Results for: “Social Science”
|Alice Osborne Lovejoy||Indiana University Press||ePub|
BEDŘICH BENDA, WHO SUCCEEDED Ludvík Zavřel as Army Film’s chief, had been in office for five years when, at the end of November 1965, he sent an unusual proposal to the Main Political Administration (HPS). “With the increasingly wide distribution of our films to cinemas and television, both domestically and abroad,” he wrote, “we are encountering difficulties when the studio’s full name [Czechoslovak Army Film] is used. … In 1951, the abbreviation ČAF was established. There is no point in changing this brand; rather, we should emphasize it.” He requested that from January 1, 1966, the studio’s name be changed to STUDIO ČAF (succinct, catchy, and accompanied by a “well-designed logo”).1
Benda’s self-conscious “branding” of Army Film encapsulates the way in which the studio developed after Alexej Čepička’s departure. Although the late 1950s found Army Film at loose ends, from 1960 to 1966 its leaders undertook a savvy, deliberate process of self-refashioning. In place of fiction features, the studio once again highlighted its innovations in nonfiction filmmaking. In place of asserting the military’s links with the civilian sphere, its films spoke to a public that saw the Army as an institution out of step with contemporary life—even if this meant that their themes circumvented the military or critiqued it. Distance between the studio and its parent organization was also evident in the new cast of characters that, by 1965, populated Army films. Departing from the heroic border guards and pilots of the previous decade, this ensemble was diverse and decidedly everyday: a local hockey team, juvenile delinquents, a reluctant reservist. And unlike The Tank Brigade, with its explosions, battlefields, and cast of thousands of soldiers, in the two fiction features that Army Film made in this period—Karel Kachyňa’s 1965 Long Live the Republic (Me and Julina and the End of the Great War) (Ať žije republika [Já, Julina a konec velké války]), a coproduction with Czechoslovak State Film, and Jan Schmidt’s 1966 The End of August at the Hotel Ozone (Konec srpna v hotelu Ozon)—war is merely the pretext for very different kinds of stories.See All Chapters
|Arthur Hyatt Williams||Karnac Books||ePub|
In 1956 capital punishment was suspended in England, except for certain kinds of murder. I was approached by the prison medical audiorities and asked to take on for psychotherapy first one, then, soon after, several more prisoners who had been convicted of murder and were serving life sentences. The object was to see whether, and how, the psychic state of prisoners serving life sentences could be helped. If, as was envisaged, many (if not most) of diem were deemed safe as far as further killings were concerned, they could then be assessed regarding the wisdom of parole. I was appointed as a part-time psychotherapist because I was—and am—a psychoanalyst, not despite it.
The first two lifers I saw had been selected because they were intelligent, verbally gifted, and, apart from the crime for which each had been convicted, not diffusely psychopadiic. Later, the selection of patients covered a wider spectrum of disturbance.
It turned out that mainly these prisoners were fairly ordinary persons, but they possessed wiuiin themselves a part that was quite capable of killing someone, enemy and/or persecutor. In the ear-lier referrals I saw, there was a good deal of remorse: I do not mean self-pity. There seemed to be little evasion of the truth, though later, as therapy proceeded, it was often found.See All Chapters
|Akinwumi Adesokan||Indiana University Press||ePub|
One of the most fascinating ironies of neoliberal globalization is that the wide-ranging and deep-running transformations of the world that have accompanied this socioeconomic (dis)order have not crippled political actions of the most uncompromisingly radical kind. If anything, those transformations have often freed radical political imaginations. Technological, institutional, and demographic changes such as I have discussed throughout this book—the emergence of “network society,” the dominance of postmodernist, pixilated, or fragmented identities, antipodal identifications, the crisis of modern sovereignty in the polyforum—all suggest different ways of being in and engaging with the world that are hardly reducible to (though not necessarily incompatible with) the old antagonism characteristic of classical binarisms. Perhaps Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe’s reminder that unresolved antagonism is the preferred political situation in a social space (2001, xvi) makes this situation less ironic. This renewed antagonism is the spur for the political writings of Arundhati Roy, the Indian (Keralan) writer who is the focus of the present chapter.See All Chapters
|Edited by Kenneth L. Untiedt||University of North Texas Press|
GONE A’ HUNTING by Len Ainsworth
Bye 0, Baby Bunting
Daddy’s gone a’ hunting
For to get a rabbit skin
For to wrap his baby in.
That’s likely not the way it was written, but that’s the way I remember the lullaby sung by my mother—and the only one I tried to sing to my kids. Fortunately, they were too young to remember how badly
I sang. I probably remember my mother singing it to my sister, five years younger; surely I wouldn’t remember her singing it to me as a baby. But the theme of hunting has resonated in our family for several generations. My maternal grandfather, Papaw Charley, was a great hand for singing and hunting, and mother must have heard the lullaby many times, sung to her younger siblings.
My paternal grandfather gave me his .410 gauge shotgun when
I was ten years old, and my parents let me go dove hunting alone with a handful of shells in the mesquite brush extending into our small West Texas town. I had to stalk my quarry carefully with the single-shot gun, and get close and locate one perched on a tree limb without other branches in the way. More than once I have been fooled by a nesting dove acting hurt and fluttering ever farther from her nest and then suddenly flying away. But a few unwary birds did fall. I don’t remember coming home on those first hunts with more than one bird at a time. I suppose I was so excited that I didn’t keep looking after I got one, or perhaps I used up my few shells getting it. I’m sure my mother or dad helped clean the first few birds, and they were cooked as the prize they were. I learned early that you were to clean and eat your kill.See All Chapters
|Thomas J Davis||Indiana University Press||ePub|
The Evolution of Ecumenical Humanitarian Assistance
Elizabeth G. Ferris
THIS IS THE story of the global ecumenical movement and the way it has structured its philanthropic action in response to the needs of the world—and the needs of its members. In particular, it is the story of six decades of the World Council of Churches (WCC) and its many related organizations as they have grappled with the question of Christian responsibility to the poor and needy, to refugees, and to victims of floods, tsunamis, and earthquakes. The focus of this essay is on ecumenical humanitarian response—a term that perhaps needs some unpacking. An “ecumenical response” is one in which churches work together in their humanitarian action and see themselves as part of the global movement toward Christian unity. “Humanitarian response” refers to those actions toward people in immediate need or for people who are victims of conflicts, natural disasters, or oppressive governments. In its ideal form, humanitarian work is shaped by the basic principles of humanity, independence, impartiality, and neutrality.See All Chapters
|Juana Bordas||Berrett-Koehler Publishers||ePub|
FILLING OUT MY FIRST U.S. Census form in 1970, I searched for a category that acknowledged my Latino roots. I felt a loud thud in my heart as I finally checked the Caucasian box. Latinos were not recognized as a group by the U.S. government until the 1980 Census. We all have a deep need to be accepted for who we are, but this is particularly so in communities of color, whose members have been relegated to a minority status and measured by a White ideal. As I filled out the form, I heard my grandmother’s sweet voice, “Aye mi jita, nunca olvides quien eres y de donde venistes” (“Oh, my dearest little daughter, never forget who you are and where you came from”).
This notion of remembering your roots and staying connected to your ancestry is of biblical import in Black, Latino, and Indian communities. Forgetting where you came from is known as selling out, becoming an Uncle Tom or an Oreo or a coconut (Black or Brown on the outside, but White on the inside). Staying connected to one’s roots includes being in tune with the history and struggles of one’s people. Communities of color relate to the past as the “wisdom teacher,” the source from which culture flows.See All Chapters
|Farhad Dalal||Karnac Books||ePub|
The fear of Islam is burgeoning all over the world. Islam is become the new Black. Is there really something about Islam to be feared, or is the fear born of a kind of racist paranoia, a fantasy? The short answer is that both are true, but in complicated ways.
The first thing to notice is that there is a problem with the question itself. As we have already seen, we cannot speak of Islam as though it were a unity.
Polarizations such as “Islam vs. the West” allow us to position Islam outside “the West” and as its opposite. The structure of the polarization is in itself curious, not merely because it suggests two unified ways of thinking, but because of the mix of categories; on one side is a religion and on the other side something more amorphous, but having connotations with modernity. Further, it suggests that there are no disputes within Islam, and all opposition to its ways come from outside it. But this is not the case.
Take the fatwa declared by the National Fatwa Council in Malaysia in 2008, who took it upon themselves to ban the country’s Muslim population from practising Yoga, because they feared that yoga practice was the beginnings of the slippery slope to Hinduism. The suggestion was readily lampooned in “the West”, but less well publicized was the outrage expressed by Muslims in Malaysia and elsewhere. One voice among a great many was Farish Noor, writing in the Daily Times of Lahore:See All Chapters
|Eric Bing||Berrett-Koehler Publishers||ePub|
Many exciting experiments and innovations in global health have the potential to dramatically improve the lives of millions in developing countries. These solutions do not need further scientific or technological refinement, but rather a business model that can disseminate these products and services to those in need in both urban and rural settings.
A critical part of the solution to creating impacts in global health is scaling up what worksgetting the right solution to the right customerall over the world.
There are poor-quality health programs that, when scaled, remained of low quality. Scaling bad programs may do more harm than good. And a number of health programs have achieved excellent quality outcomes in localized settings, but have generally not been able to replicate and scale their successes to other settings.1 What we need are high-quality global health products and services that can simultaneously achieve scale while maintaining high quality.
To scale quality programs in high-resource settings, we need leadership; effective collaboration with communities and governments; and monitoring, evaluation, and accountability.2 But these prescriptions are insufficient for guiding scaling efforts in impoverished regions, where infrastructure is weak, resources are minimal, and education is not necessarily perceived as a right, or even a need. The obstacles are many, yet a handful of programs have successfully reached scale in these extremely challenging conditions.3See All Chapters
|Joyce Gibson Roach||University of North Texas Press|
Is Next to . . .
The citizens of Turtle, Texas, are above average. All the houses are neat and tidy, well kept.
From the earliest times of settlement, every single household in Turtle had its own outhouse.
An outhouse. You know, a house that was, well, out back, yonder, out of sight, out a-ways. Outhouses, forerunners of today’s toilet facilities, were considered one of the best ideas since the wheel.
In 1940, Epsie Longsworth’s children offered her indoor plumbing. “I just don’t know,” she said. “Seems to me such business ought not to be conducted inside the house.”
Outhouses were made of wood, had one-, two-, three-, and four-seating arrangements with a half-moon or other decoration on the door. For privacy’s sake, a fourholer might be divided with a partition down the middle with two seats on one side and two on the other.
Whatever the arrangement, it was common knowledge that hosts of granddaddy long-legs lived under the seats and issued forth whenever a visitor sat down.See All Chapters
|Patrick M. Brantlinger||Indiana University Press||ePub|
COAUTHORED WITH RICHARD HIGGINS
Trashmass, trashmosh. On a large enough scale, trashmos. And—of course—macrotrashm! . . . Really, just think of it, macrotrashm!
—STANISLAW LEM, THE FUTUROLOGICAL CONGRESS
As the self-proclaimed “science of value” economics—whether neoliberal, Keynesian, Marxist, or anything else—has always had trouble defining its main subject. Early attempts to identify value with something substantial and nonrelative—the labor theory of value, the gold standard, and so forth—gave way in the latter third of the nineteenth century to price theory and the doctrine of marginal utility. As that was happening, value seemed to grow indistinct from its antitheses: depending on circumstances, anything and everything could be considered valuable. Among other observers, Thorstein Veblen and H. G. Wells are exemplary for their insistence that waste could be valuable and values wasteful. They thus point ahead to a key aspect of the postmodern condition: the indeterminacy of values, signaled by the theme of valuable waste in, for example, Don DeLillo’s 1997 novel Underworld.See All Chapters
|Akinwumi Adesokan||Indiana University Press||ePub|
If Sembene’s Xala highlights the preoccupations of the politically engaged filmmaker, and Kelani’s Thunderbolt: Magun reflects an awareness of film as a commercial product, Cameroonian-born Jean-Pierre Bekolo’s work, especially Le Complot d’Aristote (Aristotle’s Plot, 1996), stands between both, suggesting that the two concerns are not necessarily mutually exclusive. Aristotle’s Plot is not a straightforward drama in the manner of either Sembene’s Xala or Kelani’s Thunderbolt: Magun, and perhaps this is what makes it such a conciliatory work when compared to both films. Taking a conceptual approach to the issues that preoccupy African filmmakers, Aristotle’s Plot makes a germane point that is easily overlooked, namely that speaking to a society as heterogeneous as contemporary Africa means speaking to a diversity of audiences and thus requires a diversity of filmmaking practices. I argue in this chapter that the central impulse in Bekolo’s work is to address the ideological fissures that have come to define African cinema: fissures between those who hold that a film, as an artwork, is justified by its singularity, those who argue for politically engaged cinema, and those who decry the unresponsiveness of African filmmakers to their audiences’ desire for popular stories.See All Chapters
|Claire Cone Robertson||Indiana University Press||ePub|
If in the 1920s and 1930s various manifestations of the Kenyan colonial government experimented with beans and explored forms of control over traders and trade, from the 1940s more rigorous efforts were implemented until the failure of that policy was manifest in the early 1960s. African trade lost autonomy under war conditions but developed adaptability and further capacity to evade controls. The struggle to maintain that autonomy became a fundamental part of the conflicts that evolved into the Kenyan independence movement. Women traders pursuing their usual rounds found that much of what they were accustomed to doing was becoming criminalized as regulations proliferated in the face of several wars--World War II, the 1950s Emergency, and what I have termed the first hawker war from about 1940 to 1963. Indeed, as trade and trade networks were becoming more elaborate, with women expanding their local trade into Nairobi on a more permanent basis, their commodities became subject to produce movement controls while their bodies were subjected to population movement controls enforced under the pressure of several political crises. From about 1940 to 1958 a more or less continuous state of emergency existed with regard to controlling the movement of Africans into and out of Nairobi. The declaration of Emergency in force from 1952 to 1960 was aimed as much at controlling a burgeoning contumacious Nairobi trading population as it was at putting down guerrilla warfare in the forest.1 From about 1959 to 1963, although the formal Emergency was mostly over, an informal one continued with respect to controlling hawkers. The difficulty and expense of controlling the Nairobi African population, in fact, formed one motivation for some British officials to give up on the effort and pass it on to African successors.See All Chapters
|Thomas Stubblefield||Indiana University Press||ePub|
An excess of speed turns into repose.
In 1900, the soul suddenly stopped being a memory in the form
of wax slates or books, as Plato describes it; rather, it was
technically advanced and transformed into a motion picture.
Origins of Affect
THE FALLING BODY AND OTHER SYMPTOMS OF CINEMA
During the stock market crash of 1929, it was widely circulated that disheartened financiers began jumping from the windows of their Wall Street offices in record numbers. A London newspaper described Manhattan pedestrians’ having to wade through bodies of jumpers that “littered the sidewalks.”1 Mexican painter José Clemente Orozco, who was in New York working on a mural for the New School, explained, “Many speculators had already leaped from their office windows, and their bodies gathered up by the police. Office boys no longer bet on whether the boss would commit suicide but whether he would do it before or after lunch.”2 Comedian Will Rogers claimed that “you had to stand in line to get a window to jump out of,” while Eddie Cantor joked that hotel clerks were asking guests if they wanted rooms “for sleeping or jumping.”3 One imagines the scene on that day as a kind of perverse realization of René Magritte’s Golconda (1953), in which bankers in bowler hats and black suits fall en masse from the urban sky.4See All Chapters
|Eddie Stimpson, Jr.||University of North Texas Press|
There are diffrent kind of rabbit-cotton tail and swamp rabbit, which is a bit bigger than a cotton tail and live close to the water and wet swamp area, and are very tricky.
Every body knows about the tame white rabbit and the
Peter Cotton Tail. But there is the open range Jack Rabbit with the long, long ears and legs. There are two kind that I know. I remember what the men would say about the Jack Rabbit whin they would run the gray hounds. The distinction between the
Blue Side and the other Jack Rabbit is the blue side and the way they run once the Blue Side get up from his bed. They hop along on three leg as if they will tease the dogs. Once the dogs get close to it, it is like a car whin you mash the gas peddle, it get over drive. The Blue Side will drop that forth leg. And some one in the crowd would say, That a Blue Side and he is going to be Hell to catch. And it would.
The dog with the longest wind was the only one to catch it or run until the dog fallout or give up. Those who know ther dog and ther strength some time would not let them run. Some time the men, as long as the dog run, they would keep betting that the dog will catch the rabbit. Some time they would. Some time they would not. The dog give up but the rabbit do not. It just look back and smile, as if to say, Goodby, see you later alagater. You'll never get your chop on me.See All Chapters
|Kalpana Ram||Indiana University Press||ePub|
THIS ESSAY ORIGINATES in an effort to comprehend some aspects of music in Muslim countries. I recall my first exposure—a kind of ambush—to procedures in music new to me. Up until 1971 the nation of Pakistan precariously consisted of two wings, West Pakistan and East Pakistan, soon to become Bangladesh. In October 1970, heavy floods, a cyclone, and then a tsunami battered the East wing, with enormous loss of life. In December the country was still in mourning. There were (as ever in Pakistan) all kinds of distractions and preoccupations—with livelihood, governance, rumor. Campaigning was underway for the first-ever democratic elections, but in Lahore, West Pakistan, the community address system carried the strains of public lamentation for the dead.
I had heard Qu’ranic recitation before, but never for long or to sustained effect. The twists, runs, and interval displacements of the lofted male voice, shorn of measure, honeycombed with silences, spoke to me for the first time. I received them as unpredictable elements of a novel and sublimely moving genre of utterance. This genre of utterance was far from new to the Lahoris, who would drag me indoors away from the loudspeakers: “We have been listening to Qu’ran for weeks. This is noise to our ears. It is of benefit only to the mullahs.”See All Chapters