Semai names for places near their communities suggest their uses of the forests, their historical recollections, their spiritual values, and their commitments to maintaining a nonviolent society. Karen Heikkilä untangles these issues with a fascinating study of Semai toponymy, their understandings of place names, in a recent journal article.

A forest brook in the Tapah Hills of Malaysia

Heikkilä’s work provides a way of viewing the Semai approaches to natural phenomena and their sense of their place in the world, at least insofar as these elements are encoded in their language. In essence, their place names, or toponyms, offer insights into their worldview and the importance of the forest within it.

The author studied three Semai communities in Malaysia’s Perak state: Kampung Batu Empat Belas, Kampung Pos Woh, and Kampung Ampang Woh, all located immediately to the west of the Central Main Range of the peninsula. Her major interest is in the relationships of the people in each of the villages with the natural, forested environs of the Bukit Tapah Forest Reserve, also called the Tapah Hills, east of the nearby town of Tapah. It is a broken, hilly area with sloping foothills, ridges, and streams flowing out of the higher mountains immediately to the east.

She provides some useful background. The surrounding forests are essential for the sustenance of the Semai in these three villages, as witnessed by the construction of their houses, the nature of their tools and implements, and the ways their foot trails wind in and out to nearby streams, orchards and swidden gardening patches. Despite the fact that they live surrounded by, and to some extent integrated into, Malay culture—their children go to schools and many of them work for wages in Tapah—they still utilize the landscape for their sustenance and identify themselves as Semai in most senses.

In the interviews the author conducted for her research project, she learned that forest stewardship is essential to the Semai. They revere the land not only because of the forest itself, but also because their ancestors lived there and thrived on its bounties. They also hope that Semai in the future will continue to subsist there.

They preserve their memory as a society due to their interactions with the forest. They view the primary forest as being far more important than just the source of their daily needs. It is a place that has never been cut, where trees were planted by their ancestors, and as such it must not be used for farming or logging.

Despite those values, the Semai in the three communities have no legal titles to the lands they have customarily used and lived upon—they have no guarantee of their land tenure. Their rights to fish, farm, trap, and collect in the forests are protected by Malaysian law, but land takeovers by public agencies or private corporations are still possible.

For her research, the author recorded about 400 toponyms used by Semai in the three villages. She noted the names of the places, their etymologies, and the folklore and land uses connected with those toponyms. She interviewed village elders and a variety of other Semai individuals. She primarily focuses in her report on the meanings of the place names and what those names may suggest about the relationships of the people with the land.

Heikkilä describes numerous names that fall within several categories. For instance, an extremely important category are toponyms that refer to vegetation, especially trees, which are often prominent landmarks. Several place names refer to durians, a prized tree species that produces a treasured fruit. Those trees often serve as boundary markers that demarcate individual or family orchards. Durians can be long-lived trees, the longevity of which suggests that the ancestors seeded them. They signify permanence to the Semai.

Toponyms also record the presence of birds, insects, and mammals such as tigers and they serve to remind the Semai of the history of the 19th century violent slave raids. The toponyms graphically capture the violence of those times, when Malay slavers entered Semai villages to steal people, and they suggest the importance of never forgetting this history. While mainstream histories of Malaysia may lack information about the slaving, the individual communities studied by the author remember—helped by their toponyms.

The Semai give names to places associated with people, though sometimes they signify unpleasant associations. A ridge is known by the name of a girl who died violently, an individual that might not have died but for the negligence of her father, who did not return from a trip when he said he would. Semai feelings of helplessness in the face of an unpredictable world may foster this practice of naming places, which helps them remember violence in their past. In addition to instances of negligence, the toponyms based on violence record attacks by tigers and the history of slave raiding.

The author believes that the process of remembering violence, through the naming, may help deter aggressive behaviors. Memories suggest to the Semai the importance of personal restraint, responsibility to others, and sharing, all attributes that “are crucial to uniting a group in the face of the vagaries of the forest environment and the world at large (p.373).”

Heikkilä writes that while working for wages takes many adults out of the villages, away from the forest environment, they still seem to remember the names of the places in the vicinity of their homes. Younger Semai may know the names but they may not be as adept at recalling them in detail. Fewer young people are as directly engaged in subsistence work in the forests as their elders are, so they are not learning and remembering the toponyms as well.

One Semai research participant told the author, “Semai place-names must be conserved so that Semai history will never be forgotten. The names should also be preserved because they have been passed down through the ages by word of mouth and have always been used, always been present in the Semai language (p.375).”

Heikkilä hopes her study of Semai place-names, and the narratives they represent, will help them gain recognition for their rights and ownership over the lands they have traditionally used. She also hopes that the Semai themselves will intensify their mapping of their landscape, including ancestral toponyms that indicate its ecological, economic, spiritual, and historical importance to the people. Such maps could serve to help protect the forest by including Semai perspectives on land use planning and management practices.

Heikkilä, Karen. 2014. “‘The Forest Is Our Inheritance’: An Introduction to Semai Orang Asli Place‐Naming and Belonging in the Bukit Tapah Forest Reserve.” Singapore Journal of Tropical Geography, 35(3), November: 362-381

A reporter for the Hindustan Times recently decided to visit the village of Turtuk, a Balti community in the Shyok Valley of Ladakh near the border with Pakistan. While his report is basically a travel piece, it presents some interesting information about this seldom visited region. Furquan Ameen Siddiqui, the reporter, had been a tourist in Turtuk during a bike trip down the Shyok River in August 2014, but he had only stayed a day in the village. He wanted to go back for a longer visit so he chose this recent winter for his second trip.

A girl in Turtuk, Ladakh

Turtuk has become well known, according to the writer, for its walnuts, tomatoes, and especially its apricots. It has developed a cooperative venture where bottled apricot juice is prepared for sale in Leh, the capital of Ladakh. Other agricultural ventures in the fertile valley are raising buckwheat and barley.

Siddiqui writes that the Shyok Valley, in that area near the border, is lush and green in summer. Local farmers are seen carrying large bundles of barley on their backs or putting apricots out to dry on their roofs. But conditions were very different during his recent winter visit. Nothing was growing—everyone was depending on their stored food supplies.

Baltistan, a small part of which is in Ladakh, is clearly different from the rest of the Leh District. The Buddhist monasteries are left behind as the traveler drives northwest down the Shyok River valley and crosses into territory populated primarily by Muslims. Turtuk and the other communities near the border with Pakistan are inhabited by Noorbakshias, followers of Sufi Islam, plus some Sunnis and Shias. One of the mosques, in the hamlet of Youl, part of Turtuk, dates back at least to 1690.

That sliver of Ladakh was seized by the Indian Army during a war with Pakistan in 1971. The 500 families in the village of Turtuk, who live only six miles from the new border with Pakistan, had to adapt to life under the control of the Indian Army rather than, until then, the army of Pakistan.

The history is that the Indian army launched an offensive on December 13, 1971, which moved the border 25 km northwest in the Turtuk sector. Many nearby villagers fled down river to Khaplu and Skardu, towns farther into the Pakistan section of Baltistan. The people of Turtuk decided to stay.

The reporter asked them why. Abdul Karim, an elder in the village who cares for the mosque, replied that that was where they had lived for ages. Their country had changed, but they had remained the same. Before, they had obeyed the army of Pakistan, but now, the army of India.

Village elders for decades after 1971 prevented young men from joining the police or army for fear of what might happen to them should Pakistan seize the area again. The reporter said that he spoke with villagers about the effects of the 1971 partition. People told him of parents being separated from their children, siblings from each other, even wives from husbands. To this day, crossing the border six miles away to visit close relatives is not permitted unless the villager travels hundreds of miles to an approved border crossing.

Turtuk was closed to outside tourists until late in 2010, and the nearby hamlets are still closed. This year has been the first time that tourists, such as the author, have been able to visit during the winter.

Some writers, such as Harvey (1983), have ascribed the famed peacefulness of the Ladakhi to their Buddhist beliefs, but Pirie (2007) has argued persuasively that nonviolence in the local mountain communities is based more on social and cultural conditions, such as commitments to avoiding anger and settling conflicts quickly, than on religious beliefs. Unfortunately, the article last week on the Balti living in a sliver of Ladakh did not explore those issues in that particular community.

A news story in July 2013 described how a Paliyan man had used Facebook as a way of complaining about problems in his colony, and how government officials had quickly responded. A brief report last week provides an update on the situation.

Western Ghats Mountains where the Paliyans live

V. Thangaraj, at the Alagammalpuram Colony near Madurai, a city in Tamil Nadu, India, asked on Facebook if the District Collector, Anshul Mishra, could help provide basic amenities such as housing, which had not been adequately supplied by the state. Houses provided earlier by the government were deteriorating. The 2013 story reported that 17 of the houses in the colony were dilapidated.

The report last week indicated that Mr. Thangaraj, who completed his 10th year of formal education, was indeed responsible for prompting action. Unfortunately, Mr. Mishra, who quickly assured the Paliyans that he would take action, was transferred before he could do anything to improve the situation. Another collector, U. Sagayam, visited the colony and promised that new houses would be built, but he too was transferred.

The state has now come through and built 10 new houses in the colony, buildings that, Thangaraj said, represent a significant improvement for the people. One elderly Paliyan resident in the colony, S. Vellaichamy, expressed his particular pleasure. One rainy night in 2012, he could tell that the ceiling of his house was starting to cave in. He alerted his family but he was injured on the head while he was saving his granddaughter from the structure as it collapsed.

Thanaraj, a tribal rights activist who also played an active role in urging the district authorities to provide decent housing for the colony, praised the district government for its action.

The Stahl Farms, a Dariusleut Hutterite colony in the state of Washington, embraces many modern technologies, particularly those that will improve their agricultural production. The colony, near the town of Ritzville, about 57 miles southwest of Spokane, has been able to expand its cultivated acres from 3,000 in 1980 when it began to 16,000 acres today.

An iPhone 6 being used

In an article published last week in the Spokane daily newspaper, the Spokesman-Review, journalist Caitlin Tompkins describes her visit to the colony and their evolving relationship with the latest technological devices. John Stahl, Sr, epitomized the contrasts of old and new technology as he sat at a handmade wooden desk working with his iPhone 6.

Stahl, the President of Stahl Farms, is unapologetic about his use of recent technological devices. He tells the reporter that the Hutterites must use the latest technology in order to maximize their efficiency and survive. While radios and televisions have long been forbidden in the colony, access to the Internet, particularly with smartphones, might pose contradictions to their ethical values.

Stahl said technologies such as improved irrigation systems that clearly will assist the Hutterite society will be accepted. However, computers, smartphones, and the social media raise different challenges. The computers in the school have been equipped with blocking programs that prevent access to inappropriate or violent materials—the “corrupt areas of the Internet,” as he calls them.

But monitoring what individual adults do with their smartphones poses ethical dilemmas, Stahl believes, since such controls would represent an invasion of privacy. The colony response to smartphones is to attempt to educate the young people on appropriate uses of the devices. An honor system attempts to guide their uses by everyone.

Michelle Stahl, a niece of John Stahl’s and a ninth grader in the colony school, told the journalist that smartphones are not allowed in the school itself. While the kids sometimes talk with one another, there really are not many distractions. She told Ms. Thompkins that she has a phone, which she may use in case of an emergency, but she prefers to talk with her friends in person rather than to meet up on Facebook. She admits, however, that she would like to go on Instagram to look at photos.

The writer also met Martin Stahl, a nephew of John Stahl. Martin works in the farm warehouse, and he is something of a self-taught technological expert. He has taught himself how to operate and fix all the farming equipment at the colony with assistance from videos he has watched on his smartphone, plus at times the help of older members. He says he has been fascinated with technology since he was a child, and he likes to keep learning new things about machines and electronics.

John Stahl, the colony president, just upgraded from his old cell phone to his new iPhone 6 a couple months ago. He says it keeps him in contact with the employees and business partners of the operation, and it allows him to do research easily. When he first bought it, he was only aware of about 10 percent of its capabilities. He tells Ms. Thompkins that he “was dumber than a post” when he bought it, but he’s learned a lot. For instance, it amazes him that he can obtain information about a piece of equipment before buying it.

He argues that the place of technology in the Hutterite colony will only grow. Some of the older members see devices such as smartphones as harmful, but he disagrees. He sees them as advantageous. He feels the world is growing more high tech, so the Hutterites might as well go that way too.

Janzen and Stanton (2010), who published the standard, current reference work on the Hutterites, support Ms. Thompkins’ portrayal of the Hutterite acceptance of technology. But while the Hutterites will develop more effective agricultural production methods from changing technology, Janzen and Stanton insist that they will remain committed to their “Christ-based communal life (p.4)” and their firmly ethical, peaceful beliefs.

Mr. Stahl says he admires the attempts of the Amish to preserve their distance from technological changes. He contrasts his colony with the approaches that he believes characterize the Amish. Technologies will continue to change, he says. “We can’t stay with the horse-and-buggy tradition if we want to survive in this old world.”

While the Dariusleut Hutterites in Washington may have a more accepting attitude toward current technologies than many Old Order Amish groups, their basic approaches appear to be remarkably similar. According to Kidder and Hostetler (1990), the Amish avoid a lot of technology in order to preserve their communities: any new device or convenience that some members desire is carefully examined by the entire community to see if it would foster differences between families, create tensions, or produce undue dependence on the outside world.

The folks at the Stahl Farm may accept devices that the Amish would reject, but both, to judge by the news story last week, examine carefully the benefits and potential disadvantages that each technology might pose before accepting or rejecting it.

The Egyptian Ministry of Housing is building a resettlement community near the city of Aswan for the Nubian people but it is having a hard time attracting settlers.

Wadi Qurqur (Karkar Valley) Nubian housing begun by the Egyptian Ministry of Housing in 2009

According to a news report published last week in the Daily News Egypt, the project to build housing in the Wadi Qurqur, referred to in the article as the Karkar Valley, originated in 2009 with officials in that ministry. Their plans were supported by the Ministry of Defense.

A news story in 2010 described the promise of the project. It was to provide housing for Nubians who had been evicted from their villages along the Nile when the Aswan Dam was closed 50 years ago. In addition to the housing, the agency was intending to construct schools, post offices, roads, markets, mosques, youth centers, family centers, bakeries, and utilities in each village in the Wadi Qurqur.

The news story last week indicated that the first phase of the project was completed in 2012, with 1,572 homes constructed in eight villages. The second and third phases, involving 448 more houses, are “currently in the works,” according to the news story. The cost for the second and third phases will amount to 78 million Egyptian pounds (about U.S.$10,000,000).

So far, the report indicates, not too many Nubians have resettled into the new communities. During a tour of the project, Minister of Housing Mostafa Madbouly said that providing water to the communities has been a problem that his agency is addressing.

In the villages of Old Nubia, large water wheels used to bring water up out of the Nile to irrigate the fields. The water wheels required cooperative systems for maintaining the irrigation systems, and they fostered the sharing of water resources, both, arguably important aspects of their peaceful social system. Conditions in the newly constructed villages in the desert are far different.

Mr. Madbouly said that the ministry intends to provide the 200 families that now live in the new communities with five acres of agricultural land each—once water can be secured. He said he plans to contact the Minister of Water Resources, Hossam Moghazy, to see if he will be able to provide water to the communities for their proposed fields. He also indicated that, within three months, a large water tank with a capacity of 1,000 cubic meters, will be provided.

The minister promised that handicraft industries and shops will also be established in the valley. Speaking to a number of Nubians during his tour of the project, the Minister said, “there must be ongoing sessions between us, in order to fulfil your needs.”

The National Geographic announcement on its website last week of the supposed discovery in eastern Honduras of a mythical “lost city” received worldwide publicity. The announcement caught the attention of scholars who decided to debunk the claims of “discovery” and “lost civilization.” The media appeared, to the scholars, to sensationalize the facts, a tendency which the “discoverers” seemed to be all too willing to play into.

Athirappilly waterfall

A much less widely noticed archaeological discovery involving the Kadar people was publicized in a couple major Indian news sources over the past few weeks, one of which also illustrated the tendency of the media to sensationalize. The Hindu first published a story the week before last indicating that a prominent Indian historian, M.G. Sasibhooshan and his colleagues, had discovered two Neolithic stone axes in the bed of the Chalakudy River in the Thrissur District of Kerala State. The famed Athirappilly and Vazhachal waterfalls on the river are located in that area.

The Hindu article does not speculate or sensationalize. It gives the dimensions of the two axes, and it indicates that the polished tools probably dated from the Neolithic period, roughly 5,000 to 1,500 BC. Dr. Sasibhooshan told the press that it was the first time a stone axe had been recovered from that river.

Last week, the New Indian Express also covered the story, with its own photos of the two axes and its own take on the import of the discovery. The headline read, “Neolithic Weapons Recovered from the Chalakkudy River Basin.” The stone axes, the writer of the headline presumably felt, must have been used in battle. That writer evidently did not consider the possibility that the makers of the tools may have intended them for other uses, such as cutting trees or hunting.

And the culprits who made these “weapons” were evidently the Kadar, since Dr. Sasibhooshan had suggested to the New Indian Express that they have traditionally lived in that area of the Parambikulam Forest Reserve. The newspaper elaborates that the Kadar have lived along that section of the Chalakudy “for generations in harmony with rare flora and fauna,” though they have been neglected by the state government.

The newspaper article provides a few more bits of information. It indicates that the Kadar are employed by the Forest Department under the aegis of village forest councils, called, in Kerala, the Vana Samrakshana Samithis. It also reports that their earnings are minimal compared to other tribal groups. Finally, it mentions the threat to some of the Kadar communities from the proposed Athirappilly hydropower project.

The Mbuti living in the Ituri rainforest are suffering from violence fostered by illegal mining in their region and the armed rebel gangs who profit from it. According to a news story last week in Aljazeera.com, titled “The Struggle to Save the ‘Congolese Unicorn,’” the violence not only affects the Mbuti and the other residents of that section of the D. R. Congo, it also is having an impact on the okapi. A forest animal related to giraffes, okapi were referred to as “unicorns” by the original Belgian colonists.

An Mbuti hunterThe Okapi Wildlife Reserve, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, occupies about 5,300 square miles of the 25,000 square mile Ituri forest. The rare animals, only found in that section of the DRC, used to number about 5,000 in the reserve and 30,000 total, but their numbers appear to be dwindling. Over the last 24 years, the number of “unicorns” may have dropped to half that due to mining, poaching, and increases in the human population in the forests.

The Aljazeera journalist, Elaisha Stokes, writes that the Mbuti who still live in the Ituri, referred to by other Congolese as “pygmies,” continue to subsist at least in part on their traditional, forest-based, hunting and gathering. But the poachers and miners have harmed the ability of the Mbuti to secure much food from the forest, which threatens their very future there.

The Aljazeera article is thorough and detailed. It describes the illegal gold mining operation in the forest, the rebel groups that profit from it, and the various actors who are trying to correct the situation. The interest here is in the information it provides about the Mbuti themselves.

Stokes writes that when the reserve was created, it permitted the traditional net and arrow hunting methods used by the Mbuti, but not the use of guns, and of course it prohibited killing okapi. The reserve was divided into zones so that villagers were permitted to continue their agricultural practices. Part of the reserve was designated as a conservation zone and mining was outlawed throughout.

The Mai Mai Simba, a rebel group that runs the gold mining operation at a place referred to as Muchacha, has no clear mission and no effective leadership. But there are frequent reports of rapes, kidnappings, and murders at the hands of the rebels. In a conversation with Aljazeera, the leader of a local youth group in Epulu, the community at the center of the reserve, castigated the rebels for their violence.

The author visited an Mbuti camp, Banziyi, to find out how the situation may be affecting them. Musa Makubasi, whom Stokes refers to as the Mbuti chief, told her that they “need a good catch this year.” They have been coming back from their hunts in the forest without enough game animals, and Makubasi blames this on the people working at the Muchacha mine. He has gathered the band together for a traditional hunting ceremony, hoping it will please the ancestors and foster a better harvest of game.

One of the elders in the band, Michel Ngumu, told the journalist that the gods of the forest are angry. He has worn his loincloth and hunted using traditional Mbuti net-hunting methods all his life. In fact, his life is in the forest, he said. The Mbuti today mostly wear western-style clothing and live fairly near Epulu. Ngumu deplored the fact that the younger Mbuti no longer care to pursue their traditional ways of subsistence. They prefer to work at the mining sites and become drunk with the money that they earn.

Makubasi admitted that some younger people are working for the mines, but he maintained that most of them are excluded from the various commercial pursuits in the Ituri—because many Congolese people look down on the “pygmies” as lesser human beings. Makubasi countered this attitude by maintaining that the Mbuti are “the first people of the Congo.” He argued that the real problems are the dangerous conditions in the forest. Sometimes, their hunting parties run into armed rebel groups. Mostly, the latter leave the Mbuti alone, but sometimes they don’t.

The Banziyi band has moved deeper into the forest, where the journalist describes a ceremony they performed to seek protection and blessings from their ancestors. They have pooled their scant earnings of Congolese francs received from odd jobs and have purchased a chicken. While the camp members chant, Makubasi recites the names of ancestors. The chicken is held over an altar and its throat is slit. The blood from the slain chicken is smeared on the foreheads of the men participating in the ceremony as a message to the ancestors: protect us since we still honor you.

Several scholars deny the existence of peaceful societies, arguing that they are simply a myth, but Douglas Fry characterizes their attitudes as a “unicorn factor,” after the mythological animals. Deniers maintain that peaceful societies, like unicorns, are figments of the imagination, but Fry disputes that. Last week, as part of a presentation titled “The Creation and Maintenance of Non-Warring Peace Systems,” he countered their arguments through a careful recital of sound scholarship.

Promotional post for Douglas Fry's talk at Penn State.

The world’s foremost authority on peaceful societies, Fry began his February 24th talk on the campus of Penn State Altoona, in Altoona, Pennsylvania, by describing the well-documented existence of those groups. He defined a peaceful society as a group that experiences low levels of aggression—one that has systems of beliefs that solidify and reinforce existing predilections for nonviolence. Furthermore, those societies strenuously avoid physical aggression by effectively mediating conflicts in one way or another.

He provided several examples for his audience, consisting primarily of Penn State students and faculty: the Pemon people of South America, the Paliyan society of southern India, and the Icelanders. He cited literature that referred to the extremely low levels of violence and homicides among those groups. The speaker documented, in his book The Human Potential for Peace, over 80 internally peaceful societies. However, that was just a sampling of what he suspects may be many more, ranging, according to their patterns of social organization, from bands up to modern nation states.

The major focus of Fry’s presentation was on peace systems—not just individual, internally peaceful societies, but clusters of non-warring peoples that work together to avoid warfare with each other. He showed a slide that listed six primary characteristics of those peace systems. The first one is that individuals in those clusters have a larger, broader sense of identity than just for their own groups. Other characteristics are that they have various approaches to interconnecting with one another and they have many ways of promoting interdependence.

Another important characteristic is that they share values, which are “the principles that guide our lives,” the speaker said. The values in these societies, of settling differences non-violently, differ from the approaches of warring systems, where the primary values are courage, fortitude, and bravery. Other characteristics of peace systems are that the members share common ceremonies and rituals, and that they have erected various kinds of conflict resolution procedures or governance structures to settle disputes nonviolently.

Fry has amassed details on numerous peace systems around the world, but he focused on two examples to solidify his argument: the Xingu group of societies in Brazil, and the European Union. The ten different societies of the Upper Xingu River have been carefully studied by outside visitors and ethnographers for well over 100 years.

Those outsiders, such as Karl Von den Steinen, Buell Quain, and Thomas Gregor, have all emphasized the absence of warfare among the Xingu peoples. Gregor wrote, according to Fry, “during the one hundred years over which we have records, there is no evidence of warfare among the Xingu groups.”

How do they do it? Fry answers his question by dipping back into his six characteristics of peace systems. He explains that the Xingu societies are interdependent in terms of their ceremonies, their marriages, and especially their trade. Each group specializes in making different products that they can then trade with the others. For instance, one society specializes in making hardwood bows, another in salt. Perhaps other villages could make those same products but they don’t—they want to maintain peaceful, interdependent trade that fosters good social relationships. “Trade means trust,” at least among those peoples, the speaker said.

The Xingu people also share anti-warring values and they enjoy ceremonies such as singing and dancing together. When they get annoyed with one another, they get into wrestling matches to dissipate their angers. They feel that violence is absolutely immoral and disgusting. They will harangue others, and perhaps complain a lot to blow off steam. But they won’t accept or resort to physical aggression.

The speaker then moved from the group of traditional societies in Brazil to a more modern grouping of states that purposely decided to avoid having any more wars: the European Union. The states of Europe formed the union in order to develop an effective peace system, one that is different from the Xingu but overall is quite comparable. Fry emphasized the formative role of Jean Monnet, the French diplomat, who played an important part in founding the European Union.

Monnet and his colleagues in Europe wanted to prevent more of the horrors and devastation that the continent had experienced in the First and Second World Wars. While there may continue to be crises in the union over various economic and political issues, the point is that the member countries are not about to go to war. They’ve had enough of them over the centuries. Monnet and his colleagues deliberately created their peace system—and it seems to be working.

The speaker identified numerous developments by the European Union that would fall within the listing of six major characteristics of peace systems. The EU has common symbols, such as a flag, a currency, passports, and driver’s licenses, all of which help prompt a higher-level European identity. The young people still think of themselves as Finns or Italians, but with increasing frequency they now also identify themselves as Europeans. It’s working.

One of the European parliamentarians said, according to Fry, “peace, therefore is the primary achievement of the process of European integration.” War has become unthinkable among the countries of the European peace system. Their group mentality is that they never again want to see warfare such as their parents and grandparents experienced. They downplay nationalism, while they expand the vision of “us” to now include “us and them.”

Dr. Fry concluded by quoting from one of the epigrams of this website, the quote from Kenneth Boulding, who wrote that “anything that exists is possible.” Peace systems already exist, and therefore, more broadly, other groups of peoples or states could also develop similar groupings focusing on ending warfare and violence. Growing out of Boulding’s thought, he closed by saying that the vision of a possible world without war “is the first step towards creating a world without war.”

In early January, the forest department in Tamil Nadu started training 16 young Paliyan men to work as guides for a new ecotourism trekking venture. They planned to take trekkers to forested sites in the state such as the Kutladampatti Falls, already a known tourist destination, or to another place called Kiluvamalai.

Kutladampatti Falls

The young men selected for the program were quite familiar with finding their way through the mountains, so the officials with the forest department in the city of Madurai felt they would primarily have to be taught skills needed for working with the tourists. Officials organized the first trek to Kiluvamalai for Sunday, February 15th. It included six of the newly trained guides to accompany the tourists. Also, two of India’s major newspapers, the Times of India and The Hindu, sent reporters along to cover the story of the maiden trek.

Easwaran, at 19 the youngest of the six guides, was polite and well-mannered to the tourists as he pointed out the trees and described their importance. D. Murugendran, a 25-year old guide, explained to the Times of India that they were all trained for good communication skills with the visitors. “Today, we have enough confidence to face people and talk to them,” he said.

J. Mary Praveena, the coordinator for ecotourism for the Madurai District forest, told the newspapers that they have emphasized language training in English for the 16 guides. They have also given them motivational training, first aid lessons, and classes on basic etiquette and confidence building. After a couple more local treks, the forestry officials plan to take the guides to major tourist spots like Kodaikanal and Thekkady. Nihar Ranjan, District Forest Officer, said that the agency also plans eventually to train the youths in anti-poaching and fire watching for the department.

The 16 young men are all from the Kurinji village, where they actively gathered forest products—at least they did until the forest department solicited their interest in the new program. They have formed the Vanakuil Self Help Group (SHG), with one of their members, V. Solairaja, serving as its president.

Solairaja said that before the forest officials approached them, they were making about Rs. 500 per week from the sale of the forest products they were able to gather. Eswaran added that they were now assured of a fixed income from the employment by the Forest District.

The youths explained that the fee of Rs. 600 collected from each trekker covered the basic expenses of travel and food, after which the rest was shared among the guides. At the end of the first trek on Sunday the 15th, they had realized a net profit of Rs. 6,000, half of which the six young men shared, and half of which they used for the further development of the SHG.

One of the guides, S. Vasiappan, explained the profit sharing a bit more clearly: “After receiving Rs. 1,000 for working as an eco-guide, we will be depositing Rs. 500 in our [SHG] accounts for community development of our tribal community.”

But in addition to finances, the young Paliyan men clearly enjoyed their first experience as eco-trekking guides. Eswaran proudly told The Hindu, “today we enjoyed interacting with the trekkers who asked us about different plants and birds and we told them whatever we knew about the forest.” A. Vasiappan added, after the trek was over, that they themselves had learned a lot from their experience with the tourists.

The concept of historical trauma, sometimes used to describe societies that have suffered from the stresses of serious traumatic events, might be an appropriate key to understanding recent Inuit experiences. Allison Crawford, a psychiatrist at the University of Toronto, examines the situation of the Inuit in the Baffin region of Nunavut, now known as the Qikiqtani region, with a careful, scholarly lens.

Qikiqtani_Truth_Commission1

Crawford looks at several types of sources—Inuit oral histories, testimonies given to several official commissions, artistic productions, and other social discourses—to see how the Inuit themselves have expressed their collective experiences at the hands of the qallunaat, the southern Canadians. The goal of her investigation was to see whether the historical trauma (HT) concept really is an appropriate way to explain Inuit experiences during the past half-century.

The author begins by comparing HT to posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Development of the concept of PTSD allowed the pains and wounds suffered by individuals exposed to stressful traumatic events to become recognized. Similarly, historical trauma provides a comparable recognition of collective wounding and painful experiences by entire societies. Events such as the Holocaust for Jews, slavery for African Americans, Hiroshima for the Japanese, and apartheid for South Africans can reasonably be described as HT phenomena.

Inuit relations with Canadians from the southern part of their country may also be similarly conceived of in an HT framework, Crawford argues. The key concepts of HT are that it is a collective issue, not an individual one; that it is the result of pains inflicted on a group; and that it is cumulative. That is, the traumatic effects are passed down to future generations through what the author terms “intergenerational transmission.”

The indigenous peoples of North America have had their lands stolen, their native languages suppressed, their ceremonies undermined, their spirituality destroyed, and their values upended. As a result, their cultures have been eroded and their social orders mostly demolished. Thus, the HT theory predicts that individual responses to these traumas will show up for generation after generation as depressive behaviors, low self-esteem, anger, anxiety, and suicides.

Crawford provides specifics. In the 1990s, the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples (RCAP) in Canada investigated the events relating to the history of contacts between non-Aboriginal and Aboriginal peoples. The commission acknowledged that the Inuit experience was different from that of other Canadian Aboriginal societies in that the changes forced on them occurred relatively recently.

The RCAP report in 1996 described many instances of abusive colonialism and contact with non-Aboriginals, including forced residential schooling, attacks on traditional beliefs, destruction of Inuit relationships with the land, and enforced resettlement programs. As a result, many Inuit are living, as one elder testified, with their children “in deep despair of sorts, because we as adults have not healed from the pain of growing up in a destructive and dysfunctional environment (p.345-346).”

The Qikiqtani Truth Commission (QTC) in 2007 produced an even more dramatic tale of collective traumas suffered by the Inuit at the hands of the non-Aboriginals. A wide range of people across Nunavut testified to the commission about the ways they had been treated by government agents ever since 1950. People talked about elderly relatives being sent south in ships, never to be heard from again since there was no way of communicating with them. Another traumatic event for the Inuit was the enforced killing of their sled dogs.

The QTC concluded that the “Canadian government has initiated profound social, economic and cultural changes in the North that have had a far-reaching, negative and continuing influence on the lives of Qikiqtani Inuit. The vast majority of these decisions were made without consulting Inuit and the consequences are still felt today (p.346).” The commissioner in charge of the investigation reported that many times the individual Inuit people felt as if testifying before the commission had finally allowed them to unburden themselves of their feelings. People had been reluctant to tell their children the details of the things they and their parents had suffered.

The QTC heard testimony from about 350 witnesses, and its report is exemplary for documenting the HT phenomenon. The investigation and its report provided a voice for the traumatic events of the previous decades, and the process created extensive evidence of the importance of the HT model. The report indicated, “for many years now, Inuit elders in the Qikiqtani region have been haunted by a deep sense of loss, shame and puzzlement (p. 347).”

Crawford investigated other possible sources of information that might reveal the accuracy of the HT model for understanding Inuit society. She found that Inuit art provides a lot of evidence for the existence of collective, social trauma—HT at work on an everyday basis. Not only do these works of art depict tragic events such as suicides, they also show that the historical traumas are still in process—the drama is continuing to unfold in contemporary communities.

The point of the author’s discussion is that HT is not a simple concept—violence occurred before, during, and outside the period of the historical traumas. It continues today. The implication of a drawing showing a person who has committed suicide is that it is a contemporary issue, not just an historical one. Furthermore, the art does not simplify. A drawing showing violence against women takes place in a traditional camp, presumably in a pre-conquest situation. The linear causation model proposed by HT theorists does not always work very neatly in the Inuit context.

Crawford reprints Annie Pootoogook’s drawing “Memory of My Life: Breaking Bottles,” which the author describes as dispensing with tried and true images from Inuit art. It shows the artist’s figures living in matchbox houses and handling contemporary issues such as alcohol consumption. The “memories” she alludes to are not nostalgic vistas of an idealized traditional past, but views of contemporary social realities. The author points out that Pootoogook herself suffers from addictions, poverty, and homelessness, though her works of art sell in southern Canada.

Crawford concludes that since mainstream psychiatrists have problems with the concept of PTSD, the concept of HT is also unlikely to become quickly favored. Nonetheless, she writes that there is a reasonable probability that HT does explain the intergenerational transmission of social malaise among the Inuit. In addition, while it is difficult for any of us to step outside our own narratives, which support our own ways of understanding the world, Crawford argues that being aware of the Inuit experience will allow us to at least be more open to considering multiple perspectives on life.

Crawford, Allison. 2014. “‘The Trauma Experienced by Generations Past Having an Effect in their Descendants’: Narrative and Historical Trauma among Inuit in Nunavut, Canada.” Transcultural Psychiatry 51(3), June: 339-369