Both the theories coming out of the linguistic turn and those running away from it have placed special emphasis on human language (or human symbolic thinking) as a matter of convention and shared meanings. Yet there are other histories that link language and humanness through invention, deceit, and secrecy rather than through convention and publicness. These alternate models have been used as diagnostic of humanness in a range of contexts, from the colonial past into the technologized present. I examine here the ways in which the unshared, non-public symbol has stood at the center of two disparate contexts in which the humanness of speakers of novel languages are put in question. The first case examines the ways in which Christian missionaries started to see Tok Pisin, a novel pidginized language spoken by indentured laborers in colonial Papua New Guinea, as a possible language of evangelism when it became associated with deceit and moral dissolution. The second case examines a 2017 moral panic in the United States about two chatbots that were reported to have invented their own language and then used it to lie to one another. In contrast to the first case, one of the ways that bots get figured as beyond-human is in the fear that there is no way to impose a moral order, no colonial evangelism that could be used to encompass them. By taking on the symbolic while withholding public meanings, the speakers of these unshared symbols sit at the boundaries of humanness.

Historians of Islamic occult science and post-Mongol Persianate kingship in the Ottoman, Safavid, and Mughal Empires have in recent years made clear just how central this body of knowledge was to the exercise of imperial power. Alongside, scholarship on tantra has pointed to its diffuse persistence in the early modern period. But what dynamics beyond courts and elite initiates did these investments in occult science and tantra unleash? Through a focus on the seventeenth-century Mughal court and the Rajput polity of Marwar in the eighteenth century, this article weaves together the history of animals with that of harmful magic by non-courtly actors. It demonstrates the blended histories of tantra, Islamicate occult sciences, and folk magic to argue that attributions of liminality encoded people, animals, and things with occult potential. For some, like the owl, this liminality could invite violence and death and for others, like expert male practitioners, it could generate authority. By the eighteenth century, the deployment of practical magic towards harmful or disruptive ends was a political tool wielded not only by kings and elite adepts for state or lineage formation but also by non-courtly subjects and “low”-caste specialists in local social life. States and sovereigns responded to the popular use of harmful magic harshly, aiming to cut off non-courtly access to this resource. If the early modern age was one of new ideologies of universal empire, the deployment of occult power outside the court was inconsistent with the ambitions of the kings of this time.

In this article we rethink the chronotope approach by examining what happened to religious space-times in a Chinese urban development project that completely transformed what had once been five relatively rural townships. What happens to chronotopes when a place is so completely transformed? We focus on multiple chronotopic dimensions in the religious experience of those villagers whose families had long occupied this land, but who now live separated from their old neighbors, without their old livelihoods, having lost their old temples, and surrounded by new migrants who are generally wealthier and better educated. Building on recent anthropological work on chronotopes, coupled with insights taken from Maurice Merleau-Ponty and Gilles Deleuze, this article explores the complex interrelationships and workings of chronotopes through the idea of the fold. This approach reconsiders what the boundaries between chronotopes might look like—not necessarily straight lines that are difficult to cross, but more like the infinite inflections of curves as those curves intersect and interact with each other. Rather than thinking of chronotopes as structured wholes separated by clear boundaries—much as we also tend to think about “states,” “cultures,” or “ontologies”—folding allows us to reconceptualize the kinds of interactions that take place when one space-time touches another. We examine in particular three ways in which folding elucidates how chronotopic boundaries can work: they can make the distant near, separate inside from outside, and complicate the boundary by interdigitating.

This article reveals the hold that German history and constitutionalism had on Indian federalists in the interwar period. A range of federalists from Indian princely states and British provinces, eager to see India become a federation rather than a unitary state fashioned on the English model, looked to Imperial Germany for constitutional lessons. They saw in German history and constitutionalism a federal solution to the so-called “Indian problem,” wherein the rights of the states would be primary over those of individuals or groups. This German-inspired federal tradition, I argue, departed not only from political pluralism and association-based federalism, but also from the nationalist vision of placing individual rights over state rights. This article presents an alternative genealogy of comparative constitutional thought in India, and examines a post-national worldview that sidestepped the nation-states. By bringing a comparative approach to bear on political and constitutional histories, it escapes the national insularity that often characterizes such histories in colonial India, and places them in the comparative and global context of the interwar circulation of federalist ideas. German-inspired federal ideas of the period offer a counterpoint to corralling futuristic visions of India, and its founding, on the twin axes of anticolonial nationalism and popular sovereignty to the exclusion of state-centric ideas articulated by the princely states.

In this article, I take up the case of runic writing to reflect upon James Scott’s view of the nexus between writing and various forms of domination in early states, especially the use of literacy for taxation in cereal-growing societies. Scott’s theses provide interesting matter “to think with,” even when his grasp of historical detail has been found wanting. It is not controversial to grant Scott that cuneiform writing was a remarkable tool for statecraft, and exploitation, in the first states of Mesopotamia, around 3500 BC. The same is true of writing in other early states. But in the first states of Scandinavia, particularly Denmark ca. AD 500–800, writing had a more troubled relationship with the state. No evidence survives that runic writing was used to administer taxation or much else, as it was in other agrarian civilisations. It is true that the runic script was used to commemorate kings, most famously by Haraldr Blátǫnn (r. ca. 958–ca. 986.). But, statistically speaking, it was more often used to aggrandize the sort of local big men who usually resisted centralized power. In this article, I survey the relationship between runic writing and administration. I consider what the Danish situation suggests about the relationship between states and writing and offer a tentative hypothesis of a short-lived attempt at runic bureaucracy around 800, which created—and quickly lost control of—a shortened variety of the runic script (the Younger Futhark).

At the dawn of Madagascar’s independence in 1960, political entrepreneurs harnessed the enduring significance of Malagasy cattle, known as zebu, and declared them integral to the new national identity. From 1960–1972, President Philibert Tsiranana led the country through the period known as the First Republic, in which officials and technocrats launched development projects around breeding and constructing abattoirs and feedlots, in the hopes of creating a viable international meat export economy. For elites, zebu served as speculative vessels for remaking economic and political geographies and shifting away from dependence on French interests. Malagasy government officials and technical experts saw pastoralists as key to actualizing the economic potential of cattle and they sought to combat “peasant idleness” as a hindrance to Madagascar’s flourishing. Pastoralists, though, challenged the bounds of top-down authority and debated the kinds of knowledge that could and should inform modernization projects in the new nation-state. Cattle ranchers’ critiques of the logics and encroachment of prescriptive modernization schemes during the 1960s and 1970s can be understood as their insistence on sharing in the fruits of independence, and that they, with their deep knowledge of cattle behavior, had a role to play in forging meaningful, prosperous lives in broader ancestor-focused cosmologies. Investigating the twinned history of Madagascar’s beef exportation and cattle modernization plans reveals how cattle were enlisted in the project of nation-making and a crucial moment of possibility, in which state-crafters ambitiously pursued a path toward self-determination while navigating oscillating geopolitics and asymmetrical global economic relations.

In the 1970s and 1980s, Soviet social scientists and planners grew increasingly skeptical that they could draw Central Asian peasants, and especially women, into the industrial workforce, and turned to experimenting with “non traditional” forms of work, such as home labor for handicrafts and consumer goods and family subcontracting in agriculture. This article traces Soviet debates about women’s labor and the family in Central Asia in the context of demographic policy, productivity, and welfare. It argues that the evolution of home labor and other “non traditional” labor policies aimed at Central Asians share two distinctive features with neoliberal-inspired welfare discussions in the United States as well as the emerging politics of entrepreneurship in the sphere of international development. First, all three emerged as a result of social scientists and planners revisiting earlier paradigms after perceived policy failures. Second, despite their pessimistic reading of earlier policy initiatives, Soviet policymakers and their counterparts hung on tenaciously to the idea that state policy could be used to improve people’s lives. By studying the turn towards individual labor and entrepreneurship in the USSR alongside the emergence of micro-credit in international development and changing welfare politics in the US, we can see neoliberalism emerging where universalist policies meet their limits.

This study asks how human trafficking in Ming China (1368–1644) became enveloped in the emerging global economy of the sixteenth century. Utilizing theoretical insights from the model of “slaving zones,” the essay examines recorded incidents of human trafficking along China’s littoral from 1370 to 1565 and contends that its presence and persistence were intertwined with the Ming court’s economic policies and problems. Here the history of human trafficking in early-to-mid-Ming China is viewed from the perspective of a series of challenges to the country’s economic well-being but also to its power to govern according to its own laws and norms. These challenges include the Ming regime’s efforts: to eradicate piracy and smuggling through their integration into the lawful framework of tribute trade; to support provincial requests for extra revenue to promote military security; to acquire Japanese silver but deny Japan mercantile access to China; to profit from Portugal’s Southeast Asian and Japanese commercial networks. This study argues that the increasing prevalence of human trafficking along China’s coastline was the result of competing forces anxious for power and riches that fused into the thrust of sixteenth-century China’s expanding economy, as well as the adaptability of those in authority to ignore the consequences of allowing safe havens for persons bartering and selling human beings. These factors turned the status of Ming China’s littoral from a “no slaving zone” into an “imperfect no slaving zone.”

This article explores the relationship between tax law and settler colonialism by looking at the ways in which taxes can be part of the “civilizing” process of Indigenous peoples. In 1921, the Territory of Alaska enacted a “license tax on the business of fur-farming, trapping and trading in pelts and skins of fur-bearing animals.” Since most trappers were Natives, the “fur tax” de facto targeted them. This article unpacks the sociocultural and political dimensions of the fur tax against the backdrop of Alaska’s settler colonial history. Despite what the Alaska attorney general claimed was its “strict” revenue-raising function, the tax was part of a much broader settler colonial agenda. That agenda sought to turn semi-nomadic, “uncivilized” Native hunters into spatially grounded, “civilized” farmers, gardeners, reindeer herders, or wage workers. Ultimately, I suggest, within many if not most settler colonial spaces political and sociocultural ideologies alter the initial revenue-raising function of taxes.