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This article explores the exiling of Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of the French, in 1814 and 1815. It argues that in confronting Napoleon’s sovereignty and trying to remove him, the allies were forced to make a highly pragmatic, improvisational, and incoherent use of international law. Much of this stemmed from that fact that they were trying to implement a Great Powers political system within and through a legal system that was antithetical to any such concept. Because of this the allies move between employing traditional, domestic understandings of sovereignty, to treating sovereignty as something capable of international control and distribution. This results in an incoherent legal argument and narrative, with each turn of the tale adding layer upon layer of further confusion and contradiction. The conclusion of all this is Napoleon’s miserable dispatch to St. Helena by the British government – speedily done and in fear of a legal challenge.
Miranda de Ebro was created in 1937 to imprison Republicans and foreigners who fought with the International Brigades in Spanish Civil War. From 1940, the camp was used only to concentrate detained foreign refugees with no proper documents. More than 15 000 people, most of them from France and Poland, were kept there until the camp was closed in January 1947. Playing both sides of the international divide, fascist Spain at various points in time allowed passage and was a country of refuge both for those escaping Nazism and for Nazis and collaborators who, at the end of World War II (WWII), sought to escape justice. Treatment of each of these groups passing through Miranda was very different: real repression was meted out to the members of the International Brigades (IB), tolerance shown towards those escaping Nazism, and protection and active cooperation given to former Nazis and their collaborators. For the first time, data about foreign physicians imprisoned in Miranda de Ebro were consulted in the Guadalajara Military Archive (Spain). From 1937 to 1947, 151 doctors were imprisoned, most of them in 1942 and 1943, which represents around 1% of the prisoners. Fifty-two of the doctors were released thanks to diplomatic efforts, thirty-two by the Red Cross, and ten were sent to other prisons, directly released or managed to escape. All of them survived. After consulting private and public archives, it was possible to reconstruct some biographies and fill the previous existing gap in the history of migration and exile of doctors during the Second World War.
When Ugandan singer Geoffrey Oryema died in France in 2018 after forty-one years in exile, his wish was to be cremated, repatriated to Uganda, and dispersed on the wind. His wish implied improper burial and ignited a controversy due to varied meanings of the bush. The bush is a keyword with a painful past. Oryema’s experience and Acholi concepts of the bush suggest the bush is partly a discourse, inherited from one generation to the next, about the shifting space between home and wild. For this analysis, Lagace draws on songs, social media, Ugandan and French press, archives, scholarship, and correspondence with Ugandans.
This chapter focuses on how Bolaño’s short novel Amulet (1998) approaches the tumultuous period of Mexico 1968, with its effervescent student movement and the subsequent violent governmental repression that led to the military occupation of the country’s most important university, UNAM, as well as the massacre at Tlatelolco on October 2nd. Through the narration of Auxilio, an Uruguayan poet who remained locked in a women’s bathroom at UNAM during the two week span of the university’s occupation, the novel reconstructs this period yet shies away from a linear, chronological narration with a transparent claim to truth. On the contrary, by intertwining historical facts with fiction, Amulet’s unreliable and anachronistic narrator works against closure, embracing political defeat as a means to propose listening as a form of continued engagement.
In 1977, Roberto Bolaño moved from Mexico City to Paris and eventually to Spain. His works from the beginning of the 80s such as Consejos de un discípulo de Morrison a un fanático de Joyce (with A.G, Porta) and Antwerp, set in Catalonia, and A Little Lumpen Novelita - a story set in Rome -, portray the social crisis at the end of the Spanish Democratic Transition and the so-called Lead Years in Italy. The Costa Brava landscape and the town of Blanes, where he resided from 1985 onwards, would become the settings of The Skating Rink and The Third Reich. The 1992 Barcelona of Distant Star, the 1939 Paris of Monsieur Pain, and other European settings of Woes of the True Policeman and 2666 recreate the dislocations of different lives in exile and the conflicts of those who cross the West’s established borders and logic, transgressing national identitary configuration itself. This chapter will map the complex reflections of Bolaño, an icon of the global writer, on the Spanish and European reality of the end of the 20th and beginnings of the 21st Centuries, as well as on the potential, limitations, and cracks within these trans-Atlantic connections.
This chapter argues that thinking about Roberto Bolaño in the context of journalism and mass culture means recognizing how mainstays of globalized twentieth-century journalistic communication – photographic realism, reportage with a pretension of objectivity, investigative journalism – as well as discourses about literature, have circulated differently in Latin America, Europe, and the United States. Explores in particular the convergences and divergences between Latin American and Spanish crónicas and North American New Journalism in Bolaño’s fiction and in his own newspaper writing, the essay argues that Bolaño’s portrayal of the daily cultural and political contexts one confronts in the newspaper reflects his suggestion that readers are always exiles, and that they produce a commentary on seeing as both a journalistic practice and a metaphor for social understanding. Bolaño draws on, but also rewrites, the history of literary journalism in a wider Atlantic world, even as he comments on the superficiality of mass media and culture. Discussing Bolaño’s engagement with cronistas such as Rubén Darío, Enrique Gómez Carrillo, Carlos Monsiváis, and Pedro Lemebel, the chapter includes discussions of 2666, Los detectives salvajes, Bolaño’s short stories, and articles he wrote for newspapers and magazines in Spain and Chile.
Roberto Bolaño is known as an iconoclast who spent his life in exile for opposing Chile’s 1973 Military Coup. He became a legend, especially after being awarded prestigious literary prizes in the late 1990s. As a teenager he decided to devote his life to literature, immersing himself in the Western canon, including Latin American literary traditions. His ambiguous relationship to Chile, his native country, and its narrative made him unwelcome among established writers. This essay examines the myths that circulate about his persona, as Bolaño composed not only his literary fiction but also his life, raising doubts with his accounts. It is not uncommon, therefore, to find erroneous information about his life and beliefs as these are transformed into literary accounts. Relying on academic criticism as well as letters, essays, and interviews with the author, relatives and friends, I seek a better understanding of Bolaño’s life experience. His family moved frequently within Chile, emigrated to Mexico in 1968, and in 1977 Bolaño left for Europe. I study his three trips to Chile (1973, 1998, 1999), particularly examining the first one when he would have been arrested and incarcerated for several days.
This paper utilizes Monte Carlo simulation to estimate the frequency with which private property was confiscated in the Greek world in the Classical period (circa 480–330 BCE). Confiscation is defined for the purposes of this paper as the uncompensated, sudden loss of landed property. The first step is to establish the demographic context within which confiscation occurred, and then to analyze four mechanisms for the confiscation of property: exile arising from stasis; the expulsion of a population by a foreign power; andrapodismos or mass enslavement; and the imposition of a cleruchy. Other mechanisms by which confiscation occurred, but which cannot be quantified, are briefly discussed. The model shows that, based on the beliefs I hold about the four mechanisms for confiscation that have been analyzed, the average estate owner faced a 2.6–18.6 % chance of experiencing confiscation in his lifetime, with a mean likelihood of 10.5 %. This finding is at odds with the prevailing view that Greek poleis ensured the security of private property, which in turn contributed to the remarkable economic growth of the period. The conclusion suggests some possible responses by the Greeks themselves to the imperfect property security they experienced.
“Escape, Exile, and Annihilation,” details how, between 12 and 16 June 1944, about 110 paratroopers, with the vital help of villagers, escaped Graignes and returned to combat in Normandy. Captain Brummitt and Lt. Francis Naughton led the main group to safety. The Rigault family saved the lives of twenty-one paratroopers, hiding them for three days in the family barn. The Rigault daughters, Odette and Marthe, were especially prominent in the rescue mission. The Germans punished the villagers by forcing them to abandon their village in the summer of 1944. The chapter speaks of the perilous journey that the villagers endured. Finally, the chapter explores the fate of the 17th SS Panzergrenadier Division in the summer of 1944. Allied forces destroyed the division, leaving only a handful of the German soldiers alive.
Chapter 3 examines how the exile of the Ndongo royals to Salvador and Rio de Janeiro was aligned with power struggles in Luanda. The House of Ndongo was led by a generation that rejected the Portuguese alliance that its predecessors had endorsed. The new generation broke away from this alliance when Portugal was gaining independence from Spain. The chapter focuses on the royals’ lives in Brazil, on what they saw there of the treatment of enslaved Africans and Indigenous people, how their stay was shaped by African slave communities, Black Brotherhoods, and how these experiences shaped Mendonça’s discourse in the Vatican. It examines the case of runaway slaves and connects it with those of Quilombo dos Palmares. It looks at how this community forged a political and economic alliance with Cristovão de Burgos, a judge in the High Court of Salvador. Palmares provoked the governing authorities in Bahia to reconsider their strategy, which led them to send the royals to Rio. The authorities in Brazil feared that the exiled royals’ status could help fortify the enslaved fugitives’ community, which would endanger Portuguese economic interests.
Watch Night began when enslaved and free African Americans kept vigil, to sing and pray, on December 31, 1862, as they awaited news in the morning of the Emancipation Proclamation. Their optimism gave way to the nominal freedoms and rights of citizenship that African American families and communities experienced in the wake of emancipation and during Reconstruction. African American writers of these decades introduce descriptions of African landscapes, customs, values, and histories as metaphors for the uncertain status and tentative futures their people confronted after the Civil War and during Reconstruction. They associate the African continent with a variety of meanings: the brutal history of slavery; the erasure or dismissal of influential cultures and intellects; a persistent legacy of resistance to oppression and rebellion against bondage; the fugitive status of African Americans in their own country and as exiles abroad; and the precarity of racial progress even as Black schools, churches, and other self-sufficient institutions are established by formerly enslaved Black southern communities.
The central chapters of this book focus on the development and growth of insular origin legends over time by studying a key subset of themes that came to take on particular significance within this corpus. Tracing the expansion and increasing centrality of these themes over time allows us to witness the influence that individual texts within the corpus of material containing early insular origin legends had on the development of these legends themselves. Chapter Two focuses on exile, first tracing the influence of the biblical myth of Exodus and the classical legend of the Aeneid on early medieval authors before examining contemporary evidence for exile in early medieval legal and historical texts. The chapter argues that as the corpus of insular works containing origin narratives grew and developed over time, the concept of exile took on central importance. Arising from Gildas’s foundational description of Britain as an island on the outermost fringes of the known world, the centrality of exile to insular origin stories grew after the ninth-century Historia Brittonum introduced the influential legend that Britain’s founding ancestor was Brutus, an exile from Troy. From there, the concept of exile gained increasing thematic importance within insular origin narratives.
Jeanne Morefield maintains that a truly democratic response to the crisis of liberal democracy requires citizens in the global North to embrace a radically reflective, deconstructive subjectivity that relentlessly calls into question the historical and contemporary shape of “the people” under consideration. To develop this subjective perspective, the chapter draws upon Edward Said’s notion of exilic criticism and compares it with contemporary liberal cosmopolitanism and left populism. Morefield explores the way this unhoused, unstable perspective enables contrapuntal engagement with those histories of imperialism, settler colonialism, and racialized logics of extraction and dispossession that went into the creation of modern liberal democratic states in the first place. Ultimately, she argues, it is only by reflecting on this constitutive history that citizens in the global North can create the kind of solidaristic, compassionate, and authentically democratic practices necessary to fight the rise of white nationalism and the decline of liberal democracy on a global scale.
In this chapter, the author, as a psychiatrist who has written books on Louis-Ferdinand Céline and Samuel Beckett, both writers who push back the limits of literary writing, focuses on Beckett's change of literary language, not from the starting point of exophonic writing and self-translation, as most critics writing on Beckett’s bilingualism usually do, but ‘from underneath’, making this change of literary language appear as an apparent severing of links to continue writing on the ‘maternal side of language’. The author brings his specialist knowledge of adolescent care to bear on his subject and explodes some of the myths surrounding Beckett’s change of language, such as the famous ‘no style’ of French and the idea of a ‘counter-language’ to ward off the ‘(s)Mother tongue’. The author presents Beckett’s use of French as a paradoxically regressive move, which allows him to live ‘in exile within exile’, to set up the conditions of ‘nostalgia’ by putting the distance of the foreign language to the service of a risky regression to infancy in search of the body, in search of sensory perception and archaic aggressivity: a language ‘beyond the verb’.
The third chapter shows that Vladimir Nabokov, seeking to replace the superannuated form of national allegory, constructs a figure of supranational metonymy through chess. Critics have explained that the Bildungsroman is a novel of socialization that displays how an individual finds his place in a social world and projects a trajectory of collective progress. Like Beckett, though, Nabokov was a post-revolutionary expatriate who made his career in another language. One of Nabokov’s targets was the notion that novels offer national allegories. Reading Nabokov’s early novels, which feature Russian exiles who rove across the continent as if across a chessboard, I reveal the writer’s interest in crafting a “personal world” that travels well across borders. The figure of metonymy presents advantages over metaphor. First, elastic in scale, metonymy represents spaces smaller or larger than the nation. Second, where national allegories had to install generic template protagonists at their narrative centers, supranational metonymies stress individual idiosyncrasy, accommodating abnormalities; they reject the premise that there can be such a thing as a generic national character.
Chapter 2 provides a brief historical background of Middle Eastern migration to the west and details how authoritarian-nationalist regimes in Libya, Syria, and Yemen pushed exiles and emigrants to the United States and Great Britain. By examining the state of diaspora mobilization from the 1960s to the eve of the Arab Spring in 2010, the author demonstrates anti-regime movements were small, atomized, and considered partisan by their conationals. Neither Libyan and Syrian exiles nor well-resourced white-collar professionals were able to forge public member-based associations or initiate large anti-regime protest events during this period. Yemeni movements, meanwhile, focused on supporting southern separation from the Yemeni state, rather than on the reform or liberalization of the Yemeni government.
The fundamental problem defining the human condition, both ontological and metaphysical, is the problem of the movement from a wilderness to a dwelling place. This teaching is couched in the first letter of the Torah, which is itself the foundation of creation. The beit with which the Torah begins designates a “house,” the shelter that we are summoned to transform into a dwelling place. What is a dwelling place? It is a space into which we invite another, the stranger - the space opened up by the Torah that commands the Jews to attend to the care of the stranger. Drawing upon the Hebrew language, this chapter examines Jewish thinking about exile and return. Arguing that exile is not a punishment but is itself part of the Jewish journey to redemption, this chapter addresses (1) the relation between exile and revelation, (2) the condition of the soul in exile, and (3) the traumatic isolation of exile. The chapter shows that (1) Jewish thinking about any spiritual journey is different from the thinking that characterizes Western speculative thought, and that (2) for Jewish thought, exile is a metaphysical condition
This chapter uses the example of Fernando de Noronha (Brazil) to introduce the main theme of the book: the larger regional and global history of punitive mobility. It argues that its survival in the 1890s disrupts the dominant narrative of carceral history: the rise of the prison. It suggests that into this period convicts were sent long distances as unfree labour. This was due to a close and enduring connection between punishment and nation and empire building. Convicts satisfied geo-political and social ambitions, and were connected to colonization, resource extraction, and productivity. At the same time, it argues that punitive mobility is connected to the history of governance and repression. Further, it produced new kinds of classifications and social structures in which governments encouraged and nurtured family formation as a route to both convict reform and permanent settlement. Despite this, convict expertise made a vital contribution to the local practices and global circulations that together shaped contemporary scientific knowledge production and straddled nations and empires. Convicts and penal colonies occupy an important place in the making of the modern world, with respect not just to the history of punishment, but of governance, labour, nation and empire, and global knowledge exchange.
Clare Anderson provides a radical new reading of histories of empire and nation, showing that the history of punishment is not connected solely to the emergence of prisons and penitentiaries, but to histories of governance, occupation, and global connections across the world. Exploring punitive mobility to islands, colonies, and remote inland and border regions over a period of five centuries, she proposes a close and enduring connection between punishment, governance, repression, and nation and empire building, and reveals how states, imperial powers, and trading companies used convicts to satisfy various geo-political and social ambitions. Punitive mobility became intertwined with other forms of labour bondage, including enslavement, with convicts a key source of unfree labour that could be used to occupy territories. Far from passive subjects, however, convicts manifested their agency in various forms, including the extension of political ideology and cultural transfer, and vital contributions to contemporary knowledge production.
This article considers Mark's account of the cursing of the fig tree, read in conjunction with Jesus’ temple action. Having reviewed recent proposals on the literary shape of Mark 11.1–12.12, the article proposes a fresh reading of the section's structure. Triple introductions at 11.11, 11.15 and 11.27 are shown to match triple conclusions at 11.11, 11.19 and 12.12, these constituents framing interwoven units running from 11.11 to 12.12. The pattern of triple intercalation suggests that the cursing of the fig tree and Jesus’ temple action should be interpreted one in light of the other. The article then considers the intertextual relationship between Mark's narrative and the scriptural texts it evokes. The study uncovers previously neglected echoes vital for understanding the significance of Jesus’ cursing of the fig tree and temple action. The ‘casting out’ motif in Jeremiah 7–8, as dramatically portrayed in Jesus’ temple action, is set forth as heralding a ‘renewed exile’ for those who reject Jesus’ message, while the mirror motif of ‘ingathering’ in Isa 56.1–8, accentuated by the ‘withered tree’ imagery of 56.3, heralds new opportunity, with those who were previously outsiders to the temple made insiders in the eschatological house of prayer.