It’s been a busy few weeks. Even as I’ve been immersed in edits to the book manuscript in preparation for an early April “author’s conference” sponsored by the Harvard Academy, friends and colleagues have been writing e-mails asking me for my take on events in Ukraine in recent weeks. While it’s been interesting to hear others’ opinions in conversations around Cambridge and to digest the considerable output of the major newspapers and blogs, I’ve tended to keep mum. I’ve never been to Ukraine, for one, and my major encounter with the place comes through a short workshop kindly hosted by the Cambridge Ukrainian Program and CEELBAS, a British consortium that sponsors research and language training on Eastern Europe, Southeastern Europe, and the countries of the former Soviet Union. While I’d like to think that a graduate mis-education and some time spent mostly in Russia, Tajikistan, and Uzbekistan gives me some insight on events, I’ve tended to focus on the domestic American educational politics that I see as a major hindrance to developing more mature and serious expertise – not just punditry of the kind that Times columnist Nicholas Kristof called for a few weeks ago in a controversial op-ed but deep scholarship.
Unfortunately, the political-educational-media (and military?) complex remains out of touch in addressing the absolute decline in funding, attention, and institutional and governmental support for the professional study of Russia, Eastern Europe, and Eurasia. In a piece that has attracted much attention from the community of professors and researchers, the Times laments the decline in the prestige of the study of Russia in American academia and portrays the field as one of graying, over-burdened Cold War-era professors coping with a field in decline. The Ukraine crisis, the Grey Lady reports,
has also showed important shifts in how American academics and policy makers think about Russia, not to mention the quality and quantity of the people doing the thinking. Among those experts, there is a belief that a dearth of talent in the field and ineffectual management from the White House have combined to create an unsophisticated and cartoonish view of a former superpower, and potential threat, that refuses to be relegated to the ash heap of history.
The failure to adapt has been systemic. Not only, explains the Times, has the prestige of Russia hands in Washington declined as the perceived importance of “the Muslim World” (there are more Muslims in Russia than the entire population of Jordan or Israel) or East Asia gained in popularity. The financial gutting of serious journalism outlets over the course of the last decade, and, arguably, the surge in ironic forms of social media commentary, made it easier to create a caricatured picture of Russia that hit all of the classic Cold War tropes. Instead of getting the hard-hitting analysis on (for example) Russian money in the City of London, the politics of Black Sea pipelines, or simply bilateral relations between major Western European countries like Germany, France, or Italy, we got an endless stream of images of Putin riding shirtless on horses, toilets not working in Sochi, and a reductive image of the country that created a simplistic and question-begging picture of a one-man dictatorship. As a well-written piece in n+1 argues, it’s not that more balanced coverage of Russia from the mid-1990s to today would have automatically a kinder, gentler, more pro-American Russian leadership:
If the US were truly strong—or, rather, since the US is strong, much much stronger than Russia in every conceivable way—would the US not have found a way to placate this tough-talking man, and his proud but troubled country, and direct Russia’s energies somewhere useful? If a man who is weaker than you walks up to you, aggressively, in a bar, what do you do? Do you humiliate him? Do you write articles about how scary and mysterious he is? As is, Putin talked tough, and so the American media and then American politicians decided to talk tough too. And now we find ourselves plunging, perhaps, into a protracted period of international standoff—a “new cold war”—with increased military budgets, decreased understanding and interaction, and once again the kind of restrictions of movement that we thought we’d left behind.
This all said, the Times piece leaves a ton of crucial issues on the table that have to be treated seriously if American intellectuals and policymakers want to inch towards the world that the n+1 piece imagines. Firstly, as I noted in my previous blog post, institutions and scholars have seen absolute decreases in funding both for federal Title VI funding (which supports “National Resource Centers” like Columbia, Georgetown, Harvard, Chicago, and others with a special focus on studying Russian and Eurasia, and FLAS fellowships) and Title VIII funding (a much smaller pie that nonetheless supports advanced research opportunities, like the fellowships that allowed me to conduct the overwhelming majority of the research for my dissertation and now book project). The Times piece verges dangerously close to a fundamental attribution error common among American baby-boomers today, namely that if millennials aren’t living up to expectations about career or life milestones, it must be a result of their own moral or personal failing. “It’s a shorter bench,” says former US Ambassador to Russia and Stanford professor Michael McFaul of my generation of scholars of the post-Soviet world.
I know plenty of scholars both around my age and slightly older who would make perfect commentators on issues in the headlines (more on why they’re not in a second), but it’s important to hit upon the financial point one more time to understand how current policies – the compromise result of the summer 2011 attempt to shut down the federal government – are eviscerating the talent base for more expertise. At many smaller colleges in the United States, “complete” courses in the Russian language – a four-year program plus the option of studying abroad in a Russian-speaking country, to say nothing of some undergraduate research – remain relatively uncommon. (This is also to avoid the issue of the rapidly rising cost of a college education and the student loans crisis.)
Even if we assume a talented, driven, and (most rarely) not heavily indebted young college graduate, the cuts to Title VI make it more difficult for National Resource Centers to offer fellowships to defray or cover the cost of a Master’s Degree, increasingly a prerequisite for consideration at serious doctoral programs. NRCs typically provide for “capstone” courses in the Russian language, but given that the transition to graduate work is precisely the time when young scholars should be thinking about a second foreign language (whether to read scholarship – French or German – or as an area studies complement to Russian – Chinese, Turkish, Polish, etc.) institutions and students are in catch-up mode already. For advanced master’s students or doctoral students, meanwhile, the decline in Title VIII funding means more competition and, often indirectly, an incentivization of trans-national or trans-regional, so fashionable (and valuable!) in scholarship today in favor of more conservative but equally essential work on the politics of pension reform or FDI into the Kazakh agricultural sector.
When time comes for the job market, moreover, the decline in federal funding can make university departments a harsh mistress. Historians of Russia (much less methodological and geographical mongrels like yours truly) face each other down in stiff competition for the few openings, while departments typically employ far more historians of the United States; as for political science, professors complain of the hollowing out of area studies expertise in elite policy schools and political science programs in favor of more (and cheaper for research) formalization and quantitative research, which the discipline’s journals and tenure optics directly reinforce. “Dropping out” of the discipline can happen not because Russia (or any other country) ceased to be sexy, but because at some point mere enthusiasm gave out because people needed secure employment, or because people had children. Expectations of a monastic lifestyle might be justified for 25-year-old graduate students but are unreasonably for post-docs and young professors in their mid-30s.
The final element of the frustration concerns those who do make it into the big time of university employment. In spite of the Times‘ bemoaning of the lack of Russia expertise, the laziness of most journalistic outlets in actively seeking out commentary – particularly from institutions not located in Washington, DC or New York City – is striking. The piece highlights the partisan role perhaps unintentionally taken on by Professor Stephen Cohen, an emeritus professor of Russian history at New York University (obviously located in NYC) and married to the editor-in-chief of The Nation. Here is not the place to comment on Professor Cohen’s views on the Ukraine Crisis; what’s more interesting is the dearth of commentary we’ve seen sought out from colleagues outside of the I-95 Corridor – of whom there are many.
This focus on commentary from professors at the major institutions – Georgetown, Yale, NYU – seems like nothing else than a manifestation of what Al-Jazeera blogger Sarah Kendzior (not incidentally a former PhD in Central Asian Studies who has criticized the incentives of Big Academia) calls “the prestige economy.” Professors at “lesser institutions” (even though many received their PhDs from “elite” institutions) can be trusted to educate the hoi polloi of undergraduates, in other words, but even as they remain plugged into current scholarship through specialist conferences and journals, they’re discarded as too “academic” to offer much of value to national media. I’m well aware of the irony of making this critique from a cushy position at perhaps the Death Star of the prestige economy, but even as someone with the luxury of such a position it’s important to make a broader public aware of the ways in which the Russian and Eurasian Studies community is in some ways being actively marginalized and weakened at the precise time when the need for such institutionalized academic expertise – one not confined to Beltway corridors or super-elite universities – seems manifest.
Another week, another book chapter re-edited and made (hopefully) more readable and more interesting. It’s almost the end of February, and the slog continues, taking the chapters that I line-edited in January and implementing the edits into the various chapters of Developing Powers. Cutting and editing day after day in Scrivener can prove grinding and repetitive, but it’s satisfying to see my word counts go down, and to see a sleeker, slimmer, more convincing argument emerge from the skeleton of the text.
The manuscript started as the dissertation of someone pretty committed to Soviet history, but since I made clear (around the time of finishing the Master’s Dissertation) that my real focus was less the Soviet Union than development in Afghanistan per se, I’ve been happy and energized to move my focus to sources more and more ecumenical: first interviews with former American and West German development workers, then work in the respective archives, and now, more and more engagement with non-governmental sources. Contacts with European NGOs helped me get my hands on material early on, and putative mini-research trips to New Haven (for the papers of former UN Secretary-General Javier Pérez de Cuéllar), New York (for the papers of Jeri Laber of Helsinki Watch), Paris (Doctors Without Borders) and Stockholm (Swedish Afghanistan Committee) all beckon for the spring and summer.
With them comes not stretching my post-doc budget in some of the world’s most expensive cities but also the methodological challenge of writing about how Soviet authoritarian institutions interfaced (or didn’t) with other forms of internationalism: post-1989 UN development operations in Afghanistan, for example, or the panoply of NGOs that invaded Afghanistan from Peshawar throughout the decade. The more I dig, the more connections I have, but with a de facto word limit of around 140,000 words for the manuscript, it’s clear whatever gains I make in the manuscript will have to be the start of what I suspect will be an exciting conversation among younger international historians (especially those with a knowledge of Russian, or who work on the Second World) about the ways in which Moscow and its client states participated not only in “the diplomatic” (our more conventional histories of Kissinger running around and putting out fires) but also “the international” – international relations that went beyond the communications of one Foreign Minister to a Secretary of State. Upcoming travel to conferences at Miami University in Ohio and in Germany should provide a chance to test out some of my theories on smart anthropologists, historians, and legal scholars – and a chance to escape the prison of my office after virtual non-stop editing for the past month.
At those conferences, particularly the first (focused on the study of socialism and post-socialism) one of the topics, I’m sure, on everyone’s lips, will be the revolutionary events currently underway in Ukraine. As someone who’s never been to the Ukraine and has relatively little exposure to Ukrainian history (although a wonderful weekend crash course at Cambridge helped), I feel that I have little unique to say about events there. Yet what the crisis there – and the perplexed response of the Anglophone media to it (numerous articles on Eastern Ukraine vs. Western Ukraine, Europe vs. Russia, etc.) – does serve as a reminder of is the importance of fostering good scholarship and good expertise on those regions of the world that don’t normally merit many foreign bureaus of news services. That’s all the more so true at a time when pundits like Nicholas Kristof have slammed academics for being irrelevant, out-of-touch, or failing to provide policy-relevant commentary. Cases that prove Kristof wrong – Yale professor Timothy Snyder’s commentary in the New York Review of Books, German political scientist Andreas Umland (who teaches in Kiev), or David Marples at Open Democracy – are there, but the persistence of “Ukraine 101″-style articles in the American media proves the rule.
Unfortunately, in the last five years, scholars have seen the opposite of what you might expect given the momentous events taking place in Kiev. The US government administers funding to support research on Eastern and Southeastern Europe and Eurasia (a clunky geographical term for Central Asia and the Caucasus) through a program called Title VIII (more here). Title VIII funding was crucial for me in completing my dissertation research and pursuing the language training I needed to develop as a scholar of the former Soviet region. Funding administered through IREX, an international education NGO, supported me twice to go to Russia, Tajikistan, and Uzbekistan to conduct interviews with former Soviet aid workers and to work in Soviet archives, while Title VIII dollars also helped to pay the (considerable) expenses associated with intensive Uzbek-language classes at Arizona State’s Critical Languages Institute this past summer. I’m nowhere near alone in having these kinds of stories. Scholarship programs like those that ASU ran for less-commonly studied languages helped lower-income students, or students at the vast majority of colleges that do not offer regular instruction in (for example) Tatar to pursue their education at a modest cost.
Some areas of the former socialist cosmos, like Armenia and Ukraine, have wealthy enough diasporas to finance scholarships for, say, Armenian or Ukrainian-language study. But in particular for those parts of Eurasia (Uzbekistan, say), that have either tiny or less wealthy North American diasporas, Title VIII funding is crucial to maintaining civilian academic and governmental expertise. Ditto for military funding: ROTC generously supported several dozen cadets studying Uzbek and Persian at CLI (including travel to Samarkand), but the quality of American commentary and scholarship goes down when language knowledge becomes confined to the military. If we compare Pashto and Uyghur, for example, while the former (spoken in Pakistan and Afghanistan) has four times as many speakers as the latter, the near-monopoly of Pashto pedagogy by the US military and intelligence apparatus means that undergraduate and graduate offerings in language, culture, and history are weak. That means, in general, worse (or less) civilian commentary of the kind that Kristof calls for, and which is essential for a healthy scholarly or intellectual relationship between academia, government, and the military in any democracy.
Unfortunately, in the last ten years scholars have seen a significant disinvestment in precisely these programs. As Laura Adams notes in her 2013 briefing on Title VIII funding, the real absolute dollar value of Title VIII funding was already declining circa 2000 due to inflation and stagnant concomitant increases in funding. In 2011, following the politically manufactured debt ceiling crisis, funding to Title VIII was cut by roughly 30% (still small numbers for funding programs – from $4.5 million to $3 million, roughly the cost of maintaining two US soldiers in Afghanistan for a year). During appropriations for the current fiscal year, Title VIII did not receive an appropriation at all, leading to massive cuts or halts in several crucial programs for the study of Eastern Europe or Eurasia. That means more competition for funding a stable cohort of graduate students, fewer projects funded, and an inevitable dilution of the quality and diversity of expertise that American universities can host (or that foreign-based US citizens, like I was when I applied for IREX funding, can receive).
The response of US government officials to these funding cuts has not been helpful. Writes Adams in her 2013 brief:
At the 2012 Central Eurasian Studies Society annual meeting, I asked keynote speaker Robert Blake, Assistant Secretary of State for South and Central Asian Affairs, what he thought we should be doing about the cuts to the programs that trained the specialists who worked for him. His reply was pessimistic and repeated a familiar but unhelpful slogan: the funding for these programs was not coming back and that perhaps private-public partnerships were the answer. University-based research centers and scholarly non-profits have long relied on philanthropists to supply the funds that provide the backbone to their programs, but I do not think it is realistic to expect that Exxon Mobil will be investing in Turkmen language study for U.S. scholars any time soon, let alone paying for the salary of the person who sifts through the applications for a dissertation research grant.
No one in or out of government seems to be against funding fellowships for students to learn languages that are important for national security, but it is a long-term problem that university administrations, governments, and foundations alike too often balk at paying a real salary and benefits to the people who teach those languages and administer those fellowships. Universities do need to take on these financial responsibilities for the infrastructure of programs like Title VI, but in turn the federal government funding for these programs needs to flow amply and predictably.
So here’s where we’re left at the moment – crises in countries of which we understand little at the same time as a systematic disinvestment in precisely the kind of expertise and university infrastructure you would expect to be developed to respond to these changes. Heritage-speaker journalists or commentators like Julia Ioffe at The New Republic or the “citizen journalism” of social media may help, some. But those kinds of outlets don’t replace the social mobility and long-term consideration of regional issues that academia uniquely affords. If we don’t want the study of a vast portion of the world to become the exclusive warren of upper-middle class (and primarily white) scholars – with all of the loss of perspective that might entail – programs like these are crucial. Events in Ukraine are probably only beginning, and yet the state of our commentary lags far behind, but Americans will be at even more of a loss to explain change in places like Kazakhstan, Bosnia, or Uzbekistan when they happen.
After a long blogging hiatus, I’m back, back in the middle of another rewarding and productive semester at the Harvard Academy here in Cambridge. After some rest at home in California for a week or two, it was off to Germany for nearly a month to see friends, meet with colleagues to discuss collaboration on potential future projects, and – what took me away from blogging for so long – to do a course of line edits on the manuscript for Developing Powers.
I had some experience editing my own prose when working (in the same fantastic Berlin library, as it turned out) on the introduction to Writings on War, but this was the biggest editing job I had ever faced. Some background reading helped: Virginia Tufte’s wonderful Artful Sentences: Syntax as Style to give me inspiration for how to restructure sentences, paragraphs, and even (sparingly) allow myself to be tempted by the passive voice; and William Germano’s From Dissertation to Book to steel myself with realism about how much work there was ahead. I would need a lot of faith in creative rewriting and the length of the slog: it took nearly the entire month (plus almost the entire Berlin–Chicago–Boston return flights!) to read through the entire 600-some pages of the first draft. Much red ink was spilled (passive!). Some tears were shed. But, hopefully, out of it was edited a more readable manuscript.
Back at Harvard came – indeed, still comes – the hard part. There’s the usual mix of campus life, classes, and distractions, to keep me from weeping too much over my own prose: advanced Persian courses continue, reminding me with extracts from Ferdowsi how the Pashtun revanchist and Afghan memoirs that I’m reading and seeding into the manuscript text really aren’t that hard. There’s also the promise of future scholarly horizons: our readings remind us of the (comparative) conservatism of the Persian language, as well as its (underappreciated) reach, from Bosnia to northern India at its apex, perhaps even farther as a language of diplomacy and culture. The more that my own reading for edits of Developing Powers takes me back into the 18th and 19th century – less so for the period itself and moreso for what mid-century Afghans and Soviets thought the Durrani moment in world history meant for Cold War South Asia – the more that serious work on, say, relations between the Durranis and the Sikhs interests. Throw in a mix of Academy events and visiting speakers and there’s much to entertain, many a free lunch to be finagled.
Still, the main task is clear – lots of cuts, lots of smoothing of prose, lots of implementing of chicken-scribble-scratch that I wrote in the margins between too many cups of bad library coffee. If the first draft of the manuscript clocked in at around 250,000 words, the task is now to get it to around 140,000 words – near the upward limit of what most publishers will accept, let alone what people will actually read. I’m about two-thirds of the way through, but as Germano reminds us young scholarly writers, by the time we’re done editing one book, we find that we’re reading another one. Certain plot lines – for lack of a better word – that you thought were unimportant assert themselves more deeply. So, too, do certain characters, people whose trajectories and life stories course through your work. A book that I once thought was going to be a relatively straightforward comparison of different countries’ aid policies to Afghanistan during the Cold War – fueled by my Academy lunches with generous anthropologists – has become a framing-hungry vampire, moving from Comaroff and Comaroff to Mbembe to Sahlins in search of fresh blood with which to engorge itself.
Readings prompted from closer to home, do, too: re-reading essays by Suzanne Marchand on German Orientalism (there’s a chapter on Soviet scholarship on Afghanistan in the manuscript …) and listening and reading to the insightful Daniel Rodgers on American exceptionalism force me to think more about how Soviets and Afghans – particularly those party to the first generation of diplomatic relations between the two countries but before a coup against the Emir Amanullah, from 1919–1929 – thought about their own countries’ place in world history. The phrase “American exceptionalism” rolls off our Anglophone tongues, but it perhaps limits us from thinking about the way that Afghan or Soviet intellectuals thought of their own countries’ place in the history of the planet: vanguards of anti-colonialism; crusaders for the liberation of Pashtuns from centuries of Sikh–Anglo–Punjabi–Pakistani oppression; bearers of a Central Asian or Persianate liberal torch that the British Empire and, later, the United States, had squelched.
There’s much limpid prose, much flaccid syntax, much unclear argumentation to be corralled out of those words on the page in the next couple of weeks (a conference trip to Ohio and a big-time presentation at the Academy in late February and late March, respectively, should help motivate). But, as always, free reading (recently D.T. Max’s biography of David Foster Wallace) continues to inspire. “This girl not only kicks facts in the ass,” goes the description to a character, Julie Smith, in a DFW short story. “This girl informs trivia with import. She makes it human, something with the power to emote, evoke, induce, cathart.” Let’s hope that we historians take ourselves seriously enough to deal with something more than trivial in our work, but that we find the passion, time, and creative space to kick facts, prose, and complacency in the ass.
Particularly as the news headlines read of fake bomb threats and massive snowfalls in the Boston area, it’s good to be home in California – land of mild weather, satsuma oranges and avocados a plenty, and miles of horse trails extending from my parents’ backyard into the great chaparral yonder of the Palos Verdes Peninsula. After a rush to the finish line in Cambridge that saw me completing the digital history project as well as a first draft of the book manuscript for Developing Powers, I’m taking a week or two off at home to recharge and gain some perspective before diving back into substantial edits of the manuscript. There’s been a fair amount of pleasure reading – Jeremy Adelman’s new biography of social scientist Albert O. Hirschman and a German-language biography of under-appreciated architect Konrad Wachsmann – as well as some revisiting of classics of English prose and syntax to help lend inspiration before I begin edits: Helen Sword’s Stylish Academic Writing, Richard Lanham’s Revising Prose, and Virginia Tufte’s Artful Sentences.
While preparing for the triage of prose and syntax that awaits me after the new year in the libraries and coffee shops of Berlin, however, I’ve also been taking time to gather lessons from the digital history class and think of how I can do some argumentative work with some of the sources I gathered at Harvard this past term. Mostly, this means working with several large maps produced by organizing committees for NGOs based in Pakistan but which did the majority of their work in Afghanistan. (Several of the NGOs that these supervising organizations coordinated – Medecins sans Frontieres, the Swedish Afghanistan Committee – had already been doing work inside of occupied Afghanistan sans approval from Kabul or Moscow since the early 1980s, but the maps themselves primarily cover the years 1989 to 1992.) They cover a wide range of humanitarian activities: health care facilities, educational facilities, and irrigation and agriculture projects – in short, para-state functions that an assembly of NGOs funded from international sources had taken over from the dying and disintegrating Communist Afghan state.
Working with these maps and tables means doing a variety of small tasks. In some cases, the work is as simple as crunching existing tables into spreadsheets and Google Fusion Tables, with which we can already get some sense of the spatial penetration and particular webs of NGO activity inside of Afghanistan during the late 1980s and early 1990s. Having just completed the spreadsheet for the medical facilities table, it’s striking to see how geographically concentrated certain organizations did their work (the tables tell us which medical facilities were run by which organization, as well as what the donor organization to given projects were). Below, for example, is a heat map of projects run by the Swedish Afghanistan Committee, a group whose archives I hope to visit in Stockholm sometime later this spring.
That red splotch is centered around Wardak Province, where many of SCA’s projects took place. Contrast this to the “profile” of projects run by the Ministry of Public Health of the Afghan state, and the difference is clear: more projects in areas around Kabul and the valleys cascading down to Peshawar.
Look at projects implemented by the Supervisory Council for the Northern Area, an umbrella organization for former anti-Soviet and anti-PDPA resistance groups created by Ahmad Shah Massoud, and the geographical spread is different again, corresponding – or so one might argue – to the areas controlled by Massoud and allies.
Of course, maps like these should be the starting point of further inquiries. Not only that, these maps of health facilities – a specific kind of humanitarian intervention into sovereign state space – ought to be juxtaposed with the data I can scrape from Harvard’s maps of education, irrigation, and agricultural projects. That’s going to be more difficult than this simple copying exercise: coordination committees appear not to have produced any tables for those, so I’ll have to look through my photographs of the maps themselves to generate spreadsheets that can then be fed back into GIS applications like Fusion Tables or ARC. Then there’s the question, too, of how to integrate the story that these maps appear to tell into my existing story (at least in the manuscript) of Soviet advisers deploying to, then leaving, the same places. It’s an interpretative challenge that drives me mad at times – but it’s that challenge that keeps me stimulated and interested as I keep developing the project more.
For the moment, however, it’s time to relax a bit more roasting avocado pits and tangerine peels before an open California fire. Enjoy the holidays, wherever they may find you.
After much huffing and puffing this semester about my activities in a digital history seminar offered by Harvard historian Kelly O’Neill, I’m happy to unveil the result of several weeks of work: an online Omeka exhibit entitled Shattering Afghanistan: Mass Murder and State Destruction in Central Asia. Fastidious readers of this blog will have known that I’ve been interested in applying GIS techniques to my own work on the history of Afghanistan and Central Asia in the twentieth century, and the combination of the seminar and the release this autumn of the so-called “Death Lists” from 1979 by the Dutch National Prosecutor’s Office provided an ideal opportunity to stop talking the talk and walk the walk.
I’ve provided more information on the project on a special page on this website, but since brevity is the soul of wit, the project was built through Omeka, a content management system and web publishing platform produced by the Roy Rosenzweig Center for New Media at George Mason University. Going into the project with a motley mix of data scraped from maps in Harvard’s Map Library and the new information of the Death Lists, my mission was to produce a more detailed, granular picture of mass murder and forced migration in Afghanistan during the late 1970s and 1980s, showing precisely (insofar as we can do so) which regions of Afghanistan were most affected (targeted by state kidnappings, or depopulated during the Soviet occupation) during this traumatic period in the country’s history. In the long run, I hope that some of the graphics that I’ve produced for this project will interface with the broader argument I’m trying to make in Developing Powers, the book project that I’m slowly birthing out of my D.Phil. dissertation.
Interested parties can download the data I’ve used to make the maps, whether to check for any errors of interpretation or fact that I’ve made, or for their own projects. It’s my hope that this data can serve not just as an endpoint to decades of uncertainty about Afghans’ family members’ fates (the immediate impact of the Death Lists when released two and a half months ago) but also for a broader conversation about traumatic pasts in Central Asia. While work like that of Sarah Cameron’s (a professor at the University of Maryland, College Park) has begun to grapple with the legacy of hunger and mass famine caused by Soviet policies in Kazakhstan, for example, our understanding of the crimes of Communist (and other) regimes in this part of the world remains under-developed compared to that for, say, Eastern Europe. Shattering Afghanistan is hardly the last word: my hope is that it constitutes one of many avenues for engagement between Western historians and historians and scholars for the region to conduct a critical and mature conversation on crimes and atrocities in the region.
Lastly, I’d like only to give thanks to some of the people who helped me think through this project: the other seminar participants (Leland Grigoli, Bao Kham Chu, Jacob Feldman, Anna Esty, and Nicole Topich); Professor O’Neill; and two of the many wonderful GIS specialists at Harvard, Jeff Howry and Jeffrey Blossom. All errors are my own, of course.
If you have any comments or suggestions on the site, please don’t hesitate to contact me.
December! After a all-too-brief but pleasant journey to the home of a college friend for Thanksgiving south of Boston, I’m back at Harvard, preparing for the last week of the fall semester, reflecting on what’s left to be done while also looking forward to a winter vacation spent in Los Angeles and Germany. Having put a few finishing touches on Chapter One of Developing Powers, concerning the history of the study of Afghanistan in the Soviet Union, this morning, and having sent the manuscript – all of it – off to the office printer, I can rest relieved that I’ve taken care of my biggest task for this first semester at the Harvard Academy: getting a workable version of the book manuscript done. That leaves me with approximately a week-and-a-half to complete the work on my project for Professor O’Neill’s Digital History seminar, which is coming along well, and will, I hope, add to the clarity of some of my thinking as I turn to editing the manuscript over the long Harvard winter break.
In the meantime, however, for our final week’s worth of blogging, we’re invited to reflect on the teaching of the digital humanities, using as a point of inspiration the collection of essays in Debates in the Digital Humanities and an older collection of essays published throughout the first decade of the 2000s by the Roy Rosenzweig Center for History and New Media at George Mason University. Reading these essays marks a turn in the focus of the course. Up until now, it’s been mostly about tools and skills: how do I do this? One thinks back to Stephen Ramsay’s position paper at the 2011 MLA, “Who’s in and Who’s Out,” in which he famously remarked that “digital humanities is not some airy lyceum.” DH is supposed to be about doing things, building things. Or at least so runs the traditional hacker culture-inspired cant. Many young academics, finding themselves hired – for better or for worse – explicitly to teach something called “the digital humanities” will face concrete challenges of what to teach, often at institutions significantly less well-endowed either financially or institutionally than Harvard, George Mason, Stanford, or any of the usual names when it comes to Digital Humanities. What, one asks, are they supposed to do?
We’ve already experimented with some tactics in Professor O’Neill’s course, so it might be worthwhile reviewing some of those techniques first. You’re reading one right now: the course blog, an extension of what I take to be one old tool for ensuring student participation, the weekly response paper. Yet as opposed to those old three-paragraph position pieces we used to shoot off to one another on Blackboard – wondering if they were ever read – I can say that I read almost all of the other seminar participants’ posts this seminar. The serial, vertical reading style that blogs create encourages me to scan what’s come before and what’s after. It’s easier to respond – bombastically or constructively – to what’s come before. Discussion in the seminar afterwards can, at best, feel more like a continuation of the conversation started elsewhere rather than an attempt to reconstruct the crime (everyone’s opinion on a book) from their short response papers.
Yet as someone who’s also accustomed to writing longer-form blog posts (over a thousand words), I also struggle with whether encouraging what is almost always short blog posts (our suggested length was 300 words) encourages the kind of birdseed literacy that one might like to see historians militating against. As I’ve noted in previous posts, at its worst our discipline can seem too obsessed with “the argument” as encapsulated in a 10,000-word article, usually written in flaccid English. Economy matters, too. But, as I’ll come to in a moment, the 300-word blog post rarely challenges the young historical writer stylistically in a way that a longer position piece might at its best.
Professionally, meanwhile, the course blog offers to the young professor an easy way to grow her or his course portfolio – a documentary trail bigger than what your average coming-up-for-tenure professor as recently as the 1990s could have been expected to produce for committees. Not only syllabi but blog posts, comments, anything in the digital detritus left behind by the seminar can come under administrative scrutiny (for better or for worse) when it comes to making hires, denials, promotions, and other decisions over one’s professional fate.
This relates to another tactic we’ve followed in the seminar, and one discussed online, has been the keeping (almost) all of the course readings online. Older scholarship on technology and pedagogy from way back in the era of the dot-com boom suggests that students even then preferred doing primary research (where it was possible) on the Web over trudging to the library – or at least to feeling pressured to learn nothing but facts about the primary documents. Due to the nature of our course, we’ve dealt relatively little with primary sources as such in the teaching; still, I don’t think I’ve been alone in finding it easier to deal with meeting reading and blogging deadlines when I’ve known that getting one item “done” was always just a click away. As we deal with our digital projects, the decision of how, where, and with what level of curation to include primary sources (especially those in Vietnamese, Persian, Russian, Latin, and other languages …) weighs heavily.
That all said, having done some of the readings on pedagogy, I wonder how helpful it is to divorce the teaching of “the digital humanities” from a pedagogical approach that would remain heavily focused on writing as the core activity of the historian. (Admittedly, maybe some of these questions are on my mind having printed out several hundred pages of prose desperately in need of editorial triage, but excuse the indulgence …) In particular, I find the approach of Mark L. Sample, a professor of English at George Mason (website here) in his essay “What’s Wrong With Writing Essays” misguided. In that piece, Sample starts from what I think is a productive starting point: too often we encourage students to write in a format – the class essay – that is “something that nobody will ever read.” The essay, in short, is read only by the professor. From here, however, Sample spins out of control into a critique of the “traditional student paper” by arguing that
the only thing an essay measures is how well a student can conform to the rigid thesis/defense model that, in the hands of novice scholars, eliminates complexity, ambiguity, and most traces of critical thinking.
Sample goes on from there to argue that he wants his students to “be aspiring Rauschenbergs, assembling mixed media combines, all the while through their engagement with seemingly incongruous materials developing a critical thinking practice about the process and the product. I call this type of critical thinking creative analysis.” As an example he offers his “Video Game Studies” class, in which he
asked students to design an abstract visualization of a Nintendo Entertainment System (NES) video game, a kind of model that would capture some of the game’s complexity and reveal underlying patterns to the way actions, space, and time unfold in the game. One student “mapped” Sid Meier’s Pirates! (1991) onto a piece of driftwood. This “captain’s log,” covered with screenshots and overlayed with axes measuring time and action, evokes the static nature of the game more than words ever can.
Without parroting the arguments of conservative commentators on education – E.D. Hirsch, Roger Kimball, Harold Bloom, and so on – I can think of few approaches more likely than Sample’s to speed the continued de-legitimization of the humanities in America. Look to the last thirty years of critiques of the humanities emanating from the general culture in the United States, and, skepticism towards critical race and gender studies aside, one of the most common – and effective tropes – is that educators are spending too little time teaching texts and too much time teaching television studies, popular culture studies, and other subjects ending in “studies.” That’s not to say that working on, say, the history of video games, and certainly television or radio isn’t valuable; it’s that, at least at the undergraduate level, where students are unlikely to take more than a few dozen courses during what for most will be their only higher education, it is probably a better use of time, and the dollars of their parents and/or the American taxpayer, to focus on core, and often frankly elitist, forms of cultural literacy. Video games and driftwood engraving aren’t likely to make that cut.
Lest other seminar members prepare to pounce on me, my point here isn’t that DH doesn’t have a place in the undergraduate curriculum at all. It does. What I am arguing for, however, is that as long as DH remains a digital humanity, we don’t lose sight of how it interacts with other hard-won skills that are the bread and butter of any undergraduate curriculum. Among those are composition and writing; indeed, as I put together my Omeka project, one of the biggest challenges is distilling down all of the data I’m working with into a readable and concise story. But doing that doesn’t mean just generating content. It means – as I’m reminded as I scour Widener and Lamont for reading material before I dive back into editing of the book manuscript – reading not only my Edward Tufte for design tips, but also the work of his mother, Virginia Tufte, whose work on syntax and sentence construction hearken back to an age in which English departments taught grammar and composition in addition to Video Game Studies. The core of some of our projects, it’s true, is likely to be the work that we’ve done in ARC, Gephi, NeatLine, or other digital packages. But narrative and solid composition is crucial, too. It’s important to unify the insights of Tufte the Elder and Younger, teaching composition and writing as indispensable skills to the digital historian. If we want to train students in skills likely to benefit them in the long run, historians’ ability – at least compared to their colleagues in other disciplines – to write with relatively low amounts of jargon has to remain one of our calling cards.
Learning how to work with the software and write better than our colleagues – to say nothing of writing the software, too – is a challenge, but it’s one that we need to embrace as a discipline.
It’s the end to another busy but productive week here at Harvard. After recovering from the circadian devastation that a red-eye flight from San Francisco wrought upon me, it was back to the usual rhythm: Persian classes (readings from Ali Akbar Dekhoda), our digital history, and lots of writing. With only slight exaggeration I can say that I’ve completed revisions to the last chapter of the book manuscript (not the last chapter I’m editing and re-working this autumn, sadly …) on the Afghan-Soviet borderscape in the 1970s and 1980s; doing so has been a crash course in hunting down obscure Tajik- and Uzbek-language books on the one hand, and speaking to my anthropologist colleagues at the Harvard Academy for reading recommendations outside of my usual ken. And there’s a rich trove there: works like Jean and John L. Comaroff’s edited volume Law and Disorder in the Postcolony and Adam T. Smith’s The Political Landscape have proven useful in helping me think of how to deal with my own Soviet sources, and to conceptualize the shifts in the Turkestan borderlands during the 1980s: a period when mass administrative purges in the Tajik and Uzbek SSRs corresponded with the installation of the Najib regime in Afghanistan, its ‘National Reconciliation’ campaign, and the Soviet withdrawal. Can we understand all of these events as part of some broader pattern?
Beyond my usual monkish lifestyle of writing and tasking Harvard Inter-Library Loan librarians with hunting down obscure Soviet books, I’m also beginning to make more serious attempts to map the data I’ve been collecting and collating for Professor O’Neill’s Digital History seminar. As I’ve written before, there are fundamentally two databases here: one having to do with the so-called Death Lists – which tell us about the professional and religious landscape of Afghanistan and the timing and geography of PDPA-led mass killing in 1979; the other having to do with emigration from Afghanistan into Pakistan and Iran during the late 1970s and 1980s. Dealing with the former database (the Death Lists) in ARC GIS is proving to be a bit of a challenge: there’s problems in depicting information accurately, much less beautifully, when so many people were killed in the same place (hundreds of deaths in ‘Ghazni‘ get depicted as one dot, rather than a cluster), and there’s the whole chronological component to deal with. I have a couple of ideas here. Most crudely, it might be possible to use a GIF or a Prezi to create an animated version of the chronology of killing in the spring and summer of 1979. But Harvard’s History Design Studio and other outlets for digital humanities in fair Cambridge are also apparently in the process of making it easier for scholars here to use NeatLine, an application developed at Virginia that would be well-suited to displaying what I really want – the chronological movement of peoples across Central Asia. It would help make more clear the ways in which (Afghan and Soviet) Communism ironically ends up destroying the Afghan dream of ‘Pashtunistan‘ – a Pashtun-dominated state in Central Asia carved out of Afghanistan and western Pakistan - by depopulating the core Pashtun territories of Afghanistan and forcing those people into Pakistan (where they constituted, and constitute a humanitarian crisis and provoke anxiety about the ‘Pashtunization’ of parts of Pakistan, most notably Karachi, typically viewed as the ‘property’ of muhajirs or other nationalities.
Still, after an hour or two banging my head against the keyboard in CGIS yesterday, I’ve begun to produce some rough drafts of some of the graphics I might want to use.
I don’t think it’s bad, but there are still some problems – I’m returning to my Edward Tufte. The green dots in the map above each represent 1500 people who had left from provinces in Afghanistan by 1985; the turquoise dots also represent 1500 people who had arrived into provinces in Pakistan by the same date. The overall picture is clear: the migration provoked by the Soviet invasion was was largely one of peoples from provinces like Paktia, Nangarhar, and Qandahar (populous Pashtun provinces) almost entirely into Pakistan’s Northwest Frontier Province, its Federally Administered Tribal Areas, and, to a much lesser extent, Balochistan. Yet there are many quibbles one could raise here. I’ve used a relatively simple terrain and administrative underlay – are there better options? Choosing to depict population as dots is, I think, the right choice here, but then there’s choices of density and visualization, too. Given the size of the map (or the level of the zoom), depicting one dot as one person would fill up all of the provinces in question. What’s the right balance – visually and analytically – between 1 dot : 1 person and 10,000:1? I’m not yet sure how to answer these questions. Perhaps it’s time for more visits to office hours or – more likely – hours in front of ARC. Mapping is time intensive!
But the fact that mapping and, more broadly, other forms of digital humanities, are so demanding of our time raises questions of the sort that we’re invited to consider in this week’s session on professionalization, assessment of DH scholarship, copyright management, and MOOCs. It’s obvious to me from my everyday work patterns that mapping and building (for example) Omeka sites takes way more time than writing (of first drafts, if not polished prose). This makes for a problem. While conditions and Stimmung vary from department to department, history can be a temperamentally and methodologically conservative discipline. It’s not uncommon for colleagues to fret about making a web site for fear that hiring committees would view a digital presence as “unprofessional.” The attitudes of major publishing houses and their editors can be even more entrenched: several publishers I have spoken with view digital projects essentially as a distraction, while one of the most prestigious academic publishers in the United States that I had to deal with for a project as an undergraduate research assistant did not even use e-mail to accept the corrections to a 1,000 page edited collection of documents I was working on, forcing me to babysit a fax machine in the basement of the Princeton History Department one afternoon. With attitudes like this, it’s no surprise that we often lag behind in assessing DH scholarship. If there’s a place where the dumbest stereotypes of the technocratic about the rest of us Luddites are fulfilled, it might be in academia and academic publishing.
Fortunately, many of this week’s readings address how to change this situation. A piece by Todd Presner, a professor of German and Jewish Studies at UCLA, cogently lays out some starting principles for the review of DH material that I think are a good start. Among them are the principle that “the work must be evaluated in the medium in which it was produced and published. If it’s a website, that means viewing it in a browser with the appropriate plug-ins necessary for the site to work. If it’s a virtual simulation model, that may mean going to a laboratory outfitted with the necessary software and projection systems to view the model. Work that is time based — like videos — will often be represented by stills, but reviewers also need to devote attention to clips in order to fully evaluate the work.” This may sound obvious, but it’s essential: I’ve heard of instances where people want to know why I can’t just print out my maps and mail them to a reader. As a young(ish) digital historian, one is often dealing with huge generational and methodological chasms that are hard to leap.
The obsession with “the argument” as a feature of academic history that I brought up last week is another aspect of this. As classmates have suggested, digital history projects are often better at opening up new horizons of questions than definitely answering existing ones. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I’ve often thought that the more falsifiable an argument is in history, the more open-and-shut it can be, yes – but also the less interesting it can get, too. As we know thanks to the work of scholars like Annette Gordon-Reed, there’s now a strong consensus that Thomas Jefferson fathered several if not all of Sally Hemings‘ children. Knowing that that happened is important for how we think about Jefferson and attitudes about race in 18th century America. But arguably more interesting are the broader panoramas that knowledge of that fact raise: the dividing lines of race in American society then, the history of slave-master sexual relations, the history of defining (some would say defaming) Hemings’ as a “slave girl” rather than just a “woman,” and so on. If you think “the argument” of work like Gordon-Reed’s is that Jefferson fathered Hemings’ children, you’re missing the point.
Just as good print manuscripts raise more questions than they answer, good DH scholarship should do the same. We have, however, to be careful not to fall into the trap of claiming that Omeka projects and the like are the same, or worth “half” of a book or article. Notes Presner: “Is a digital research project “equivalent” to a book published by a university press, an edited volume, a research article, or something else? These sorts of questions are often misguided since they are predicated on comparing fundamentally different knowledge artifacts and, perhaps more problematically, consider print publications as the norm and benchmark from which to measure all other work.” At its most ambitious, the digital history movement has to be about questioning these age-old institutional standards – especially so at a time when our books sell pitiful numbers of copies and departments are under attack by administrators.
As other readings discuss, however, we have to be careful about how we put our projects together. A piece by Dan Cohen and Roy Rosenzweig, “Owning the Past,” discusses some of the pitfalls of copyright in digital humanities scholarship. Reading the piece, however, reminded me of a special set of exceptions that ironically makes working on the modern history of the Soviet Union and Persianate Asia especially convenient (if not worth the tradeoff of using squat latrines when working at Tajik archives). The history of international copyright law and the Soviet Union is complicated, but with some notable exceptions (Prokofiev, Gorkii, authors who published their works in member countries of the Berne Convention before it being published in the USSR) most works that were published in the Soviet Union prior to 1973 – when Moscow acceded to the Universal Copyright Convention - can be freely used, up to and including (in theory) copying them and selling them for profit. (Not that we innocent historians would do something … but still.) Confusingly, through a set of post-Soviet arrangements, pre-1973 works can’t be reproduced in other CIS countries, but to my knowledge, these laws have no force outside of the former Soviet world.
The situation is even more unusual with respect to Afghanistan and Iran. Not only is neither country party to the Berne Convention on copyright (the standard international copyright treaty); the United States makes explicit that it has no copyright agreement at all with either country (the same is also true of Iraq and Turkmenistan, making this the largest copyright-free region in the world). Hence, while Cohen and Rosenzweig wring their hands over the numerous restrictions that (implicitly) Americanists face vis-a-vis copyright law – notably, almost all music is incredibly difficult to use, film slightly less so – simply don’t apply to materials originating in Afghanistan or Iran. In theory, this means that it’s much easier for someone to do ambitious DH work with (for example) Iranian New Wave cinema or indeed anything produced in those countries. One would have thought that the US occupation of Afghanistan – a “strategic partner” – would have changed this; maybe putative US-Iran negotiations and diplomatic normalization will change this, too. But these loopholes make it unusually easy to be a digital historian for this part of the world – and give me another reason to tease our Americanist colleagues for being parochial. (Obviously, there could be serious problems if both you and your pirated collection of Afghan or Iranian works happen to be on Iranian or Afghan soil, or the Internet, at the same time, so one should be careful.)
Last but not least, we’ve invited this week to reflect on the MOOC (massively open online course) movement, a topic that I’ve blogged about in the past and that we frequently discussed in a Rhodes-run University Governance Group discussion club at Oxford. As I’ve written there, I think that much of the usually cited talking points regarding MOOCs – celebrity professors teaching courses! students in Nepal! 500,000 students in one course! – are presented utterly divorced from the context of the dramatic changes in the funding landscape of American universities in the last twenty years. As I’ve written in another post stemming from the University Governance Group, the amount of public funding for public universities in most states in America has been in decline since roughly the early 1990s, which – if you’re paying attention – roughly coincides with the rise of the “development” industry in so many universities. Private fund-raising replaces a public commitment to higher education.
MOOCs, I think, can be seen on one level as part of an attempt by universities to cut costs across the board: an attempt to get even larger-sized lectures and stretch resources even thinner, even as annual attendance costs at public universities top $30,000 a year. A recent memorandum on cuts for graduate funding at UC Berkeley escapes me as I write, but MOOC-ification too often represents an administrator’s dream but a teacher’s nightmare. 500-person lecture classes with one graduate student TA (sometimes the case at a large public university like Berkeley) where students – especially those without means – can barely find support if they’re struggling are small fry compared to the spectre of a 100,000-person course with close to zero administrative overhead. Such courses may make sense for introductory quantitative subjects, but as the press on MOOCs has highlighted, many of these courses have incredibly high dropout rates. It’s unclear how one would manage the grading or assessment of 100,000 essays – Harvard PhD student friends who TA are routinely underwater with loads a percentage of that number – and the repeatedly-cited dream of having Michael Sandel teach every philosophy class is ignorant of the way that humanities scholarship actually works. If history is to fulfill its true function in universities as a dialogue between present and past – rather than mere recitation of ‘one damn thing after another’ – it’s crucial that we emphasize a multiplicity of viewpoints in teaching, and focus on training the next generation of scholars – yes, often by them giving mediocre lectures or classes and learning – rather than sitting soporifically before taped AJP Taylor lectures or their modern equivalent. We have to stay abreast of digital changes to our profession, as many of the readings this week underscore, but as far as MOOCs are concerned, technological Micawberism is not an actual argument.