend any strength to the definition
of the new regional context in which asylum policies are shaped. Finally, accepting regionalism as a valid,
pragmatic solution is both commendable and problematic. It allows for a deep complexity in the analysis, but
ties the debate down to a narrow time perspective, the next five years. The critical analysis of policy-making
thus becomes unfortunately a discussion of political means and methods; international legal policy
frameworks are built, indeed, in more than five years. After reading this account, I am left with a strong
thirst for an account challenging the medium-term validity of the regional model. Despite these caveats,
‘New regionalism and asylum seekers: challenges ahead’ is a valuable and readable addition to thought,
discussion and perhaps even action on the plight of asylum seekers around the world.
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Lawrence, Christopher M. 2007. Blood and Oranges: Immigrant Labor and European Markets in Rural Greece. Oxford:
Berghahn Books.
Reviewed by Maria Kastrinou-Theodoropoulou
Durham University
Like ‘a punch in the stomach’, as a Greek saying goes, Lawrence’s ethnography Blood and Oranges upsets
our ‘Europanised’ neoliberal perceptions of social equality within the context of 21st century capitalism, simultaneously adding an holistic and rigorous contribution to the anthropology of Greece, nationalism and
globalization.
Lawrence ventures to the rural township of Midea in Argolid, Greece, to explore the relation between local
Greek residents and immigrant workers, providing the content and context for a discussion of the intersection between the transformation of Greek society after joining the European Union in 1981, and the wave of
immigration from Eastern Europe in the 1990’s. The ethnography seeks to explore ‘traditional’ anthropological themes such as unequal power relations, nationalist discourse, identity construction, gender, and modes
of accommodation and resistance through an informed and contingent analysis of class formation and dynamics, production and consumption patterns, and the political economy of capitalistic neoliberal governmentality of the European Union. In the course of the book, it becomes apparent how the orange, as the agricultural product of Argolid- a symbol of prosperity, production and consumption for local farmers, is always colored, indeed constituted by, blood: historically by poor Greek workers or kin members, currently by
the exploitation of cheap immigrant labour.
Blood and Oranges begins with a concise, well written brief history of Greece in general and Argolid in particular. The discussion provides a contextualized approach to the historical developments, political movements and economic modes of production from the Ottoman Peloponnesus until today. Lawrence’s description of historical, socio-economic and political processes and exchanges between the villages in Midea
township is analysed through relations of production, and a conscious class struggle between the villages.
However, there seems to have been a profound transformation concerning class dynamics between the villages after Greece’s entrance in the European Union. This transformation has structurally altered the economic and social relations between the poorer mountain Arvanite and wealthier valley Greek villages: exploiting the new economic opportunities offered by EU in the form of subsidies, farmers of both valley and
mountain villages have been able to advance economically, and thus perceive themselves as both Greek and
petit-bourgeoisie. Furthermore, there has been a restructuring of household economies: female relatives and
children are no longer viewed as potential agricultural labour, but they have become ‘equal’- even though
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this new equality is based on the neoliberal modes of governmentality and sociality based on consumer
rights. As Lawrence argues, it seems that women and children have gained equality through consumerism.
Yet, this fundamental economic and social restructuring of the agricultural communities has caused a paradoxical problem: the Greek farmers having economically benefited from EU subsidies programs, cannot depend on labour from neither economically poorer villages nor other kin. This shortage of labour is being
filled by (mostly illegal) immigrant workers, who have substituted the most exploited part of the working
class, such as poor villagers, women and kin (who have now become consumers). The petit land owners
have become depended on the cheap and easily exploited illegal labour (due to fixed agricultural prices regulated through the EU and rising consumer needs), yet, this economic dependence is premised on the continuous social and political exclusion of immigrants, supported by a neo-racist nationalist discourse.
Compelling in its analytical rigour and its synthetical ability, Lawrence’s ethnography explores issues of illegal immigration, women’s ‘liberation’ through consumption, Greek farmers’ defrauding EU subsidies and
the neo-racist discourse of otherness through the lenses of globalization of a neoliberal governmentality that
characterizes the ‘globalised-localised’ capitalism of the EU. Taking into account the history of Greece, Lawrence sketches the interconnections between the political economy of a transforming capitalism and the contradictory processes and practices that accompany it: the author argues that contrary of (or maybe constitutive to) EU’s political discourse of ‘democracy’ and ‘social equality’, ‘human rights’ and ‘rights of citizenship’, its economic policies – especially the devaluation of agriculture in Greece- have created a vulnerable
as well as valuable, easily exploited class of non-citizens. These very modern Others are immigrants, often
from Eastern Europe, whose illegal or ‘temporary’ residence status excluded them both socially and politically from rights of equality and citizenship. As such, immigrants are perceived in neo-racist term as inferior
Others, justifying the often brutal exploitation of their cheap labour as well as their exclusion from Greek
cultural and political life. This exclusion, fabricated and justified under a nationalist discourse of boundary
construction between Greek and ‘Albanian’ Others, places immigrants outside Greek and European perceptions of equality, making them eligible for forceful exploitation, simultaneously masking the class relations
of production and the reproduction of new forms of power relations and inequalities.
Lawrence’s ethnography is a valuable and intriguing contribution not only to the ethnography of Greece but
to the anthropology of globalization and politics. The detailed and multi-level analysis of social, political and
economic transformations is both critical and well-placed. Yet, at times the reader might feel like s/he’s reading a book on Argolid’s political economy rather than an ethnography of and about people. Still, Oranges and
Blood reminds anthropology the necessity of a critical, detailed and encompassing political analysis of the
interactions and articulations between the contradictory processes, discourses and practices between people
and socio-economic systems, between people and the formations and transformations of power.
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Nonini, Donald M. ed. 2007. The global idea of "the commons". New York: Berghahn Books.
Reviewed by Rachel Douglas-Jones
Durham University
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/douglas-jones.pdf
This edited volume provides a clear and insightful introduction to the varying forms of ‘commons’ held
around the world today. The title ‘The Global Idea of ‘the Commons’ refers to the discursive phenomenon of
‘the commons’ and its various practical instantiations in hugely different contexts. The book is suited for
audiences interested in the idea and breadth of commons organizations worldwide but also behaviour of state
and consequences of neo-liberal policies. It would be suitable for teaching advanced undergraduates given
the wide scope of ethnographic and thematic contexts it explores.
Nonini’s definition of ‘the commons’ as ‘those assemblages and ensembles of resources that human beings
hold in common or in trust to use on behalf of themselves, other living human beings and which ware essential t their biological, cultural and social reproduction’ is necessarily broad, given the variety of examples
addressed in the chapters. Together, the selected essays seek to unpick forms of control over commons, and
the consequences of both different formations of commons and their governance.
To this end, Nonini has collected a series of diverse topics, areas and fields which all speak to his central
concern, that of problems facing the contemporary commons both in theory and practice. The result is a rich
and accessible book which contains some provocative material that, as General Editor of the series, Bruce
Kapferer notes, is not widely available in the media.
The dilemma at the heart of the book is the ways in which commons are ‘being transformed by the incursions of capital and state, and the ways in which they are becoming the locus of struggle for those who depend on them to survive’. Citing previous research which has moved discussion beyond Hardin’s (1968)
tragedy of the commons’ in which ‘users compete with one another to appropriate commons resources, thus
beggaring one another and so exhausting the commons’ Nonini stands with Ostrom et al (1999) in arguing
that for ‘thousands of years people have self-organised to manage common-pool resopurces, and users often
do devise long-term, sustainable institutions for governing these resources’. The authors in this volume further demonstrate Ostrom’s counter to Hardin with a fresh consideration of new threats to contemporary
commons coming primarily from mechanisms associated with neo-liberal globalization, corporate alliance
and state practises. They also seek, in their short offerings, to provoke a rethinking of the example commons
provide in a fast moving, dynamic and dispersed struggle against the ‘incursions of capital’.(ref)
The book is organised in to six sections, each short essay presenting a concise account of the commons under
study, and reflection upon the context, problems and responses to threat from ‘within’ and ‘outside’ the
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commons. Nonini’s introduction situates the essays in a global framework and recounts some of the existing
literature. He also offers a broad overview of the kinds of commons which the essays identify: naturalresource, social, intellectual and cultural and species commons. These general types are then placed within
the capitalist context through discussion of hybrid arrangements, commons on the peripheries of capitalist
expansion, and co-existing yet incommensurate scales of value.
His guiding concern with ‘weardown’ of the commons and increasing ‘enclosure’ of commonly held resources provides the cautionary impetus for the volume and indication of its timeliness, by suggesting that
‘the frenetic efforts of the corporate alliance to enclose new resources is leading to the worldwide ‘weardown’ of the commons arrangements on which capitalism itself depends. As a result, Nonini sees capitalism’s ‘conditions of production’ as undergoing rapid degredation, a process implicating both reconfigured
corporate like states and state like corporations. In bringing together these essays, Nonini draws attention to
‘uncoordinated, decentralized and spontaneous’ movements against the ‘radical assaults of the corporate alliance’ and the articulation of this through the global idea of the commons.
The strength of this collection is the way in which thematic ideas in Nonini’s introduction are echoed in the
concrete examples provided by his contributors. Themes, here considered in turn, run implicitly through the
chapters in each illustration of very different commons facing very different threats. Firstly, the theme of political and economic moves against commons as a result of neo-liberal policies runs through several of the
examples. Pickles, in the first essay, stresses the political dimension and ‘enormous impact that liberal and
neo-liberal thought and institutions have had on the social economies of the eastern European commons’.
Recalling the late 1980s and early 90s, he describes a ‘radical individualism and anti-collectivism’ sweeping
across the region, and quickly labelling ‘collective and common property regimes, some long pre-dating
communism, to be barriers to economic development and ‘efficency’, being quickly dismantled. A parallel
emerges in Scharper and Cunningham’s discussion of the ‘Genetic Commons’, tellingly subtitled ‘resisting
the neo-liberal enclosure of life’. Here the economic dimension is emphasised as the authors explain the dialectical relationship between biomolecular engineering and legal mechanisms, particularly intellectual property regimes which have led to rapid commercialization of genetics and ‘neo-liberal enclosures of genetic
material’ (59) For Pickles, political change brought about serious economic re-evaluation, and for Scharper
and Cunningham, economic incentives are driving political discussion on the ‘reinvention of state sovereignty’ (60) and ‘what is ultimately not for sale’.(59)
Such deliberations introduce the second theme, the re-workings of public and private which go on around
commons. Scharper and Cunningham draw out the process by which ‘nature’ came to be viewed as falling
within patenting jurisdictions. That which had previously been public, ‘nature’, became subject to bioengineering, and patentable as ‘human made’. Just as the law intervened in redefining the possibilities for public
and private, so too are universities stepping in to lay claim to the fruits of intellectual labour.
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In Nonini’s own essay on the Intellectual Commons, he observes how state initiatives have at times sought to
place ‘useful knowledge’ in the service of private capital, but at other times have implemented broader definitions of the ‘public interest’ (73)
Nonini raises in his discussion of intellectual commons the point that relations which arise in the creation of
intellectual matter are interdependent, and the ‘debts they create between people are always on’. In this account he reveals a sociality ‘that cannot be reduced to contracts between putatively sovereign individuals
engaged in market exchanges, but instead connects persons and groups with one another through processes
that acknowledge moral authorship, gifts and the debts they create’. (69)
In doing so Nonini cements the third and possibly most pervasive theme -commons as relations. Present in
all of the essays, this account of non-alienated social relations within social orders dominated by capitalist
exchage reinforces the anthropological point that these, like all property relations, are about people not
things. Particularly worth of note is Lu’s discussion in her essay ‘An Amazonian Context’ of the complex
interaction of Native Amazonians with agri-business, corporate petroleum extraction, and conservation
rhetoric. Her emphasis is on commons as culturally embedded, and the important characteristic of their being
expressions of sociality (43) As she writes, the maintenance of good social relationships, the minimization of
conflict, and the fostering of reciprocity are reinforced through the property regime…by holding resources
in common, people establish duties and responsibilities to each other.’ This theme is picked up again by
Boyer, whose reflection on the historical creation and contemporary ‘reinvention’ of the Appalachian commons incorporates both analysis of mechanisms of commons sustainability from gossip to religious condemnation as well as the fate of the commons in the face of divisive political issues. The majority of the authors
in this collection are based in the United States, and together they provide a critical reflection on the role of
the USA on commons worldwide. From Smith-Nonini’s article which calls explicitly for thinking a US national health service through the notion of commons to Scharper and Cunningham who locate the ‘biotech
boom’ in the United States work in ‘isolating, identifying and absorbing’ genes and their various components
in to the market as commodities, the role of the USA State is rarely far from these scholars’ gaze.
Though the book is reliant on a good knowledge of political economy, and is enhanced by a sound understanding of anthropological renderings of property, it makes efforts to lay out terms and provide historical
background where necessary. It is not admittedly not free of sometimes turgid theoretical jargon, but is generally clear. Given the brevity of each case study, many of the contextual issues it addresses do not go much
beyond good summaries, and a thematic conclusion would have been a welcome addition in drawing together the ideas the authors invoke. Despite these caveats, ‘The Global Idea of the Commons’ is a valuable
and readable addition to thought, discussion and perhaps even action on the plight of commons resources
around the world.
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Volume 16(1) 2009: 81-85. Copyright © 2009. Erica Borgstrom
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Conference Review
Reflections on the International Conference on African Culture and Development (ICACD) 2008 – What culture?
Erica Borgstrom
Durham University
http://www.dur.ac.uk/anthropology.journal/vol16/iss1/borgstrom.pdf
When I first read the title of this conference, two phrases popped out and instantly seized me: “African culture” and “development”. Yes, I thought; finally a conference addressing two of my key research interests,
and better yet, joining them together in a constructive manner. As if to put a cherry on top, the conference
was to be held in Ghana, a place I had been dreaming about visiting for years and which is also conveniently
the geographical location for my research interests in spirit child infanticide. I toyed with the idea of attending for months until I finally caved in February, booking myself a flight to Accra – the conference was a
great excuse to experience a place I had read much about and to hear first-hand how Africans feel about culture and development.
I planned my journey to allow myself two weeks of travelling around Ghana before the conference – to see
‘Africa’, to provide context for what I was to hear at the conference. To make it more exciting (and tiring) I
did a whirlwind tour of the country – starting in Accra, up to Tamale, Bolgatanga, Navrongo, Paga...many
places in between...down to Asankrangwa, over to Cape Coast, and finally up to Kumasi where the conference was to be held. I wasn’t very good at playing ‘tourist’ and didn’t want to – I spent many afternoons
meeting with health officials, development agents, and ‘local people’. I felt I learnt more from our conversations than I had in months of reading (but unfortunately my copious and meticulous notes were stolen). Once
finally at the conference and hearing the papers, I was glad to have ‘seen Africa’, albeit briefly, since the
words I heard fell into perspective and I could better understand Africans’ frustrations and ambitions.
Yet, I cannot claim to have fully comprehended it all. Papers on the conflict in Kenya, microcredit in Ethiopia, and the use of arts in community development I could only appreciate from a theoretical point-of-view.
Nonetheless, having had the chance to brush against ‘African culture’ in Africa, I felt like less of fraud sitting
in the conference room. And others felt this too – “you may be White but now you’re truly African at heart”,
David one of the conference organisers said to me. At the same time, however, I sensed this deep, underlying
racial tension that made me more aware of my race than the “obruni” (White person) calls had.
I would not have guessed from the ICACD website or opening ceremony that colonisation continues to
plague the minds of these individuals, and how I, too, as a White person, would feel immediately responsible
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for governmental policies out of my control. Not that there was a blaring White/Black1 divide, but “our family”2 was strained. I may have interpreted this incorrectly, but I developed the impression that the ‘Blacks’
were suffering from their “double consciousness” whilst the ‘Whites’ endured their continuous endeavour to
be politically correct. This was manifested in the Blacks’ unease in articulating their desires but acknowledging that many of these originated in Western minds, whilst the Whites carefully avoided stepping on their
Black colleagues’ toes. Although both groups were touting self-determination, the effect was as if they were
placing each other on pedestals. For me this was best exemplified when the Ghanaian conference organisers
insisted that Tony Duke (Australian-American) be a moderator for two of the three days. This echoed what I
heard during my travels beforehand – “we always think the White man can offer something better, even if we
can do it ourselves”. I wonder, how ingrained is this sentiment, and what effect is it having on African culture and development? Is this something that can be addressed by anthropology? Can it alone, and with anthropology, affect policy?
Another incident struck me just as much – how some of the ‘African’ delegates outwardly appeared more
‘African’ on the day of their presentations. Let me elaborate: almost all delegates 3, regardless of cultural
background, were dressed in Western-styled clothing during the conference. Then, I noticed, on the day they
were due to present, some of the African delegates wore ‘traditional’ clothing; the musicians did this as well.
My anthropological antennae bounced up – what does this change in dress signify and how is it being utilised? Being aware of selected literature on multiple identities (c.f.Narayan, 1988; Dower and Williams,
2002), I tried to analyse this behaviour. Perhaps it was to reassure the audience (and themselves) of their African identity and support for (traditional) African culture. Through their clothing individuals could ‘perform’ and ‘embody’ their cultural identity. This explanation could be particularly pertinent to the AfricanAmerican presenter, who without the language, accent, or traditional scars could become ‘African’ through
the combination of her colour and clothes. Yet, this could be an over-interpretation of the situation. Conceivably these were the clothes the various delegates brought with them and the ‘change in dress’ was a mere
coincidence. Yet, for personal reasons perhaps, I’d like to believe it has more significance, illustrating a (subtle?) manipulation in identity, providing a preview into the phenomenon of personal presentation. I’ll admit
to having “multiple identities” (not in the fashion of a MI5 spy, however) and alternating between them depending on the situation; I won’t admit to this always being a conscious action. Identifying this shift in iden-
1
I use the terms White and Black since these were the terms used by conference delegates. Moreover, the
‘White’ group contained ‘White Africans’ and thus Western/African would not be a suitable divide. Similarly, there were no Asian, Latin American, or other ‘mass cultural group’ present.
2 As
the conference co-ordinators frequently referred to the delegates.
3
There were a few individuals who always wore ‘traditional’, traditional-style, or traditionally-inspired
dress.
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tity in others at a moment of simultaneous power and vulnerability was intriguing; however, I cannot answer
why and to what effect.
Such occasions made me wonder about what African culture is and what it could be. We often talk about
‘Africa’ as a whole, despite knowing it is a diverse place (c.f. Gugler, 2003). The conference illustrated precisely how complex the idea of ‘Africa’ is whilst physically demonstrating how competing agendas affect
this notion. The premise of ICACD is to be an ‘African Cultural advocate’ to influence policy, placing culture on the broader African development agenda. For its inaugural meeting, ICACD attracted an array of individuals with varying backgrounds and aspirations. Their differing agendas soon became apparent in presentations and discussions. Primarily, this resulted in the (often confusing) multiple and differing use of the
word ‘culture’, consequently affecting their attitudes towards an implementation of ‘culture’ in ‘development’. Essentially, there were two stances and they did not follow a West-African divide in their image of
‘African culture’; however, as will be outlined below, they both arise from Western notions of what ‘African
culture’ is and should be.
The first image of ‘African culture’ provided and supported by the conference organisers was along the lines
of culture as performance, focusing on ‘the arts’. Not only was this a limited interpretation of culture, but it
promoted the idea of culture as an endeavour to attract tourism, and thus, the arts as a means to increase economic development. Presentations employing this form of ‘culture’ were more conservative in their views
about culture and were more willing to support (Western) stereotypes of what is ‘African’. For example,
dance troupes should be trained in a whole host of dances from various ethnic groups regardless of the ethnic
identity of the dancer, reducing cultural diversity into a generic, easily reproduced act. Moreover, dances
should be performed at festivals for ‘curious travellers’, thus reinforcing Western images of ‘African culture’
as limited to exotic dancers, scantily clad, prancing around to tribal drums – a display the conference delegates were welcomed with at the conference opening.
On the other hand, other delegates viewed ‘African culture’ as something deeper and linked more to identity
and livelihood rather than being limited to the performing arts. This ‘culture’ was felt, however, to have been
stripped away by colonialism and to be continuingly challenged by (Western-led) development. This activist
stance perceives ‘culture’ as something tangible that requires reclaiming; the idea is that without cultural
freedom the ‘African’ cannot be free (Morakinyo at ICACD, 2008). Whilst still affected by Western influence, this approach to ‘African culture’ as an image of resistance recognises the imperative need to embrace
the dynamic nature of culture; however, it lacks the ability to fully recognise the potential for diversity 4.
Both positions speak of an ‘African culture’ despite recognising the local foci of both meanings of culture.
By employing different interpretations to ‘culture’ and neglecting the importance of diversity, delegates
spoke across each other. Unable to create any effective policy changes, the conference accumulated a mix of
4
For example, in certain presentations this understanding of ‘African culture’ excludes the possibility of
‘White Africans’. Moreover, it is similarly plagued by within-Africa xenophobia.
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ideas on how to approach the combination of culture and development, delegates ‘hand-picking’ advice that
best suited their agendas. Failing to re-imagine Africa, to act rather than react (to the West), the images fostered by the conference are stuck in the double consciousness of ‘African mind’ – the inability to see themselves outside of Western ‘terms and conditions’ (Chachage at ICACD, 2008). Through time and continuing
dialogue, however, there is a possibility of these images being reformed; nevertheless ICACD left me with
conflicting ideas about African culture and its role in development.
I would like to end with a comment about the attitude towards punctuality and timing at the conference.
Even with the minute-by-minute agenda, the schedule commenced over an hour late. Most of the Western
delegates where bewildered and amused; several of the African delegates felt ashamed. The lax nature of the
programme epitomised for them what is wrong with African culture in a development context – it is inefficient and ignorant of its need to conform to Western standards. What was more fascinating was the manner
in which during the course of the week the Western delegates began to embrace ‘African time’ as the Ghanaian conference organisers tried to measure up to ‘obruni’ time keeping. Essentially, the inability to start sessions on time promptly became accepted, not necessarily leading to the failure of the conference by definitely hindering the full potential of ICACD. Is this what happens in development programmes – Westerners
‘accepting’ African “ineffectiveness” as an aspect of their culture?
As with most situations, ICACD has left me with more questions than answers. It has caused me to approach
African culture and development from angles I had never previously thought of, making me more concerned
about the paradoxes of the current state of African life. I am left wondering about the ‘double consciousness’
and how this is manifested in everyday life and development policy. Overtime, I hope future meetings of
ICACD are more successful in their discussions, building on what was presented this year and refining (or
defining) their interpretations of culture and development. Once there is a common understanding about
these, it will be easier to discuss how they can become more effectively intertwined. But for now, I am left
asking: “what culture?”.
Bibliography
Chachage, Chambi. 2008. Engendering Sustainable Development Through Struggles for Cultural Liberty.
International Conference on African Culture and Development. Kumasi, Ghana. 21-26 April 2008.
Dower, Nigel and John Williams (eds.). 2002. Global Citizenship: A Critical Reader. Edinburgh: Edinburgh
University Press.
Gulger, Josef. 2003. African Film: Re-Imagining a Continent. Oxford: James Lurry Ltd.
Morakinyo, Olusegun. 2008. Coloniality and the Conservation of African Heritage: The Challenges of African Cultural Heritage Conservation within the Ambit of Coloniality. International Conference on African
Culture and Development. Kumasi, Ghana. 21-26 April 2008.
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Narayan, K. 1988. “How native is a ‘native’ anthropologist.” In Thapan, M. (ed.). Anthropological Journeys:
reflections on fieldwork. Pp. 163 – 187. New Delhi: Vedams Books.
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