A Cultural History of Race in the Modern and Genomic Age (The Cultural Histories Series) 9781350067554, 9781350067578, 1350067555

Table of contents :
Cover
Contents
List of Illustrations
Table
Praise for A Cultural History of Race
General Editor’s Preface Marius Turda
Introduction Tanya Maria Golash-Boza
1 Definitions and Representations of Race Saher Selod
2 Race, Environment, Culture Lila Sharif
3 Race and Religion Raymond Taras
4 Race and Science Garland E. Allen and Alan Templeton
5 Race and Politics Manuela Boatcă
6 Race and Ethnicity Peter Kivisto
7 Race and Gender Alpa Parmar
8 Race and Sexuality Richard Cleminson
9 ‘Anti-Race’? George J. Sefa Dei [Nana Adusei Sefa Tweneboah] and Asna Adhami
Notes
Bibliography
Notes on Contributors
Index

Citation preview

A CULTURAL HISTORY OF RACE VOLUME 6

A Cultural History of Race General Editor: Marius Turda Volume 1 A Cultural History of Race in Antiquity Edited by Denise Eileen McCoskey Volume 2 A Cultural History of Race in the Middle Ages Edited by Thomas Hahn Volume 3 A Cultural History of Race in the Renaissance and Early Modern Age Edited by Kimberly Anne Coles and Dorothy Kim Volume 4 A Cultural History of Race in the Reformation and Enlightenment Edited by Nicholas Hudson Volume 5 A Cultural History of Race in the Age of Empire and the Nation State Edited by Marina B. Mogilner Volume 6 A Cultural History of Race in the Modern and Genomic Age Edited by Tanya Maria Golash-Boza

A CULTURAL HISTORY OF RACE

IN THE MODERN AND GENOMIC AGE VOLUME 6

Edited by Tanya Maria Golash-Boza

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2022 Copyright © Bloomsbury Publishing, 2022 Tanya Maria Golash-Boza has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Editor of this work. Cover image © Black Students Integrate Little Rock’s Central High School. © Bettmann/Getty Images. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The editor and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. Every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and to obtain their permissions for the use of copyright material. The publisher apologizes for any errors or omissions and would be grateful if notified of any corrections that should be incorporated in future reprints or editions of this book. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Golash-Boza, Tanya Maria, editor. Title: A cultural history of race in the modern and genomic age / edited by Tanya Maria Golash-Boza. Description: London, UK ; New York, NY : Bloomsbury Academic, 2021. | Series: Cultural histories A cultural history of race ; volume 6 | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Identifiers: LCCN 2021017345 | ISBN 9781350067554 (hardback) Subjects: LCSH: Race–History–20th century. | Race–History–21st century. Classification: LCC HT1507 .C866 2021 | DDC 305.8–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021017345 ISBN: HB: 978-1-3500-6755-4 Set: 978-1-3500-6757-8 Series: The Cultural Histories Series Typeset by Integra Software Solutions Pvt. Ltd. To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

CONTENTS

L ist

of

I llustrations 

vi

T able P raise

ix for

A C ultural H istory

of

R ace 

G eneral E ditor ’ s P reface Marius Turda Introduction Tanya Maria Golash-Boza

x xii

1

1 Definitions and Representations of Race Saher Selod

17

2 Race, Environment, Culture Lila Sharif

35

3 Race and Religion Raymond Taras

51

4 Race and Science Garland E. Allen and Alan Templeton

71

5 Race and Politics Manuela Boatcă

87

6 Race and Ethnicity Peter Kivisto

107

7 Race and Gender Alpa Parmar

125

8 Race and Sexuality Richard Cleminson

141

9 ‘Anti-Race’? George J. Sefa Dei [Nana Adusei Sefa Tweneboah] and Asna Adhami

157

N otes

174

B ibliography

175

N otes

205

I ndex 

on

C ontributors

208

ILLUSTRATIONS

0.1 Vintage illustration of the cover of Physical Culture Magazine, c. 1930s

4

0.2 Starved prisoners, nearly dead from hunger, pose in a concentration camp in Ebensee, Austria, 7 May 1945. The camp was reputedly used for ‘scientific’ experiments

6

0.3 Illustration depicting the anti-Chinese riot in Denver, 31 October 1880. Crowds attack Chinese buildings and their inhabitants

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0.4 Segregated water fountains in Jim Crow United States

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0.5 An African man reads on a bench in South Africa marked ‘Europeans Only’

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0.6 Children in the United States looking at a poster of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 1950

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1.1 US Census Form

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1.2 Anti-bussing rally at Thomas Park, Boston

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1.3 Civil rights march on Washington, DC

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1.4 The crack vs cocaine controversy

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2.1 Hurricane Katrina hits the Gulf Coast, New Orleans, Louisiana, 29 August 2005. Two residents wade through chest deep water after finding bread and soda from a local grocery store. Katrina was downgraded to a Category 4 storm as it approached New Orleans

38

2.2 New Orleans, 30 August 2005. People carry their belongings and wade through high water yards in front of the Superdome in New Orleans, Louisiana, in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina

39

2.3 Uranium mining in the Navajo Nation. Two Navajo (Diné) men dig for uranium found in Monument Valley on the Navajo Nation reservation, Arizona, May 1951. Vanadium and uranium mining began in the area in 1942 43 2.4 Dakota Access Pipeline. A protestor raises his arms as armed guards and guard dogs approach them at a dig site for the Dakota Access Pipeline (DAPL) near Cannon Ball, North Dakota, 3 September 2016 44 2.5 Ruben Hayslette and other protesters gather in front of the GEO Group headquarters to speak out against the company’s profiting off private prisons and detention centres nationwide, Boca Raton, 4 May 2015

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3.1 A Muslim teacher in a London school

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ILLUSTRATIONS

vii

3.2 The First New Nation in 2019: Empowering ‘Women in White’ before the President's ‘State of the Union’ Speech

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3.3 Noblesse oblige: ‘Inclusive’ Europe, Others excluded?

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3.4 Synagogue near Tel-Aviv smeared with Nazi grafitti

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3.5 Even in Switzerland – Woman in burqa; minarets resembling missiles; the rare, square Swiss flag

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3.6 Indigenous protests in Bolivia over the removal of a president, 2019

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4.1 Graph showing pairwise fst compared to geographic distance between populations

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4.2 Human evolution over the past two million years as reconstructed from twenty-five genomic regions using MLNCPA

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5.1 Map of German South West Africa, 1915

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5.2 The First World War: Map, c. 1919. Former German territories after the Treaty of Versailles

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5.3 French troops and racist attacks during the occupation of the Rhineland, 1918 92 5.4 Poster signed by medical professionals and reading ‘German men and women! The black shame weighs terribly on us and our fellow citizens in the occupied territory’, 1920 94 5.5 Poster of the German Emergency Alliance against the Black Disgrace in Munich, reading ‘Colored people on the Rhine threaten all Europeans with the most appalling diseases of tropical countries due to their permanent presence and their large numbers’, 1923

95

5.6 Right-wing protesters against the New Year’s Eve attacks in Cologne, Germany, wave a ‘Rapefugees Not Welcome’ banner

103

5.7 A demonstrator holds a placard reading ‘Rapefugees not welcome’ during a demonstration against Islamic terror organized by far-right movement Pegida Vlaanderen on 23 April 2016, in Antwerp

103

6.1 Group of Italian arrivals ready to be processed at Ellis Island, c. 1905

108

6.2 Franz Boas (1858–1942), an American Anthropologist, 1906

110

6.3 Robert E. Park, a sociologist

111

6.4 A group of migrant workers from Florida stop alongside the road in Sawboro, North Carolina, on their way to Cranberry, New Jersey, to pick potatoes, July 1940

112

6.5 History class at Tuskegee Institute, Alabama, United States c. 1899

118

6.6 Max Weber, a sociologist and socio-political advocate, Germany, c. 1917

120

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ILLUSTRATIONS

7.1 The Empire Windrush arriving in London from Jamaica, 1948

128

7.2 Demonstrations over grand jury decisions in police-shooting deaths, Los Angeles, 2014

137

7.3 Topshot. View of an artwork by French artist JR on the US-Mexico border in Tecate, California, 6 September 2017

137

7.4 The Women’s March, New York City, 20 January 2018

138

8.1 Francis Galton (1822–1911), the founder of eugenics

142

8.2 Publicity for the film of H. G. Wells’s The Time Machine (1960)

145

8.3 Octavia E. Butler

146

8.4 Gilberto Freyre

148

TABLE

4.1 Fertility in Various Social Groups

73

PRAISE FOR A CULTURAL HISTORY OF RACE

‘The detailed, deep and comparative historicization of racial thinking is a very much needed and timely project: much writing about race is temporally and geographically focused and, in its wide-ranging ambitions, this Cultural History of Race represents a very welcome alternative. The use of a common chapter structure throughout the six volumes is a very valuable feature, which makes it easy for readers to follow particular themes, while the multidisciplinary approach is also highly attractive when dealing with a subject as mercurial as race.’ Peter Wade, Professor of Social Anthropology, University of Manchester, UK ‘Learning from the past is a necessary act of cultural advancement and A Cultural History of Race, a project of sustained historical inquiry from Antiquity to the present, makes a muchneeded and exquisitely timely contribution. It argues for rigor and depth of exploration through nine recurring categories of inquiry across the six volumes and challenges the notion of a restrictive timeline of the ‘history of race’ as the product of modernity. It transcends temporal and geographic limits while expanding our understanding of the variant and shifting terminologies of race. As a result, readers will appreciate the breadth of material and value highly the intellectual diversity of the project’s multidisciplinary approach.’ Ian Smith, Richard and Joan Sell Professor of the Humanities, Lafayette College, USA ‘Marius Turda, the eminent cultural historian of science and racialization is the general editor for this foundational six-volume study attuned to this ‘moment of global reckoning’ sparked by #BlackLivesMatter and Indigenous justice movements. This is an outstanding critical, nuanced, useful, anti-racist cartography from European ‘Antiquity’ through the ‘Renaissance,’ into colonial ‘Empire’ formations and state eugenics practices through the racially-coded high tech, big data ‘Genomic Age.’ Epic and often brilliant, we become painfully aware of how narrow nationalist and nation-bounded scholarship are so painfully limited in contrast to this masterful, satellite counter mapping. Yes, racism and contesting this degeneration of humans and the natural world is a deeply embedded history and of the moment, it’s relational and intersectional, and it has infected all transregional cultural discourses. A must for all academic and public libraries - five stars!’ John Kuo Wei Tchen, Clement A. Price Professor of Public History & Humanities, Rutgers-Newark University, USA ‘In a contemporary moment afflicted by concocted culture wars that are also proxy race wars, this important collection of essays does what is urgently needed - by explicating the concept of race in a historical frame. Between them, these volumes show how concepts of ‘race’ and ‘an impressive racial edifice’ emerged in the West over several centuries, and became such a powerful political, scientific and cultural force. An important contribution to the historical literacy that is needed if we are to challenge race and racism effectively.’ Priyamvada Gopal, Professor of Postcolonial Studies, University of Cambridge, UK

PRAISE FOR A CULTURAL HISTORY OF RACE

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‘A Cultural History of Race is an admirably ambitious survey of the cultural landscape of race and racism. Analysing the concept of race all the way from antiquity, and drawing in research from every relevant discipline, it paints a story of how difficult it has been for humans to grapple with the idea of human difference. Clarifying and comprehensive, it is sure to become necessary reading for every scholar who wants to understand what race means. It couldn’t have more contemporary relevance either. Truly outstanding.’ Angela Saini, Author of Superior: The Return of Race Science (2021) ‘A Cultural History of Race stands on a league of its own within the broad domain of race studies. This splendid, thoughtful array of essays by scholars in a truly diverse number of fields offers an unprecedented, kaleidoscopic panorama of the myriad permutations of race and racism in the West – from Greek and Roman antiquity all the way to the ages of the Genome and Black Lives Matter. The contributors to this collection exemplify just how fresh and engaging historical insight is when we as scholars remain fully engaged with the pressing issues of our own time. As a whole, this collection of essays forcefully delivers important lessons for a broad readership: first, race, racism and human rights advocacy itself are transhistorical phenomena reaching back to the foundational moments of Western civilization. Second, any truly critical history of race and racism requires an honest scrutiny of the manner in which our own fields of knowledge have been shaped by troubled legacies. And, most urgently, the identification of multiple forms of stigmatization, discrimination and persecution in our times – not to mention the quest for social justice – can hugely benefit from a rich reckoning of the multiplicity of  situated  forces that have shaped overt and systemic racism to this day.  A Cultural History of Race will remain obligatory reference for generations of readers.’ Nicolás Wey Gómez, author of The Tropics of Empire: Why Columbus Sailed South to the Indies (2008) ‘In this moment of global racial reckoning, there is a tectonic shift underway. As a more structural, systemic, and historical analysis of race and racialization is emerging, A Cultural History of Race, will be an important accelerant to this process. The pivot from a focus on identity towards one that more critically considers processes and patterns of identification is a process, one that takes time, sustained engagement and a nuanced understanding of the past and its relationship to the present. A Cultural History of Race is just such a text. Its recent completion will be a gift to scholars, activists, the human rights community, and others invested in a more just future, one that doesn’t posit certain people or for that matter species as disposable; there is no such thing! The time has come for us to embrace this reality and work towards a world in which this eliminationist ideology no longer governs our political, social, economic or philosophical spaces. A Cultural History of Race will prove to be a trusted companion and a useful tool for the long journey ahead and will certainly stake a claim to being a cornerstone text for the pivot that is underway.’ Milton Reynolds, Educator, Author, Diversity Equity Inclusion Practitioner, Critical Race Theorist

GENERAL EDITOR’S PREFACE MARIUS TURDA

A Cultural History of Race documents the long history of the concept of race from antiquity to the present day. In the six volumes collected here, scholars from a range of academic disciplines engage not only with the historical, cultural and philosophical realities of race but also with its aesthetics, literary functions and representations. To capture the elasticity of race as a concept, one needs to travel widely, across historical periods and geographical locations, to examine texts and images, cutting through the multilayered fabric of culture, science and politics. Viewed on a broad timescale, the densely textured content of the history of race is approached intersectionally, with an understanding of race’s complex relationship with other concepts such as gender, religion, class and nation. Given these vast territories of knowledge, then, to harmonize so many different aspects of the history of race is not an easy task. Besides mediating between the localized traditions of race and their transnational framework, A Cultural History of Race highlights entanglements, disruptions and mutations. At the same time, various national traditions are examined from a global perspective, and, thus, their purported uniqueness is challenged. It is important to understand the long history of race, not only through references to past events but also through the prism of current systemic racism. Engaging with the legacy of slavery, empire, colonialism and genocide, and not just with the overall historical trajectory of race, is another important aspect of this collective work. The concept of race cannot be decoupled from the very idioms that had been used throughout history to describe and classify humans, nor can it be expunged from projects of domination, subjugation and oppression. These projects were politically motivated, state sanctioned and often blessed by scholars and scientists. As adherence to a racial worldview became more explicit and formalized in culture, science and politics, however, its predatory ability widened. Scholars, politicians, artists, philosophers and poets were stirred by it. They created an impressive racial edifice that has, alas, endured until the twenty-first century. A Cultural History of Race offers critical perspectives on the traditional paradigms of thinking about the concept. It reflects as much shifting methodologies in the scholarship as the need to engage publicly with the normative saliency of race in the production of various forms of knowledge. Yet this is not just another cultural history of race but a decidedly analytical attempt to dislodge race from the intellectual pre-eminence it had occupied for centuries, and to disclose racial conceptions, beliefs, values and practices that had been used throughout history to make distinctions among groups of peoples on the basis of the colour of their skin and/or their intellectual abilities. The concept of race manifested itself in different ways at different times, but it always had supporters as well as detractors. Acceptance of race was not always universal. It was often met with suspicion and occasionally rejected. Anti-race thinking occurred in numerous spheres, including but not limited to religion and science. A considerable amount of literature exists on the history of race, particularly during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. But race had infiltrated major traditions of cultural, religious and philosophical reflection about human diversity already in antiquity. Elements

GENERAL EDITOR’S PREFACE

xiii

of this discussion survived in the medieval and early modern periods, and new ones were added, particularly as colonial and imperial projects began to emerge in Europe. During the Renaissance and Reformation, and then more forcefully during the Enlightenment, race became a powerful concept, used not just to describe physical features of peoples but also to explain cultural achievements and behavioural attitudes. The subjugation and exploitation of non-European peoples, alongside slavery and extermination of Indigenous populations, only enhanced the power of race in defining white Europeans and their global expansion and dominance. During the nineteenth century and, especially, the twentieth, horrendous atrocities, most notably the Holocaust, discredited the concept of race and eroded its tentacular grip on social and political discourse and realities. Yet, race survived into the early twentyfirst century, continuing to impact the lives of millions with reference to their biological attributes, cultural traditions and historical experiences. Although developments in human genetics, particularly in the second part of the twentieth century, completely dismantled any pretention of scientific respectability appropriated by racists, current debates in genomics reveal how race continues to impact our scientifically informed worldview. Incredibly, the completion of the Human Genome Project, for example, even spurred attempts to define a concept of race that is scientifically credible. A Cultural History of Race is timely. It provides not only academic guidance but, equally important, a nuanced and innovative critique of race and racism as well. These six volumes are informed by research and academic reflection and, equally, by lived experience. This is a critical moment to review how myriad assumptions and attitudes rooted in the history of race and its toxic ideology continue to affect our world in ways both obvious and hidden. To understand the past and present of race in all its different representations is essential in order to name and remove its symbols of discrimination, injustice, abuse and violence against Black, Indigenous and other peoples of colour. Any work on the history of race must unambiguously expose the extraordinary damage caused by racist thinking and practice. While not exhaustive, A Cultural History of Race nevertheless provides numerous historical examples and options of interpretation for anyone who wants to engage, in an accessible way, with problems of race and racism characterizing the world today. Both together and separately, these volumes reassess historical traditions, scientific paradigms and political agendas put forward in the name of race. Equally important, the volumes’ insights and clarity are accompanied by incisiveness and commitment to antiracist scholarship. The overall aim is to strike a balance between scholarly detachment, empathy and direct participation in the current conversations about decolonization, whiteness, anti-racism and Black Lives Matter. In the twenty-first century, the assumption is that race as a meaningful category of analysis has been de-ritualized and de-politicized. The truth is that race continues to lend itself to theories of social, cultural and political inequality. Combined with an aggressive rhetoric of national protectionism and ethnicity, race continues to frame regional, national and international issues around immigration, social justice and gender equality. Wide in scope and detailed in analysis, A Cultural History of Race is therefore strongly embedded in current conversations about race and racism. We are in a moment of global reckoning. Presidents are banned from social media platforms, statues are being torn down, names of university buildings are being changed, museums are being decolonized and stolen artefacts are returned to their countries of origin. Continued scholarly engagement with anti-racist activism is critical, not just for understanding the decisions being made today but to help preserve the lessons learnt for future generations.

xiv

Introduction From the Age of Eugenics to the Age of Genomics TANYA MARIA GOLASH-BOZA

The modern idea of race is a product of colonization. As European colonizers and settlers arrived in the Americas, they grappled with the differences between themselves, the Indigenous occupants of the land and the people brought in bondage from Africa. European colonization of the Americas was brutal and violent. Europeans developed ideas about enslaved Africans and the Indigenous peoples of the Americas to justify enslavement and genocide. These ideas evolved into the modern view of race – one that divides the world into Europeans and non-Europeans. English settlers in North America saw themselves as Christians and viewed Africans and Native Americans as heathens. Spanish colonizers in Latin America debated whether or not people indigenous to the Americas had souls. Over time, these religious questions became the subject of scientific inquiry. European scientists took these folk ideas and legitimized them through pseudoscientific endeavours. In 1735, the Swedish botanist Carolus Linnaeus (1707–78) proposed that all human beings could be divided into four groups. Linnaeus described these four groups, which correspond to four of the continents, in Systemae Naturae in 1758: Americanus: reddish, choleric, … obstinate, merry, free; … regulated by customs. Asiaticus: sallow, melancholy, … black hair, dark eyes, … haughty, … ruled by opinions. Africanus: black, phlegmatic, relaxed; women without shame, … crafty, indolent, negligent; governed by caprice. Europaenus: white, sanguine, muscular; inventive; governed by laws. (Linnaeus 1758: 20–1) For Linnaeus, the ‘Americanus’ was obstinate, which would be an apt descriptor for a person who refuses to hand their land over to Europeans. Similarly, the description of Africans as indolent corresponded to the European idea that Africans needed to be enslaved in order for them to be useful. The European, of course, defined himself as sanguine and inventive. The European relationship with Asians at the time was primarily a trading relationship, so it is not surprising Linnaeus described them as haughty.

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A CULTURAL HISTORY OF RACE IN THE MODERN AND GENOMIC AGE

These four groups are consistent with the modern idea of race in two ways: (1) all of them are still used today, and (2) Linnaeus connected physical traits such as skin colour with cultural and moral traits such as indolence and obstinance. The modern idea of race has its roots in this conceptualization offered by Linnaeus. It is remarkable that a pseudoscientific description of human ‘races’ put forward by a Swedish botanist, who based his arguments on travel diaries, persists today. Yet, it does. The idea of race has evolved over time, but its use as a justification for the oppression and dispossession of people labelled as non-white has not changed. This volume begins in 1920. By this time, the idea of race as a scientific concept had solidified. The European colonization of the Americas was complete. The slave trade had ended. Ideas of racial difference and racial hierarchies nevertheless persisted and would continue to evolve. The role of science in the justification of racial subordination and oppression intensified in the twentieth century and continues to this day (see Selod in this volume). The period from the 1920s to the present is marked by the rise of eugenics, the expansion and hardened enforcement of immigration laws, legal apartheid, the continuance of race pseudoscience and the rise of human and civil rights discourse in response. Eugenics programmes in the early twentieth century focused on sterilization in countries around the world and evolved into unimaginable horrors with the Nazi regime in Germany. Countries in Europe and across the Americas have used immigration policies in an attempt to shape the racial composition of their territories. Legal apartheid has been slowly dismantled in the United States and South Africa yet continues to have enduring consequences. Eugenics today has persisted in various permutations of race science. Leaders and activists have drawn from civil and human rights discourses to fight back against the persistence of racial inequalities and racialized discourses in the twenty-first century.

EUGENICS: THE PSEUDOSCIENCE OF RACE IMPROVEMENT Eugenicists put the pseudoscience of race into practice. They advocated for and implemented policies designed to preserve what they saw as the superior race – people from northern and western Europe. Eugenicists believed that not only intelligence but also alcoholism, laziness, crime, poverty and other moral and cultural traits could be inherited. They also believed that so-called inferior races such as Black, Native American, Chinese, Jewish and Alpine peoples were in need of genetic improvements. Based on these notions, they advocated sterilizing the biologically unfit as a way of creating a superior breed of people. By preventing the reproduction of people perceived as inferior, eugenicists believed they could improve the human race (Stepan 1991; Stern 2016). State officials listened to their arguments and hundreds of thousands of people were sterilized around the world. Looking back, we can see that the decision by states to engage in involuntary sterilization programmes was an incursion on women’s reproductive rights. In the early twenty-first century, governors of Oregon, North Carolina, South Carolina and California issued formal state apologies for the thousands of involuntary sterilizations that had occurred in their states. In 2014, North Carolina issued checks of $20,000 as reparations for people involuntarily sterilized by the Eugenics Board of North Carolina. Despite these apologies

INTRODUCTION

3

and, in some cases, reparations, sterilization programmes continued. In 2013, it came to light that 144 women incarcerated in California State Prisons had been sterilized without proper authorization between 2006 and 2010. In 2014, the state of California formally banned sterilizations in prisons to avoid future involuntary sterilizations (Stern 2016).

Sterilization programmes Although both men and women participate in reproduction, the primary focus of sterilization programmes was on the role women play in either the uplifting or the degeneration of the race (Figure 0.1). Sterilization programmes thus focused far more on giving women tubal ligations – a procedure where the fallopian tubes are cut, tied or blocked to permanently prevent pregnancy – than they did on vasectomies – a less invasive procedure that results in blocking sperm from reaching semen. In the United States, two-thirds of the sixty thousand compulsory sterilizations between 1907 and the 1960s were performed on women. Eugenicists’ discussions centred both on limiting the reproductive capacities of women deemed inferior and ensuring that women perceived as genetically superior produced babies (Carey 1998). In the early twentieth century, eugenicists founded professional societies in several countries. The German Society for Race Hygiene was established in Berlin in 1905, and similar societies were formed in the United States and other European countries shortly afterwards. In Brazil, the São Paulo Eugenics Society was formed in 1918 (Hochman, Trindade Lima and Chor Maio 2010). The Argentine Eugenics Society was created in that same year (Vallejo and Miranda 2017). In Sweden, the Institute for Race Biology was established in 1921, and was at the helm of a mass sterilization programme. European countries such as Denmark, Norway, Sweden and Finland enacted compulsory sterilization laws. Sweden, a country of only seven million people, sterilized over 62,000 people – nearly 1 per cent of its population (Broberg and Roll-Hansen 2005). In Latin America, medical doctors led the eugenics movement. They used pseudoscientific ‘race science’ to argue their countries were on the road to racial improvement. Brazilian eugenicists claimed that the white race was stronger than the Black race and that eventually, through mixture, their country would become white. Mexican eugenicists also advocated for hybridization, arguing that cultural and racial mixture would lead to the disappearance of Black people and the fusion of the European and Indigenous races. Living in racially mixed societies, Latin American eugenicists took eugenics science and made it their own. Although Europeans advocated for racial purity, Latin American scientists highlighted the value of hybridization to argue that the racial futures of their nations were indeed bright (Stepan 1991; Cleminson in this volume).

Eugenics and the Holocaust In 1916, Madison Grant’s book The Passing of the Great Race was published. In this book, Grant, a lawyer, historian and physical anthropologist, contended that there were three European races: ‘Nordics’, ‘Alpines’ and ‘Mediterraneans’ – and that measures should be taken to ensure that Nordics thrived (Grant 1916). Grant became the chairman of the US Committee on Selective Migration. In that role, he was able to shape US immigration laws to ensure that fewer Alpines and Mediterraneans were let into the United States. Grant’s ideas also travelled overseas. Adolf Hitler lauded Grant’s book and used it to justify the implementation of eugenic policies in Germany (Spiro 2008; Kivisto in this volume). Hitler fully embraced eugenic principles: he believed that the human race could be improved through selective breeding and elimination of inferior races (Aly, Chroust and

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A CULTURAL HISTORY OF RACE IN THE MODERN AND GENOMIC AGE

FIGURE 0.1  Vintage illustration of the cover of Physical Culture Magazine, c. 1930s. © Found Image Holdings Inc/Getty Images.

INTRODUCTION

5

Pross 1994; Bergman 1999). Hitler was appointed Chancellor of Germany on 30 January 1933 and immediately began to put his beliefs into practice through a series of laws that restricted the rights of Jewish people. In the first six years of Nazi rule, over four hundred anti-Semitic laws and decrees were passed. In April 1933, the government passed a law that limited the number of Jewish students in any one public school to no more than 5 per cent of the total student population. In that same month, a law was passed that limited the ability of Jewish people to secure government jobs. In 1935, the German parliament implemented the Nuremberg Race Laws, which required Jewish people to be identified as such on their identity cards. These laws defined a Jewish person as anyone with three or four Jewish grandparents – no matter their current religious beliefs. They also defined Germans to include only those people who had four German Christian grandparents. By defining Jewish people as those with Jewish ancestry instead of those who practiced the Jewish faith, the Nazis transformed religious biases into racial biases. In 1938, Jewish people were banned from participating in any retail or commercial activity. In 1939, Jewish people were ordered to turn in gold, silver, diamonds and other valuables to the state without compensation (Holocaust Encyclopedia n.d.). In September of 1939, Germany invaded Poland, thereby initiating the Second World War. Within a month, Warsaw surrendered, and Poland came under German occupation. The Germans implemented German laws and made Jewish Poles wear white armbands with the Star of David so that they could be easily identified. In 1940, the Nazis established the Auschwitz concentration camp in German-occupied Poland. Over the next five years, approximately 1.3 million people were deported to Auschwitz, of which 1.1 million were murdered. Nearly one million of the victims were Jewish people, but the victims also included Roma people and Soviet prisoners of war (Weiss-Wendt 2013; Boatcă in this volume). Unfortunately, Auschwitz was not the only camp. In 1941, the German army began the construction of three additional camps – Belzec, Sobibor and Treblinka. The construction of these camps with gas chambers was named Operation Reinhard and led to the killing of at least 1.7 million Jewish people (Holocaust Encyclopedia 2020). Overall, the Holocaust led to the state-sponsored persecution and murder of six million people – or two-thirds of all Jewish people living in Europe in 1933.

From eugenics to race science Eugenicists used the science of their day to try and prove that the Nordic race was superior. Scientific methods have evolved tremendously since the early twentieth century. The most recent scientific findings make it clear that: (1) there are no systematic genetic differences between so-called racial groups; and (2) there are no superior or inferior racial groups. Nevertheless, researchers, writers and journalists persist in their attempts to provide evidence for these baseless claims. From Linnaeus to the present day, each time there is a scientific innovation, scientists try to use it to prove the existence of racial groups and/or to try to prove that Europeans are the superior race. One area where this is evident is in intelligence research. Although it is clear that intelligence is shaped largely by environmental factors, scientists consistently search for a genetic basis for racial differences in intelligence scores. In 1994, psychologist Richard Herrnstein and political scientist Charles Murray published a book titled The Bell Curve, which argued that intelligence is hereditary and unevenly distributed among the races. Despite strong criticism from academics, the book received a great deal of publicity. Ten years later, in 2004, Frank Miele, senior editor of Skeptic, and Vincent Sarich, professor emeritus of anthropology at Berkeley, argued

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FIGURE 0.2  Starved prisoners, nearly dead from hunger, pose in a concentration camp in Ebensee, Austria, 7 May 1945. The camp was reputedly used for ‘scientific’ experiments. © National Archives/Getty Images.

in their book Race: The Reality of Human Differences that there are real, measurable intellectual differences between races. Esteemed race scholars such as Jonathan Marks have repeatedly pointed out the absurdity of such findings, arguing that Sarich and Miele’s book is ‘scientifically idiosyncratic and politically reactionary’ (2004: 43). In 2009, a Harvard PhD candidate named Jason Richwine defended a dissertation in which he argued that Latino immigrants have lower IQs than the white native-born population of the United States (Richwine 2009). He further argued that, because of the supposed hereditary nature of IQ, Latino immigration should be limited. His arguments hearken back to those of eugenicists in the early twentieth century. In 2014, New York Times science writer Nicholas Wade published a book, A Troublesome Inheritance: Genes, Race and Human History, which argues in favour of biological and genetic differences between races. Wade further contends that these genetic differences can help us to understand why Black people are prone to committing violent crime and why Chinese people are better at mathematics. Although Wade claims that his approach is based on science, 140 of the most well-known human population geneticists in the country signed a letter addressed to the New York Times Book Review that stated, ‘there is no support from the field of population genetics for Wade’s conjectures’. The letter was published on 8 August 2014, shortly after the release of Wade’s book. In 2020, Charles Murray, author of The Bell Curve came out with his latest book, Human Diversity, which again argues that there are genetic differences between the races

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and sexes that help us to understand social inequalities. The pseudoscience of race is alive and well in the twenty-first century.

MAKING THE NATION THROUGH IMMIGRATION POLICIES Another hallmark of the modern idea of race is immigration restrictions (Parmar in this volume). Some eugenicists sought to improve the nation through selective breeding and sterilization while others sought to improve the racial stock of the nation through immigration laws and restrictions on entry, legalization and naturalization. In the early twentieth century, settler colonial countries such as Australia, Canada and the United States passed immigration laws that they hoped would improve the racial stocks of their nations. These laws both encouraged migration from countries deemed racially desirable and restricted immigration from countries deemed racially unfit. Immigration restrictions in the United States have always been racialized. The United States’ first major immigration legislation was the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act. This was followed by the Asiatic Barred Zone Act in 1917, which cut off most immigration from Asia until these laws were repealed in 1952. Between 1862 and 1965, Asian Americans were taxed unfairly, restricted in their movement, denied the vote, imprisoned in internment camps and denied due process in courts. These restrictions were justified based on racialized animosity towards people from Asia (Junn 2007). Other white settler states such as Australia and Canada also implemented immigration policies that gave preference to European immigrants (Walsh 2008). Canada passed its own Chinese Immigration Act in 1885, which greatly reduced Chinese migration into Canada. While excluding Chinese and other Asian migrants, Canada actively recruited European migrants (Abu-Laban 1998). In 1924, the United States passed the Johnson-Reed Act (or Immigration Act of 1924), which was explicitly designed to increase the Nordic population in the United States and stop the growth of other groups. The act made passports and visas a requirement for entry to the United States and established national-origin quotas which dictated the number of immigrants who could enter the United States in any given year. These quotas were calculated based on the US population’s composition in 1890, in an effort to return the country to a time when more ‘desirable’ migrants had come to the United States. The Act also set a quota of one hundred immigrants per year for immigrants from China, Japan, India, Ethiopia, Liberia and South Africa (Ngai 2004; Selod in this volume). Eugenicists influenced the debates surrounding the Johnson-Reed Act. Congress invited people such as Harry H. Laughlin, director of the Eugenics Institute, to testify as they were deliberating over immigration bills. Laughlin testified that Poles, Russians and Black people were of lesser intelligence and advocated for restricting their immigration. Congress took these views into account and voted to restrict the entry of migrants deemed less desirable. The quotas that went into effect in 1929 reflect these preferences: Great Britain and Northern Ireland were granted a quota of 65,271 immigrants; Italy, 5,802; Yugoslavia, 845; and most African and Asian countries, 100 (Ngai 2004). Immigration restrictions reflected a clear racial bias in determining who could enter the country. In the early twentieth century, Australia and Canada actively recruited white immigrants and restricted the migration of people considered to be non-white or racially inferior. Each of these countries sought to improve its racial stock through immigration

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FIGURE 0.3  Illustration depicting the anti-Chinese riot in Denver, 31 October 1880. Crowds attack Chinese buildings and their inhabitants. © Bettman/Getty Images.

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policies. In addition to entry restrictions, the United States also placed naturalization restrictions on non-European immigrants. Throughout the first half of the twentieth century, immigrants in the United States from China, Japan, Syria and India applied for citizenship through naturalization and were denied on the basis that they were not white. Some of these people took their citizenship denials to court to contest their denial of citizenship. These petitioners included Native American, Chinese, Hawaiian, Burmese, Japanese, Indian, Syrian, Armenian, Filipino, Korean, Arabian and Mexican people. The courts were not consistent in their determinations: one court might declare Syrians to be not white, whereas an appeal would reveal that they in fact were white. Most of the claims to whiteness were denied, with the exception of Mexicans (1897), Armenians (1909 and 1925) and Syrians (1910 and 1915) (Haney Lopez 2006; Kivisto in this volume). These restrictive policies remained in place until after the Second World War. In 1943, Congress repealed the Chinese Exclusion Act, and in 1946, it extended the right of citizenship to other Asians (Reimers 1981; Ngai 2004). The quotas were revised in the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1952 and then completely revamped in 1965. These overtly racist immigration restrictions have been repealed. Immigration laws in the United States today have no explicit racial provisions. Whereas people once could be barred from citizenship if they were not white, those laws have been struck down and replaced with racially neutral laws. The current version of the Immigration and Nationality Act, which constitutes the body of immigration laws in the United States, does not include any provisions that are explicitly racially biased. Nevertheless, its most draconian provisions tend to be applied more rigorously to non-whites. For example, nearly all people who are deported from the United States are Black or brown migrants. Additionally, the sentiment that some immigrants are more desirable than others persists. In the run-up to the 2016 presidential election in the United States, candidate Donald Trump campaigned on slogans such as ‘build the wall’ – which implies a promise to keep Mexican and Central American migrants out of the United States. Once elected president, Donald Trump described Haiti as a ‘shithole’, while in the same breath saying the United States would benefit from immigrants from Nordic countries such as Norway (Solsvik and Knudsen 2018). He also described Mexican immigrants as criminals and rapists and Central Americans as gang members. Trump is not alone among world leaders with these racist and xenophobic comments. Matteo Salvini, Italy’s deputy prime minister, organized his first big rally with the slogan ‘Stop the invasion’, referring to the arrival of African migrants into Italy. Since then, he has continued to propagate the myth that migrants are rapists and criminals and to advocate for closing Italy’s borders. Both Trump and Salvini use immigrants as scapegoats and describe people leaving their country of birth in search of survival and a better future as criminals (Stille 2018). In both Italy and the United States, immigrants are racialized as non-white and racialized discourses are used to imply that immigrants are a different class of people from the native born. The laws in United States are not as explicitly racist as they have been in the past, but the underlying sentiment remains the same.

APARTHEID AND JIM CROW The Johnson Reed Act which gave preference to northern European immigrants was passed during a time of overt racism in the United States – when politicians could speak openly about their desire to improve the racial stock of the nation. The backdrop to these

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FIGURE 0.4  Segregated water fountains in Jim Crow United States. © Kickstand/Getty Images.

conversations was a racially divided country where the rights and privileges of Black people were greatly restricted. In several states in the United States, there were separate water fountains, restrooms, movie theatres and parks for white and Black people. In addition, schools were segregated, and many places of business refused to allow Black people to enter. These restrictions extended to all areas of life. In the Jim Crow South in the United States, African Americans were relegated to the back of the bus. They were not allowed to take a seat in the front rows of the buses, as those were reserved for whites. Schools were not only segregated but also vastly unequal – schools designated for white children were better funded and had more resources than those schools designated for Black children. Indigenous children were sent to residential schools, where they were forced to live apart from their families and had their culture stripped away. After decades of resistance, these racial restrictions were outlawed in the United States in 1965, the same year that immigration restrictions were lifted (Golash-Boza 2015b). In South Africa, apartheid persisted until 1994. South African apartheid was enacted in 1948 and lasted nearly five decades. In 1950, the Group Areas Act required almost one million Black people to move when the government declared those areas to be for whites only. Like in the United States, segregation was mandated and interracial sex and marriage were outlawed. Under apartheid, the best public facilities such as parks and public goods such as schooling were reserved for whites (Seekings 2008). Racial segregation was outlawed in the United States in 1965 and apartheid was dismantled in 1994. Nevertheless, racial inequalities persist in both of these places – although they take different forms than during this period of legal, overt racism. In both South Africa and the United States today, one’s chances of educational success, earnings

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FIGURE 0.5  An African man reads on a bench in South Africa marked ‘Europeans Only’. © Bettman/Getty Images.

potential and life expectancy continue to be shaped by the colour of one’s skin. Although the legal barriers have been lifted, the racialized discourses and beliefs that undergirded these barriers persist and the power structure remains largely white (Leibbrandt, Finn and Woolard 2012).

HUMAN AND CIVIL RIGHTS In the aftermath of the Second World War, Canada, Australia and the United States all began the process of rewriting their immigration and naturalization policies to reduce or eliminate overt racial biases. Nazi extremism caused white Americans, Canadians, Australians as well as many Europeans to question the implications of white supremacist thinking. The experience of the Second World War led, in 1948, to the signing of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which asserts that all humans possess inherent dignity and equality. This declaration in turn influenced the beginnings of the civil rights movement in the United States. After the end of the Second World War, European and white settler states focused on rebuilding and recovering from the various disasters created by the war. One of the key tensions in the United States was that Black and Mexican soldiers fought in the Second World War yet came home to a racially segregated society. As these contradictions between fighting racism at home and abroad came into sharp relief, African Americans and Mexican Americans began to demand their civil and political rights. In the early twentieth century, public schools in the United States denied access to Asian Americans, Native Americans and Mexican Americans. This legal segregation was upheld by courts in the United States – which held that separate schools were legal so

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FIGURE 0.6  Children in the United States looking at a poster of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 1950. © Universal History Archive/Getty Images.

long as they were equal. The first major court ruling in the area of school segregation involved a family with a Spanish surname that had been denied entry to the all-white 17th Street Elementary school in Orange County, California. In 1944, the school told Gonzalo Méndez, a Mexican American, and his Puerto Rican wife, Felicitas, they were only enrolling Anglos and turned the Mendez children away. Gonzalo Mendez complained to the school board, to no avail. In 1945, he and five thousand other people filed suit against several Orange County school districts. In 1947, the federal circuit court ruled, in Mendez v. Westminster, that segregation based on Spanish surname was unconstitutional (Valencia 2005). Despite this ruling, segregation between Black and white children continued to be upheld by the courts. In 1954, a case against segregated schools for Black children reached the Supreme Court. This case, Brown v. Board of Education, was a compilation of four separate cases from four different towns. It involved two rural communities – Clarendon County, South Carolina, and Prince Edward County, Virginia – and two urban districts – Topeka, Kansas, and Wilmington, Delaware. Families from these communities argued that schooling for Black children was separate – but not equal. The Supreme Court sided with these families and decided that state laws establishing separate public schools for Black and white students were unconstitutional (Orfield and Lee 2004). In the United States legal tradition, civil rights are a fundamental part of jurisprudence and people can litigate and have rights such as equal protections recognized. Civil rights,

INTRODUCTION

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however, are only part of the broader tradition of human rights, which includes civil and political rights as well as cultural, citizenship and socio-economic rights (Blau and Moncada 2005). From a civil rights perspective, Black children should have equal access to school as white children. From a human rights perspective, all children deserve the fundamental right to education. In 1948, representatives from around the world began to draft and then ratify the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR). Article 1 of the UDHR states: ‘All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights.’ Article 2 clarifies that all human beings are entitled to human rights, no matter their race, colour, language, religion or place of birth. Article 25 includes socio-economic rights: ‘Everyone has the right to a standard of living adequate for the health and well-being of himself and of his family, including food, clothing, housing and medical care.’ This declaration is aspirational, as we have not yet reached the point where these fundamental rights to an adequate standard of living are universal. It is nevertheless remarkable that just twenty-four years after the signing of the eugenicist-inspired Immigration Act of 1924 and fifteen years after the appointment of Hitler as the Chancellor of Germany in 1933 that countries around the world came together and declared that all human beings have fundamental dignity and rights.

RACE AND GENOMICS Legal apartheid and overtly racist laws have been dismantled. Nations around the world adhere the principles of universal human rights. Nevertheless, the folk and scientific beliefs that there are fundamental biological differences between races persist. One example of the persistence of this myth is the widespread belief that sickle cell disease is a Black disease. However, sickle cell disease is prevalent wherever malaria is common. Thus, you can find sickle cell disease in parts of Africa as well as in parts of Europe, Oceania, India and the Middle East – all regions where malaria is common. In contrast, large swaths of Africa are unaffected by both malaria and sickle cell disease. If doctors were to look for sickle cell disease only in Black patients, they would risk the lives of many other patients who also are vulnerable to the disease. Sickle cell disease is more common among African Americans than other groups in the United States because the ancestors of many African Americans were from parts of Africa where malaria is common. African Americans whose ancestors came from other parts of Africa, however, are at much lower risk of sickle cell disease than people from Saudi Arabia, where malaria is also common (Roberts 2011b). Genomic mapping has made it possible to identify associations between genetic variation and disease prevalence. These advances in science have made it clear that there is no genetic basis for racial categorizations. Instead, there are genetic mutations present in certain populations that do not map neatly onto race. For example, there is an association between the chromosome 22q12 locus and the gene APOL1, and the propensity to develop end-stage renal disease. Notably, this association does not mean there is causation as less than 15 per cent of people with this chromosome and this gene will develop end-stage renal disease. This association can help us to understand why end-stage renal disease is more prevalent in the Black population. However, it would be a mistake to think that this association provides evidence for a genetic basis for the categorization of people into races. Only 15 per cent of African Americans have this chromosome/ gene combination, and scientists have traced it to a genetic mutation present in African populations where sleeping sickness is common. The chromosome 22q12 locus and the gene APOL1 protect against sleeping sickness and this genetic mutation occurred about

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sixty thousand years ago to help certain populations in Africa survive. The presence of this chromosome gene combination does not provide evidence for a genetic basis to racial categorizations; instead it shows that unique genetic variations can exist in some members of a racial group but not in others (Assari 2016; Reidy, Hjorten and Parekh 2018). The simple facts that Black people are more likely to have sickle cell disease or endstage renal disease or that there are genetic variants associated with these diseases does not mean that there is any scientific evidence for genetic variation between racial groups. Scientists discovered decades ago that most genetic variation occurs within – not between – racial groups. And, these findings continue to hold up as genomic mapping becomes more advanced (see Allen and Templeton in this volume; Roberts 2011b). In health sciences, race is often used as a stand-in for a more precise genetic explanation. Neither sickle cell anaemia nor end-stage renal disease are ‘Black diseases’. Instead, they are diseases more prevalent among people with ancestry in certain regions of the world, and these regions do not map neatly onto race. In other cases, racial associations are unrelated to genetics. For example, if researchers find that a certain glaucoma drug works better for Blacks, the most likely explanation is that the drug actually works better for people with dark eyes and thus could be harmful for Black people with light eyes. Or a drug found to require a low dose for Asians could be related to weight, not to Asian ancestry. When scientists find that drugs work better for some races than for others, or in different doses depending on race, these racial explanations are most likely explained by another factor. Racial dosing and racial prescribing are imprecise and potentially harmful because race is always a stand-in for a better explanation (Roberts 2011b).

RACE AND RACISM IN THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY Racial thinking and racist ideas have evolved over time. Race is an ideology, and as such, it evolves according to the ideological needs of those in power. As evidenced in the chapters in this volume, racism in the twenty-first century is characterized by xenophobia, antiSemitism, anti-blackness and Islamophobia (see Sharif, Selod and Taras in this volume). Xenophobia – the fear of foreigners – is an enduring feature of modern societies. The prevalence of international migration and an increasingly interdependent world have not led to an eradication of xenophobic sentiments. Xenophobia is not exactly the same as racism, but xenophobic sentiments are often commingled with racism. For example, xenophobia surfaced in conversations about a new virus – labelled coronavirus in early 2020. This virus was first reported in Wuhan, China, in December 2019. The fact that the coronavirus initiated in China meant that the conversations about this virus in North America, Latin America and Europe were infused with racism and xenophobia. The President of the United States insisted on calling the coronavirus the ‘Chinese virus’ (Leigh 2020). There were media reports of racial vitriol hurled at people from China in Canada, the United States, Spain and Mexico (Aguilera 2020; Brito 2020). One newspaper in Edmonton, Canada, published an editorial cartoon depicting Chinese doctors as monkeys. This representation of people of colour as animals has a long and troubled history. This same columnist, Malcolm Mayes, had published a cartoon depicting a stereotypical representation of a Jewish person just months before the coronavirus incident. This image depicts a person with a large nose and ears who is literally inside of someone’s wallet. The

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image hearkens back to depictions of Jewish people from the early twentieth century and the stereotype that Jewish people are money-grubbers is age-old. Xenophobia also comingles with anti-blackness when migrants of African descent seek out refuge in countries with long histories of anti-black racism. Between 2016 and 2017, 150,000 Haitians arrived in Chile – adding to the stream of migrants from Peru, Colombia, Bolivia and Ecuador. The arrival of large numbers of Haitians sparked protests in Chile – many of which took on a racist tenor (Franz 2018). This racist response is rooted in anti-blackness and can also be seen in the response to the arrival of Ethiopian Jews in Israel and African refugees in Europe (Stille 2018; Ibrahim 2019). Similarly, migration flows have led to Islamophobic responses. In June 2019, Aung San Suu Kyi, state counsellor of Myanmar, took a meeting with the Prime Minister of Hungary, Viktor Orban. The state leaders met to discuss perceived problems associated with the growing Muslim population in their countries. Notably, less than five thousand Muslims live in Hungary and the Muslim population in Myanmar has been steadily declining due to their expulsion from the territory. The Islamophobia these two leaders demonstrate is not based on any real threat coming from people who are Muslims (Kalin 2019). Nevertheless, in Myanmar, Hungary and countries around the world, Islamophobia is prevalent. The world has reckoned with the overtly racist migration laws of the early twentieth century, the horrors of the Holocaust and slavery and the injustices of forced internments. Nevertheless, xenophobia, anti-Semitism, Islamophobia and anti-blackness continue to shape discourses and ideologies around the world. The scientific racism that undergirded these policies has been disavowed, yet new forms of pseudoscience that seek to justify racial inequality continue to emerge (Parmar in this volume). We can look back on history and see that the Holocaust was a tragedy of historic proportions, yet the tradition of scientific racism that led to the Holocaust continues. We can look back and see that the internment of the Japanese during the Second World War was a horrific injustice, yet detention camps filled with Central Americans continue to proliferate in the United States and refugee camps around the world are overflowing. As we shall see in this volume, racism is an ideology that is adept at changing with the times. It constantly evolves but never dissipates (Dei and Adhami in this volume).

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CHAPTER ONE

Definitions and Representations of Race SAHER SELOD

This chapter provides a historical overview of the definitions of race from 1920 to the present. The meaning of race is shaped by our social and historical contexts. Phenotype or visible traits tied to biology, such as skin tone and hair texture, have historically been used to define race, and these meanings have changed over time. Definitions of race must be understood in relation to the economic and political motivations that inspire the social construction of racial identities. Therefore, this chapter is organized around several central themes including religion and scientific racism, immigration and race, cultural racism, and new theories of race and racism. By organizing this chapter into these sections, it becomes clear that race is both a social construction that is used to organize and exploit groups of people for economic and political gain while at the same time race is a lived reality. Race becomes a reality when it is structured into our institutions and society. Eduardo Bonilla-Silva argues that we live in a racialized social system, which he defines as ‘societies in which economic, political, social, and ideological levels are partially structured by the placement of actors in racial categories or races’ (2001: 37). Thus, racial classifications, although created by individuals, have dire consequences based on how one is categorized. As a result, it is not just those in positions of power who have a vested interest in defining race but also those who have been raced who need to have their racialized identity recognized.

FROM RELIGION TO SCIENTIFIC RACISM Religion has played an important role in the classifications of human beings. The ongoing battles between Islamic and Christian societies in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries in Europe were accompanied by a language of inherent differences between peoples – those who are believers and those who are infidels. This rhetoric was used to justify imprisonment and conquest of Muslim societies (Roberts 2011b). The ideological construction of Muslims and Jews as biologically different can be seen in the ways both Muslims and Jews were treated in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in Roman Catholic Spain (Grosfoguel and Mielants 2006; Rana 2011). As the Catholic Spanish empire grew, the belief that Muslims and Jews were biologically distinct from Christian Spaniards due to blood impurity that was associated with a religious identity was becoming a more popular

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ideology (Rana 2007). This ideology of biological difference in humans pre-dated the use of science to justify racial hierarchies. Europeans created interpretations of the Bible that supported polygenesis, or the belief that human races derive from different origins (Banton 1998) and used these interpretations to justify the enslavement of Africans. The story of the ‘curse of Ham’ was used as an explanation of why Africans could be enslaved (Haynes 2002). The US state justified genocide and robbing of lands from Indigenous people based on the notion that Native Americans were a ‘godless’ people (Rana 2007). Thus, religion was a way to demarcate humans into differential categories validating their enslavement and exploitation of resources, including labour, for the purpose of economic and political gain. Science replaced religion as a way to explain racial differences. Carl Linnaeus, a Swedish botanist, developed a system of categorizing humans, along with plants and animals, into species. Anthropologist Johann Friedrich Blumenbach was famous for placing humans into five races: Caucasians, Mongolians, Malayans, Ethiopian and Americans. This categorization was based on faulty scientific methods including the comparison of cranium sizes between groups of people. Europeans endeavoured to show that biological differences exist between humans and used these categorizations to explain variations in intelligence and character between people. These categorizations were not benign: they were used to justify imperialism and colonialism. For example, enslaving Africans was deemed appropriate if the people that were being enslaved were viewed as an inferior race. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the eugenics movement, which held the belief that some groups of people had superior genes to others, took off in Europe and the United States. Eugenicists

FIGURE 1.1  US Census Form. © Black Water Images/Getty Images.

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advocated for forced sterilization, based on their belief in genetic inferiority and desire to improve the human race. In the late 1930s, eugenics and the use of science to create racial categories was finally debunked because of wide disapproval of the use of racial science in Nazi Germany (Roberts 2011b). Scientists such as W. E. B. Du Bois, Franz Boas and Ashley Montagu spent much of their careers as social scientists disproving scientific racism. Du Bois argued that race was not a biological construct but a social construction. It was not until 1946, with the passage of the Luce-Celler Act, that racial barriers to naturalization were finally lifted in the United States. What this history of race and scientific racism teaches us is that race was created in service of those who wielded power. Although scientific explanations for race were mostly debunked, racial classifications have remained intact, even though their definitions have shifted over time. Yet, in the twenty-first century we are still seeing antiquated ideas about race and even religion resurface (Figure 1.1). Religion is currently used to essentialize some groups, for instance Muslims, justifying their surveillance and even violence against them. And some scientists are concerned that modern genetics is bringing back eugenics (Duster 2004).

RACE AND IMMIGRATION FROM 1920 TO 1965 In the early twentieth century, newer ways of thinking about and defining race emerged. Moving away from biological explanations of race, scholars such as Robert Park centralized the experiences of African Americans and immigrants in their frameworks. Park’s theory of the ‘race relations cycle’ aimed to explain interactions between different racial groups. Included in this cycle were competition, conflict, accommodation and assimilation (Omi and Winant 2015). While this theory was important in debunking scientific differences in race, it reduced racism to competition over resources rather than explaining the economic and political motivation for the exploitation of resources. This theory also dismissed the role that characteristics of race, such as skin tone, play in the ability or inability of one to assimilate into the mainstream, which was predominantly white (Omi and Winant 2015). Park’s theory made invisible decades of systemic racism and instead held immigrants and African Americans responsible for their success. However, the impact that a system of slavery had on African Americans, for instance, in terms of educational inequality due to racially segregated schools, was not accounted for in this theory. Thus, theories on immigration and assimilation took on a tenor that replaced biological differences of race for cultural ones that have been used to justify successes and failures of groups of people. Assimilation theories were used to compare some European immigrant groups to African Americans in order to justify or explain African Americans’ economic and social exclusion. In the book How the Irish Became White (2012), Noel Ignatiev chronicles how the Irish were racialized as non-white for a period of time in the United States. They were eventually incorporated into whiteness in order to drive a wedge between Black and white alliances forming around labour issues. The comparison of European immigrants’ successes to African Americans was used as evidence that there was something culturally wrong with African Americans. While some European groups, such as the Irish and Italian, experienced de facto racism, racism that is not structured into laws and policies but experienced in everyday life, African Americans were encountering barriers as the result of racism that has been structured into laws and policies in the United States. Racist policies by the Federal Housing Administration, such as refusing to insure mortgages in African

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American neighbourhoods, resulted in racial residential segregation. Racial residential segregation impacted the quality of education one was able to access as funding for public schools is tied to property values and white neighbourhoods historically have had homes that are worth more than Black neighbourhoods. Thus, schools in neighborhoods with more expensive houses have more resources due to the higher taxes paid on these homes. The ethnicity paradigm became one of the most prominent ways to talk about race and racial inequalities in the United States in the mid-twentieth century. The ethnicity paradigm focused on cultural attributes of groups of people as opposed to a biologistic understanding of difference that racial theories of the early twentieth century relied on (Omi and Winant 2015). These theories proposed that integration into mainstream society was the route to eliminating racial inequality. In An American Dilemma, first published in 1944, Gunnar Myrdal argued that the American creed or the idea of democracy and freedom should be extended to African Americans. He saw the history of slavery as an aberration on American society and argued that the integration of African Americans was the way to overcome America’s racial problem. But African Americans at this time were experiencing racial segregation in every part of their lives, making integration entirely impossible. There were several laws and policies put into place in the South to prevent integration for African Americans. Jim Crow laws were state and local laws in the southern states that upheld racial segregation in schools, employment and public spaces. As a result, African American children were not able to go to school with white children. They were not allowed to live in white neighbourhoods or use the same facilities as white people in public spaces. Anti-miscegenation laws were also upheld in many southern states, which criminalized interracial marriages. These policies guaranteed that integration into American society was impossible for African Americans who were legally racially segregated from white society in the majority of the southern states. African Americans were not the only ones experiencing discrimination in the United States, particularly in the early twentieth century. The influx of Chinese labourers in the late nineteenth century was met with racism and xenophobia. Several exclusionary immigration laws and policies were passed to prevent Chinese and Asian migration to the United States, including the Chinese Exclusion Act in 1882, which banned all Chinese labour migration to the United States. Prior to this, the Page Act of 1875 prohibited Chinese women from coming to the United States who were forced labourers, aka prostitutes. This policy reflected the history of how race, sexuality and gender were intertwined because Asian sexuality was racialized as deviant and immoral. Rod Ferguson writes, ‘The migrations of Asians, Europeans, Mexicans, and African Americas generated anxieties about how emerging racial formations were violating gender and sexual norms’ (2004: 13). Ideological constructions of the ‘yellow peril’, including the notion that Asian men were barbaric and dangerous to Western society, were reflected in these laws and in public attitudes towards Chinese, while women were racialized as sexually unethical. The Asiatic Bar of 1917, which prevented migration from the Asia-Pacific zone, also reified the racialization of Asians via the undesirable characteristics associated with people from that region that included contract labourers, prostitutes and vagrants. It is important to note how the stereotypes and racialization shifted over time and were deeply gendered and sexualized. Consequently, the decrease in immigration from China led to a shortage of cheap labour on farms, resulting in Mexican labourers filling the gap in low-wage workers (Golash-Boza 2015b). But as a result of economic instability brought on by the Great Depression, anti-immigrant sentiments that targeted Mexicans began to soar. Scholars estimate that in 1930, roughly 1.5 million Mexican immigrants and their

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US-born children were deported from the United States (Balderrama and Rodriguez 2006). But it was not only Asians and Mexicans who were targeted by these laws and policies. The Immigration Act of 1924, also known as the Johnson-Reed Act, prevented migration from the eastern hemisphere, including Asia as well as southern and eastern Europe, by setting quotas on the number of immigrants allowed in the United States. Barring migration from countries that had high Catholic and Jewish populations, such as Italy, Poland and Yugoslavia, reflected the anti-Catholic as well as anti-Semitic sentiments of the time. Senator Reed, one of the architects of the Act, argued that Catholics and Jews would not be good citizens or assimilate easily into American society. Thus, racialized stereotypes of religion and ethnicity played a role in anti-immigration policies of the early twentieth century. Just over a decade later as a result of the Second World War, anti-immigrant sentiments also targeted people of Japanese descent living in the United States. Japanese immigrants and Japanese Americans were subjected to life in camps as a result of their status as enemy aliens living within the borders of the United States. In 1942 President Franklin D. Roosevelt issued Executive Order 9066, which authorized the incarceration of over a hundred thousand Japanese immigrants and Japanese Americans who resided on the West Coast into internment camps. Their racialization differed from other immigrants as they were marked as a security threat because of the war with Japan. These examples show how experiences of racism differed based on the social, political and historical contexts, which have been structured into society through laws and policies. Anti-immigration laws and policies were not isolated to the United States, but targeted non-European migration in countries including Denmark, France, the United Kingdom and Canada. In early twentieth-century Canada, policies such as the Immigration Act of 1910 made the ability of an immigrant to assimilate a valid criterion for denying immigration from non-European countries (Fitzgerald and Cook-Martin 2014). In Canada, assimilation criteria were used to prevent migration from the West Indies and Asia. Latin American countries copied Canadian policies in order to manipulate the racial make-up of immigrants, favouring western European migrants (Fitzgerald and CookMartin 2014). These immigration policies reflect a shift in racism as well. Immigration policies moved away from focusing on biological traits (e.g. phenotype and skin colour) to cultural attributes (e.g. desirable cultural characteristics such as religious beliefs) to determine eligibility for entry into countries such as Canada or the United States. For example, literacy tests were used to assess eligibility for migration, excluding those who did not have the resources to learn the language of the host country. Immigration policies that focused on assimilation and integration racialized cultural attributes as inferior or superior to argue assimilation was impossible in order to keep out ‘undesirable’, aka nonwestern European, immigrants from migrating to their countries. In the United States, restrictive immigration policies that denied migration from Asia, Africa and Arab countries were critiqued as a result of a social movement that began building in response to the ongoing racial injustices towards African Americans. The civil rights movement gained traction in the mid- to late 1950s through organized protests of Jim Crow policies that upheld ‘separate but equal’ policies in education and public spaces in southern states. Civil disobedience and mass protests caught like wildfire across the country, but racial equality could only occur if racism was also eliminated from the societal structures entirely. The passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which eliminated discrimination and segregation on the basis of race, religion, colour, sex and national origin in employment, schools and public services, appeared to be a start. A year after the

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Civil Rights Act became law, the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 passed, which greatly increased the number of immigrants from Asia, Africa and Arab countries into the United States. And while these laws appeared to have been a turning point of eliminating racism towards African Americans and immigrants via ending the legal practice of racial segregation in southern states and opening the borders to immigrants of colour, it did not eradicate racism altogether. Racism and definitions of race continued to shift in the next few decades, reflecting both how older forms of racism were repackaged to maintain a racial hierarchy and newer types of racism that emerged.

1960S–1970S: NEOCONSERVATISM AND THE RISE OF CULTURAL RACISM The 1960s and 1970s saw the rise of social movements, such as the civil rights movement (Figures 1.2 and 1.3), the anti-war movement and the women’s movement, which spurred political engagement and activism amongst African Americans, women and the LGBT communities. The gains of the civil rights movement were met with a strong backlash from the far-right white conservatives who opposed desegregating America. Many white Americans believed the gains of African Americans were attacks on their democratic rights. The feeling of white victimization is apparent in the fight to keep schools segregated and later in the case against affirmative action. For example, although the 1954 Brown v. Board of Education made racial segregation in schools unconstitutional, when schools attempted to desegregate, they were met with protests and hostility by whites who felt they should not be forced to integrate their schools. The award-winning documentary Eyes on the Prize details the tactics whites utilized in resisting school integration in the South, including rioting. It was no surprise that southern states exhibited racial hostility towards African Americans, but this sentiment was also present in northern cities such as Boston. Almost two decades after Brown v. Board of Education, the Boston school systems were still racially segregated resulting in the 1971 case Swann v. Charlotte Mecklenburg Board of Education, where the Supreme Court ruled that bussing was an effective method to desegregate schools. Cities such as Boston forced districts to integrate their public schools, which was met with hostility and violence by white protesters. In addition to protesting, whites fled public schools for private schools and the suburbs to

FIGURE 1.2  Anti-bussing rally at Thomas Park, Boston. © Boston Public Library/Spencer Grant.

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FIGURE 1.3  Civil rights march on Washington, DC. © Library of Congress. Public domain.

avoid integration. Colleges and universities were segregated just like public schools in the United States. In 1978 Bakke v. Regents upheld affirmative action to ensure racial equality in hiring practices in employment and admissions to colleges. All of this was met with resistance by a segment of the white population that believed they were being discriminated against because of these laws and policies that attempted to achieve racial equality. During this time the United States witnessed a rise in political neoconservatism, an ideology that partially grew out of supporters for the civil rights movement but who were opposed to the ideologies espoused by offshoots of the movement critiquing America’s global policies as colonialist (Omi and Winant 2015). According to Omi and Winant, neoconservatives embraced an individualistic approach to racial equality that opposed focusing on group rights over individual ones. They relied on cultural racism to justify disinvestment in social services in lieu of individual efforts. Cultural racism began to take on a tenor that was deeply embedded in the notions of liberalism, such as certain cultures were less likely to succeed over others due to inherent flaws. Eduardo Bonilla-Silva ties cultural racism to notions of abstract liberalism, which he defines as ‘ideas associated with political liberalism (e.g., “equal opportunity,” the idea that force should not be used to achieve social policy) and economic liberalism (e.g., choice, individualism) in an abstract manner to explain racial matters’ (2010: 28). For example, the argument that African Americans are not hard working due to their culture, which results in higher rates of poverty, ignores the structural issues of segregated and unequal schools, racial residential segregation, racial discrimination in employment and so on. It also makes invisible the rise in the Black middle class in the United States (Patillo

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2013). For African Americans and many other racialized groups, the racialization of their cultural attributes works hand in hand with the ideals of abstract liberalism. Abstract liberalism rests on the assumption that anyone can succeed by pulling themselves up by their bootstraps. Success is based on personal motivation and individuals who work hard have the drive and ambition to succeed, ignoring the advantages that socio-economic status provides, such as access to a strong education and cultural capital. This way of thinking also ignores the consequences of residential racial segregation, which exacerbates inequalities in a variety or realms. Instead of remedying issues around funding for public schools that is tied to who pays higher property taxes, individuals are blamed for their inability to work hard enough to rise above their circumstances. Cultural racism ignores the fact that many racialized groups in the United States are disadvantaged politically, economically and socially due to a racialized social system. This false notion of the American Dream works to racialize a group’s cultural values to make invisible how racism is deeply embedded in American social structures. Cultural racism has been used as a justification for disinvestment in social services and programmes by the state. Cultural racism is a framework that uses cultural attributes, attitudes and behaviours to explain racial differences. For example, gendered and racialized stereotypes of African American women as promiscuous and welfare queens rely on cultural racism to rationalize dismantling federal welfare policies. Neoconservatives argued that social service programmes, such as Food Stamps, were handouts to African Americans. They painted African Americans as people who were relying too heavily on government handouts rather than working hard and doing well in school to get themselves out of poverty. They argued that affirmative action, a policy signed in 1961 by President John F. Kennedy to make it illegal for employees to be treated differently based on race, class and gender, was a form of reverse racism. In 1965, sociologist Daniel Patrick Moynihan authored a report where he argued that poverty in African American communities was the result of cultural deficits due to a history of slavery and racism. As Assistant Secretary of Labor under the Johnson administration, cultural racism began to influence policy in the United States via disinvestment from social services. Julius Wilson’s book The Declining Significance of Race, first published in 1978, gave credibility to the argument that racism was not the major issue afflicting the African American community but rather their class status. Thus, the ideology that anyone could pull themselves up by their bootstraps and achieve the American Dream became a prominent ideology, which was heavily influenced by assimilationist and integrationist ways of viewing race. The problem with applying an assimilationist framework for understanding achievement and success is that it relies on white supremacist notions of who can and cannot achieve success socially, politically and economically (Treitler 2015).

1970S–1980S: FROM THE WAR ON POVERTY TO THE WAR ON DRUGS The 1970s and 1980s saw a shift from the war on poverty to the war on drugs, initiated by President Richard Nixon and intensified under subsequent presidents, particularly Ronald Reagan. The shift from combatting poverty to fighting crime was accompanied with reifying stereotypes of African American men as drug users and violent, justifying a rising prison industrial complex. While these stereotypes always existed, they shifted over time reflecting the political and economic agenda of those in positions of power. This war

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increased federal funding to combat anxiety over the drug epidemic in the United States. It was not until the 1980s that the ways the war on drugs targeted and impacted African Americans could really be seen. Just a few years after the passage of the Civil Rights Act and the overturning of legal racial segregation in the southern states, racially biased drug laws against African Americans began to appear. African Americans were targeted as a result of inequitable drug laws. The disparity in sentencing laws for crack versus cocaine revealed how African Americans were targeted in the war on drugs. While crack and cocaine are derivatives of the same plant, there was a higher presence of crack in African American neighbourhoods and cocaine in white communities. Sentences were uneven in that an individual with possession of one gramme of crack was the given the same sentence as someone who possessed 100 grams of powder cocaine in the American justice system. This policy did not change until the 2000s, where the ratio was adjusted to eighteen to one (Figure  1.4). Drug arrests skyrocketed under the war on drugs in the 1980s. According to the Sentencing Project (2017), the number of incarcerated individuals grew 500 per cent between 1985 and 2016. In her book The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness (2012), Michelle Alexander chronicles the history of the war on drugs and how the increase in mass incarceration resulted in the prison industrial complex. Federal incentives, such as funding and military equipment, were used to entice local law enforcement to shift their focus to the war on drugs, which could be assessed and quantified via the number of individuals arrested in communities. In order to accommodate all of these new prisoners, the state contracted private prisons to build more prisons. Thus, the prison industrial complex is partially driven by the

FIGURE 1.4  The crack vs cocaine controversy. © Toby Way.

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economic incentives of private prisons who profit from incarcerating individuals. That the war on drugs is not colour-blind but is racially motivated can be seen via the police surveillance in predominantly Black neighbourhoods and the stops and searches that African Americans have been subjected to at a disproportionate rate to white people Racial profiling of African Americans via the criminal justice system resulted in what Michelle Alexander calls a new type of Jim Crow in America, where Black men are overrepresented in the prison population that maintains a racially segregated society. And while African American men have been targeted at an astronomical rate, there has also been an increase in the policing of Black women as well.

1965–PRESENT: SHIFTING DEFINITIONS OF RACE FOR ARABS AND ASIANS After the civil rights movement, immigration from Asia, the Middle East and Africa to the United States was on the rise due to the passage of the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965. This act eliminated previous immigration laws and policies that greatly curtailed migration from these countries as a result of the anti-Asian sentiments that were prevalent in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Immigration laws specifically targeted Asian migration to the United States, for instance the Immigration Act of 1924, which limited migration from countries in western and northern Europe. The Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965, which opened up the borders of the United States to immigrants of colour, passed as a result of the racial progress made by the civil rights movement. The experiences of these newer immigrants with race and racism differed significantly from both African Americans and European immigrants who proceded them. Race, nation of origin, religion and reasons for migrating accounted for how these newer immigrants fared. Non-European immigrants had different experiences with discrimination in the United States. With the United States opening up its borders to Asian immigrants, countries such as India, Pakistan and China witnessed the loss of a large professional class. The Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 favoured family reunification as well as skilled labour. As a result, they were not exposed to the same type of racism and discrimination as previous generations, due partially to the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the elimination of the immigration laws that plagued the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The anti-Black racism structured into American society that African Americans contended with, for instance residential racial segregation due to a history of slavery, did not impact South Asian and Asian professionals. As a result, this highly educated professional class that migrated to the United States and worked as doctors and engineers, were able to access wealthier white suburban neighbourhoods and send their kids to well-funded schools. They were able to enjoy benefits associated with their higher socio-economic status due to access to educational and occupational opportunities afforded to them, yet they were unable to fully access the privileges associated with whiteness. The inability to access whiteness was due to a long and convoluted history of race. The racial hierarchy in the United States has always been complicated with shifting racial classifications based on a variety of factors including, but not limited to, skin tone, religion and nation of origin. For example, the 1923 Supreme Court case United States v. Bhagat Singh Thind denied whiteness to Hindu Indians because the court ruled Hindus were not white and therefore unable to become naturalized citizens. Between 1920 and

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1940, the US Census had a racial classification for Hindu, reflecting how religion was a racializing agent for Asian Indians. Although the 1950, 1960 and 1970 Censuses dropped the Hindu classification, it was not replaced with a classification specifically for Asian Indians, although there were classifications for Chinese, Japanese and Filipino people (Pew 2015). In 1980, Indians advocated for a racial classification under Asian, which led to the designation of Asian Indian on the Census. The desire to be classified racially as Asian was due to the discrimination they encountered and the need for federal protection against institutional racism, even though they were able to access certain resources typically denied to African Americans (Espiritu 1992). Scholars documented that even though highly educated South Asians experienced some socio-economic benefits, they did not enjoy all of the social privileges afforded to whites (Kibria 1998; Dhingra 2003). South Asians experienced racism and discrimination based on assumptions that they were foreigners and could not be American due to their skin tone and nation of origin. While some South Asians began to select Asian Indian as their racial classification due to these experiences with racism, other South Asians self-identified as white or Black (Morning 2001). Factors such as acculturation levels as a result of income and national identity and skin tone may influence whether or not one would be likely to select Asian Indian for their racial classification. Another factor was that Indian immigrants had some confusion around their racial classification partially because of the caste system in India as well as the desire to remain racially unclassified when in the United States to avoid a racial association with African Americans (Morning 2001). Thus, South Asians have occupied an interesting location on the racial hierarchy, one that works to maintain Black at the bottom, and white at the top. The status of honourary white, not quite white, and not Black, is not static but one that could shift over time due to the social and political contexts (BonillaSilva 2002). Under the Trump administration anti-immigrant sentiments continue to rise along with stricter immigration policies that have had an impact on South Asians. In 2017, two Indian immigrants were attacked by a white man while eating at a restaurant in Olathe, Kansas. Witnesses of the incident reveal that white man yelled racial slurs, including ‘Go back home!’ at Srinivas Kuchibhotla and his co-worker, before shooting them in the restaurant. The experiences of South Asians and their racial classification highlights how race has shifted over time and is not static but a fluid concept. The passage of the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 saw a more diverse Asian population migrate to the United States. Instead of the unskilled labourers who came in the late nineteenth century, who provided cheap labour to the expanding railroads, those who migrated were professionals and highly educated. Initially many of the Japanese and Chinese immigrants who came to the United States were able to live in the suburbs and send their kids to affluent schools. In the 1990s Asian levels of education and median household income surpassed whites earning Asians the marker of ‘model minority’ (Kibria 2002). This label constructed the Chinese immigrant as a success story as they ostensibly were able to integrate successfully into American society. While it may seem like a positive image compared to the stereotype of ‘yellow peril’ from the early twentieth century that fuelled anti-immigration laws and policies, it had deleterious consequences in terms of race in the United States. First, it ignored the occupational and economic barriers professional Asians faced due to racism. While some experienced economic mobility, they were also prevented from reaching the highest levels of success in their careers due to a glass ceiling (Kibria 2002). Thus, there were limitations to their ability to ‘integrate’ into American society driven by race and racism. It also reduced all Asians to a monolithic group, ignoring how some Vietnamese, Filipinos, Cambodians and Korean migrants were unable to attain the

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levels of success of Chinese and Japanese immigrants. While some Asians were pulled to the United States for economic opportunities, others were pushed out of their countries as a result of war (in the case of Vietnam, instigated by the United States) and poverty. Finally, it was used to perpetuate anti-blackness in the racial hierarchy, in a similar fashion that European immigrant successes were compared to African Americans in the United States. The racialized social structures embedded in the United States were carefully crafted to target specific groups. So, while some Asians, such as the highly educated Chinese professionals who migrated after 1965, were enticed by economic opportunities in the United States, they also benefitted from the gains made from the civil rights movement, for instance the ability to secure housing in predominantly white neighbourhoods. They were allowed entrance into spaces that African Americans were still being excluded from through racist housing practices and white flight from public schools. Thus, Asians’ ability to achieve was reduced to admirable cultural traits, which in turn was used to further demonize African Americans. Asian Americans were constructed as studious in contrast to the stereotype of African Americans as lazy, which made invisible the economic and educational barriers to success that were deeply racialized for the latter. It is important to note that the mark of ‘model minority’ did not prevent Asian Americans from experiencing overt forms of racism, including being subjected to acts of violence. In 1982, two white men who worked in the American auto industry killed a Chinese American man, Vincent Chin, the night he was celebrating his bachelor party. Ronald Ebens and his step son Michael Nitz, motivated by anger towards the Japanese auto industries presence in Detroit, racially misidentified Chin as Japanese and yelled racial slurs at him. They had an altercation in a bar and were asked to leave. Ebens and Nitz found Chin at a McDonalds later that night and beat him with a bat, killing him. Ebens and Nitz were charged a fine and given probation, avoiding any jail time for committing murder. This incident garnered a lot of media attention and inspired activism from the Asian American community that felt their encounters with racism were largely overlooked and ignored. Chin was attacked violently because of the threat of ‘yellow peril’ as he was viewed as a danger to the economic security of white workers who felt they were taking their jobs away. These shared experiences with discrimination and racism resulted in the creation of what Yen Le Espiritu (1992) calls a panethnic identity, where Asians are grouped together regardless of the differences in ethnicity and nationality. Thus, Asian stereotypes and experiences with racism are complex and shift over time due to the social, political and economic contexts. By the time Arabs began migrating in larger numbers to the United States after the passage of the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965, the majority of them were racially classified as white according to the Census Bureau. In 1943, the Immigration and Nationality Services lifted racial barriers to naturalization and determined Arabs were white, legally changing their racial status from the early twentieth century. In the early twentieth century, Arabs were denied citizenship in the courts because they were viewed as more culturally similar to Asians than Europeans, revealing how Arab racialization at the turn of the century was tied to anti-Asian sentiments. Thus, the experiences of Arabs at the time was dependent on their nation of origin, skin tone, religion and a multitude of other factors. Although Arabs are currently classified as white, not all Arabs experience the privileges associated with whiteness. A recent study of Arabs in the United States reveals that Arabs who had a lighter skin tone and were Christian were more comfortable selecting the racial classification of white, while Arabs who were Muslim were less likely to racially identify as white (Shryock and Lin 2009). Scholars such as Louise Cainkar (2009) have shown that some white Arab Christians had experiences more akin to European

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white ethnics, for instance the Italian and Irish, while those who were Muslim were more likely to encounter discrimination based on stereotypes of Arabs as terrorists, barbaric and misogynists. In Reel Bad Arabs (2012), author Jack Shaheen uncovers close to a century of stereotypes of Arabs and Muslims in American film. These stereotypes of Arabs as greedy sheikhs who had harems of women at their disposal was what Edward Said called Orientalism. According to Said (1979), Orientalism encompassed the construction of knowledge via European scholarship and literature of the Middle East, which was used to justify colonialism and imperialism in that region. Thus, the images of Arabs as barbaric and misogynists has a long history that continued to plague Arabs living in the United States in the 1970s and 1980s. This could be seen in the portrayals of Iranians as inherently violent and irrational in the American media during the Iran hostage crisis (1979–81), where over fifty American diplomats were held hostage in Iran. The representations of Arabs as religious fanatics and prone to violence only intensified over the next few decades resulting in Arabs arguing the racial classification of white was not accurate and made invisible their discrimination and impossible to remedy in the courts. Arab encounters with racism have only intensified as the decades went on in the United States. In a post-9/11 society, Arabs and Muslims have encountered increased levels of prejudice and discrimination (Naber 2000; Bayoumi 2006; Cainkar 2009; Love 2017; Maghbouleh 2017; Selod 2018). Laws and policies, such as the National Security Entry Exit Registration System (NSEERS), required non-citizen men from Muslim majority countries to register with the US government where they were fingerprinted, photographed and interrogated. In addition to policies that have discriminated against Muslims in the name of national security, anti-Muslim hate crimes have also spiked. The election of Donald Trump as President of the United States incited more violence against Muslims because of his Islamophobic statements made against Muslims while campaigning. For example, he called for a total ban on Muslims entering the United States and promised to register all Muslims, including citizens. Thus, Muslim men and women are currently experiencing newer racialized experiences as a result of hyper surveillance and increased security that relies on past stereotypes of Muslims and Arabs, like being marked as a terrorist or cultural threat to American society, because of their religious identity. Muslim women who wear the hijab have been marked as transgressing cultural norms, while Muslim men have been treated as if they are a threat to national security reflecting how racial experiences change and shift over time (Selod 2018).

COLOUR-BLIND RACISM, RACIAL FORMATION, RACIALIZATION: THINKING ABOUT RACE THEORETICALLY The 1990s and the 2000s have often been described as a post-racial era (Bonilla-Silva 2013). The belief that racism is a thing of the past and no longer requires state intervention, such as laws like affirmative action to reduce racial bias in employment and education, became an increasingly popular ideology. At the same time that the war on drugs was in full force and mass incarceration on the rise, the state started to disinvest in social services. For example, President Bill Clinton signed into law the Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunity Reconciliation Act in 1996. This law added more criteria to qualify to receive welfare assistance from the state. It added a provision where in order to be eligible for assistance, individuals had to also work to demonstrate they would not become dependent on the aid the state was providing. The idea of the welfare queen that Reagan had

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perpetuated in the 1980s helped to garner support for this policy, which was a movement towards disinvestment by the state in social services. The impact this had on low-income working people, including African Americans, who were subjected to institutionalized racial discrimination such as racial residential segregation, educational inequality and racial bias in employment opportunities was completely ignored by these policies such as these. Consequentially, the idea that the United States is a colour-blind society where race no longer determines a person’s chance of success has been continuously promoted. In his seminal book Racism Without Racists: Color-Blind Racism and Persistence of Racial Inequality in America (2013), Eduardo Bonilla-Silva documents the ways in which white Americans uphold a racial ideology without using overt racist rhetoric but instead employing a colour-blind mentality that is inherently racist. There were several tactics that individuals interviewed for his study used to uphold colour-blind racism. These tactics include the minimization of race, cultural racism, abstract liberalism and naturalization. Minimization of race is the idea that race no longer matters. Cultural racism blames a group’s culture rather than their biology for their failures, ignoring the structural and institutional racism that creates barriers for groups success. Abstract liberalism upholds the idea of individualism and the American Dream and that those who work hard will succeed, making invisible how institutional racism, for instance educational inequality, prevent some from succeeding despite their hard work. Naturalization is a way to discuss racial stratification as a natural phenomenon where people prefer to stay amongst their own kind. These frameworks have been useful in understanding contemporary issues of race and racism in the United States. For example, we can see how all of these frameworks have been used to justify racialized policies. Both abstract liberalism and cultural racism can be seen in the rhetoric surrounding the ‘welfare queen’, which relies on the assumption that Black women do not want to work but instead rely on social services to avoid working. The notion that there is something inherently wrong with the culture of African American along with the idea that those work hard inherently succeed is apparent in this stereotype. Another theory of race that has been influential is Michael Omi and Howard Winant’s theory of racial formation. In their book, Racial Formation in the United States (2015), Omi and Winant provide the much-needed language to understand race in a more comprehensive manner. They argue that race is a fluid concept and not static. Their theory of racial formation examines how race is a social construction that must be understood within a socio-historical context by examining political, cultural and economic influences. This helps to explain how racial categories have shifted over time. In 2015 Pew Research Center published a timeline, called What the Census Calls Us: A Historical Timeline, of how the US Census classified races from 1790 to 2010. The timeline allows for a comparison of racial classifications today to any previous decade. While the timeline does not provide information on the political and cultural dynamics of the United States at each point in time, it does show that racial classifications shifted from decade to decade. For example, the racial classification of Latinos/as/xs reflects their changing experiences in the United States. The racial classification of Mexican appeared on the 1930 Census but was not there before. The sudden appearance of Mexican corresponded with the anti-immigration sentiment of the time that resulted in the deportation of over a million Mexican workers from the United States. Racial classifications have historically corresponded to the racial experiences of groups that are deeply tied to policies and the economy of the time. Therefore, the creation of a Mexican classification on the US Census reflected the anti-Mexican sentiments that were prominent at the time of

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the Great Depression where economic anxiety in the United States was expressed in the form of xenophobia and racism towards Mexican migrant workers. This racial category was dropped from the Census and not listed on the 1940s, 1950s or 1960s Census questionnaires; however, on the 1970s Census, Hispanic emerged as an ethnic category. Mexican and Puerto Rican activism emerged at the same time as the civil rights movement. The classification of Mexican as white on the Census was problematic because it made invisible the experiences with discrimination this population encountered, and consequently federal resources were not made available to this population because the data on their experiences with racism was not documented. As a result of calls for a racial classification on the Census, the Nixon administration created a task force to figure out how to accurately count the Latin American population in the United States (Mora 2014). This resulted in the Hispanic ethnic category on the US Census that has remained since 1970. It is important to note that this classification is not due to the shared lived experiences of the groups classified as Hispanic – Mexicans, Puerto Ricans and Cubans – but their shared Spanish origin (Mora 2014). These groups lived in diverse parts of the country and had distinct experiences, which is reflected in the fact that many do not racially identify in the same way. According to a Pew report published about the Census, the category of Hispanic is confusing to many who fill it out. The majority view the Hispanic ethnic category as both their racial and ethnic identity, while many also felt there were other racial classifications they identified with, reflecting how many Latinx individuals identify as multiracial (Pew Research Center 2015). What this example shows is that the racial classification and identity for individuals who identify as Latin American is complicated and ever shifting. In addition to racial formation, Omi and Winant (2015) also noted that there is a process of racialization that occurs in the United States. They define racialization as ‘the extension of racial meaning to a previously racially unclassified relationship, social practice, or group’ (Omi and Winant 2015: 111). This definition provides space for race scholarship to examine how newer immigrants who migrate to the United States are racialized, for instance African immigrants or Muslims. For example, racialization allows for an understanding of how Muslims might acquire racial meaning that is attached to religious signifiers (Selod 2018). Thus, when white women put on the hijab, they are no longer treated or read as white therefore losing the privileges associated with whiteness (Gallonier 2015; Selod 2018). The hijab acts as a racializing factor, making those who wear it appear to be foreign and not white (Selod 2018). This racializing of Muslims is directly tied to the war on terror in a similar way that the criminalization of African Americans is directly connected to the war on drugs. President George W. Bush implemented a series of laws in the name of protecting America from another terrorist attacks. Many of these policies, for instance the Uniting and Strengthening America by Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism Act of 2001 (USA PATRIOT Act), targeted Muslims as a threat to national security. The USA PATRIOT Act increased the state’s ability to surveil non-citizens who may be associated with terrorism. Because of the close association of Muslims with terrorism, Muslim immigrants and citizens have been subjected to hyper-surveillance by the state via FBI interrogations and stops and searches at US airports (Cainkar 2009; Love 2017; Selod 2018). While religion is not a racial category, its racialization has consequences. One impact of the increasing racism and discrimination against Muslims and Arabs has been the move to create a Middle Eastern and North African (MENA) racial category on the US Census. Arab civil rights organizations have pushed to have this racial

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category added because it would accurately capture the discrimination that Arabs have historically experienced in the United States because of racializing factors such as skin tone, religious identity and nation of origin. The racism against them has been made invisible due to their racial classification as white on the US Census, making it difficult to document these cases and provide federal support to remedy the institutionalization of this racism. Another important race theory that acknowledged the growing racial diversity in the United States is the Latin Americanization thesis by Eduardo Bonilla-Silva (2002). This thesis states that the United States has moved from a biracial society, one that is Black and white, to a tri-racial one. The racial classifications he suggests are white, honorary white and collective Black. These classifications allow for a more nuanced analysis of where groups fall onto the racial terrain in the United States. Factors such as reasons for migrating to the United States, skin tone, educational status, nation of origin and language all play a role in whether or not groups are treated and seen as collective Black or honorary whites. According to Bonilla-Silva, movement from one category to another is fluid, and there are differences between the types of racism groups experience and the different social locations of groups on the racial hierarchy. For example, he places white Europeans, for instance Russians, in the white category and Chinese Americans in the honorary white category. Thus, although there is a long history of racism against Chinese including anti-Chinese laws and policies in the United States, their ability to fare well socio-economically due to the fact that highly educated professionals migrated to the United States as a result of the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965, explains their inclusion into the honorary white classification. They were also able to successfully distinguish themselves from African Americans in order to climb the racial hierarchy (Treitler 2013). And while some Asians have been able to avoid the bottom of the racial hierarchy and may experience some inclusion into American society, for instance socio-economic success, many are still exposed to racism and discrimination in their everyday encounters. One of the ways this can be seen is through the constant questioning of their status as American via questions such as ‘Where are you really from?’ implying that one cannot be both Asian and American (Tuan 1998). Intersectionality is another concept that race scholars should utilize to think more critically about race. Kimberlé Crenshaw (1998) used the term to describe how Black women’s experiences with racism had to be understood in terms of how their race and gender identity intersect. Race for Black women could not be truly examined without an analysis of gender as well. Black women’s experiences with racism in the United States do not mirror those of Black men and must be theorized differently. The same is true for Muslim women and men. Muslim women who wear the hijab are racialized as transgressors of Western values and norms while Muslim men are racialized as potential terrorists and threats to national security (Selod 2018). Using intersectionality allows for a more complicated understanding of how racisms operate in society. Gender identity, sexual orientation, also plays an important role in how men and women experience race, something that race scholars need to continue to interrogate. Some theorists are doing this. For example, Moya Bailey (2018) coined the term misogynoir to provide a theoretical lens that takes into account how race and gender are both important influences in the misogyny directed at Black women. In order to provide nuanced scholarship on how to understand race, scholars should employ Crenshaw’s theory of intersectionality in their analyses and theories.

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CONCLUSION Race and racism are in constant fluctuation and shift according to the political, economic and social contexts. This chapter lays out how definitions of race have shifted from the biological to socio-cultural definitions across the twentieth century. Even though definitions of race change over time, biological and religious understandings of race remain in the twenty-first century. Racial categories are continuously created and, in some cases, erased, reflecting the ways in which race is a social construction. It has been used to justify colonization and imperialism as well as to document the experiences of groups of people with institutionalized racism in society. The notion that terrorists are irrational, violent individuals who hate freedom, was used to garner support in the United States for the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and support increased surveillance and security. Race was also used to exclude and include individuals into American citizenship. The exclusion and inclusion of Arabs, Mexicans and Asian Indians into the racial classification of white over time reveals that whiteness is also a racial category that is not static but tenuous as well. And while race is a social construction, it has real life consequences. Racism is real and in 2019, there has been a boom in white supremacist and white nationalist organizations according to a report by the Southern Poverty Law Center. Furthermore, according to the FBI there was a 17 per cent increase in hate crimes in 2017 in the United States that target racial and ethnic minorities. Thus, it is important to continuously study the economic, political and cultural factors that incite racism and the impacts that they have on society as race and racisms are ever changing.

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CHAPTER TWO

Race, Environment, Culture A Critical Transnational Approach LILA SHARIF

This chapter engages the fields of sociology and ethnic studies to provide a historically situated, transnational framework attentive to race as it intersects with environmental studies. Race is a socio-historical concept that organizes human life in ways that have historically privileged, and continue to privilege, Anglo-Saxon whites (Virdee 2019). Racialization names the process by which differences that are entirely contingent on racial, colonial capitalism are ascribed (Slocum and Saldanha 2013: 3). The term environmental racism refers to the practices, policies, discourses and projects that disproportionately burden communities of colour, intentionally or not, while also assigning cultural attributes to communities of colour and Indigenous peoples that would rationalize their subordinated status. As race and ethnic studies scholars demonstrate, entire environments are directly racialized with devastating consequences to people of colour and Indigenous communities worldwide: the ongoing water crisis in Flint, Michigan, where mostly Black and poor residents are being fatally poisoned by lead-contaminated water (Latty et al. 2016); the systemic deaths of First Nations women in state custody in Canada at the hands of law enforcement (Razack 2015); the exploitation of migrants working in the high-tech industry (Pellow and Park 2002) – the research indicates that environmental issues are deeply intertwined with discursive and material forms of racism. Environmental racism has not only deeply impacted the lives of racialized and Indigenous communities but also disproportionately burdened these communities with the immediate task of ‘cleaning up’ the devastation of racial capitalism – the global economic system of generating profit through the racialized exploitation of land and labour (Robinson 2000). Colonial capitalism emphasizes racial capitalism as it intersects with settler encroachment upon Indigenous lands worldwide (Blaut 1989). In the United States during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, notions of the ‘wild’ reproduced a racial hierarchy that upheld white supremacy and racial capitalism. The

I write this as a woman displaced from Palestine, and also as a settler occupying Native American lands. My own history of settler colonialism, displacement and militarization has allowed me to recognize the importance of a historically grounded critique of environmental racism, rooted in the enduring legacies of chattel slavery, racist policies and settler colonialism such that we might envision a radical framework that connects the dots between these seemingly isolated but deeply connected realities of environmental injustice.

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‘wilderness’ became entangled with racist anxieties among Nordic settlers concerned that they would share the same fate as Native Americans, particularly as westward expansion was activating a native genocide (Powell 2016). Efforts to conserve the Anglo-Saxon race became entangled with the preservation of the wilderness as colonizers increasingly saw themselves as connected to nature and their presence on Turtle Island destined. This settler environmentalism, romanticized by transcendentalist writers such as Henry David Thoreau, masked the racist anxieties that drove ecological conservationists to embrace genocide, scientific racism, eugenics and racist immigration policies, all construed as necessary in maintaining white supremacy and therefore a viable citizenry for the nascent nation-state.1 Since the early 1990s, however, environmental studies have morphed into an interdisciplinary body of theories, practices, policy initiatives, social movements and coalitions focused on the experiences of people of colour and Indigenous communities and their disproportionate vulnerability to environmental destruction.2 This was driven in large part by sociologist Robert D. Bullard’s extensive works on Black communities and toxic dumping (Bullard 1993). It was also driven by successful coalitions and political organization among people of colour and Indigenous critiques of early European environmentalism and a new framework for environmentalism rooted in social justice. In October 1991, the People of Color Environmental Leadership summit met and identified seventeen principles of environmental justice including the right to be free from ecological destruction; the sacredness of Mother Earth; mutual respect and justice for all peoples free from discrimination or bias; a sustainable planet for all living things; protection from nuclear testing, extraction, production and disposal; the fundamental right to political, economic, cultural and environmental self-determination for all peoples; the right to clean and livable cities; and the recognition of Native Peoples’ unique connection to the land via treaties and covenants that affirm their sovereignty and self-determination (Delegates to the First National People of Color Environmental Leadership Summit 1991). Using a justice-centred analysis inspired by the 1991 summit, this chapter posits a historically grounded, critical transnational framework that moves away from the Eurocentric formulations of environmental sociology and political science. On the most basic level, a critical transnational approach to environmental studies is attentive to the fact that we share one planet, and our environmental fates are linked. An analysis limited to concrete nation-states proves insufficient when we consider the basic fact that toxic leakages, droughts and other environmental phenomena do not stop at borders. While recognizing the role of the nation-state for producing and facilitating environmental racism, a state-centred approach to environmental justice runs the risk of naturalizing political borders, while actively forgetting that this nation-state is resultant from the ongoing legacies of settler colonialism and chattel slavery. An emphasis on nation-states prevalent in the social sciences suggests that the nation-state is the arbiter of environmental protection and freedom, when, in fact, it has been a key player in environmental injustice. A critical transnational framework connects the fields of the sociology of race and ethnic studies with environmental studies, as well as the local experiences of environmental racism to and global processes that inform them, to expose the ways in which environmental racism has been determined not only by the social, economic and political forces in the United States but also by US colonialism, imperialism and wars abroad (Espiritu 2017). Such an approach to environmental racism is attentive to the stories, livelihoods, histories, political efforts and identities of those often located on the margins of environmental studies. For Indigenous peoples and communities of colour, the struggle for environmental justice has long preceded the 1990s out of sheer necessity. Paying tribute to this history, this

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chapter provides a broad overview of the social and historical forces that have produced, and continue to produce, contemporary environmental injustices for minoritized and Indigenous communities in the United States as well as globally – through projects of militarization, colonzation and imperialism abroad.

HURRICANE KATRINA AND THE LEGACY OF ENVIRONMENTAL RACISM Early in the morning on 29 August 2005, an extremely destructive and deadly hurricane hit Florida and Louisiana, particularly the city of New Orleans. ‘Hurricane Katrina’ brought sustained winds of up to 225 kilometres per hour and stretched some 645 kilometres. The storm itself did a great deal of damage, but its aftermath was catastrophic. Following the storm, flooding – largely a result of fatal engineering flaws in the flood protection system known as levees – was the cause for the overwhelming number of fatalities. By that afternoon, 20 per cent of the city was under water (Figure 2.1). The storm flattened 240 kilometres of coastline and flooded half a million homes (Brinkley 2009). Multiple investigations in the aftermath of the storm concluded that the US Army Corps of Engineers, which had designed and built the region’s levees decades earlier, was responsible for the failure of the flood-control systems (Robertson 2015). When the storm struck, New Orleans was 67 per cent African American.3 The state of Louisiana ranked second in state poverty rates and had the fifth-lowest state median household income. The percentages of Katrina’s victims who were African American, renters, poor and/or unemployed were larger than the national averages. Most of the survivors trapped in the city were African American women who accounted for 54 per cent of the population of New Orleans, revealing the intersectionality between gender, race, class and environmental vulnerability. According to Loretta Ross, ‘through a Katrina lens, the world witnessed that great dirty secret that is America’s shame. Black and Brown people drowning in filthy floodwaters exposed the reality that this country did not protect the human rights of its own citizens’ (2012: 15). Across the Gulf Coast, more than 1.5 million people evacuated as the storm approached, but more than a hundred thousand were forced to stay behind. During the storm and in its aftermath, government response, media negligence and racist coverage proliferated. The disturbingly inadequate disaster responses at all levels of government were critiqued by activists and celebrities alike, with rapper Kanye West blurting out ‘George Bush doesn’t care about black people!’ at a live telethon for the storm’s victims. One report described two identical images, one of a Black man and one of a white couple, both wading through flooded waters and wreckage in search of food and resources. In the image of the Black man the caption read that he was ‘looting’; in the image of the white couple, they were ‘finding food’ (Ross 2012: 17). In fact, images of Black poverty and suffering circulated with such casualness, and the representation of Black masculinity as criminal created lopsided records of who counted as a victim, despite the facts on the ground. According to an article published online by the NAACP, This kind of discourse, fueled by what researchers have called ‘elite panic’, helped make the militarization of the response to Katrina, a response rife with wasted resources and useless violence, possible. The police shootings of people of color escaping the danger of Katrina’s flooding along Danziger Bridge in New Orleans being the most senseless reminder of the problems with this narrative that dehumanizes African Americans. (NAACP 2015)

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FIGURE 2.1  Hurricane Katrina hits the Gulf Coast, New Orleans, Louisiana, 29 August 2005. Original caption: Two residents wade through chest deep water after finding bread and soda from a local grocery store after Hurricane Katrina came through the area in New Orleans, Louisiana (emphasis added). © Chris Graythen/Getty Images.

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FIGURE 2.2  New Orleans, 30 August 2005. People carry their belongings and wade through high water yards in front of the Superdome in New Orleans, Louisiana in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. © Mark Wilson/Getty Images.

Indeed, Hurricane Katrina revealed that the storm was not only a natural disaster but a social disaster that would ultimately claim the lives of 1,833 people (Figure 2.2). While many immediately saw Hurricane Katrina as a case of environmental racism connected to housing and transportation discrimination, the true culprit was a historical legacy of racism rooted in chattel slavery and the ensuing policies of segregation that concentrated Africans and, later, African Americans into the most dangerous and toxic parts of the city. In 1719, French settlers developed the French Creole plantation. Appropriating tribal knowledge from the local Chitimacha, which had built dwellings of cane, wood and palmetto leaves along the bayou (Cajun Coast n.d.), French settlers established a string of huts along the natural levees of Saint John. That year, the first large shipment of chattel slaves arrived, beginning over 140 years of slavery, as well as permanent settler colonial occupation in New Orleans.4 The largest and most powerful slave trader in US history, Isaac Franklin, brought slave ships several times a month to New Orleans, with the financing help of the federal bank. By the time Franklin retired from slave trading, he was the wealthiest man in the South. He owned six plantations near New Orleans, where now stands one of the most notorious prisons in the country, Angola State Penitentiary, built on land that profited from the slave trade and was stolen from the Chitimacha tribe. Enslaved people were sold in the middle of the business district on boats, in French Quarter courtyards and in the decadent St. Louis Hotel. The 1805 Louisiana Purchase opened up new land for settlement in the South stolen from local Native American peoples and lands, and caused a persistent demand for exploitable labour in the Deep South for colonial capitalists (Morse 2008). More than

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one million people of African descent were forcibly moved from the Upper South to the Lower South, effectively making New Orleans the largest slave market in America during the antebellum period. By the nineteenth century, the African population was about twothirds enslaved and one-third free Creoles. Slaves increasingly outnumbered Creoles the further upriver one travelled from Canal Street – the main commercial street of the city. New Orleans continued to expand upriver and in 1910 the Tremé neighbourhood was created, now regarded as the oldest African American neighbourhood. Chattel slavery morphed into a system of de jure segregation as the city of New Orleans expanded into swamplands adjacent to railways and, later, industrial sites. Beginning in the 1960s, a series of industrial and chemical facilities were built along the Gulf Coast near predominantly Black residential areas. The toxic pollution and poisonous wastes produced by these plants caused high rates of cancer within the adjacent African American communities. Furthermore, these areas had various disadvantages, such as flooding, air and noise pollution and inadequate water, roadway and sewage infrastructures (Morse 2008). Ongoing projects put Black neighbourhoods at greater risk of flooding such as the 1966 construction of an elevated interstate highway, known as Interstate 10, which destroyed the Seventh Ward’s prosperous Creole business district. Interstate 10 also drove development beyond the industrial canal into flood-prone swamplands to the east of New Orleans in the 1980s. These developments were supported by federal policies and expenditures on highways, flood protection and insurance. African Americans were concentrated in elevations with high exposure to back-swamp flooding and poor access to transportation. Hurricane Katrina and its subsequent flooding brought a host of contaminants, including decaying bodies and sewage, chemicals from properties and vehicles, and oil and gas from damaged tanks and pipes. Water was contaminated with faecal bacteria at least ten times above levels acceptable for human contact, let alone drinking. The floodwaters also had elevated levels of lead, arsenic and other chemicals that exceeded Environment Protection Agency’s (EPA) drinking water standards. There were hundreds of reports of Katrina-related spills of petroleum or toxic chemicals with a total release of seven million gallons of oil (Reible et al. 2006). As contaminants dried, they were released into the atmosphere through dust, causing air pollution. The Louisiana Superdome, now the Mercedes-Benz Superdome, was crammed with twenty thousand people desperately escaping the floods. In these and other facilities, there were reports of sexual abuse and harassment at the hands of the militarized police forces sent to ‘recover’ the city (David and Enarson 2012). Indeed, the federal response was militarized during Hurricane Katrina, such that military officials and personnel became ‘first responders’ to the disaster (Burby 2006). As Southern Feminist Loretta Ross observes, ‘we witnessed a very authoritarian militarization of New Orleans during the crisis as police and the military were given permission to forcibly evict survivors, arrest or shoot lawbreakers, and impose martial law on the city’ (2012: 16). Ross describes life in the Superdome in the aftermath of the Hurricane as ‘concentration camp-like conditions’ in a ‘military occupation’ controlled by the police, army and transnational corporations – many of which deployed their own armies in an effort to secure private property (17). Then-President George W. Bush’s use of martial warfare as a one-size-fits-all solution in Iraq and Afghanistan was the order of the day at home, too: the globalized military industrial complex would now be responsible for all aspects of homeland security, including environmental crises (17).

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The example of Hurricane Katrina illustrates the ways in which the legacies of chattel slavery and racial discrimination in housing and transportation created the conditions of possibility for Hurricane Katrina’s extremely destructive outcome. In these ways, the so-called ‘natural disaster’ was actually the calculus of environmental crises intersecting with legacies of settler capitalism – its insistence on devaluing Black life, colonizing native lands, land exploitation and segregation, all with ongoing life-and-death consequences for racialized and impoverished communities in New Orleans.

INDIGENEITY, THE NATION-STATE AND ENVIRONMENTAL JUSTICE In addition to African Americans, poor folks and women, Native communities were also impacted by the storm and the hellish floodgates that followed it. In the wake of Hurricane Katrina, the Houma Nation – the tribe indigenous to Louisiana’s east side of the Red River of the South – released the following public statement: On Aug. 29, 2005, Hurricane Katrina swept ashore on the Louisiana coast. Among those communities devastated by her impact were the small Houma Indian settlements in lower Plaquemines, lower St. Bernard, and lower Jefferson parishes. The population of these Indian settlements, some 3,500 tribal citizens, was hit hard by the storm. Over one thousand of that number were left homeless, their homes completely destroyed by wind and water. (United Houma Nation 2020) As this statement testifies, the Houma Nation also experienced environmental racism. For Native Americans, environmental racism began in the fifteenth century when Indigenous peoples in the United States were forced from their ancestral homelands, first through land grabs by European settlers, and later through federal policies concerned with eliminating the so-called ‘Indian problem’. The legal, cultural and material project of ‘Indian removal’ included genocide, warfare and the introduction of non-native wildlife that brought forth a host of diseases to Turtle Island (Nies 1996). Native American lands have since been subject to mining, dumping, militarization and further settlement by different waves of migrants who in their pursuit of citizenship became implicated as settlers in the longue durée of settler colonialism. According to the United Nations, there are more than 370 million Indigenous peoples worldwide. These diverse nations and tribes make up one-third of the world’s most impoverished communities (United Nations n.d.). While some of these groups are legally recognized by the United Nations as ‘indigenous’, many are not due to imperial ‘intimacies’ that have made particular Indigenous claims illegible (Lowe 2015). One case in point is Palestine. The United States has used its veto power forty-three times against UN resolutions that would make Palestinians visible as Indigenous peoples of the land ‘from the desert to the sea’. A strategic military and colonial ally to the United States, Israel has violated at least eighty UN resolutions through deportations, demolitions of homes, collective punishments, confiscation of Palestinian land and its establishment of illegal settlements (If Americans Knew n.d.). Because of the intimate relationship between Israel and the United States, Palestinians – now stateless and largely refugee – are virtually invisible as Indigenous based on UN definitions. Of course, the outright denial of a land and peoplehood serves to naturalize colonial settlement.

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In spite of the diverse experiences, of central importance to Indigenous peoples globally is land: Indigenous life, identity and culture are intricately linked to ancestral lands. Settlers continue to encroach on native land, water, minerals and other raw materials from tribal governments (Nies 1996; Smith and Frehner 2010) and Native American lands have increasingly become targets for unwanted land uses such as uranium mining, toxic dumping, nuclear and weapons testing facilities, and resource extraction for military purposes – again linking militarization, environmental concerns and the enduring legacies of European-installed settler colonialism (Hooks and Smith 2004). For example, in 1944, without tribal consent and in contravention of federal treaties, the US military began mining uranium on Navajo and Lakota territories for the Manhattan Project, which led to the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945. Soon, widespread uranium mining propelled a nuclear arms race with the Soviet Union during the Cold War at the expense of native bodies and lands (Brugge, Benally and Yazzie-Lewis 2006). In 1951, the US Public Health Service (USPHS) began a human testing experiment on Navajo miners exposed to depleted uranium without their informed consent to examine the long-term health effects from radiation poisoning. The experiment on Navajo mine workers led to high rates of cancers, among them Xeroderma pigmentosum, as well as other diseases, directly a result of uranium mining and milling contamination (Figure 2.3). Indigenous knowledge (IK) challenges us to denaturalize the nation-state as the arbiter of freedom, especially when projects such as assimilation into a multicultural nationstate and federally funded institutions such as education actually facilitate cultural and population genocide (Wolfe 2011). Rather than the arbiter of freedom, the state is­ re-framed by IK producers as the arbiter of genocide and environmental degradation. In this frame, assimilation into the nation is a tactic by the US nation-state to dissolve Indigenous claims to land because it ‘eliminates a competing sovereignty’ (Wolfe 2006: 34). The model of civil rights, then, is insufficient for Indigenous peoples in addressing ongoing questions of Indigenous sovereignty (Simpson 2014). Colonial systems of capitalist accumulation, tied directly to the invention of private property protected by the nation-state, enabled environmental exploitation: ‘from oil and gas fields, refineries, lumber mills, mining operations, and hydro-electric facilities located on the dispossessed lands of Indigenous nations to international markets’ (Coulthard 2013). Anne McClintock asserts that as Indigenous women were seen as ‘the earth that is discovered, entered, named, inseminated and above all owned’, their land too became ‘discovered, entered, named, inseminated and above all owned’ (1995: 31). In this view, sexual violence is a constitutive part of settler conquest as Native American women were seen as the soiled extensions of a landscape that had to be ‘tamed’. The intergenerational trauma suffered by Native Americans as more and more of their lands and water are violated has been linked to the high rates of suicide. The New York Times reports that more and more teenagers on the reservation have killed themselves with belts, knives and handfuls of Benadryl in recent years often attributed to intergenerational trauma. Native American teenagers and young adults are 1.5 times as likely to kill themselves as the national average (Elbein 2017). Perhaps the most high-profile example illustrating the intersection between settler colonialism and environmental justice in the United States today is the case of the Dakota Access Pipeline. The Great Sioux Reservation, which includes the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation, once comprised all of South Dakota west of the Missouri River, including the sacred Black Hills and the life-giving Missouri River (Standing Rock Sioux Tribe n.d.). The Dawes and Allotment Act of 1889 made native lands porous to settlement through a

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FIGURE 2.3  Uranium mining in the Navajo Nation. Two Navajo (Diné) men dig for uranium found in Monument Valley on the Navajo Nation reservation, Arizona, May 1951. Vanadium and uranium mining began in the area in 1942. © Loomis Dean/The LIFE Picture Collection/ Getty Images.

capitalist-settler programme of parcelling and bidding Native Americans’ ancestral lands – a phenomenon called land severalty (Dawes Act 1887). Land severalty mandated the breaking up of tribes as both political entities and as the holders of a land in common, turning Native American lands into privatized property, thus eviscerating the tribal land base, and opening the way for non-Indigenous persons to buy land deeds (Vickery and Hunter 2016: 38). The US Court of Claims would later admit that this fracturing, displacement and ‘a more ripe and rank case of dishonorable dealings will never, in all probability, be found in our history’ (United States v. Sioux Nation of Indians 1980). In January 2017, within days of his inauguration, Donald Trump issued an executive order to fast-track the construction of a $3.78 billion-dollar 1,886-kilometre-long pipeline that would transport five hundred thousand barrels of oil every day. The Dakota Access Pipeline would enable a direct route to transport crude oil from North Dakota’s Bakken

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region through South Dakota and Iowa into Illinois. In doing so, the pipeline would destroy ancestral burial grounds and poison the water supply for the sovereign Standing Rock Sioux Tribe – as well as millions of US residents downstream who rely on the Missouri River for drinking water. The Standing Rock Sioux maintain official jurisdiction on all reservation lands, including waterways and streams, which straddle North Dakota and South Dakota on the western side of both states across a total of one million acres of ancestral lands. The Dakota Access Pipeline is owned 38.25 per cent by Energy Transfer Partners, 36.75 per cent by MarEn Bakken Company LLC and 25 per cent by Phillips 66 Partners. Conservative news outlets boasted the pipeline to be a gold mine with Fox News estimating up to $100 million annually in tax revenue for struggling North Dakota once crude oil began to flow through the pipes, and $10 million annually in property taxes related to the pipeline (Singman 2017). That same year, President Trump, who personally owns shares with Energy Transfer Partners, announced the United States would withdraw from the Paris climate accord, weakening efforts to combat climate change and address environmental hazards to communities most vulnerable to them. In May 2016, thirteen-year-old Anna Lee Rain Yellowhammer and thirty Sioux youth launched a petition to oppose the pipeline. It quickly gathered over eighty thousand signatures, including celebrity endorsements from Leonardo DiCaprio (Revesz 2016). Bobbi Jean Three Legs organized an eight-day, 907-kilometre run from Cannonball, North Carolina, to Omaha, Nebraska to raise awareness about the pipeline with an organization of Native youth called ReZpect Our Water (2020). Standing Rock Sioux Water Protectors and their allies eventually led thousands of people into a series of protests (Figure 2.4). Elder LaDonna Brave Bull Allard set up camps for protestors which evolved into a sustained community of support and solidarity, including volunteer medical teams,

FIGURE 2.4  Dakota Access Pipeline. A protestor raises his arms as armed guards and guard dogs approach them at a dig site for the Dakota Access Pipeline (DAPL) near Cannon Ball, North Dakota, 3 September 2016. © Robyn Beck/Getty Images.

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environmental activists, ChicanX youth movements, volunteer cooks, Navajo elders, Sámi and Anishinabe lawyers, Elwha Klallam hip-hop artists, Hollywood celebrities, veterans, Sioux nation doctors, fisherman alliances and political organizations – all uniting beneath the message Mni Wiconi, meaning ‘Water is Life’ in the Sioux language. Representatives of the Palestinian Youth Movement issued a public statement online connecting Palestine to the struggle: ‘As Palestinians in the United States, we are exiled from our homeland while living as settlers upon Turtle Island. It is imperative that we demand recognition of the rights of Native nations and their people while building movements together with one another so that we can strengthen our collective call for justice’ (Palestinian Youth Movement 2016). These protests coalesced a number of issues, including treaty violations and Indigenous sovereignty, civil and human rights, and environmental justice into one movement, known by its social media monikers #NoDAPL, #Mniwiconi, #Waterislife and #StandwithStandingRock. In October 2016, armed soldiers and police with riot gear and military equipment cleared an encampment that was directly in the proposed pipeline’s path. A month later, a militarized police force backed by President Trump and corporate interests shot water cannons on protesters in freezing temperatures. By 23 February 2017, a militarized police force expelled at gunpoint the last remaining Water Protectors following a year-long standoff at Standing Rock in North Dakota, arresting sixty protestors. On 27 March 2017, Bakken crude oil flooded the pipelines beneath the river. The culmination of the movement to protect Sioux lands and resources was a replay of a centuries-old history of a brutal military hegemony and persistent colonization of native lands, bodies and culture. While the inclusion of historically abjected peoples is often lauded as the pathway to justice, federal policies were actually adopted to putatively absorb Indigenous subjects into the nation-state, while continuing the project of colonial settlement at the ongoing expense of the environmental and Native American lifeways.

MILITARIZATION, MIGRATION AND ENVIRONMENTAL RACISM The United States has now been at war for almost two decades – the longest war in its history. Initiated in Afghanistan in 2001 following the terrorist attacks that year, the ‘War on Terror’ soon extended to Iraq and the greater Middle East, with hundreds of thousands dead, maimed, displaced, diseased and traumatized (Singh 2019). The US invasion of Iraq spiked a regional death toll, and inspired a burgeoning network of terrorism (Singh 2019). While the conflict has made fewer headlines in recent years, the United States has never dropped as many bombs on Afghanistan as it did in 2018. The United States and its many wars, ‘some named, almost all formally undeclared’ (Singh 2019: 4), have had environmentally catastrophic results following this ‘war without end’ (McAlister 2002). Hurricane Katrina was a watershed moment in which the United States pursued a vision of ‘Homeland Security’ that shaped future responses to emergency – transforming environmental crises into ‘national security threat’ in official discourse (The White House 2006). Following the hurricane, the already bloated military and security complexes expanded enormously to pursue militarized ‘solutions’ to environmental problems and ‘homeland security’. In fact, since Hurricane Katrina, the military has continued to expand, securing bids from oil firms looking for fossil fuels and security firms boasting the latest technological advances to secure borders from refugees and migrants (Buxton and Hayes 2015).

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Critical refugee studies scholar Yen Le Espiritu calls out the legacy of US colonial, economic and military expansion – collectively called ‘empire’ – as the cause for displacement of people from their homelands (2014). Espiritu defines militarized violence as ‘the raw, brutal, and destructive forces that Western imperial powers unleash on the lands and bodies of racialized peoples across time and space’ (2014: 26). Military colonialism, in turn, calls attention to the connections between colonialism and militarization, particularly through the United States’ violent encroachments in South America, Asia and North Africa. Militarized violence became the global rule of thumb order when George W. Bush’s declared ‘either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists’ (‘Transcript of President Bush’s Address’ 2001), and this bifurcation has continued through the presidencies of Barack Obama and Donald Trump. In Yemen, three-quarters of the population, approximately 22 million people, are in a state of humanitarian crisis. About 8.4 million people are starving and another 7 million are malnourished directly as a result of poverty, exposure to toxins and other environmental harms. On 9 August 2018, a US-backed, Saudi-led coalition dropped a bomb on a school bus packed with Yemeni children. According to reports, the excited kids had been on a school trip marking the end of their summer classes and were passing through a busy marketplace when the bomb hit their bus (Bayoumi 2018). A report by CNN indicates that the bomb used was a 500-pound laser-guided MK 82 bomb, manufactured by Lockheed Martin, one of the largest US defence contractors in the world. The results were horrific. Moustafa Bayoumi reports that of the fifty-four people killed, forty-four were children, with the oldest of them only eleven years old. Harrowing images showed dozens of dead and injured children, some of whom can be seen wearing their blue UNICEF-sponsored backpacks (Bayoumi 2018). In this case, environmental racism is furthered by the fact that ‘the war in Yemen occupies almost none of our collective political attention today’ a fact Bayoumi attests to being ‘Muslim, brown, and poor, and we’ve already been droning them for years on end’ (Bayoumi 2018). Since 2015, there have been an estimated fourteen thousand Yemenis killed as a direct result of militarized violence. In addition, fifty thousand Yemenis were killed due to famine, health and environmental causes exacerbated by the war, such as a cholera epidemic that has afflicted more than a million people and claimed over 2,300 lives. At least one child dies every ten minutes from causes linked to the war, according to UNICEF (2016). Wars in Yemen, Syria, Iraq, Palestine and many other places have made displacement a defining issue of the twenty-first century. Global displacement has reached a record high of 70.8 million people today, according to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR 2019). US proxy wars abroad alongside the Syrian Civil War have introduced the worst humanitarian crisis in Syria, with Syrian families literally drowning on the shores of Europe attempting to find safety from the violence that included the indiscriminate use of chemical weapons. The UN estimated Syria’s pre-war population to be 22 million. By 2016, the population had gone down to 13.5 million. More than six million Syrians are internally displaced within Syria, and around five million are refugees outside of Syria (United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs [OCHA] n.d.). Among the displaced were three-year-old Aylan Kurdi, who made global headlines after he drowned in the Mediterranean Sea on 2 September 2015. The dystopic photograph shows Aylan’s frail, soaking corpse face down, his red shirt and black pants soaked, and his arms limp and twisted by his side.

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Militarized violence also intersects with the growth of the prison industrial complex through the corporatization of detention facilities aimed at incarcerating migrants and their children indefinitely for profit. In the United States, the prison operator GEO Group profits from the criminalization of migrants detained for crossing the border without US documentation. GEO Group and their counterparts operate 62 per cent of all immigration-detention centres. Their business was enhanced by a congressional quota mandating that ICE maintain thirtyfour thousand detention beds every day, filled or not – a quota that has increased since 2009 (National Immigrant Justice Center 2011–20). GEO Group’s facilities are nicknamed ‘baby jails’ and have been compared to Japanese internment camps (Dayen 2018). The company is embroiled in ongoing legal battles for the mistreatment of its detainees, violation of their constitutional rights, failure to ensure their safety, the sex trafficking of migrant children and involuntary servitude. GEO Group was accused of locking migrant mothers in dark rooms as punishment for protesting conditions (Dayen 2018). GEO Group is currently responsible for the inadequate care of more than one thousand migrant women and their children who live in their facilities. Two thousand three hundred children have already been separated from their parents under Trump’s ‘zero tolerance’ policy with that number growing steadily (Shear, Goodnough and Haberman 2018). Harrowing stories of children being taken from their parents, rampant sexual violence against adolescents, brutal and violent separations, deaths of migrants in these facilities, audio of wailing toddlers and images of teenagers in cage-like detention facilities continue to make headlines as I write this. As per state laws, private prison companies that run detention centres for immigrant kids and their mothers can’t legally hold families for an extended period of time. This prompted states to grant licenses to childcare facilities that would allow them to continue to operate. For example, in Texas, a Senate committee advanced SB1018 – legislation that would lower the state standards for family detention centres, meaning private prison firms such as GEO could forego regulations that other childcare facilities are subject to. Along with Corrections Corporation of America (CCA), GEO Group generated over $2.53 billion in revenue in 2012, and represents more than half of the private prison business. Perhaps it is unsurprising, then, that SB1018 was written by a lobbyist for the GEO Group. Today, GEO Group’s profit is only increasing with SB1018. As more and more migrant parents are taken into custody for crossing into the United States, more and more children are placed in detention facilities until the Office of Refugee Resettlement can place them in foster care or other institutions. Private companies such as Geo Group maintain those facilities too (Figure 2.5). Environmental racism in the form of war and militarization is re-experienced in the workforce in the United States, particularly for migrants. The hundreds of industries that have sprung up along the US–Mexico border – or maquiladoras – are responsible for dumping tonnes of toxic waste into the environment in which workers live and labour, and the problem of hazardous waste has multiplied since the signing of NAFTA. Despite the facts that immigrants in the United States by and large contribute less to climate change than most Americans, they are amongst those most impacted by it (Unitarian Universalist Ministry for Earth [UUMFE] 2021). Disturbing statistics reveal that migrants are disproportionately vulnerable to environmental hazards in the workplace and immigration status doubles the likelihood of living close to a toxic release facility. Migrant farmworkers and their families are regularly exposed to harmful pesticides in both the air and water. Chronic exposure leads to shorter life spans and a greater likelihood to die from asthma, along with increased risks of cancer, birth defects and neurological damage.

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FIGURE 2.5  Ruben Hayslette and other protesters gather in front of the GEO Group headquarters to speak out against the company’s profiting off private prisons and detention centres nationwide, Boca Raton, 4 May 2015. © Joe Raedle/Getty Images.

Undocumented immigrants are particularly vulnerable because they are less likely to be insured or to have adequate access to health care, making them not only more susceptible to getting sick from pollution but also unable to obtain treatment. According to Pellow and Park, ‘much of the widespread chemical contamination of the air, land, and water in the Philippines, Mexico, India, South Korea, China, and Vietnam stem from war-related and economic activities initiated by the U.S. military, U.S.-based transnational firms, and the World Bank and International Monetary Fund’ (2002: 14). As these cases demonstrate, local experiences of environmental racism are linked to global processes of militarization and imperialism, further demonstrating a need for a critical transnational approach to environmental justice. A critical transnational approach calls on activists and scholars to think creatively and broadly about environmental justice – linking the prison system to migration, settler colonialism to the legacies of slavery, and violent warfare to foster care. As the following section will argue, this framework of environmental justice requires us to think beyond individual action and move towards the collective.

CONCLUSION: TOWARDS A CRITICAL TRANSNATIONAL ENVIRONMENTAL JUSTICE In the last thirty years, the so-called ‘genomic age’ has brought with it a wave of ethical products that place environmental activism in the hands of the consumer. In 2006, Blake Mycoskie, a 29-year-old entrepreneur and contestant on The Amazing Race, went on

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vacation in Argentina. While there, he met a volunteer who worked for an organization that provided shoes for children in need. Mycoskie spent several days travelling from village to village with the group, noting the ‘intense pockets of poverty just outside the bustling capital’ he told The Business Insider. ‘It dramatically heightened my awareness’ (Mycoskie 2011). As the company’s ‘one-for-one slogan’ suggests, the premise is simple: for every pair of TOMS shoes bought, the company will send a pair to kids in need all over the world. To bring down shoe costs, they moved production to China where TOMS manufactures shoes for $2.50 a unit. One critic questions the efficacy of ‘producing shoes in China for $2.50, selling those shoes to American consumers for $60, using the faces and feet of the world’s poor as a marketing agent, and giving an even cheaper pair of shoes away in Ethiopia, all while being a private company’ (Timmerman 2011). Putting environmental justice in the hands of the conscientious consumer might have some charitable perks; but it also raises questions about which child is ‘in need’ and which is left to work in a sweatshop for $2.50 a unit. In other words, it raises the question: whose childhood is privileged and why? A similar case was with the clothier Patagonia, which boasts a clothing line made from recyclable materials. In 2012, the company began producing outerwear in Bangladesh, which had the world’s lowest wages, a network of union-free exporting plants and an abysmal work safety record (Laderman 2014: 143). This consumer-based form of activism, then, is limited in its ability to effect rooted change that would address the legacies of environmental racism brought on by a legacy of chattel slavery, ongoing settler colonialism, and war and empire. What this also demonstrates is the need for a more dimensional approach to environmental studies that is not rooted in individual actions but is part of a sustained, transnational movement attentive to racism even if it occurs unevenly and differently among minoritized communities. The persistent category of race has effectively made environmental inequality impossible to comprehend without it. It has also made environmental justice impossible to conceptualize without a sustained critique of capitalism. In the instances where individual consumers attempt to use capitalist spaces to flex their activist weight vis-à-vis their spending practices, as in the cases of TOMS and Patagonia, the efforts are moot when compared with the severity of racial and colonial capitalism. Moreover, as the case of Hurricane Katrina reminds us, we must think about history in conceptualizing environmental justice; and, as the case of the DAPL reminds us, coalitions are possible even for different stakeholders. Both cases tell us there is much more to be done for our communities to be safer and healthier. In this chapter, I have demonstrated that the environment is also constructed, negotiated, transformed, made, unmade and remade socially, culturally, politically, economically, discursively and technologically. A critical transnational framework allows us to observe and cohere the ways in which the distribution of environmental burdens and risks reflects the legacies of racial subjugation and colonialism – but also as these processes intersect with gender, labour, nation-making, militarization and warfare – such that we might envision a global environmental justice movement that connects the dots between seemingly isolated instances of environmental injustice, in the effort towards a radical future.

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CHAPTER THREE

Race and Religion The Roots of Xenophobia, Anti-Semitism and Anti-Muslim Fear RAYMOND TARAS

INTRODUCTION In the one-hundred-year period taking us from 1920 to the present, the cultural history of race and religion has undergone dramatic transformations. Both race and religion can be understood as social constructs but, oddly, the question whether there is such a thing as race may today be interrogated more than whether religious beliefs systems should come under scrutiny. Debating religious and spiritual issues can be a more sensitive subject than deconstructing whether racial characteristics, physiognomy, skin colour and pigmentation matter. Both racism and religious bigotry, such as anti-Semitism, Islamophobia or others discussed here, constitute a common concern. A much-discussed subject today are often-racialized conflicts between Christians and Muslims. Religious hatreds may be the prime mover of such clashes, but they are often exacerbated by overlaid racial characteristics. Even when there is no armed struggle, religious hate crimes committed by individuals or groups may feed into racist-based xenophobia (Jurgensmeyer 2017). Race, religion and ethnicity are interlocking phenomena. In the 1990s the Balkan Wars appeared to be isomorphic with internecine hatred of Catholic, Eastern Orthodox and Muslim communities in the region. In the most dramatic political event marking the start of a new century, the fusion of an extremist variant of religion – jihadist terror – when combined with ethnic hatred – of ‘depraved’ Western societies - drove nineteen hijackers in September 2001 to attack four US targets transforming commercial jets into deadly missiles. It is true that the Saudi connection – fifteen were from that country, the remainder from nearby Middle Eastern countries – was less crucial than the religious component of jihad, interpreted in Islamic thought as struggle or striving but in more extremist variants understood as carrying out religious war against infidels, that is, the enemies of Islam. Religious warfare has become intricately linked with racist hatred. Western powers’ repeated bombardment of Islamic states, especially after the end of the Cold War in 1991 when an enemy replacing communism and the USSR had to be constructed, was a case in point. The attack on Iraq in 1991 as the USSR was disintegrating signalled transformed Western military intentions in which the clash of civilizations now loomed large (Huntington 1996).

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Racist framing of targets at the end of the Cold War is just one form used in a larger constellation of fin de siècle othering of adversaries. Let us consider other key explanations that address the intersectionality of race and religion.

THE SEMANTICS OF RACE The origins of the term race date back to the late fourteenth century and only became widely used in the sixteenth century. It did not then have exclusively negative connotations and an even older word, natio, was employed in the Middle Ages to refer pejoratively to foreigners, as was barbarian (Taras 2002). Comparative research on racism sifts through evidence of discrimination that is grounded in the categories of race and racialization. It applies these to such factors as religion, ethnicity, national origins and language (Meer 2014). For French writer Pierre-André Taguieff, racism includes xenophobia, which constitutes a fear of the stranger (Taguieff 2008: 243). As a modern phenomenon, he claims, racism has produced two far-reaching ideological constructs: anti-Negritude and anti-Semitism. Both reflect white supremacy. In this century these two racist ideologies have been joined by Islamophobia (Goldberg 2009). Mike Cole believes that ‘notions of cultural inferiority coexisted with perceptions of biological inferiority’ (2015: 2). Today, ‘biological racism is less acceptable in the mainstream than is cultural racism’ (2). According to Taguieff, anti-Negritude and anti-Semitism share three cognitive processes (Taguieff 2008: 261). First, they advance an essentialist categorization of individuals and groups in which people’s identity is reduced to their community of origin. Second, they insist on symbolic exclusion of particular groups, stigmatizing them and turning their exclusion into an imperative. Third, such racist constructs require the barbarization of others judged inferior and incapable of becoming civilized, educated, assimilable. Taguieff developed a typology of racism functioning on three levels. Primary racism is the most common reaction to the presence of strangers. It can encompass anything from antipathy to aggression. Secondary racism involves reactions to the presence of a stranger and represents rationalized racism. Both xenophobia and ethnocentrism are rationalized predispositions. Tertiary racism builds on the existence of the two other racisms and invokes quasi-biological arguments for the exclusion of strangers (Taguieff 1988). This last form of racism resulted in the unique event that became the Holocaust during the Second World War. Other French writers view racism as ‘typical of the era of “decolonisation”’ (Balibar and Wallerstein 1991: 34). Its defining characteristic is a racism whose dominant theme is not biological heredity but the insurmountability of overcoming cultural differences. It also underscores the incompatibility of lifestyles and traditions of different peoples (21). In similar fashion Polish sociologist Zygmunt Bauman insisted that racism is a strategy of estrangement requiring the offender to be removed from the territory occupied by the group that is offended (Bauman 1993: 65). Over several decades he examined forms of discrimination that resulted from admitting faraway strangers to European countries (Bauman 2004, 2016). Is race still a viable category of classifying people in an age of increasing diversity? Some countries such as Finland, France and Sweden proscribe categorizing people on the basis of race since, allegedly, it is merely a social construct. But in defending the use of the category of race, compelling reasons exist why it can be important. Not least are forms of

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affirmative action, minority setbacks and other methods to level the playing field for the disadvantaged who are discriminated against on the basis of perceived racial attributes. Even when we reject the meaningfulness of race, racism and racialization of people recur; no better example exists than the Implicit Association Test that identifies peoples’ hidden racially grounded biases (Harvard University n.d.). Racism and racialization can take multiple forms: hostile attitudes, insults, threats, hate speech, stereotypes, stigmatization. They include behavioural and societal practices that racialize relations between groups. Racism employs institutions to carry out discriminatory actions. It also comprises ideological discourses that pit one group against another, for example, Aryans and Semites (Taguieff 2008: 244–5). Other criteria can be used to discriminate on racial grounds. For instance, people’s country of origin, socio-economic class and educational achievement can serve as proxy variables or surrogates for racial discrimination. Most importantly for this chapter, racism can implicitly invoke religious bigotry. Increasingly, discriminating on the basis of religious beliefs can have the same effect as racist bias. Two countries, the United States and the United Kingdom, both immigration magnets, have had extensive experience in legislating on questions of race and religion. The European Union as a transnational organization has also passed extensive antidiscriminatory laws. Let us look at these case studies which have regularly served as models for other countries to follow.

LEGAL FRAMEWORKS FOR EXCLUDING AND INCLUDING ‘ALIENS’ How laws against racism have been enacted or not enacted throughout the world represents an unmanageable endeavour. In the case of the United States, it has laid claim to being the ‘First New Nation’ (Lipset 1979). Until recently (Thompson 2018), it has served as a quintessentially immigrant society. Also, until not long ago, it was committed to giving refuge to those fleeing persecution and fear from across the globe (Cepla 2019). Immigration and refugee laws have shaped who can become a resident alien and a US citizen. Both race and religion have been used to include or exclude migrants. In 1902 the Chinese Exclusion Act (first enacted in 1882) was renewed indefinitely. In 1907 Japan was required to limit emigrants to the United States. The 1917 Immigration Act established an ‘Asiatic Barred Zone’ which excluded all immigrants from Asia. In 1922 the Japanese were made ineligible for citizenship, which continued through the Second World War. Immigration regulations from Europe also restricted the intake of Jews fleeing the Holocaust. In sum, non-Christians faced greater challenges to be admitted to the United States. In 1952 a breakthrough occurred when race was eliminated as a bar to immigration and citizenship. Nevertheless, the Immigration and Nationality Act set Japan’s quota at 185 annually, China’s at 105, and other Asian countries at 100. By contrast, northern and western Europe’s quota was set at 85 per cent of the total of all arriving immigrants. Christian religions were again preferred. In 1965 the Hart-Celler Act abolished national origins quotas, that is, those based on ethnic background. Categories of preference were hitherto centred on family ties, needed skills, artistic excellence and refugee status. For a time, then, confessional distinctions played a lesser role.

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A major change occurred after the September 11 terrorist attacks in the United States. The USA Patriot Act amended the Immigration and Nationality Act to broaden the scope of aliens ineligible for admission, or deportable due to terrorist activities, so as to include an alien who: (1) is a representative of a political, social or similar group whose political endorsement of terrorist acts undermines US anti-terrorist efforts; (2) has used a position of prominence to endorse terrorist activity in a way that undermines US anti-terrorist efforts (or the child or spouse of such an alien under specified circumstances); or (3) has been associated with a terrorist organization and intends to engage in threatening activities while in the United States. Who was a terrorist or who was profiled by immigration authorities or the police typically began with Muslim groups. In 2017 President Donald Trump sought to revise the Patriot Act by restricting visas given to members of specific Muslim majority countries. Singling out adversarial states such as Iran, Syria, Somalia, Sudan and Yemen, he implied that religion was an overriding factor in immigration decisions. But after 2017 visa issuances fell for nonMuslim majority countries too, such as Haiti and Venezuela. Trump further promised to build a US-Mexico wall to halt illegal immigration. Addressing the 2012 Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA), nicknamed ‘Dreamers’, which offered temporary reprieve from deportation to about eight hundred thousand unauthorized immigrants who entered the US before the age of sixteen, Trump was determined to close this loophole and return Dreamers home, mainly to Central America from where many had originated. The US population has doubled since 1950 to about 330 million so Trump was determined to reduce it drastically using both race and religion selectively. The United Kingdom, by contrast, had to make a drastic transition from British Empire to Commonwealth to European Union member. In the past the saying ‘there ain’t no Black in the Union Jack’ was largely accurate (Gilroy 1991). As ‘Britannia ruled the waves’ over several centuries, people of African, Caribbean and Asian descent gradually moved to the seat of the empire. In recent decades the country has made progress in showing fairness to migrants of different races and religions. The British Nationality Act of 1948 granted freedom of movement to people living in British Commonwealth territories. Most passport holders were white so the short-term effect was to allow white citizens to move freely between Britain and the old Dominions. Winston Churchill worried nevertheless about an influx of ‘colored workers’ and in 1955 he was behind an election pledge to ‘Keep Britain White’ (Smith 2007). In 1968 the Commonwealth Immigrants Act introduced work vouchers for migrants whose parents or grandparents were not British citizens. This was followed by the Immigration Act of 1971 which repealed the automatic right of Commonwealth citizens to live in the UK but by then many West Indian, Asian and African migrants had settled in Britain (Figure 3.1). Finding housing, employment and educational opportunities for immigrants was difficult. Jamaican dub poet Lynton Kwesi Johnson pronounced how ‘England is a bitch; Der’s no escapin’ it.’ Yet in this period of contestation beginning in the 1960s, a series of UK Race Relations Acts in 1965, 1968 and 1976 were passed. They outlawed all forms of legal discrimination on the basis of race. Enoch Powell’s ‘Rivers of Blood’ speech in 1968 calling for drastic immigration controls, including repatriation to source countries, fell largely on deaf ears. In the 1960s, Labour Party Home Secretary Roy Jenkins emphasized that immigrant integration was ‘not a flattening process of assimilation but equal opportunity accompanied

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FIGURE 3.1  A Muslim teacher in a London school. © Gideon Mendel/Getty Images.

by cultural diversity in an atmosphere of mutual tolerance’ (Adonis and Thomas 2004: 142). These are catch-phrases we would recognize today. The origins of British multiculturalism lie, then, in the influx of post-war immigrants arriving from diverse sending countries. Together with subsequent British-born generations, they are recognized as ethnic and racial minorities meriting state support and differential treatment in order to overcome barriers in their exercise of citizenship (Thomassen 2017). The British government has sought to integrate ethnic and racial minorities into the labour market and into other areas of British society through promoting equal access, that is, equality of opportunity. Far-reaching Race Relations Acts (RRAs) exemplified its commitment to this norm. Thus the 1976 Race Relations Act strengthened state support of race equality by recognizing how indirect discrimination could occur. It imposed a statutory public duty to promote good race relations across public and private institutions. The EU’s 2000 Racial Equality Directive was modelled on the UK’s anti-discrimination legislation. It requires member states having no national legislation on racial discrimination to enact this directive as national law. The directive concerned only race, not nationality or religion, so many plaintiffs contesting citizenship on the basis of religious discrimination did not at first qualify for its judicial remedies. The EU went further in banning other forms of discrimination. The 2000 Employment Equality Directive prohibited discrimination in employment and occupation on grounds of religion and belief, age, disability and sexual orientation. The Equality Act of 2006 extended the injunction to religious forms of discrimination. The Equality Act of 2010 mandated public bodies to tackle not just religiously based discrimination but other kinds: age; race and ethnicity; gender; disability; sexuality; and belief systems. As a result,

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FIGURE 3.2  The First New Nation in 2019: Empowering ‘Women in White’ before the President’s ‘State of the Union’ Speech. © Mandel Ngan/Getty Images.

religious discrimination has reached the same level of protection as racial discrimination (Meer, Dwyer and Modood 2010: 216–31). To be sure, Race Relations Acts have not allowed for positive discrimination or affirmative action as in, say, the United States, which favoured particular racial groups. In legal terms, this presumption in the EU context would have represented discrimination on racial grounds and so would be deemed unlawful. Again we confront shifting variations of race in the United States compared to the EU (Figure 3.2). Have these Acts made a difference in shaping British attitudes towards visible minorities? According to research carried out by five British-based academics, their findings ‘may have serious and neglected implications for social cohesion and disaffection’ (Heath et al. 2013: 12). Some of their findings are worth citing. The major established ethnic minorities surveyed were Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, Black Caribbean and Black African. These minorities had positive views about British political life. Moreover, across generations there was evidence of convergence with British norms and less ethnic bonding with one’s own group (Heath et al. 2013: 28, 53–4). When asked if non-whites were held back by prejudice, being Black was a factor: 58 per cent of Black Caribbean and 53 per cent of Black African persons of immigrant origin agreed that they suffered prejudice. The proportions were smaller among Pakistani, Indian and Bangladeshi respondents (Heath et al. 2013: 115). Were people from immigrant communities satisfied with British democracy? Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi and Black Africans expressed support for democracy in the 73–7 per cent range. White British were more sceptical: 59 per cent. But Black Caribbean (52 per cent) and those with mixed Black/white background (47 per cent) were most critical of the functioning of democracy (Heath et al. 2013: 198). No clear association between race, religion and support for democracy was established.

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Public perceptions of overlap between racial categories and religious practices – most notably found in the Western world between Brown and Muslim – touch on sensitive issues. As one example, in his 2019 election campaign Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau was lambasted for wearing brownface make-up at a 2001 ‘Arabian Nights’ high school party where he taught. Less noteworthy were white Western political leaders who, consciously or not, associated brown skin with Muslim religion, helping create phobia of the two.

RACIALIZATION, RELIGION AND SECULARISM Some groups are racialized, in other words, they are attributed a racial category which they do not necessarily identify with or may simply not be theirs. Sri Lankan theorist of race Ambalavener Sivanandan regards the new xenophobia emerging in Europe as bearing the marks of old racism but without its genetic underpinnings. It is therefore ‘xeno’ insofar as ‘It is a racism that is meted out to impoverished strangers even if they are white. It is xeno-racism’ (Sivanandan 1989: 85–90). Such xeno-racism can be colour-blind in paradoxical ways: ‘Racism never stands still. It changes shape, size, contours, purpose, function, with changes in the economy, the social structure, the system and, above all, the challenges, the resistances, to that system’ (Sivanandran 2002). A key example of what Sivanandran terms xeno-racism is xenophobic attitudes towards migrants from other EU states, mainly from central and eastern Europe. Poland had sent close to one million citizens to live in the UK since EU enlargement in 2004. These eastern Europeans are treated as a xeno-racist target even though they are white, physically indistinguishable from their hosts and overwhelmingly Christian. Europe’s efforts to construct exclusionary zones where outsiders are required to seek admission into ‘Fortress Europe’ are illustrated by the Schengen system. It is not a wall and is not coterminous with the EU, but it does possess a privileged white aspect to it. Norway, Iceland, Switzerland and Lichtenstein have joined EU states which have ‘abolished their internal borders for the free and unrestricted movement of people, in harmony with common rules for controlling external borders and fighting criminality by strengthening the common judicial system and police cooperation’ (Schengen Area 2019) (Figure 3.3). For some observers, Schengen has the semblance of a ‘Christian Union’ mooted centuries ago by Charlemagne, Alexander I of Russia, and resuscitated by the EU’s founding fathers. One EU Commission President to champion this notion was Romano Prodi at the turn of the twenty-first century. Discussion of a Christian union ceased when EU leaders became conscious of growing immigration-based diversity resulting from differing religious and racial backgrounds. Indeed, some critics attacked the nomination of Ursula von der Leyen as Commission President in 2019 for creating a portfolio titled ‘Protecting the European Way of Life’. For some it invoked racial and religious stereotypes of what Europe is and what it is not. The EU treaty of 2004 had acknowledged the part played by religion. It was ‘drawing inspiration from the cultural, religious and humanist inheritance of Europe, from which have developed the universal values of the inviolable and inalienable rights of the human person, freedom, democracy, equality and the rule of law’ (‘Preamble’ 2004). This phrasing was retained in the Lisbon Treaty of 2008.

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FIGURE 3.3  Noblesse oblige: ‘Inclusive’ Europe, Others excluded? © Christopher Furlong/ Getty Images.

Article 17 on the functioning of the European Union complemented the Preamble, asserting that: (1) the Union respects and does not prejudice the status under national law of churches and religious associations or communities in the Member States; (2) the Union equally respects the status under national law of philosophical and non-confessional organizations; and (3) Recognizing their identity and their specific contribution, the Union shall maintain an open, transparent and regular dialogue with these churches and organizations (McCrae 2009). Distinguishing the sacred from the profane is a time-honoured preoccupation of observers of religious behaviour. Anthropologist Ruth Benedict observed that ‘The striking fact about … [the] plain distinction between the religious and the non-religious in actual ethnographic recording is that it needs so little recasting in its transfer from one society to another’ (1938: 628–9). The dichotomy between what is Caesar’s and what is God’s is, then, nearly universally applicable. For an Israeli scholar ‘religion per se rarely serves as a basis for nationhood, unless it is a national religion, that is, unique to a people and therefore far more defining of its identity’ (Gat 2012: 311). The greater salience religion has played in the culture of a people, the more it defines it compared to ethnicity, language or race. Shared religion is likely to be a stickier marker of identity, then, than language since people speak more languages than religions. They clasp onto religious convictions more fervently than linguistic preferences. William Safran argued that religion is the traditional bedrock of the nation; indeed, the two are inextricably linked: ‘The ethnonation has much in common with religion. Both have a shared ideology, celebrate common festivals, hold shared symbols, acknowledge

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common saints, and are associated with a community. In short, the ethnonation is a secularized religion’ (Safran 2008: 173). The secular-religious binary is a familiar cleavage in many societies. Secularism may maximize the neutrality of the state and can serve as an antidote to religious bigotry. By contrast, religiosity is often regarded as the root cause of conflict. In Western societies more than non-Western ones, the key cleavage is between secular and religious beliefs. Already in the eighteenth century, European societies regarded Islam not as a spiritual competitor with Christianity – they were not regarded as being on a level playing field – than as a religious threat to secular institutions. Secularism – restricting religious beliefs to the private sphere so they do not challenge what is Caesar’s  – is unacceptable dogma to, for instance, Islam, which regards proselytization as normal activity. The clash between secularism and unrestricted religious freedom which does not distinguish between God and Caesar is seen in Quebec’s 2019 secularism law. This requires religious symbols not to be displayed in most of the public sector. Safran regarded modern democratic states as ones we associate with pluralism of religions, even with secularism. But as he concluded, ‘Some religions are the harbingers of democracy and progress, whereas others are not’ (Safran 2003: 1–2).

NEGRITUDE As we have seen, the notion of race is contested. For W. E. B. Du Bois, a US sociologist and civil rights activist, ‘no scientific definition of race is possible’ since ‘Race would seem to be a dynamic and not a static conception’ (Appiah 1985: 23). The erasure of race makes sense if we accept that it is socially constructed. Yet serious problems can emerge with the erasure of race. Frantz Fanon (1994) contended that Blackness and whiteness are not just attributes of the human body, they are internalized in the psyche of human beings. Postmodern writers have underscored the postracial character of Blackness. Its origins were the post-Second World War focus on racelessness. Non-racialism of the anti-apartheid movement in South Africa had become enshrined in its 1955 Freedom Charter, which stated: ‘South Africa belongs to all who live in it, black and white.’ Its founding principles are that the people shall govern; all national groups shall have equal rights; and the people shall share in the country’s wealth (The Freedom Charter 1955). Further momentum was created by the colour blindness of part of the 1960s US civil rights movement. In Africa, Aimé Césaire and Léopold Sédar Senghor launched the idea of négritude, an essentialist affirmation of Black identity closely connected to culture and religion. Césaire believed that the need to rise out of poverty required colonized subaltern people to exploit labour opportunities available in Africa (Césaire 1972: 8). Negritude is seen as the sine qua non of creativity and self-expression because it is based on a community of culture, history, temperament and, at times, religion. Senghor (1977), a long-time Senegalese political leader, promoted fusion between Black Africans and Europeans. He ‘disparaged independence as an “iron collar” and argued that federalism would herald a new era in which both Africans and Europeans would become full human beings, dispensing with the hierarchies that had divided them’ (Younis 2017: 27). Such federalism, Senghor implied, would also breach religious divides. Senghor’s ideas are partly captured in Jean-Paul Sartre’s concept of anti-racist racism. Elaborated in Orphée noir (1948: MR, VI, 1), Sartre asserted that ‘Negritude is the

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antithesis, the weak beat of a dialectical progression, a moment of negativity in counter response to the thesis of white supremacy and exists only to destroy itself, finally, once the goal of a society without races is achieved’ (Jeanpierre 1965: 870). A markedly different conception of liberation followed the end of apartheid and the emergence of Black-majority rule in South Africa. In 1994, as the country was holding its first democratic elections, Nelson Mandela revisited key passages of the 1955 Freedom Charter: ‘We enter into a covenant that we shall build the society in which all South Africans, both Black and White, will be able to walk tall. A Rainbow Nation at peace with itself and the world’ (1994). Race may have disappeared from some countries’ law books but racialization has not vanished with it. In 2016 a South African report noted how ‘the scars of apartheid – racial profiling, race-based discrimination and their continuing impact in a range of sectors, the triple discrimination experienced by African women, and gender inequality in broad terms; the accentuating of ethnicity, poor education access, joblessness and inadequate wages for labor’ (Pandor 2015). In the case of South Africa, religion played a secondary role. Focusing on xenophobia and growing Black-on-Black violence in South Africa, many explanations have been advanced: fear of loss of jobs, of losing women and wives, of underemployment, of losing out on lucrative work in gold mines. One overlooked cause are spiritual beliefs connected to a type of religious practice – sorcery. Cultural anthropologist Jason Hickel believed that people have drawn evocative connections between their ideas about foreigners and their ideas about witchcraft. The misfortune of poverty, joblessness and inability to marry is, in the minds of believers in sorcery and witchcraft, the product not of chance but of human subjects who exhibit morally dubious behaviour. ‘Just like witches, immigrants are said to participate in forms of accumulation that are considered immoral and anti-social, enriching themselves at the expense of others’ (Hickel 2014: 108–9). In KwaZulu-Natal, the most powerful witches are thought to be foreign ones: ‘witches from places like Mozambique bring exotic herbs that South African healers do not know about, and therefore cannot counteract’ (Hickel 2014: 112). The figure of the stranger in society serves as the ideal neoliberal subject: individualized, kinless, uprooted, cheap, flexible, enterprising, maximizing, risk-taking. Residents in KwaZulu-Natal reject this kind of personhood because it is cultureless, unstable and destructive. In the United States, President Barack Obama may have represented the model liberal figure in a multicultural society. He embodied what it meant ‘to be young, gifted and Black’ (Hansberry 1996). But being young and Black – and many today add female too – can be a triple whammy. The school of intersectionality highlights such interlocking oppressions (Crenshaw 2019). The United States is exceptional for the high degree of physical separation that occurs between Blacks and whites. Social class explains much of this separation, religious denomination less. However, historically Black Christian denominations (such as the Baptists) have had little in common with white Evangelical Protestants so that religion can serve as an intervening factor. Separation goes beyond physicality and affects behaviour. Ta-Nehisi Coates observed how ‘African Americans typically raise their children to protect themselves against a presumed hostility from white teachers, white police officers, white supervisors, and white co-workers’ (2017a).

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Blacks are usually residentially segregated from whites in the United States compared to their counterparts in western Europe. Rates of Black–white intermarriage are lower in the United States than in countries such as Britain, France and the Netherlands. It is not only those categorized as Black who are seen through the prism of colour-coded racism (Gilliam 2002). Defensive about racism, President Obama implored Black audiences to be mainstream: ‘a standard portion of Obama’s speeches about race riffed on black people’s need to turn off the television, stop eating junk food, and stop blaming white people for their problems’ (Coates 2017a). Racial roles appeared to change when a Black president was inaugurated in January 2009. Coates noted how ‘The symbolic power of Barack Obama’s presidency – that whiteness was no longer strong enough to prevent peons taking up residence in the castle – assaulted the most deeply rooted notions of white supremacy and instilled fear in its adherents and beneficiaries’ (2017b). Coates conjectured how Obama turned one of America’s greatest fears into reality. Referring to Reconstruction-era Black politicians, he cited Du Bois: ‘If there was one thing South Carolina feared more than bad Negro government, it was good Negro government’ (Coates 2017b). That was what Obama valued. But that was also what Donald Trump, his successor, vehemently disputed.

ANTI-SEMITISM Religious bigotry and a racist element are combined in two major forms of hatred today: anti-Semitism and Islamophobia. Discrimination against Jews is much older because Judaism first appeared as early as the ninth century bce; Islam dates back to Prophet Mohammed in the seventh century ce. Some Christian theologians (dating after 33 ce) made use of biblical explanations to construct religious hierarchies juxtaposing whiteness and Blackness. In the Book of Genesis (9:18–27), they referred to how Canaan, son of Ham, was punished by being subjected to servitude and Blackness. Racism is older than the Bible. The lengthy history of anti-Semitism has spanned many countries and has been studied by many academic fields. Historians, psychologists and cultural theorists have shed light on why the Holocaust happened (Figure 3.4). Some, but not all, of the triggers inciting antipathy towards Jews underlie hostility towards Muslims. A pioneering historian of the Holocaust, Raul Hilberg, probed beyond anti-Semitic perpetrators in order to identify the part played by bystanders. He included helpers and givers, gainers, and onlookers and observers – what we may call witnesses. Hilberg also described messengers who reported on annihilation of the Jews. Their influence on events, though minimal when compared to perpetrators, was cloaked in ambiguity, as in this example: ‘Polish peasants gestured to Jews on their way to Treblinka that their throats would be cut. And that is where they left it, between a warning and a taunt’ (Hilberg 1993: 216). Anti-Semitism has often involved political conspiracies. The publication of The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, published in tsarist Russia in 1903 and disseminated worldwide, was purportedly based on a late nineteenth-century gathering where Jewish leaders discussed the objective of establishing global Jewish domination. Among other

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FIGURE 3.4  Synagogue near Tel-Aviv smeared with Nazi grafitti. © Uriel Sinai/Getty Images.

things, they planned to take control of the press and the world’s economies. These allegations proved to be forgeries – fake news of the 1890s. France is sometimes regarded as anti-Semitic. The government witch hunt against Colonel Alfred Dreyfus, a French-Jewish artillery officer convicted in 1894 of treason, was countered by many French intellectuals who came to his support; he was exonerated in 1906. An intriguing survey by the National Consultative Commission for Human Rights (Commission Nationale Consultative des Droits de L’Homme [CNCDH] 2017: 316–18) asked French respondents to evaluate targets of racism. Eighty-two per cent agreed that the insult ‘dirty Black’ – a racist statement – ought to be condemned by French courts. Seventy-eight per cent said that about ‘dirty Jew’ – a religious construction. And 69 per cent felt that the slur ‘dirty Arab’ – combining race and religion – was actionable. French respondents were most sensitive to the feelings of Black people, therefore, but Jews were in the mix despite having deeper French historic roots. There are many reasons why representations of the Holocaust remain important. One major textbook argues that ‘Representations are the documents, testimonies, photographs, memoirs, novels, interviews, dramas, artworks, films, monuments, and other symbolic depictions, created at the time and after the fact, whose subject matter is the Holocaust’ (Magilow and Silverman 2019: 1). Most important is that such representations create empathy with Jewish victims. The authors claim that ‘in showing audiences the horrific evidence of crimes that had clearly occurred, Nazi Concentration Camps pushed the bar for how people understood and visualized what had happened, and in doing so became a foundational influence on the subsequent presentation and reception of Holocaust representations’ (Magilow and Silverman 2019: 42).

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In 2018 a special issue of the American Historical Review was devoted to rethinking anti-Semitism. Its purpose was to challenge scholars ‘to reflect on the concepts, epistemologies, narratives, methodologies, and theories’ that shape this field. Jonathan Judaken questioned whether periodization of the phenomenon was clear and narratives about its uniqueness convincing (Judaken 2018: 1138). Anti-Semitism is regarded as the longest hatred. It is coupled with recurring historic abandonment of the Jews by their different neighbours. Judeophobic discourses can generally be divided into five framing models: stereotypes, prejudices, discrimination, racialization and killing. In sum, race and racialization of Jews allow anti-Semitic practices to persist

ISLAMOPHOBIA In 1986 a prescient observation by Safran suggested that ‘the old Jew-hatred, based on phobias about the excessive Judaization (Verjudung) of French or German society, is now often supplanted by a phobia and hatred of Muslims’ (1986: 109). Forms of antiSemitism are today transposed to Islam and create various articulations of Islamophobia. Differences in the ethnic backgrounds of Muslims become an important factor explaining why some Muslim believers are discriminated against and others not (Figure 3.5). Political conspiracies played a role in stimulating Islamophobia. Bat Ye’or’s book Eurabia (2005) purportedly traced Muslim efforts to dominate Europe following the major oil crisis of 1973. According to the author, Europe’s dhimmitude, or humiliation, was demonstrated by the arrival of millions of Muslims in Europe after that event as a result of a tacit bargain struck between Europe and Arab states to exchange Arab oil for Muslim migrants.

FIGURE 3.5  Even in Switzerland – Woman in burqa; minarets resembling missiles; the rare, square Swiss flag. © Fabrice Coffrini/Getty Images.

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Safran’s seminal study of Muslim immigrants to France and Germany noted how this Muslim ‘return’ to Europe was glossed over: ‘the Islamic aspect of these immigrants has been widely ignored. The typical French study of immigrants devotes little if any attention to religion; similarly, studies and government policies in West Germany convey the impression that Islam is not particularly relevant to the Turkish immigrant problem’ (1986: 100). Safran charged policy makers in the two countries of taking a cavalier approach to recognizing the Muslim fact in Europe (Safran 1986: 101). In France political leaders assumed that ‘Islamic or any other religious consciousness is artificial, temporary, and in the long run irrelevant, and that the Arab identity of Maghrebi immigrants can somehow be politically and analytically divorced from their Islamic identity.’ Germany was misled by ‘the myth of return’ (Heimkehrillusion), which pointed to the temporary nature of the Islamic presence. Specialists on Islam warn about conflating religion with culture. Mahmood Mamdani identified a flaw when religion and culture are viewed as a common foundation upon which political structures emerge: ‘By assuming that every culture has a tangible essence that defines it and explaining politics as the consequence of that essence, a civilization like Islam is reduced to a uniform universal fundamentalist paradigm’ (2004: 22). Olivier Roy (2009b), a French expert on Islam, attempted to decouple Muslim religion from Islamic culture and ethnicity. ‘Religions are more and more disconnected from the cultures in which they have been embedded. Immigration and secularization have separated cultural and religious markers.’ What is more, ‘To identify a religion with an ethnic culture is to ascribe to each believer a culture and/or an ethnic identity that he or she does not necessarily feel comfortable with’ (Roy 2009a: 8–9). Roy’s benchmark for the existence of Islamophobia was discrimination against Muslims qua religious community, not migrant group, foreign speakers or non-European peoples. If Sharia law is considered a key aspect of Islam, then Islamophobia will emphasize how: (1) governments are based strictly on religion; (2) science takes second place to religious doctrine; (3) there is no separation between Church and state; (4) Islam and religion, which are inseparable, must be taught in schools; (5) women enjoy fewer rights than men; and (6) LGBT people will be persecuted. These are Islamophobic assertions. Such Islamophobic discourse has been voiced by social liberals in the West to highlight how European and Muslim norms are so different. To be sure, Sharia law can be applied in matters of marriage, divorce and other customary practices. It can mould Islam to take on European features. But the intensity and pervasiveness of Islamophobic rhetoric indicate that Roy’s distinction confining Islamophobia to anti-religious discourse may not hold water. Thus, in the aftermath of Europe’s migration crisis of 2015, religious affiliation proved to be the strongest predictor of public attitudes towards Syrian refugees (Esipova and Ray 2017). Those identifying as Muslim were least likely to say that their countries should not accept Syrian refugees (36 per cent). But among Protestants (57 per cent), Orthodox (54 per cent) and Catholics (53 per cent) respondents were more reluctant to admit Syrian refugees (Esipova and Ray 2017). Data from a longitudinal study of civil wars point to greater political violence and war proneness in Muslim states (Toft 2007: 115). Of 191 states in the United Nations, only twenty-five (13 per cent) regarded Islam as the state religion. Twenty-seven more (14 per cent) had an Islamic orientation, giving preferential treatment to Islam over other religions. Yet if approximately one-quarter of states could therefore be described as Muslim, incumbent governments and rebels identifying with Islam took part in thirtyfour (81 per cent) of forty-two religious civil wars fought between 1940 and 2000.

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The author of this study (Toft 2007: 107) cited the benign effects of secularism in the West as reducing wars there while multiplying them in Muslim states. In addition, Islam’s holy sites are located in some of the world’s largest oil-producing countries, thereby dragging Muslim countries into international competition over fossil fuels. Lastly, a structural explanation was advanced: the concept of jihad, or struggle against nonbelievers, fuelled conflict. Framing Muslim immigrant communities residing in Western countries as backward because of their religiosity is unusual even in the process of Orientalizing the East (Said 1979). Nevertheless, they have become widespread, whether seeking to understand systematic attacks against the Uyghurs of China and the Rohinga in Myanmar, or lone wolf killings in Christchurch and Quebec.

INDIGENOUS PEOPLES In a comparative textbook on race, British academic Mike Cole summarizes his analysis of three Anglo-Saxon countries: ‘While all three have been settled for thousands and thousands of years, the United Kingdom has no identifiable indigenous population whereas the United States and Australia still have sizeable, and on the whole highly visible, racialized indigenous minorities’ (2015: 194). Spirituality, animism and shamanism play a much greater part in the life of Indigenous peoples than organized religions. Because they are thought to worship false gods, they are seen as alien, not fitting in with monotheistic religions, whether the ‘People of the Book’ – Christians, Jews, Muslims – or other great belief systems – Hindus, Buddhists, Zoroastrians, Confucians. The conflation of race and religion make it nearly impossible to pinpoint hostility towards these communities (Figure 3.6).

FIGURE 3.6  Indigenous protests in Bolivia over the removal of a president, 2019. © Ronaldo Schemidt/Getty Images.

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Indigenous communities came into conflict with settlers over land rights. Yet for centuries they had occupied lands, in some cases for at least twenty thousand years (Rutherford 2017). In Australia many territories were deemed terra nullius, that is, legally considered to be unoccupied or uninhabited. Elsewhere the so-called ‘doctrine of discovery’ entitled settlers to these lands. This logic was used to justify colonialism across the world. The result was a rise in political tensions, racial and ethnic schisms, recourse to violence and social disruption. Indigenous peoples also suffered atrocious casualty rates from contact with diseases brought over from foreign lands (Churchill 2001). Indigenous groups should belong to a country by birthright. More often than not, however, their socio-economic status is lower than settlers and even recent immigrants. For long periods when settler societies governed, they were marginalized from politics, economic development and cultural affirmation. Settlers did not take various Indigenous societies understood as ‘first inhabitants’, ‘first peoples’ and ‘first nations’ seriously. Whether because of differing belief systems, racial features, economic status or contestation, discrimination against such communities has many sources. In their different spiritualties, Aboriginal peoples believe that the land, lakes, rivers, rocks, forests, fauna and flora belong to them. Many of these entities are thought to have souls or spirits. Early inhabitants are identifiable partly by descent and partly by distinctive features: language, way of life, hunting-and-gathering skills, animism. They are susceptible, then, to racism. Sylvia McAdam has described the cultural and spiritual pathways of the nêhiyaw (Cree) person: ‘nêhiyaw history is written in the lands and waters. It’s in the pictographs, petroglyphs, rock markings, in the ghost dance bundles, sacred sites, and the final resting places of Indigenous peoples’ (McAdam 2016: 11). The practice of smudging – lighting up sweetgrass or sage – is vital: ‘The smoke clears the mind and prayers are carried to the spirit keepers or to the Creator’ (11). Above all else, ‘Indigenous people lived by sustainable, environmentally guided laws. We didn’t drive lands into destruction’ (11). Pointing to the crisis of climate change, another Indigenous writer argues how in ecological terms ‘First Nations are Canadians’ last best hope of saving the lands, waters, plants and animals for our future generations’ (Palmater 2015). Thomas King, author of The Inconvenient Indian, describes the long history of dispossession of Indigenous peoples by settler communities in North America:

The Lakota didn’t want Europeans in the Black Hills, but Whites wanted the gold that was there. The Cherokee didn’t want to move from Georgia to Indian Territory (Oklahoma), but Whites wanted the land. The Cree of Quebec weren’t at all keen on vacating their homes to make way for the Great Whale project, but there’s excellent money in hydroelectric power. The California Indians did not asked to be enslaved by the Franciscans and forced to build that order’s missions. (King 2018)

PREVENTING GENOCIDE: RACE AND RELIGION The most heinous racist crimes against nations are named genocide. To be sure, much debate has taken place about when to categorize a crime as racist or on other instances when perpetrators seek to decimate an entire community of people.

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If the community of people is primarily defined by and limited to a belief system or faith, then genocide applies regardless of whether racism is invoked. The fine line between racism, religious hatred and Kulturkrieg – war on a culture – remains legally unclear. Defining genocide as physical and/or biological destruction rather than cultural and/ or political extermination may appear arbitrary. A practical reason for excluding cultural genocide has been that it would allow the many colonized groups to advance claims of genocide against the primarily European colonizers. According to Mark LeVine and Eric Cheyfitz (2017), ‘Many wars and conflicts across human history have involved mass violence against whole populations that, today, would unambiguously be described as genocidal.’ This included the eighth-century Lushan Rebellion in China and the Mongol conquest of Eurasia beginning in the thirteenth century. By today’s population measurements, each involved the massacre of the equivalent of hundreds of millions. Efforts to prevent killings of races and nations were successfully carried out by the Peace of Westphalia in 1648. In particular, it guaranteed rights for religious minorities: cuius regio, eius religio, that is, ‘whose realm, his religion’. It was much later when ‘The rights of national, ethnic and religious groups evolved into a doctrine of humanitarian intervention which was invoked to justify military activity on certain occasions in the nineteenth century’ (Schabas 2000: 15). The legal framework anticipating the introduction of genocide was initiated during the First World War when Allied powers identified ‘crimes against humanity’ conducted by Ottoman massacres of Armenians in 1915. The Ukraine famine of 1932–3 (called the Holomodor) resulted in casualty estimates ranging from 3.3 million to 7.5 million. According to The Black Book of Communism (a nine-hundred-page volume documenting communist atrocities), ninety-four million deaths were attributed to communist governments that combined the USSR, China and satellite states throughout the world. The ideological motive was to contrast this to ‘just’ the 25 million victims of Nazism. Stéphane Courtois et al. highlighted how ‘The ‘genocide of a “class” may well be tantamount to the genocide of a “race” – the deliberate starvation of a child of a Ukrainian kulak as a result of the famine caused by Stalin’s regime “is equal to” the starvation of a Jewish child in the Warsaw ghetto as a result of the famine caused by the Nazi regime’ (1999: 92). Only international courts could determine whether class extermination was equal to racial genocide, and that has not yet been decided. A Polish-Jewish lawyer, Raphael Lemkin, took up the genocide argument in 1933 with what he tentatively called the ‘Crime of Barbarity’: mass murder seeking to destroy a nation and obliterate its cultural personality based on ‘racial, national or religious considerations’ (Lemkin 1946: 227–30). After fleeing Poland for the United States, in 1943 he introduced the concept of genocide and elaborated on its full meaning in 1946 (227–30). As special adviser on foreign affairs to the US War Department, Lemkin described the ‘mass obliteration of nationhoods’, the ‘murder and destruction of millions’, the ‘destruction demographically and culturally’ of populations who were victims of the Second World War. The key element was ‘the criminal intent to kill or destroy all the members of such a group’. It ‘shows premeditation and deliberation and a state of systematic criminality which is only an aggravated circumstance for the punishment’ (Lemkin 1946: 227–30). That was what the Shoah, or Holocaust, had entailed.

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Lemkin listed the various objectives of genocide: ‘disintegration of the political and social institutions, of culture, language, national feelings, religion, and the economic existence of national groups, and the destruction of the personal security, liberty, health, dignity, and even the lives of the individuals belonging to such groups’ (Lemkin 1946: 227–30). Shortly after Lemkin’s article was published, Resolution 96(1) of the United Nations General Assembly officially declared that genocide represented ‘a denial of the right to existence of entire human groups’. Articles 2 and 3 added that genocide comprises both ‘mental’ and ‘physical’ elements. It was defined as the ‘intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group, as such’. It included acts of killing, causing serious bodily or mental harm, deliberately inflicting on a group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part, imposing measures intended to prevent births, and/or forcibly transferring children outside the victimized group (United Nations General Assembly 1948). Additional refinements of the crime of genocide followed. The International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination (1965) asserted that racial discrimination signifies ‘any distinction, exclusion, restriction or preference based on race, color, descent, or national or ethnic origin’. But it also disputes the very category of race: ‘any doctrine of superiority based on racial differentiation is scientifically false, morally condemnable, socially unjust and dangerous, and that there is no justification for racial discrimination, in theory or in practice, anywhere’ (Office of the High Commissioner, United Nations Human Rights 1965). The Convention added that it was ‘Alarmed by manifestations of racial discrimination still in evidence in some areas of the world and by governmental policies based on racial superiority or hatred, such as policies of apartheid, segregation or separation’ (Office of the High Commissioner, United Nations Human Rights 1965). For legal experts, the ‘scale of atrocities committed’ and the clear intent by perpetrators to ‘destroy at least a substantial part of the protected group’ largely determines whether genocide has occurred. Millions of people have been slaughtered due to race, religion, ethnicity and class. Close to 1.8 million Cambodians were killed by their own government from 1975 to 1979. Up to a million Tutsis were slaughtered by Hutus in a hundredday period in 1994. But ‘perpetrators’ were also hunted down and many Hutus fled the country. The overall death toll in Central Africa’s wars of the 1990s may be up to five million deaths. Winston Churchill called genocide ‘the crime without a name’. Schabas terms it ‘the crime of crimes’ (2000: 10); legal rulings are why ‘the Genocide Convention has been asked to bear a burden for which it was never intended, essentially because of the relatively underdeveloped state of international law dealing with accountability for human rights violations’ (10). Whether race actually exists when genocidal acts occur, whether groups become targets because of their religion or their ethnicity may be scholastic points compared to the commissioning of mass killings by rulers and rebels.

CONCLUSION Religious and spiritual schisms remain a salient feature of global fractiousness. When superimposed on racialized rifts, they can be especially vicious. Even before the end of the

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Cold War in 1991, religious divisions created polarization: the Northern Ireland Troubles beginning in the late 1960s and the establishment of an independent Bangladesh in 1971 signalled the persistent relevance of confessional and communal violence. Primordial factors, such as race and ethnicity, seem as important as ascriptive ones, for instance religion, belief system and emotions (Moïsi 2010), in measuring conflict proneness of societies. But whenever peoples’ racial or religiously anchored identities are questioned, atavistic responses may result. Persistent, sophisticated political socialization techniques can be an effective remedy to hold these in check.

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CHAPTER FOUR

Race and Science 1920–Present GARLAND E. ALLEN AND ALAN TEMPLETON

INTRODUCTION In 1946 the newly formed (1945) United Nations Educational Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) was asked to take up and examine long-standing claims about the innate inequality of human races. A committee was formed consisting of a number of internationally prominent social scientists, including Ashley Montagu (1905–99), a student of Columbia University anthropologist Franz Boas (1858–1942). Montagu was also the principal author of the Committee’s draft report, issued in 1950. The general conclusions were: (1) there was no evidence for any necessary relationship between the common notion of ‘race’ and any innate or inborn intellectual, social or mental capacities; (2) that interbreeding between so-called racial groups did not lead to any form of human degeneration; (3) that ‘race was less a biological fact than a social myth’; and (4) that all humans are united as one species, called ‘the Brotherhood of Man’. The report was then circulated to a number of scientists, including physical anthropologists, geneticists and evolutionary biologists (one of whom was Julian S. Huxley [1887–1975], the first Director of UNESCO and an outspoken critic for many years of biological theories of race). While there was considerable sympathy for the general thrust of the report, the consensus was that more input from biologists was needed, particularly specialists in genetics and evolution. Some also thought the report should back away from the claim that there are no innate biological differences between various human groups, but state only that there was no biological evidence to support such claims. As a result of this input, a second committee was formed, which included geneticist Leslie C. Dunn (1893–1974), author of Heredity, Race and Society (1946); British zoologist Solly Zuckerman (1904– 93), a specialist on primate behaviour; evolutionary biologists Theodosius Dobzhansky (1900–75), author of Genetics and the Origin of Species (1937); and John Burdon Sanderson Haldane (1892–1964), like Dobzhansky, a major architect of the synthesis between Mendelian genetics and Darwinian theory in the 1930s and 1940s. The Second Statement on Race was published in 1951 and reflected the changes in the composition of the Committee from anthropologists and sociologists to geneticists and

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evolutionary biologists. Montagu chaired the new Committee, but it was the geneticist L. C. Dunn who wrote the report. The new version emphasized that while genetic differences did exist among human racial groups, these did not map onto any particular mental, cultural or ethnic classifications. The Report also pointed out that genetic variation within any one geographic group (West Africans, East Africans, northern Europeans, etc) was greater than between any two (or more) of these populations. Human populations were described more in terms of their geographic localizations and variations than in abstract and essentialist ‘racial types’. These conclusions reflected the position accepted by most population geneticists, particularly with regard to the claimed innate difference in mental capacity of the traditional racial groups. The second Report stated clearly that although IQ scores for non-literate people are lower than those who are literate, there is no evidence showing this is due to an innate capacity for emotional or intellectual development. This chapter will trace how the science of genetics was involved in debates on the nature of race and racism from the 1920s to the present. We begin at a time when the eugenics movement was in its heyday in terms of both its theoretical development and its major social and political successes; we end with recent attempts to invoke molecular genetics in support of new claims for a significant biological basis for racial distinctions. Even as the older eugenics movement was being declared to be a bogus science after the Second World War, would-be biologists, anthropologists and psychologists were applying new arguments, from psychology, evolutionary biology and molecular genetics to the ‘race question’. These all reinforced the popular view that significant biological differences existed between races (and even between males and females in their social abilities and roles). These newer claims, like the older ones, emphasized that scientific evidence about racial differences, especially in cognitive function, have had an important bearing on a variety of educational and social policies (for example school bussing or immigration in the United States).

EUGENICS: ORIGINS AND DEVELOPMENT The term eugenics, derived from the Greek ευγενής (eugenes) was first coined by English mathematician and geographer Francis Galton (1822–1911), a scion of the eminent Wedgewood family and Charles Darwin’s half-cousin. In his book Inquiries into Human Faculty and Its Development (1883) eugenics refers to one born ‘good’ in stock, hereditarily endowed with noble qualities (Galton 1883: 24). Eugenics was considered to be the human counterpart of scientific animal and plant breeding. Galton laid out all the dimensions that came to characterize eugenics as an ideology and social/political movement during the first half of the twentieth century. These included: (1) adherence to the methods of selective breeding as applied to the improvement of the human species; (2) a strong belief in the power of heredity in determining physical, physiological and mental (including personality) traits; (3) an inherent ethnocentrism and racism that included belief in the inferiority of some human racial or ethnic groups and superiority of others; and (4) belief in the power of science, rationally employed, to control our destiny as a civilization, including finding solutions to perennial social problems. It took some time after Galton first propounded the idea of eugenics for organizations and activities to arise and become a significant social and political force. Eugenics

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developed in a variety of national contexts with a wide range of ideological and political programmes (Adams 1990b). The earliest eugenics movements were founded in Germany in 1904, Britain in 1907 and the United States from 1904 to 1910. Other eugenics movements appeared around the world shortly thereafter: in western Europe between 1910 and 1920: France, Spain, Hungary, the Scandinavian countries, Russia, Latin America (Cuba, Brazil, Mexico), Canada, Africa (particularly South Africa) and Asia (China and Japan). While eugenics clearly originated in western and northern Europe in its modern form, that is, viewed as a branch of genetics, its spread around the globe gave it an international flavour from the start that retained some common core of scientific and political beliefs, while still developing local variations.

Methods of research in eugenics Unlike biologists who studied genetics in laboratory organisms such as mice, guinea pigs or fruit flies, eugenicists could not experimentally breed human beings in a controlled way. They thus had to resort to other means of investigating human heredity; the two most important included statistical or biometrical analysis and constructing family pedigrees. The biometrical method, initiated by Galton, was extended mathematically by his protégé Karl Pearson (1857–1935) at University College London. One of the basic means of biometrical analysis involved comparing measurements of given traits (for example stature) between parents and offspring, or between siblings and other close relatives. From these measurements it was possible to calculate correlation coefficients for the trait in the groups being compared (Table 4.1). Correlation coefficients of 0.5 or higher suggested that some component of the trait was determined by heredity: the higher the correlation coefficient the great contribution to the overall trait was attributed to heredity. Biometrics was thus a statistical, population approach to the study of heredity, and as such it could say nothing about heredity in an individual mating or family. To deal with inheritance in individual family lines, it was necessary to take a Mendelian approach, that is, to construct family pedigree charts for a given trait (for example redgreen colour-blindness, hemophilia, polydactyly, i.e. extra digits) as they recurred through multiple generations. The standard method involved collecting information on a specific trait in a given family line and arranging that information into a pedigree chart. The pattern of recurrence could provide information about whether the trait was inherited in a Mendelian fashion, and if so, whether it was a dominant, recessive or co-dominant Table 4.1  Fertility in Various Social Groups

Fertility in ‘Pathological Stocks’

Number of Children

Deaf mutes (Britain)

6.2

Tubercular stock

5.7

Insane stock

6.0

Degenerates (Edinburgh)

6.1

Fertility in Normal Stocks

Number of Children

English educated class

4.7

Harvard graduates

2.0

English intellectuals

1.5

Source: Adapted from Pearl (1908: 9822), who in turn based his work on Pearson.

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(incomplete dominance), sex-linked or not sex-linked and so on. Using this method, eugenicists tried to show that many traits – physical, physiological (such as A-B-O blood groups) or mental/psychological (e.g. ‘feeblemindedness’ or manic depression) – were also inherited in a Mendelian fashion. Ultimately the traits of greatest interest to eugenicists were the mental and social-psychological ones, including pauperism, alcoholism, feeblemindedness, manic depression, moral degeneracy, aggression and even such vague traits as nomadism (the tendency to wander) or ‘immorality’. The pedigree method was promoted by Charles B. Davenport (1866–1944), a Harvard-educated biologist who had worked with Galton and Pearson, bringing their enthusiasm for eugenics back to the United States shortly after 1900 (Davenport was often referred to as the ‘Dean’ of American eugenics). A committed Mendelian, Davenport thought that most physical or mental traits could be shown to follow simple Mendelian inheritance, what was known as the ‘unit-character’ concept, that is, every trait was controlled by one Mendelian factor, or what was called later, a ‘gene’. For example, Davenport even claimed that thalassophilia, or love of the sea, was a version of nomadism, a sex-linked Mendelian recessive because it ran in the families of major American navy personnel (Davenport 1919). One of the classic pedigree studies of the period was The Kallikak Family: A Study in the Heredity of Feeblemindedness (1912) by Henry H. Goddard (1866–1957) (Zenderland 1998). A major American psychologist, progressive reformer and author of legislation in 1911 that provided special education for hearing- and visually-impaired children, Goddard was the Director of Research at the Vineland Training School for Feeble-Minded Girls and Boys in Vineland, New Jersey. Goddard was interested in the inheritance of mental traits, particularly retardation or what was called at the time ‘feeblemindedness’. It was his work, using the then-new IQ tests, that established three separate categories of mental retardation: ‘Moron’ (IQ 50–69), ‘Imbecile’ (mental age between four and seven years) and ‘Idiot’ (mental age three years or below). Early on Goddard became convinced that mental traits (including high mental ability as well as deficiency) were inherited, and he set out to demonstrate this with the Kallikak and other family studies. In the Kallikak pedigree there were two family lines originating from a single progenitor, Martin Kallikak, a young recruit during the Revolutionary War. During that time, he fathered a child with what Goddard described as a ‘feeble-minded tavern girl’ (Goddard’s phrase). The child, Martin Jr, was considered ‘feebleminded’ (and was nicknamed ‘Old Horror’). His descendants included a large number of mentally retarded people, criminals and other social undesirables. After the war Martin returned home and married a respectable Quaker woman, with whom he fathered seven upstanding children. Goddard concluded that feeblemindedness was inherited, in this case coming through the female lineage, and he proceeded to analyse the inheritance of the trait as if it were a simple Mendelian ‘unit character’ (Goddard 1912: 109–12; Zenderland 1998: 171). Good ‘Progressive’ that he was,1 Goddard quickly pointed out that the perpetuation of such social misfits and undesirables cost taxpayers hundreds of thousands of dollars over the years, expenses ranging from the costs of incarceration to the social havoc they created when on the loose in society. The solution seemed obvious: prevent the feebleminded and other socially undesirables from reproducing, either by strict incarceration or by surgical intervention, that is, sterilization. Goddard favoured the latter, since his experience as an asylum director had shown that segregation had never proven successful in reducing birth rate among institutionalized inmates. Several problems made it difficult to interpret eugenic family study data such as Goddard’s with any confidence: one was defining such broad behavioural and mental

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traits (what is an ‘alcoholic’ or a ‘criminal’ or a ‘feebleminded’ person?). Another was the difficulty in obtaining accurate information about the occurrence of the trait in particular individuals, especially those from earlier generations who were deceased or unavailable for inspection. A third problem was that of statistical error in analysis of pedigrees, since humans have small numbers of offspring, and the appearance or lack of appearance of a trait in any generation could simply be a result of reproductive chance, that is, which sperm fertilizes which egg. Finally, there was the fact that families share cultural, lifestyle (including dietary) as well as biological inheritance, making it difficult to separate biological from cultural influences, that is, the problem of distinguishing the effects of ‘nature’ from those of ‘nurture’. However, such problems did not deter eugenicists from stating their alarm about what they saw as the increase in supposedly genetic deterioration of the present human population, or in proposing practical programmes to counteract it. Eugenics research in other countries followed similar trajectories as those in Britain and the United States, though with some variation. For example, in France, a strong tradition of neo-Lamarckism, with its emphasis on inheritance of acquired characteristics, led eugenicists to propose a variety of environmental solutions, such as maternal health care (during pregnancy) and ‘puericulture’ or scientific attention to children’s diets, exercise and a variety of public health measures. This is not to say that French eugenicists claimed no role for genetics, or biological heredity, but following the neo-Lamarckian logic, to improve environmental conditions would eventually improve the germ plasm and in the long run achieve a genetically superior population. Being a largely Catholic country also made eugenics practices in France such as abortion or sterilization (i.e. any practice limiting birth) problematic as a solution to the apparent increase in social and economic problems. In Germany and Scandinavia eugenics research followed the United States and British approaches, using both biometrical and family-pedigree methods. Wilhelm Weinberg (1862–1937), for example, the Stuttgart physician who independently formulated what became known as the Hardy-Weinberg genetic equilibrium model, an essential foundation concept in statistical analysis of genetics at the population level, came to the concept while pursuing eugenics family studies in twins. The German and Scandinavian movements were based strongly on what has been termed notions of ‘hard heredity’ (i.e. that most mental and moral attributes are rigidly determined by genes at conception) and supported these conclusions with basic concepts of Mendelian genetics. While the ideology of Nordic and Aryan superiority that later characterized German eugenics was present in both movements, it represented only one strand, and not always the most prominent strand in eugenic thought prior to the ascendancy of the National Socialists in Germany in 1933. Ideologues of the German movement, such as Fritz Lenz (1887–1976) and Eugen Fischer (1874–1967) believed in racial purity, and when that concept became a cornerstone of the Nazi regime, their eugenic pronouncements after 1933 became openly racist and pro-Nordic (Weiss 2010b). The notion that ‘pure races’ – that is, groups or populations that had never had admixture of genes with other populations – was one of the ‘myths’ of race that persisted through much of the genetic rhetoric of the 1920s and 1930s. More than in Britain and the United States, eugenics in Germany had an anthropological orientation alongside its more strictly genetic side. Studies of cranial capacity and other anthropometric measurements were carried out in the nineteenth century, and in the early twentieth century by researchers such as Eugen Fischer who pioneered family and twin studies in a Mendelian context. Fischer’s 1906 studies on the ‘Rehoboth Bastards’

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(interracial offspring between Dutch and German soldiers and local women) in German South West Africa (Namibia), one of the country’s major colonial outposts, concluded that such ‘cross-breeds’ were, in the long run, harmful for the ‘Aryan’ people and should be prevented from breeding. In the next thirty years, the strong tradition of German anthropology, in conjunction with genetic data from pedigree studies, had a profound influence on German eugenics, especially under the Nazi regime. Fischer, who also had an international reputation as both a geneticist and eugenicist became one of the most well known of the German racial hygienists, analogous to Davenport in the United States.

Political activities and consequences of eugenic thinking In terms of social programmes and political legislation, activists and the eugenics organizations that generally stood behind them, achieved some major successes, especially in the United States, during the interwar years (1919–39). These took several forms: passage or strengthening of already existing anti-miscegenation laws, compulsory eugenic sterilization laws based on genetic analysis and anti-immigration laws based on assessment of ‘genetic worth’ of whole populations from supposedly degenerate national and geographic areas (central and eastern Europe, the Mediterranean Basin, including the Balkans, Slavs and Jews). Compulsory (involuntary) sterilization laws were passed in over thirty states in the United States by the mid-1930s (the first such law was passed in Indiana in 1907). Following suit, compulsory sterilization laws were enacted in Denmark in 1919, Norway in 1934 and Sweden and Finland in 1935. The rates of sterilization varied considerably in those countries: for example, between 1907 and the post-war period (roughly the 1960s) in the United States some 65,000 people were sterilized (Robitscher 1973) while between 1935 and the 1960s Sweden sterilized over 62,000 people – an astonishing figure for a country whose total population at the time was less than seven million (Roll-Hanson 1996: 263). By contrast, in Norway 44,000 were sterilized under the country’s 1934 law, but how many were truly coerced without their consent remains unclear. A key argument for eugenic sterilization was economic: it would save the state millions if defective children were never born and did not have to be cared for with recourse to public funds. The existence of significant eugenics movements in other European and non-AngloSaxon contexts has been largely ignored by historians of science until quite recently (Adams 1990b; Stepan 1991; Turda 2014, 2015; Paul, Stenhouse and Spencer 2018). Most eugenics movements in Asia, Africa and Latin America developed in a colonial context and thus were offshoots of various European (and to some extent American) movements. In Latin America, for example, eugenics movements reflected those in France and other European countries, and thus devoted more attention to child welfare, maternal health and infectious disease than to genetics alone (Stepan 1990: 110). But eugenics was also discussed vigorously at various Latin American scientific and public health conferences, as well as being the focus of two specific pan-American conferences focused on eugenics itself (Cuba in 1927 and Argentina in 1934). Given the complex mixture of racial groups in various Latin American countries such as Brazil, the ‘race question’ was more complex for eugenicists to deal with, though for those of European (Spanish in particular) descent the question of ‘race suicide’ still remained important. Eugenics in Australia and South Africa, on the other hand, was tied closely to the British movement and, as would be expected in the latter case, served to reinforce apartheid (Singh 2008; Paul, Stenhaus and Spencer 2018). Eugenics in China, especially with the Rockefeller-funded programmes in medical education, reflected primarily the movement

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in the United States (Haas 1996; Dikotter 1998) and was closely identified with the movement for ‘modernization’ promoted by a new, but small, Chinese middle class, many of whose members had studied medicine or science in the United States or Britain. Although eugenic ideas and the various movements associated with them became widespread in Europe, Britain and the United States in the interwar years (1920s and 1930s) there were critical voices raised at the time, from both scientists and nonscientists alike. Non-scientists included British novelist Gilbert K. Chesterton (1874– 1936), American journalist and critic H. L. Mencken (1880–1956) and some religious organizations (especially the Catholic Church). Most such criticisms were based on moral and ethical grounds, especially focused around sterilization. Many lay people also challenged the racism and anti-Semitism embedded in eugenic claims about genetically inferior and superior groups. By 1932 and the Third International Congress of Eugenics, held in New York at the American Museum of Natural History, the eugenics movement was beginning to lose its popular as well as scientific hold. The Depression had not only cut back financial support, but it had also made visible the dramatic effects of socio-economic factors on human lives. Destitute families lining up at soup kitchens had not had a change in their genetic make-up after 1929. In addition, it was becoming clear that eugenicists’ scientific research methods were falling way behind advances in genetics itself. In this context, the extreme racism of the Nazi era, made all the more horrifying by the post-war revelations of the extermination camps, may have put the final nail in the old eugenic movement’s coffin. The Nüremberg Doctors’ Trials made it clear just how far ethical concerns were ignored in the supposed pursuit of ‘science’ and in the drive for ‘racial purity’. Eugenic-style thinking, especially in the notion of a biological basis for human behaviour in general and racial typing in particular, did not die out, as we will see in subsequent sections of this chapter, though its pseudoscientific basis and focus changed by the 1960s and 1970s with the reliance on statistics and especially molecular biology to prop up its racial claims. The UNESCO resolutions reflected attempts to cut off the hydra’s old racist head, but new ones were ready to spring forth as the century moved on.

THE POST-WAR YEARS, 1945–70 Calm and the gathering storm The period from 1945 to the early 1960s was one of relative calm and adjustment for both Europeans and North Americans to peacetime conditions and a return to civilian life. This period was also one of a relative increase in prosperity in the United States and western Europe. Even though the Cold War was emerging as a major new set of tensions between East and West, generating two wars in succession – Korea and Vietnam – it is interesting to note that in this period there were few theories of a biological basis for racial differences that gained any large following. Association of such ideas with Nazi eugenics may be one reason, but increasing prosperity and apparent social stability, especially in the United States, may be another. When, for example, in 1961, so prestigious a scientist as Dwight J. Ingle (1907–78), University of Chicago endocrinologist and Member of the National Academy of Sciences, claimed that ‘there are reasons for thinking that racial differences in intelligence may be real’, and thus that school desegregation was ‘neither scientifically sound nor morally right’, there was no large-scale reaction, either pro or con (Tucker 1996: 155). But as social turmoil re-emerged with the rise of the civil rights movement

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in the United States, and the anti-war movement in both the United States and Europe, two more specific genetic claims about a biological basis for racial differences, Carlton Coon’s anthropological argument, presented in his 1962 book The Origin of Races (Coon 1962), and educational psychologist Arthur Jensen’s article ‘How Much Can we Boost I.Q.’ (1969), emerged on the scientific scene. Coon’s argument was based on anthropological evidence asserting that the early hominid species, Homo erectus, had initially divided into five subspecies (‘races’) that evolved at different rates into Homo sapiens. In this scenario, the European branch evolved first, with the African lineage still lagging behind and thus retaining its more primitive characteristics. While Coon admitted that some gene flow might have occurred between the five subspecies of Homo erectus, accounting for their similar evolution into Homo sapiens, he did not give that mechanism much credence. The book was not well received. The field of anthropology was moving rapidly away from theories of racial typology (i.e. that racial types were distinct and that traits in each such populations were uniformly applicable to all members of the race). Coon’s peers in both anthropology and evolutionary biology rejected The Origin of Races as supporting racist ideas with outmoded theory, inconsistent with current research in population genetics and with research in physical anthropology, all of which recognized continual mixing of gene pools as humans evolved. No instance of separate, genetically isolated subspecies of one species evolving into the same new species at different rates had ever been recorded in evolutionary history. One of Coon’s harshest critics, evolutionary biologist Theodosius Dobzhansky (1900–75), scorned it as providing grist for racist mills. Coon’s claims soon vanished from the public as well as the scientific arena.

Arthur Jensen: Race and IQ (1969–80) While Coon’s arguments were eventually relegated to the dustbin of racist theories, just a few years later a new theory, based on statistical arguments from psychology and population genetics, gathered considerably more support, and provoked a critical uproar. In 1969, Arthur Jensen, Professor of Educational Psychology at the University of California, Berkeley, published a hundred-page article in the Harvard Educational Review, analysing the persistent difference in the distribution of IQ scores between whites and Blacks in the United States (Jensen 1969). One attempt to rectify such a gap, the government, under President Lyndon Johnson’s ‘Great Society Initiative’, had promoted a number of supplemental school programmes to provide extra support for underserved (mostly Black) children. One of the best known of those programmes was Head Start, which provided school breakfasts, lunches and extra tutoring to pre-kindergarten students. Jensen’s paper was designed to answer the question stated in his title: ‘How Much can we Boost IQ and Scholastic Achievement?’ (Jensen 1969). The conclusion occurred in the opening paragraph: ‘Compensatory education [i.e. Head Start] has been tried and has apparently failed’ (Jensen 1969: 1). The rest of the paper attempted to show why this was the case. Jensen’s argument consisted of several claims, each of which was highly controversial in its own right. (1) Intelligence is what IQ tests measure; it can be identified by a general factor, g, which is common to all human populations; and (2) adopting the statistical method known as ‘heritability’, Jensen set out to show that IQ scores of Black and white populations had remained relatively constant over a number of years despite changed environmental opportunities such as Head Start. This continuing difference was consistent with Jensen’s claim that the difference was due to genetic rather than environmental factors.

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The problem with Jensen’s genetic argument was ‘heritability’ (symbolized as h2). Based on the recognition that every trait is the product of an interaction between hereditary and environmental factors, heritability is a means of estimating the percentage contribution to any trait by each of these factors. It is useful in situations when largescale Mendelian breeding results are either not available or impractical to carry out (as in breeding large mammals with long reproductive cycles and few offspring at a time). Heritability estimates are based on the analysis of variance (ANOVA) within a given population (for example, a herd of cattle in an enclosed pasture or a field of corn). Once the range of variation is determined for a trait of interest, it is then necessary to know the range of environments that the population encounters. The more uniform the environment, the more accurate the estimation of heritability will be. To determine heritability values, however, the data on variance in the population are not enough. One more kind of evidence is required: phenotypic correlations between relatives within the breeding population. For example, between parents and offspring, between siblings, first cousins, second cousins and so on. Using these data, it then becomes possible to arrive at an estimate of the hereditary vs environmental contributions to a phenotype in a particular population. Because the genetic contribution is always some fraction of the total contribution to the phenotype, it is expressed as a value between 0.0 (no heritable effect) and 1.0 (all of the phenotypic variation is due to genetic variation), as in Jensen’s claim that the heritability of performance on IQ tests is 0.8, or 80 per cent heritable – obviously, a significant value. It is important to keep in mind that heritability does not refer to a given trait in general but only to a trait in the specific population from which the measurements were taken. Heritability is, then, an extrapolation from phenotypic correlations to genotypic correlations. It cannot be overemphasized that heritability values are only meaningful in the context of the populations from which they are taken. Because every population will have different environments, even if they may appear to be very similar, values calculated from one population cannot be applied to another population. For the estimate of genetic contribution to the distribution of phenotypes to be valid, the population must be ‘closed’, that is, all mating occurs within the population, with no migration between populations. Since heritability is a statistical statement about a population, it is also important to keep in mind that it does not say anything about single individuals within that population. Thus, even if Jensen’s calculation of the heritability of IQ is 0.8, it does not mean that for any individual in that population, 80 per cent of their IQ score is determined by genetic factors and 20 per cent by environmental factors. The other important feature to keep in mind about the concept of heritability is that, despite the term, it does not mean ‘inherited’. It is only an estimate of how much phenotypic variation might be correlated with genotypic variation. Since no genes, or even groups of genes for many of the traits quantitative geneticists usually work with are known, especially something like intelligence, it is very important not to assume that a high heritability means most of the trait is genetic. Ironically, if a trait in a population shows no variance (for example all organisms in the population have brown eyes) the heritability of brown eyes would be 0.0, despite the fact that breeding data has shown eye colour to be totally genetic. Moreover, because heritability in humans is measured from phenotypic correlations between relatives, most autosomal, recessive genetic diseases due to rare alleles have a heritability near zero because the parents are typically healthy heterozygote carriers whereas their affected offspring are homozygotes for the disease allele. Given these strictures, it is more than likely that Jensen and others who maintain

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high heritability values for traits in humans, knew the term would be interpreted by most readers not familiar with statistics, as meaning that heritability = inherited.

Response to Jensen’s claims Although few people actually read Jensen’s paper with all its statistical convolutions, within a year or so his ideas gained considerable publicity. Much of the early attention came from critical biologists – particularly population geneticists and evolutionary biologists, such as Richard Lewontin (1929–) and Stephen Jay Gould (1941–2002). These scientists criticized Jensen’s misuse of statistics and reliance on standard IQ tests as an assessment of any such abstract quality as g. Lewontin went on the public attack almost immediately, publishing a criticism of Jensen’s work in the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists in 1970 (Lewontin 1970). Others, including psychologists Leon Kamin (1927–2017) at Princeton (Kamin 1974), Jerry Hirsch (1922–2008) at the University of Illinois (Hirsch 1975) and the indefatigable Ashley Montagu (Montagu 1975), soon added their criticisms. Most of these criticisms by scientists quite naturally focused on the methodological and statistical errors they saw in the work. But they also commented at various lengths on the inherent racism in Jensen’s study and the political and social consequences of developing educational and other social policies based on the claims that heritability meant that IQ was not only genetically determined but also fixed at an early age, and could not be substantially changed by education or other environmental inputs in later life. Scientific criticism hinged on a number of methodological issues. Among the most important were Jensen’s uncritical reliance on standard IQ tests as measuring something reified and innate like a general factor for intelligence (g), and then to claim it is innate and fixed in human development. IQ tests had long been criticized for being culturally bound, as their application to new immigrants and others during the formative years of the IQ testing movement (1910–40) had shown (Allen and Futterman 1981; Allen 1995). Similarly, the tautology of Jensen’s definition of intelligence (‘Intelligence is what I.Q. tests measure’) was a matter of much concern: if there was no agreed-upon and outside means of defining a trait (such as ‘intelligence’) it was impossible to do any serious study of its genetic basis or transmission. Far more criticism was directed at Jensen’s use of heritability. Lewontin and others familiar with the statistics, pointed out that granting that Jensen did understand the technicalities of heritability, he nonetheless violated one of its major strictures: that of comparing heritability in two separate populations. It did not take much scholarly experience to know that Black children and white children in the United States did not share the same environments. Moreover, components of the environment that might be involved in affecting performance on IQ tests are so many and so varied, that any attempt to tease them apart, much less determine their effects on different genotypes is impossible with any degree of rigour. By treating the two populations typologically – namely as monolithic groups (how dark does a person’s skin have to be to be considered Black, and how light does a person’s skin have to be to be considered white?) – Jensen obscured the facts that 11 per cent of the Black population scored IQs above the mean for whites, and 18 per cent of whites scored below the mean for Blacks (and, of course, nothing is known about the skin colour or background of any of the individuals in either overlap group). To jump from such imprecise data to the far-reaching conclusions Jensen proposed that then shaped educational and other policies led Lewontin and others to reject the idea that race and IQ are biologically related in any way. Jensen had his own high-profile supporters as well as critics. Harvard psychologist Richard J. Herrnstein (1930–94) penned a popular and highly influential exposition of

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Jensen’s claims in the Atlantic Monthly (Herrnstein 1971), which later also re-emerged in his book The Bell Curve, co-authored with Harvard political scientist Charles Murray (1943–) (Herrnstein and Murray 1994). The Bell Curve took Jensen’s idea to its logical extreme, claiming that social stratification was the result, ultimately, of differences in IQ. Another of Jensen’s supporters was physicist William Shockley (1910–89) at Stanford, winner of the 1956 Nobel Prize in Physics for his invention of the transistor. Though he did not publish much on the IQ issue, Shockley toured the country speaking to large, and often contentious, audiences in support of Jensen’s work. Across the Atlantic, British psychologist Hans J. Eysenck (1916–97) became one of Jensen’s most vocal and controversial supporters. Like Jensen himself and his other supporters, Eysenck had long propounded a biological determinist view of human personality and behaviour (Eysenck 1971). It was his pronouncements on such issues that made him such a controversial supporter of Jensen in the public eye.

The outcome The IQ issue stirred up a considerable amount of controversy and friction in academic and political circles as well, both in the United States and Europe. It is obvious that Jensen’s conclusions about the inability of compensatory education programmes to boost IQ touched a very sensitive nerve. Coming as the IQ controversy did in the midst of the US civil rights movement and the school bussing controversy, Jensen’s ideas about racial differences in IQ seemed both racist and callously pessimistic. Herrnstein explicitly spelled out the consequences of accepting Jensen’s findings for educational policy: the false belief in human equality leads to rigid, inflexible expectations, often doomed to frustration, thence to anger and a strong demand for civil rights. Herrnstein goes on to say: ‘we should be trying to mold our institutions around the inescapable limitations and varieties of human ability’ (quoted in Daniels 1973: 24–5). What better interpretation of the limits of human abilities than to root them in the genes. It provides an easy political solution that maintains the status quo. And indeed, that is clearly what many, including President Richard Nixon himself, sought to do. However, the genetic determinists, holding high the Jensen banner, did not completely win the day. Thanks to the persistence of civil rights groups, and activist scientists who made public their critiques of Jensenism and other biological determinist ideas, programmes aimed at furthering integration (such as Head Start and school bussing) did manage to make many gains (to be sure, with numerous, sometimes violent clashes along the way). Other theories of a biological deterministic nature did re-emerge in the 1980s and 1990s (the most widely known one was ‘Sociobiology’) but none ever attracted as much public attention in the post-war years as the race and IQ issue.

THE ERA OF MOLECULAR GENETICS AND GENOMICS: 1970–PRESENT Starting in the late 1960s, molecular genetic technologies were developed for surveying genetic variation in humans and other species, more recently including sequencing nearly complete genomes (the full set of genetic information passed on through a gamete) and scoring millions of genetic markers scattered throughout the genome to map the genomic locations of genetic variants associated with trait variation. Scientists can use these new technologies to address the reality of ‘race’ in an objective, quantifiable manner that was

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impossible at the time of the 1950 and 1951 UNESCO statements. We therefore turn our attention to the impact of modern molecular genetics and genomics upon the meaning of ‘race’.

‘Race’ and molecular genetics and genomics ‘Race’ certainly exists as a cultural classification in many human societies, but do subspecies, the preferred biological nomenclature, exist within the human species? The two UNESCO declarations indicated that there are no subspecies in humans, but we can now re-evaluate that claim in light of modern molecular genetics and genomics. Traditionally, a subspecies is a geographically contiguous population within a species that has sharp geographic boundaries with respect to features that distinguish its members from the remainder of the species. Traditional subspecies documented geographic variation within species based primarily on morphological characters (Braby, Eastwood and Murray 2012). One popular quantitative definition based on molecular genetics is to regard populations as subspecies if their level of genetic differentiation across a sharp geographic boundary is at least 25–30 per cent of the total genetic variation (Smith, Chiszar and Montanucci 1997). Genetic differentiation is usually measured by a pairwise fst. The pairwise fst specifically measures how much of the genetic variation found in two populations is due to interpopulation allele frequency differences. A geographically contiguous population with sharp geographic boundaries that differs from all other populations in the species by pairwise fst’s ≥ 0.25 is regarded as a subspecies. For example, Gonder et al. (2011) genetically surveyed four traditional, morphological subspecies of our evolutionary sister species, the common chimpanzee (Pan troglodytes). Two of the named subspecies satisfy the fst threshold criterion and have sharp geographical boundaries, but two other named subspecies were well below the fst threshold and do not have sharp geographical boundaries with each other. Instead, this pair shows continuously increasing fst’s with increasing geographic distances. Hence, there are three chimpanzee subspecies under this molecular genetic definition, not four (Templeton 2013). We now apply the identical criteria and type of genetic survey to humans, as shown in Figure 4.1 (Ramachandran et al. 2005). Not a single pair of human populations reaches the 0.25 threshold in Figure 4.1, much less the requirement that a subspecies must reach

FIGURE 4.1  Graph showing pairwise fst compared to geographic distance between populations. © Alan Templeton (modified from Ramachandran et al. 2005).

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this threshold for all other populations in the species. Moreover, the pairwise fst’s increase smoothly with increasing geographic distance with no sharp discontinuities. Hence, by exactly the same criteria that result in three subspecies in the common chimpanzee, there are no subspecies in humans. The threshold definition of subspecies is easy to implement with genetic and geographic data, but it does have serious deficiencies. First, there are many measures of genetic differentiation in addition to fst, a measure that can sometimes result in less apparent differentiation than other measures (Edwards 2003; Long and Kittles 2003). However, even other measures of genetic distance lead to the conclusion of the non-existence of subspecies in humans (Long 2009; Long and Kittles 2009). Second, the quantitative threshold of pairwise fst’s ≥ 0.25 is somewhat arbitrary. Therefore, many biologists prefer qualitative definitions. One qualitative definition of subspecies is equating it to an ecotype – a group of individuals sharing one or more adaptations to an environment. Pigliucci and Kaplan (2003) argue that human races are best regarded as ecotypes. For example, sickle-cell is a single locus genetic trait associated with the S allele for the gene coding for the betachain of hemoglobin. Sickle cell has both medical (individuals homozygous for the S allele often suffer from severe anemia) and adaptive significance (individuals heterozygous for the S allele have increased resistance to malaria, a major source of human mortality). We can therefore define a human ecotype in terms of adaptation to malaria. However, this example reveals the serious deficiencies of the ecotype definition. Populations with a high frequency of the sickle-cell allele are widely scattered in Africa, Mediterranean Europe, the Near and Middle East, and India. These populations do not define a geographically contiguous population, much less a single population with sharp geographic borders. A non-contiguous distribution violates a required property of a subspecies. This pattern is commonplace for ecotypes in humans: high altitude adaptation occurs in Tibet, Ethiopia and the Andes, including parallel adaptation at the genetic level (Azad et al. 2017); adaptation to consuming dairy products occurs in East Africans and northern Europeans (Segurel and Bon 2017). In all cases, the adaptive alleles follow the distribution of the environmental variable responsible for natural selection and do not define cohesive, contiguous populations with sharp geographic borders. Moreover, the distributions of different adaptive polymorphisms are not congruent, so each adaptive trait would define a different set of incompatible ecotypes/racial categories. For example, subSaharan populations with a high frequency of the sickle-cell allele are not congruent with sub-Saharan populations with a high frequency of high-altitude adaptive alleles or subSaharan populations with lactose tolerance. Other adaptive polymorphisms have a clinal distribution, as exemplified by the most commonly used phenotype for ‘racial’ classification – skin colour. Skin colour is selected in part for protection from damage caused by UV radiation versus the need to have some UV radiation penetrate the skin for vitamin D synthesis. The intensity of UV radiation varies with absolute latitude, and skin colour also varies continuously along latitudinal gradients. The genetic basis of skin colour is known in detail, and Tiosano et al. (2016) discovered a coadapted complex of skin colour genes along with the Vitamin D Receptor gene that defines a continuous cline with absolute latitude. Not only is skin-colour variation clinal and without sharp geographic borders, it is also discordant with other adaptive polymorphisms, such as sickle cell. Moreover, because this gradient follows latitude and not geographic distance, Melanesians and equatorial Africans have nearly identical skin colours despite having a large pairwise fst because they live on other sides

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of the world (see Figure 4.1). Ecotypes do not define biological races based on objective criteria but rather only identify locally adaptive polymorphisms and clines. Another qualitative definition is to define subspecies as separate evolutionary lineages within a species. This definition can be objectively implemented through a rigorous hypothesis-testing procedure known as multi-locus nested clade phylogeographic analysis, or MLNCPA (Templeton 2002, 2005). MLNCPA is applied to samples from current populations and requires haplotype data on those portions of the genome that display little or no recombination. Evolutionary history is most clearly recorded in regions of no to little recombination, and the genetic variation in such regions can be ordered into an evolutionary tree called a haplotype tree. It is critical to note that haplotype trees are trees of specific genomic regions and not populations. Coalescent theory, a branch of population genetics theory that looks backwards in time, indicates that much information about population history is contained in haplotype trees (Templeton 2018). MLNCPA looks at series of nested branches (clades) of these haplotype trees and tests for statistically significant geographic associations to reject the null hypothesis of a single, panmictic evolutionary lineage. If the null hypothesis is rejected, then coalescent theory is used to identify possible causes of rejection. Subspecies are inferred when the null hypothesis is rejected because of fragmentation events in which an ancestral population is split into two or more subpopulations that experience little to no subsequent gene flow or admixture, allowing them to diverge as evolutionary lineages. Computer simulations indicate that MLNCPA has great statistical power in identifying fragmentation (Templeton 2009b) yet has very low false-positive rates for inferring fragmentation (Panchal and Beaumont 2010). Figure 4.2 shows the results of MLNCPA (Templeton 2002, 2005, 2013). Many significant events are detected over the past two million years, but not a single, significant fragmentation event. Hence, the null hypothesis of a single evolutionary lineage for all humans is accepted; that is, there is no evidence for subspecies. Figure 4.2 also illustrates that MLNCPA can test the null hypothesis of isolation (little to no gene flow or admixture) between different geographic regions (Templeton 2009a). The failure to reject the null hypothesis of isolation indicates the acceptance of more than one evolutionary lineage. After around 650,000 years ago, the null hypothesis of isolation is consistently rejected for all major geographic regions (Figure 4.2), indicating that there has been only one human lineage since at least the mid-Pleistocene. Regardless of the null hypothesis being tested with MLNCPA, the inference is that all humanity consists of a single evolutionary lineage since at least the mid-Pleistocene. Ancient DNA studies confirm these inferences by showing that there was much admixture, dispersal and gene flow among ancient human populations (Ackermann, Mackay and Arnold 2015). Because samples of ancient DNA become more abundant as we near the present, ancient DNA has given much insight into human evolution over the last few tens of thousands of years – a time interval not well covered by MLNCPA whose resolution depends upon the slower process of mutational accumulation in regions of no to low recombination. Studies in this time interval have revealed that human populations are geographically dynamic, with frequent movements followed by admixture and with much genetic interchange (Wong et al. 2017; Fregel et al. 2018; Lazaridis 2018). Such studies undermine the idea of ‘purity’ of current human populations. The evidence from modern molecular genetics and genomics strongly indicates that all modern humans represent a single evolutionary lineage with no subspecies. Humans have much genetic variation among individuals coupled with a small amount

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FIGURE 4.2  Human evolution over the past two million years as reconstructed from twentyfive genomic regions using MLNCPA. Modified from Templeton (2018). Text indicates all statistically significant inferences, with the genomic regions supporting them. Vertical lines interconnecting small circles indicate populations inhabiting a geographic region through time. Thick arrows indicate population expansion events, with their estimated times and 95 per cent confidence intervals shown to the left of the thick arrows. For the latter two outof-Africa expansions, significant admixture was inferred with Eurasians, so the vertical lines of geographic continuity are not broken. Within the last fifty thousand years, additional expansion-with-admixture and colonization events were detected. The null hypothesis of isolation between the major geographic regions is rejected after the mid-Pleistocene expansion, indicated by diagonal lines of gene flow interconnecting the vertical lines. © Alan Templeton.

of genetic differentiation between geographic regions due mostly to isolation by distance (Figure 4.1). Local adaptation also contributes to some genetic differentiation between geographic regions, with each adaptive trait having a unique distribution that follows the environmental variable inducing natural selection. Shared genetic variation gives the human species much adaptive potential, and the potential responsiveness to natural

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selection has been increasing with the transition to a modern demography (Moorad 2013; Bolund et al. 2015). Modern society and medicine has weakened selection for many alleles that are adaptive to infectious diseases but that have deleterious pleiotropic effects, resulting in a detectable decrease in the frequency of deleterious disease genes in the human gene pool (Berens, Cooper and Lachance 2017). Hence, modern genetics and genomics undercut the main assumptions of eugenics and reveal that there are no biological races within humanity.

CONCLUSION Attempts to find evidence for the inheritance of many human characteristics, including personality and mental traits from the early days of Mendelian genetics to the use of molecular genetic methods (including genomic sequencing) to try and differentiate between discrete human groupings that fit into the traditional social groups called ‘races’ have all failed. Human geographical groups do not differentiate into clear lineages as shown by comparison to the much more clearly identified subspecies found in our nearest primate relative, the chimpanzees (genus Pan). Molecular data suggests that the Hominid line evolved with continual interbreeding between various geographical groups from at least the mid-Pleistocene. Our evolutionary patterns look much more like a trellis (as shown in Figure 4.2) than the evolutionary ‘trees’ we see so often in other species with true subspecies. Thus, there is no evidence of ‘racial’ groupings in humans and no basis whatsoever for ranking human groups into ‘higher’ or ‘lower’ groups, and no biological basis for discrimination or racism. To understand where the common views about racial distinctions, and racism in particular, have originated, we must look to the economic, social and political history of Western society. For hundreds, even thousands of years, racial distinctions have played a major role in governing human society, especially through the economic exploitation of one group over another. These divisions have been based on skin colour, hair type and other superficial traits that are only skin deep (literally) and have obscured the underlying genetic similarity that unites us all. Biology has all too often been used to support claims of traditional racial groupings. To date all have failed.

CHAPTER FIVE

Race and Politics Colonial Blueprint, Historical Exceptionalism and Global Connections MANUELA BOATCĂ

At first sight, race and politics have never been more closely intertwined than in the twentieth century. Prominent examples of race turned politics – namely, the institutionalization of racial thinking at the level of state policy – are usually the apartheid regime in South Africa from at least 1948 through 1994 or racial segregation in the United States until at least the passing of the Civil Rights Act in 1964. By far the most prominent among such examples are the racial laws under National Socialism in Germany during the 1930s and 1940s. However, as early as 1955 in his Discourse on Colonialism, Martinican writer and politician Aimé Césaire pointed out that Nazism only differed from other national politics in Europe by ‘having applied to Europe colonialist procedures which until then had been applied only to non-European peoples’ ([1955] 2001: 36). Césaire was thus among the first, but by no means the only scholar to draw attention to the long history of racial politics both in Europe and worldwide, and its roots in Western colonial politics reaching back long before the twentieth century. This view would be echoed by academics in the Global South as well as the Global North – from Frantz Fanon through Jean-Paul Sartre to Hannah Arendt – who addressed the many continuities and parallels between European colonial rule and latter-day racial politics in the metropoles. At the same time, historians and sociologists alike have rightfully cautioned against assuming a simplistic and unbroken continuity between colonial racial politics and the racial project of Nazi Germany in particular – and, in general, against mistaking parallels for causation (Kössler 2005; Melber 2011; Keim 2014). With this proviso in mind, the present chapter will examine the relationship between race and politics in the twentieth century with particular attention on the German case, while pointing to some of the clearest and most immediate connections to racial politics under colonialism and their current legacies worldwide.

THE COLONIAL CRUCIBLE: POLITICS OF RACE IN THE MAKING Germany’s colonial history has for a long time been treated at home and abroad as insignificant in scale and duration when compared to that of other European states. It is

I thank Wiebke Keim, Reinhard Kößler and Santiago Slabodsky for their generous comments and inspiring suggestions on previous versions of this chapter. All remaining errors are, of course, my own.

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hardly taught in German schools and much less discussed than the country’s Nazi past. Nevertheless, between hosting the 1884–5 Berlin Congo Conference that marked the beginning of the Scramble for Africa, and the end of the First World War, Germany claimed the third largest colonial territory, at times measuring twelve million square kilometres and numbering up to twelve million people, with ‘protectorates’ (Schutzgebiete) mainly in Africa, but also in China and the Pacific (Dietrich and Strohschein 2011: 116). Between 1904 and 1908, colonial troops of the German Empire led by General Lothar von Trotha targeted and killed up to a hundred thousand Herero and ten thousand Nama in German South West Africa (today’s Namibia) who had rebelled against German colonial rule. Survivors of the massacre were interned in concentration camps, where they were subjected to medical experiments or forced to work for German mining and railway companies as enslaved labourers (Zimmerer 2003: 115; Sarkin 2009: 142). Explaining why he had ordered German soldiers not to spare either women or children, General von Trotha openly characterized the military action against the Herero and Nama as ‘the beginning of a racial struggle’ (von Trotha, quoted in Clark 2009: 776). Despite the obvious parallels with institutions and methods later used by the Nazi regime, it was only in 1985 that the United Nations’ Whitaker Report described the actions of the German government against Herero and Nama between 1904 and 1908 as ‘the first genocide of the 20th century’ (UN Commission on Human Rights 1985). And it was only in 2004, during the commemoration of the genocide, that the then German Minister of Economic Cooperation and Development, Heidemarie Wieczorek-Zeul, extended her personal recognition and apology to the Namibian people. To this day, the German government maintains that the label of ‘genocide’, legally codified in 1948, can only be applied to events taking place after the Holocaust and that there is no legal basis for reparation claims by either the Namibian state nor by individual descendants of the Herero and Nama (Federal Foreign Office 2019).1 This rhetorical strategy fits a larger pattern. The Holocaust marks not only a legal ‘before and after’ with respect to race but also a political and a scientific one that more often than not prompts an unwarranted exceptionalism and prevents both a more historical and a global contextualization of racial politics. The writing of constructed racial hierarchies into law allowing the discrimination, exclusion or killing of racialized others and the mobilization of one social group against another on the basis of racial categories has, however, provided a basis for politics of race throughout the world long before the Holocaust. Forged in the context of Europe’s colonial and imperial expansion since the sixteenth century, racial hierarchies have even shaped the very beginnings of international law as a racial politics of empire (Anghie 2007). Not only did the racial politics leading up to the Holocaust originate much earlier, namely with the expulsion of Jews and Muslims from the Iberian Peninsula in the fifteenth century. Just as importantly, as Santiago Slabodsky has argued (2014: 27), it also did not end in the Holocaust, but was reproduced in Palestine and Israel in the second half of the twentieth century, as Edward Said (1979) has shown for the racialization of Palestinians, and Ella Shohat (1988, 2017) for the racialization of Arab Jews in Israel.2 It can therefore be illuminating to bring colonial entanglements into the spotlight instead of exceptionalist accounts. According to sociologist Reinhard Kössler, what sets the colonial war in German South West Africa (Figure 5.1) apart from most subsequent genocides of the twentieth century, is ‘the astounding and appalling publicity given to the events by the perpetrators’ (2005: 313) on virtually all levels, from picture postcards of the concentration camps or execution scenes, to memorial volumes depicting overt

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FIGURE 5.1  Map of German South West Africa, 1915. © Universal Images Group/Getty Images.

crimes and an adventure novel featuring a young German trooper who viewed Africans as less than human – a book so successful it became standard reading in German schools in 1908 (314). In retrospect, the consequences of the first genocide of the twentieth century and the subsequent propaganda have not only been emblematic of the connection between race and politics but also global in reach. In the words of Africanist Henning

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Melber: ‘the Namibian genocide contributed to the establishment of a new pattern of extermination. The inherent racism of settler colonialism worked to increase tolerance of mass killings, with similar manifestations occurring in the Americas, Australia and Southern Africa’ (2011: 258). The new pattern of extermination was, however, not merely symbolized by the Namibian genocide but anchored in its concrete material consequences. Kössler has recently pointed out that genocide is not simply mass killing but, as the UN stipulated in 1948, also includes the destruction of a group’s means of continuing their life. The wholesale expropriation of ‘insurgent’ groups of their lands after the war left the survivors of the genocide with hardly any means of subsistence and resources for rebuilding their communities. It thereby ‘laid the basis for the large-scale white settlement … occurred both during German rule and after 1915, under the South African dispensation. Eventually, this led to Apartheid’ (Kössler 2019: 120). Nevertheless, public discussions of German colonialism rarely referred to the war against the Herero and Nama before the Treaty of Versailles of 1920, by which the First World War was officially ended. The colonies which Germany had claimed since the Berlin Congo Conference of 1884–5 were thereby placed under French, British, South African and Belgian authority. The corresponding shift in the international discourse as to the responsibilities for the war also reframed the role of German colonialism, as historian Andrew Zimmerman convincingly argued: the genocide in German South West Africa and the cotton programmes implemented by the Tuskegee Institute (established by Booker T. Washington in 1901), following the exhibition it organized in the German Togo, were suddenly heralded as typical of a problematic form of German colonialism, while Belgium, the former colonial villain, went from being ‘the brutal ruler of the Congo to the innocent victim of German brutality’ (Zimmerman 2014: 104). The Treaty of Versailles also stipulated that parts of Germany’s continental territory alongside its Western borders were to be returned to France, ceded to Belgium, South Africa, Japan, Australia and New Zealand, or placed under international control. The remainder of the Rhineland – a region rich in natural resources and industrial infrastructure – was to be administered by the Allied Powers for the next fifteen years (Figure 5.2). France’s decision to reinforce its occupation by deploying up to forty-five thousand African, Caribbean and Southeast Asian soldiers from its colonies in Algeria, Morocco, Tunisia, Senegal, Madagascar, Réunion, Guadeloupe, Martinique and parts of Indochina in the Rhineland region triggered immediate protests in Germany and led to an elaborate, government-backed racist propaganda campaign that is emblematic for the politics of race. Known at the time as ‘Black Horror on the Rhine’, it singled out the North African troops, particularly soldiers from Senegal, in order to promote racist stereotypes of primitive savages committing sexual atrocities against white German women on a massive scale (Hoesen 2014; Keim 2014; Wigger 2017). Although the criminal acts committed by the colonial troops were proven to be gross exaggerations and were acknowledged as such by the Reich Ministry of the Interior, the moral panic created by the widespread campaign in the German press and media outlets received far-reaching national and international support. Black soldiers were stereotyped in racist eugenic terms in the fight against the ‘moral degradation of white women and girls’ and their presence in the Rhineland condemned as a ‘desecration of the white race’ and ‘the horrific racial shame that … violated all white nations’ (Wigger 2017: 5; my emphasis) (Figure 5.3). Accordingly, prominent women’s organizations such as the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom made appeals for international support against ‘the use,

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FIGURE 5.2  The First World War: Map, c. 1919. Former German territories after the Treaty of Versailles. © Alamy Stock Photos.

completely contrary to nature, of coloureds in the Rhine districts’ (quoted in Hansen and Jonsson 2015: 22). Similar systematic calls issued by Edmund Morel, a British journalist and Labour MP, in a series of pamphlets condemning the deployment of Black troops on the European continent and by former Italian Prime Minister Francesco Nitti’s appeal to the United States to stop watching ‘the decline of Europe’ were instrumental in the internationalization of the Black Horror campaign. Race politics increasingly became common sense. Soon, European leaders such as the Swedish Prime Minister, the Austrian Christian social party, members of the Czech Parliament, Popes Benedict XV and Pius

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FIGURE 5.3  French troops and racist attacks during the occupation of the Rhineland, 1918. © German Federal Archive.

XI together with women’s organizations across Europe spoke out openly against the presence of Black soldiers in the Rhineland (Hansen and Jonsson 2015: 22; Wigger 2017: 67). Defending European civilization had officially become about defending whiteness. Politically, the campaign was backed by different governmental authorities and associations, and the vast majority of political parties in the German Parliament (Wigger 2017: 3). The German government had started protesting against the use of

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colonial troops as early as 1918, following warnings of the German Colonial Society, which condemned their use in Europe as a threat to European civilization. In 1923, German President Friedrich Ebert – the first-ever democratically elected head of state, the first commoner, the first socialist, the first civilian and the first from a working-class background to hold that position – stated that the world needed to be alerted anew to the fact that ‘the use of colored troops of the lowest culture as overseers of a population of the high intellectual and economic standing of the Rhinelanders is a provoking violation of the laws of European civilization’ (quoted in Sternheim-Peters 2016; my translation). None other than sociologist Max Weber had placed the national interests of ‘Germanism’ (Deutschtum) above the task of democratization only a few years earlier (Boatcă 2013). His 1917 analysis of the situation in Russia justified its pro-war stance by upholding both the privilege and the duty of the German ‘master race’ (Herrenvolk)3 to engage in world politics, on the one hand, and by using the presence of French colonial troops as a warning against losing out in world politics, on the other: ‘Germany is fighting for its very life against an army in which there are Negroes, Ghurkas and all manner of barbarians who have come from their hiding places all over the world and who are now gathered at the borders of Germany, ready to lay waste to our country’ (Weber 1994: 132). If a Social Democrat such as Ebert and a founding member of the left-wing German Democratic Party like Weber advocated in favour of the ‘Black Horror’ campaign, it should come as no surprise that Adolf Hitler did so too – if only retrospectively. In Mein Kampf, published in 1925, he blamed the presence of Black soldiers in Europe on the French and on Jews, thus anticipating the systematic linking of Blackness and Jewishness in the racial politics of Nazi Germany. Hitler wrote: The contamination by Negro blood on the Rhine in the heart of Europe is just as much in keeping with the perverted sadistic thirst for vengeance of this hereditary enemy of our people as is the ice-cold calculation of the Jew thus to begin bastardizing the European continent at its core and to deprive the white race of the foundations for a sovereign existence through infection with lower humanity. (quoted in Lusane 2003: 73) Besides linking the racism directed at colonized subjects to racial politics during the Nazi regime, Hitler’s description of the Rhineland’s occupation by colonial troops as ‘the contamination by Negro blood on the Rhine’ makes the stakes of the Black Horror campaign and its far-reaching consequences particularly clear. In racist eugenicist terms, the presumed sexual violence by African soldiers against white women was dangerous not (only) because it was not consensual but more importantly because it represented a threat to the national body, the Volkskörper, politically and symbolically tied to women’s bodies. As Tina Campt has argued, the recurrent tropes underlying both moral panics and politics function effectively as ‘echoing specters of racial mixture’ (2004: 19). The Black Horror propaganda had painstakingly depicted colonial soldiers as diseased threats precisely in order to prevent white women from consenting to sexual relationships with them (Figures 5.4 and 5.5). Nevertheless, between six hundred and eight hundred children were born out of white German women’s (consensual and non-consensual) relations with Black soldiers (Hoesen 2014: 323). Seen as constituting even more of a threat to a white German national identity than their fathers, several hundreds of these so-called ‘Rhineland bastards’ were subjected to compulsory sterilization: first, as a result of the 1933 sterilization law under National Socialism and, second, after illegal sterilizations

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FIGURE 5 4  Poster signed by medical professionals and reading ‘German men and women! The black shame weighs terribly on us and our fellow citizens in the occupied territory’, 1920. © German Federal Archive.

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FIGURE 5.5  Poster of the German Emergency Alliance against the Black Disgrace in Munich, reading ‘Colored people on the Rhine threaten all Europeans with the most appalling diseases of tropical countries due to their permanent presence and their large numbers’, 1923. © German Federal Archive.

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directed at ‘alien’ races (Fremdrassige) and ‘asocials’ such as homosexuals, Sinti and Roma, and Jews were carried out in secret (Campt 2004: 73). Researchers have emphasized that the inherent unity of racial and eugenic policy towards those of ‘alien blood’ (Fremdblütige), on the one hand, and those of ‘German blood’ (Deutschblütige) but considered genetically deviant, on the other, was defining for the Nazi regime (Rosenhaft 2011: 161; Turda and Quine 2018: 71). As a result, a legislative framework that would realize this unity by preventing the birth of racial and eugenic others and by enabling the exclusion of those already born was one of Nazism’s earliest projects and one of the clearest instances of race turned politics. Thus, the Nuremberg Laws of 1935 typically addressed both the biological and the civic imperatives by excluding Jews from citizenship and banning marriages and sexual relations between Jews and ‘those of German or related blood’ (Rosenhaft 2011: 161). National Socialism thus turned the older notion of an ethnic/folkish state (völkischer Staat), embodying the unity of race and nation, into one of a racial state, ‘predicated upon the reconfiguration of the national community as a living, racial entity whose purity had to be protected from the Jews, the Slavs, the Roma, and other “undesirables” – all those who were not considered to be a part of the national race’ (Turda and Quine 2018: 71). It is at this juncture of racial and eugenic policy that singling out the Nazi regime and the Holocaust as before-and-after moments in the history of racial politics is most illuminating. In her detailed analysis of the links between the production of deviant others under colonialism, National Socialism and the Holocaust, sociologist Wiebke Keim points out that: The difference between the use of race thinking during National Socialism and earlier periods in German history is that eugenics and racial policy were declared the basis of the ‘bio-political dictatorship of development’ … which was supposed to inform all other fields of politics. National Socialism was more consistent than any other regime in applying racial and eugenic ideas to any population that was under its rule; the breeding of the German ‘race’ was declared the top responsibility of the National Socialist state. (2014: 127) Over six million Jews and millions of Russians, Poles, Serbs and Roma people died as a result of the Nazis’ writing of notions of racial superiority and purity into laws that were subsequently put into practice, namely as a result of writing race into politics. The global denunciation of the Nazi crimes, the Nuremberg trials and the international recognition of the Holocaust paved the way for the gradual delegitimization of biological notions of race worldwide. This shift in discourse was prominently captured for the first time in the 1950 UNESCO statement that declared notions of racial superiority unscientific and contested that ethnic mixing led to biological degeneration (Turda and Quine 2018: 20). Nevertheless, genetic inferiority was systematically invoked as an argument both against Palestinians and against the influx of Arab Jews into Israel in the 1960s, while intermarriage between the latter and European Jews was seen as leading to ‘racial decline’ and the ‘ultimate disintegration’ of Israel (Shohat 1988: 5; Slabodsky 2014: 166). While employed in order to justify the racial stratification of the new state, the racialization of Arab Jews, Shohat notes, ironically reproduced one of the favoured topics of European anti-Semitism, that of the ‘Black Jew’ (1988: 6). Notions of scientific racism continued to be espoused by researchers adhering to biological concepts of race well into the 1960s

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and by politicians even longer, yet increasingly fell into disrepute and started being considered pseudoscience. The same, however, does not hold for the delegitimization of racism. What Étienne Balibar first labelled ‘neo-racism’ in 1988 (Balibar and Wallerstein 1988) was the result of a strategic shift in discourse – from biological accounts of racial differences, compromised after the Second World War for echoing Nazi ideology, to cultural ones, based on the notion that individuals are the bearers of traditions and heirs of their respective culture, rather than predisposed through heredity to certain behaviour and qualities. Such racism, Balibar noted, is not, however, historically new. Indeed, its prototype is anti-Semitism, which has conceptualized Jewishness as ‘the essence … of a cultural tradition, a ferment of moral disintegration’ (Balibar 1996: 24) ever since the Spanish Reconquista – which was accompanied by the expulsion of both Jews and Muslims from the Iberian Peninsula. New with respect to cultural racism is not its underlying logic, which it shares with biological racism. Rather, cultural racism is a racism of the era of ‘decolonization’, of the reversal of population movements between the old colonies and the old metropolises, and the division of humanity within a single political space. It is a racism … which, at first sight, does not postulate the superiority of certain groups or peoples in relation to others but ‘only’ the harmfulness of abolishing frontiers, the incompatibility of lifestyles and traditions. (Balibar 1996: 21) Therefore, in the context of France in the 1990s, as a result of this strategic shift in discourse, Balibar noted, references to race were being systematically replaced by references to immigration. In a capitalist system founded on the racialization of colonial others, such shifts in discourse thus frequently occasion no radical transformations of the politics of race, but mere rhetorical adjustments of the same logic underlying racialization. As Andrew Zimmerman duly noted, modern imperialism, from the Scramble for Africa to today’s neoliberal globalization, has so far justified itself in part as a correction of some earlier, abusive form of European intervention, whether the slave trade, the Belgian Congo, German colonialism or even the brutality of direct colonial rule. Because of an ideological racism and a structural commitment to political and economic domination by core capitalist countries, colonial powers respond to each atrocity with an ostensibly better racism, better colonialism rather than an outright rejection of racism or colonialism, thus continuing an often genocidal cycle (Zimmerman 2014: 104). This being said, the era of decolonization and the reversal of population movements that Balibar saw as decisive for the cultural racist discourse that targeted immigration into France represent a turning point in the global politics of race in more than one way. Rather than establishing a link between race and immigration for the first time, the postSecond World War context merely transferred the intricate nexus of race and citizenship, and with it, immigration, from the former colonies to the former colonizing countries, and thus from the periphery to the core. What changed in the latter half of the twentieth century with respect to the pre-war period was therefore the visibility of racial politics in the core of the modern/colonial world-system – rather than its creation.

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CITIZENSHIP AND MIGRATION AS VEHICLES OF RACE POLITICS Between 1850 and 1930, migration to the Americas had provided a poverty outlet to some fifty million Europeans – or as much as 12 per cent of the continent’s population (Therborn 1995: 40). During this period, some European states experienced outmigration flows as high as 50 per cent of the national population – in the case of the British Isles – or one-third of it – in the case of Italy – causing debates as to the rights of states to restrict emigration. In their overview of European history, Ostergren and Rice note that government opposition to emigration was a widespread phenomenon throughout Europe in the early nineteenth century: ‘In mercantilist economic theory a country’s population was one of its chief resources and was to be preserved at all cost. Gradually, as freetrade and laissez-faire policies became more widely accepted, state governments relaxed restrictions on emigration’ (Ostergren and Rice 2004: 88). At the same time, outbound migration reinforced the inner-European ethnic homogeneity that successive waves of ethnic levelling occurring throughout Europe had succeeded in creating until the midtwentieth century (Therborn 1995: 39). Together, large-scale emigration and the high level of ethnic homogeneity attained by the 1950s had ensured that processes of collective identification as well as collective organization within the continent occurred in terms of class rather than ethnic or racial allegiance. Labour unrest, the rise of scientific racism by the end of the First World War, and social and economic protectionist measures in the wake of the Great Depression gradually prompted restrictions on immigration across countries of the core and strengthened notions of citizenship as a basis for entitlement to social and political rights (Korzeniewicz and Moran 2009: 84). Immigration from the east and south of Europe as well as Asia was on the rise in the western hemisphere – from the United States to Argentina, Brazil and Cuba (Young 2017: 219). European as well as Japanese immigrants seldom faced restrictions in South America and the Caribbean, where immigration policies supporting and even funding white European migrants were aimed at racially ‘whitening’ (Sp. blanqueamiento, Port. branqueamento) the predominantly Afrodescendant local population. In turn, restrictions were placed on Afro-Caribbean migration to neighbouring Central American and Caribbean countries in pursuit of ‘racial whitening’ in the 1930s – sometimes, as in Panama, with explicit (positive) reference to German Nazi policies against Jews (Andrews 2004: 140). In the United States, Chinese immigrants had started being racialized as unassimilable on racial and cultural grounds already at the end of the nineteenth century. Eastern European immigrants, arriving in large numbers after 1900, were increasingly regarded as unassimilable, either on account of being Jewish or racialized as unruly and criminal Slavs. The Emergency Quota Act of 1921, followed by the Johnson-Reed Act of 1924, drastically restricted immigration from Europe and all European colonies by nationality and entirely prohibited Japanese immigration. Tellingly, a great admirer of this immigration policy was Hitler, who in 1925 saw the United States as the only nation that applied the right racial policies to citizenship and immigration, as opposed to Germany, who in his view granted access to both far too easily: ‘By refusing immigration in principle to elements in poor health, by simply excluding certain races from naturalization, [the United States] professes in slow beginnings a view which is peculiar to the folkish state concept’ (Hitler 1925, quoted in Lusane 2003: 74). In line with the implicit racial selection of desirable immigrants that Hitler had rightly detected, the United States maintained immigration from Great Britain, Ireland, Germany and the Scandinavian countries largely unrestricted. In turn, the influx of eastern and southern Europeans, as well as Mexicans

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and Asians declined steeply and steadily after 1930, reaching its lowest point in 1970, when immigrants made up a mere 4.7 per cent of the US population (Young 2017: 224). The administrative decolonization of European colonial empires at the end of the Second World War prompted a different migration wave from former colonies to the metropole after 1945. The European trend to outbound migration of the previous century was decisively reversed by the 1960s, such that, by 1990, Ireland was the only emigrant country in western Europe (Therborn 1995: 41). All other western European states became instead recipients of large migrant populations, most of whom were racialized as non-white: first, migrants from the recently decolonized Africa and from an increasing number of dictatorial states in Latin America; subsequently, several waves of labour migrants contracted by government policies of post-war economic reconstruction from adjacent or formerly colonized countries or from still colonized territories; and, after 1990, hundreds of thousands of eastern European war refugees. As a result, the ethnic and racial conflicts that accompanied the rise in immigration came to the fore as a largely extra-European problem that increasingly posed a threat to western Europe – as former colonial subjects, ‘guest’ workers4 (turned permanent) and incessant flows of labour migrants. To social scientists, they appeared to be – and were often discussed as – forms of (ethnic and/or racial) stratification foreign to the class structure otherwise characterizing western Europe (Boatcă 2015: 128). Racist attacks by white Britons on Afro-Caribbean migrants in the United Kingdom in the late 1950s became known as ‘race riots’ and the study of ‘race relations’ became its own academic field in their wake. Race had become visible, even conspicuous, in the core of the world-system, and racial policies – from immigration to naturalization and labour policies – followed suit. The state socialist semiperiphery in the east of Europe deployed its own set of racial policies. The onset of the Cold War, which coincided with decolonization in Africa and Asia and anti-imperialist mobilization across the Arab world, had prompted an influx of students, practitioners and labour migrants from the recently decolonized peripheries into eastern Europe in the name of socialist internationalism and solidarity. From the 1960s through the 1980s, hundreds of thousands of Africans, Arabs, Asians and Latin Americans studied and worked throughout eastern Europe and the Soviet Union. As Zhivka Valiavicharska has recently argued, it was in particular African students that inspired anti-racist protests and resistance and fuelled political activity in state socialist countries during the 1960 and 1970s (Valiavicharska 2019: 89). Their open dissent was met with violent state repression, as Mariya Ivancheva documented in the case of the African and Cuban students protesting the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia during the July 1968 international Youth Meeting in Sofia (Ivancheva 2019: 736). In the wake of the Iranian Revolution of 1979, state socialist regimes in eastern Europe, however, increasingly considered political Islam at odds with the socialist development of the Eastern Bloc (Mark et al. 2019: 157). Especially countries with substantial Muslim minorities such as Bulgaria, Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union started viewing their Muslim populations as threats and implementing racialized policies, from forced religious conversion to ethnic assimilation and forced migration in the case of Bulgarian Turks (Valiavicharska 2019: 91). By the 1980s, the eastern European press was depicting ‘the Islamic world – particularly Libya, Egypt, and Iran – as violent, culturally intolerant, premodern areas, untampered in their politics and reverting to a religious fundamentalism that the socialist pan-Arabism of the decolonization era had promised to end’ (Mark et al. 2019: 158). Across southeastern Europe in particular, the national identity rhetoric increasingly revived nineteenth-century tropes professing a white Christian European identity against the region’s legacy of Ottoman Islamic rule

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(Bakic-Hayden 1995; Boatcă 2006). Open discrimination and violence against students and labour migrants from the Global South increased considerably and had become the rule by 1989 – when the number of African and Arab students in the European East peaked and the Berlin Wall came down.

UNEQUAL CITIZENSHIPS AS COLONIAL RACIAL POLITICS The juxtaposition of citizenship with race and religion more generally, and with white Western Christianity in particular, has served as a hotbed of racist gestures and practices of exclusion even before citizenship crystallized as an institution: from the expulsion of both Jews and Muslims from the Iberian Peninsula after the conquest of Granada in 1492 and the use of the ‘Christianizing mission’ to justify European colonialism in the Americas, Asia and Africa while denying rights to the natives; to the denial of citizenship rights to Jewish residents throughout most of Europe before 1848, the exclusion of ethnic others from citizenship in Croatia, Slovenia and Macedonia in the 1990s and the Catholicled initiative of inscribing the ‘Christian roots of Europe’ into the European Union constitution in 2004; up to the exclusion of veiled Muslim women from naturalization ceremonies and citizenship in France in recent years and US President Donald Trump’s ban on immigration from Muslim-majority countries in 2017. At the global level, the Western notion of citizenship has, however, been functioning as a selection mechanism on the basis of race, as well as gender, literacy and property status ever since its emergence in the context of the French Revolution (Boatcă 2015; Boatcă and Roth 2016). At the same time as citizenship rights were gradually extended to ever more groups within continental Europe, they were systematically used as a means for the selective exclusion of the colonized and non-white populations from the European political communities of citizens. Thus, after the French Revolution, citizenship rights were only granted to male property-owners, whose ability to pay taxes and military tribute marked them as ‘active citizens’. Women, foreigners and children were in turn defined as ‘passive citizens’ and denied all political rights (Blackburn 1988: 198; Wallerstein 2003: 653). In the case of white western European women, this was considered a temporary provision, to be remedied by further educational measures. Yet enslaved Africans, reduced to the status of commodities, were thereby also deprived of a gender status compared to that of citizens. Sabine Broeck describes the process as follows: Enslaved African-origin female beings never qualified as women (because of their nonhumanness, it followed logically) in the Euro-American modern world, and therefore were not interpellated to partake in the ongoing social construction and contestation of gender … – a category that would have enabled a black female claim on social negotiations did not apply to ‘things’, to what was constructed as and treated as human flesh. Moreover, that very category gender emerged in western transatlantic rhetoric precisely in the context of creating a space for white women, who refused to be treated like slaves, like things. (Broeck 2008: 15) In the French colony of Saint-Domingue, where the revolution of the enslaved led by Toussaint L’Ouverture resulted in the abolition of slavery in 1794, the racially constructed notion of skin colour took precedence over property as a criterion for the granting of citizenship. Since not all whites were property-owners, but relatively many free ‘mulattos’ were, the colonial assembly included the former in the right to vote even before this was accomplished in continental France. However, it excluded both enslaved people and

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‘mulattos’ from franchise after a series of heated debates (Blackburn 1988: 183). The argument used by both the white planters and the poor whites of Saint-Domingue at the close of the eighteenth century was that neither the enslaved nor the free ‘mulattos’ were part of ‘the nation’ and could therefore not become citizens. Tellingly, Saint-Domingue’s first constitution as the independent republic of Haiti aimed at erasing precisely the racial differences that had made such hierarchization by skin colour possible. To that end, it ruled that all Haitians, including white women and members of naturalized ethnic groups such as Germans and Poles were to be referred to by the generic term ‘Black’, thus turning the term into a political rather than a biological category (see Fischer 2004: 233). The constitution thus seized upon the above-mentioned mechanism of deriving a universal term by generalizing from a particular one, but in so doing reversed the prevailing hierarchy: as Sybille Fischer cogently remarked, ‘Calling all Haitians, regardless of skin color, black … both asserts the egalitarian and universalist institutions and puts them to a test by using the previously subordinated term of the opposition as the universal term’ (2004: 233). Sylvia Wynter (1990) has argued that colonization shifted the primary form of legitimizing peoples’ regulation and expropriation from religious affiliation to a ‘natural’ colonial difference underpinned by a racial logic. Its long-term global consequences translate into a ‘coloniality of citizenship’ (Boatcă 2016a; Boatcă and Roth 2016) with different local and regional patterns of racial, gendered and religious exclusion. As a set of political, economic and socio-cultural hierarchies imposed by the colonizers on the colonized after the conquest of the Americas in the sixteenth century, coloniality is both distinct and more encompassing than modern European colonialism alone (Mignolo 2000; Quijano 2000). It translates administrative hierarchies into a racial/ethnic division of labour and transfers both the racial/ethnic hierarchies and the international division of labour produced during the time of colonial rule into post-independence times. The institutionalization of citizenship in the colonizing countries and their allies, including settler colonies such as the United States and Australia, was a central element of the larger coloniality of power. Its establishment was premised on the legal and physical exclusion of populations racialized as non-European, non-white and non-Western from civic, political, social and epistemic rights, additionally filtered through a gendered lens. It is at this juncture of gender, race and ethnicity as products of the colonial crucible that the institution of citizenship and the specific mechanisms of its functioning throughout the history of the modern/colonial world-system become instrumental to the maintenance of the coloniality of power in the form of a specific coloniality of citizenship. In the case of Germany, state legislation restricting citizenship to white Europeans came to include both partners in what were seen as ‘racially mixed’ marriages in the first half of the twentieth century. After the German colonial war in South West Africa, a heated debate among conservative groups aimed at imposing sanctions on ‘mixed-race’ marriages by withdrawing citizenship and voting rights from both partners and their offspring in Germany’s African colonies in 1908; in turn, informal sexual relationships between white male colonists and Black women were encouraged as long as they did not produce offspring (Mamozai 1982: 129). Such measures were primarily aimed at preventing the non-white population from acquiring property and thus from receiving voting rights. Meanwhile, their most salient side effect was forcing Black women into concubinage and prostitution and reducing white women to housewifery and motherhood – a process described by Maria Mies as the ‘double-faced process of colonization and housewifization’ (1996: 97). Although the German parliament passed a measure forbidding marriage bans on racial grounds in 1912, both the secretary of colonial affairs and German colonial governors

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refused to put the decision into practice; as a result, marriage bans were enforced until Germany had to relinquish its colonies at the end of the First World War (El Tayeb 1999). In the process, the notion of Germanness as whiteness was reinforced not only in relation to the colonies but also in the context of the racialization of European Others along the lines of a particularly strict understanding of jus sanguinis enforced in the nationality law of 1913 (El Tayeb 1999; Boatcă 2013). If colonization, slavery and racialization were constitutive for and internal to the new nations in the Americas, from the United States and Brazil to the Caribbean, most European countries dismiss their colonial past as distant in time and irrelevant to current politics. In the case of France, Robert Stam and Ella Shohat speak of the ‘externalization of race’ (2012: 29) that attempted to delink Enlightenment France from its ‘overseas’ colonial possessions, where slavery was reinstated until 1848, citizenship rights were racialized and forms of racial segregation resembled their counterparts throughout the world: ‘Algerian Muslims were disenfranchised by the “Code Indigène” and, in France itself, were subject to curfews and police brutality and a segregated existence in bidonvilles. In a sense, Algeria formed a French counterpart to the American South’ (Stam and Shohat 2012: 29). It was the Algerian War of Independence of 1958–64 that brought the colonial politics of race and religion to the forefront of French debates, and it was migration from the (former) colonies that, as Balibar observed, strategically translated race into immigration in the French context, or the politics of race into border politics. For Germany, but to a great extent also for France and the Netherlands, Gabriele Dietze (2019) has identified the narrative of ‘sexual exceptionalism’ as a racist trope linking current immigration and citizenship policies to colonial times. Based on the notion that local white women and homosexual men are sexually threatened by ‘backward’ migrants and in need of protection (by white heterosexual men and the state), sexual exceptionalism reproduces the very terms of the racist propaganda directed at the presence of Black soldiers in the Rhineland during the 1920s. This became particularly clear in the moral panic created around the events of New Year’s Eve 2015/16 in Cologne, when 661 women reported having been harassed and sexually assaulted by Arab and North African men. As in the case of the allegations against Black soldiers in the Rhineland one hundred years earlier, the accusations proved to be grossly exaggerated, and only three men were eventually convicted of sexual assault (Diehl 2019). Yet the events, which made global headlines, triggered a backlash against Chancellor Angela Merkel’s short-lived, liberal refugee policy (Fitzpatrick 2016) and prompted right-wing slogans such as ‘rapefugees not welcome’ and the creation of new racist labels hearkening back to colonial tropes, such as ‘Nafris’ (for ‘North African’) (Figures 5.6 and 5.7). Stereotypes of aggressive sexual perpetrators were mobilized against all refugees, particularly Muslims, around the collective symbol of ‘Cologne’ and explicitly fuelled anti-migrant sentiment and right-wing politics throughout Europe, from Marine Le Pen to Viktor Orbán (Dietze 2019: 45). The parallels between the imagery of migrants as sexual perpetrators and US President Trump’s rhetoric, repeatedly referring to Latin American and especially Mexican migrants in the United States as rapists in order to justify stricter immigration laws, are striking, but by no means surprising. For Dietze, ‘it is only when dealing with the colonial prehistory of a sexual exceptionalism that current echoes of this structure’ of exclusion become readable (Dietze 2019: 32). Tellingly, she considers the US-American lynching system after the abolition of slavery as the prototype of this form of racial politics: in order to safeguard white supremacy, the exclusion of Black men from newly acquired

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FIGURE 5.6  Right-wing protesters against the New Year’s Eve attacks in Cologne, Germany, wave a ‘Rapefugees Not Welcome’ banner. © Sascha Schuermann/Stringer/Getty Images.

FIGURE 5.7  A demonstrator holds a placard reading ‘Rapefugees not welcome’ during a demonstration against Islamic terror organized by far-right movement Pegida Vlaanderen on 23 April 2016, in Antwerp. © LUC CLAESSEN/Stringer/Getty Images.

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rights and economic opportunities was ensured by a terror regime of systematic and (overwhelmingly) false accusations of having raped white women, followed by ritualized lynchings. Cindy Casares sees the same pattern at work in President Trump’s antiimmigrant policies: In the United States, from the colonial period to well into the 1960s, white men raped women of color with impunity even while setting up their white female counterparts as beholden to them for protection against men of color. Through this mind-bending logic, they managed to create a system that had virtually no legal consequences for a white man who raped a black or brown woman, while black men could only ever be rapists to white women (and thus strung up at the nearest tree after any accusation, regardless of evidence). (Casares 2018)

CONCLUSION This chapter has discussed the connections between race and politics from a historical perspective, while paying particular attention to the legacies of colonialism for current politics and focusing on the case of Germany and its colonies in the process. The reasons for this temporal and regional focus themselves have to do with the academic politics of race, or what has been termed the ‘geopolitics of knowledge production’ (Mignolo 2000). On the one hand, the social scientific analysis of race has tended to be confined to national contexts, and, with the exception of works in transnational and global history, seldom engaged by social scientists, also confined to the post-Second World War period. On the other hand, the Second World War itself, and especially the Holocaust as its epitome, has largely been treated as an exception in the history of the politics of race, and as such unlike any other instance of racial politics before or after it, and certainly as unique in European history. This chapter has instead relied on the growing number of works with a global and transnational focus in their discussions of race and politics in order to counter both the methodological nationalism and the historical exceptionalism of a large part of the available literature on race and politics. In the perspective presented here, the concept of ‘race’ itself is an heir to European colonialism, through which it becomes possible to differentiate humankind into hierarchically distinct groups. That its use with respect to people should be prohibited ‘after Auschwitz’, as German historian Immanuel Geiss has advocated (Geiss 2011: 340), however, not only testifies to the above-mentioned, nation-state focus, imposing in this case a German-language perspective on the global history of the term; it also belies the reality in which race continues to function as a category of social differentiation and policy making, whether linked to religion, culture or other historically constructed markers of otherness. A global perspective on the trajectory of the term ‘race’ reveals very different developments than in the German case: in those contexts in which the trade in enslaved Africans has played a significant role, ‘race’ is not only an acceptable term of policy but also a necessary census category. It is even the most central category in the US Census, an important one besides that of ‘ethnic origin’ in the US Pacific territories such as Guam, but less important in Brazil than the equally constructed and highly subjective one of skin colour (Port. cor). A clearer positive sanctioning of the term by the state would be difficult

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to imagine. Racial affiliation is also inquired in some European censuses – in England only since 1991, thus marking the exact moment that a means of state control of increasing immigration from the Commonwealth was deemed necessary. The problematic – and often problematized – social scientific approach to the concept of race (Rasse) in Germany, on the other hand, reduces thinking in racial categories to its use in the Second World War. Highlighting the concept in academic writing – be it through the use of quotation marks (‘race’), italics (race) or the use of the English term ‘race’ instead of ‘Rasse’ in otherwise German-language texts – is explicitly meant as an expression of a supposed distance to the National Socialist past and as such becomes part of an academic politics of race that upholds the exceptionalism of the Nazi past. Thereby, the notion of race is decoupled from its systematic, centuries-long use in connection with the European trade in enslaved people and its impact on the present hierarchization of human groups and explained away as a regrettable exception of a national society otherwise allegedly free of any racial thinking. Its continuing relevance for the Anglo-Saxon or non-European areas is justified at best with reference to the other national contexts, respectively, but does not seem to apply to the German-language context. This ultimately leads to the paradoxical situation that acutely perceived phenomena such as racism and social processes such as racialization in Germany, Austria and Switzerland appear to happen in a vacuum, since their basic category, race, remains unspeakable as either an academic or a political term. This chapter has attempted to substantiate evidence to the contrary, and plead for a systematic and historically informed engagement with the racial politics of the past, in order to account for the politics of race in the present.

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CHAPTER SIX

Race and Ethnicity Conceptualizing Difference in the Social Sciences PETER KIVISTO

The focus of this chapter is on the gradual introduction of the concept of ethnicity into scholarly discourse, what it was intended to signify, and how it was conceived in relation to race. In pursuing this topic, two other terms will be introduced since they, too, were often employed as alternatives to race: minority and nationality. Although dating the introduction of a term both in everyday discourse and as an analytical tool of social science is imprecise, there is general agreement that nationality is the oldest of these terms and ethnicity the newest. By looking first to the ideas of nation (along with nationality and nationalism) and minority, the goal is to locate ethnicity in relation to both, and in the process articulate the conceptual network and narrative structure that link these three terms in relation to each other and to race.

RACE IN THE FORMATIVE PERIOD OF SOCIOLOGY AND ANTHROPOLOGY The nineteenth-century thinkers who advanced ‘scientific’ accounts of race found ready advocates well into the first several decades of the twentieth century, among whom but not limited to were proponents of Social Darwinism and eugenics who sought to implement their views in terms of a range of social policies. In the United States, this occurred in a context where mass immigration (Figure 6.1) and the institutionalization of a new structure of racial exploitation and segregation known as Jim Crow served to frame the politics of race. Influential writers, who aimed at the public more than scholars, included Madison Grant and Lothrop Stoddard. Both Grant’s The Passing of the Great Race (1916) and Stoddard’s The Rising Tide of Color against White World-Supremacy (1920) were clarion calls for a robust defence of white supremacy at both the national and global levels. These and similar widely read and debated books sought to combat the challenges white domination confronted, particularly due to mass immigration, the demands of emancipated Blacks as citizens entitled to all of the rights deriving from such membership and the emergence of international anti-colonial movements. They did so with the explicit assumption that races were real, discrete and immutable – the product of biological differences. Heredity was thus determinative of group membership, as well as differences in intelligence, moral rectitude and emotional character. Michael Banton

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FIGURE 6.1  Group of Italian arrivals ready to be processed at Ellis Island, c. 1905. Photograph by Lewis Hine. © Bettmann/Getty Images.

(2015) summarized the situation as follows, ‘For a whole generation, typological notions of race, mixed with a selective interpretation of genetical inheritance, influenced public opinion.’ Leading figures in the formative stages of the institutionalization of sociology in American universities shared this perspective, including Edward Alsworth Ross and Franklin H. Giddings, the third president of the American Sociological Society. Ross’s The Old World in the New (1914) used Social Darwinist language to describe the impact of the new immigrants in the United States as the survival of the unfit, leading to a degradation of national character. Likewise, Giddings was convinced that immigrants from eastern and southern Europe were overrunning the superior Anglo-Saxon racial stock of the nation’s founders, leading to American society as a whole ‘sinking to the level of their more brutal competitors’ (1893: 237). Acting on these convictions, Giddings joined the Immigration Restriction League and served as its vice president. Other sociologists and many scholars from other social sciences, such as the economist John R. Commons, expressed similar views. These ideas were not confined to the United States, for such thinking could also be found in Britain and continental Europe, though in Europe it was often less evident because the preoccupation was often with class rather than race, with the ‘dangerous classes’ – an organized working class and the ‘undeserving poor’ – representing the clear and present danger to societal well-being. Nowhere was this more on display than in the writings of Herbert Spencer. However, racial essentialism was also a feature of the race theories of Gustave Le Bon and Ludwig Gumplowitz, among others (Hawkins 1997: 82–103 and 123–48).

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By the end of the First World War, race theories rooted in biology began to come under increasing scrutiny and critique in some quarters of the social scientific community. The person usually identified as the scholar most responsible for this shift was the Columbia University anthropologist Franz Boas (Figure 6.2). Based on his work as a physical anthropologist examining cranial sizes, he cast doubt on the claim that differences in size reflected racially determined differences in measures of intelligence and in differing capacities of groups to develop in a progressive trajectory. He concluded that rather than physiology being determinative, differences were the product of historical events and different environmental circumstances. In so doing, he also called into question the notion of a racial hierarchy by making a claim for an alternative socio-cultural approach (Painter 2010: 228–44). Boas’s position, as Charles Hirschman (2004: 398) puts it, ‘was a counterweight to racist science’, a stance embraced and promulgated by prominent students of his who would have a profound impact on anthropology in the United States and beyond, such as Alfred Kroeber, Margaret Mead, Melville Herskovits, Robert Lowie and Ruth Benedict. Over time, this perspective would come to dominate the field of cultural anthropology and sociology. For example, sociologists Howard Odum and Edward B. Reuter revised their earlier views that were based on biological racism and instead embraced sociocultural interpretations on matters related to race. Psychologists were slower to change, due to the discipline’s commitment at the time to the idea of instincts, but by the 1920s change could be detected here too (Gossett 1965; Cravens 1978; Barkan 1992). In contrast to sociology, where a comparatively speaking clean break with biological racism occurred, anthropology was stymied in its attempts to effect a decisive break from a biological perspective on race. This was in part the product of the discipline’s four fields approach. Whereas the cultural field tended to embrace Boas, physical anthropologists were far less inclined. Thus, Carleton S. Coon, who served as President of the American Association of Physical Anthropologists, would continue to write about a hierarchy of races into the 1960s (Coon 1962, 1965). His work was used by segregationists during the height of the civil rights movement to justify opposition to integration, a view that he shared with these white supremacists (Jackson 2001). The tensions between cultural and physical approaches contributed to anthropology’s fraught history of addressing race throughout the twentieth century, a fact brought home in the American Anthropological Association’s ‘Race: Are We So Different?’, a travelling exhibit launched in 2007 that ‘reinvigorated long-standing critiques of biological racism’ (Allen and Jobson 2016: 129). The two leaders of the Chicago School of Sociology, William I. Thomas and Robert Ezra Park (Figure 6.3) played a major role in shifting the approach towards race in sociology, and in so doing influencing the next generation of sociologists trained at the University of Chicago, including Herbert Blumer, Horace Cayton, Saint Clair Drake E. Franklin Frazier, Everett Hughes and Louis Wirth. In The Polish Peasant in Europe and America (1918–20), Thomas and co-author Florian Znaniecki replaced the idea of instinct with that of attitude, rooted in Thomas’s ‘four wishes’ – for experience, security, response and recognition. The significance of this shift is that whereas attitudes are contextually shaped, instincts are not. Thomas argued that the migratory process entailed personal and social disorganization, leading, if inclusion proceeded positively, to reorganization. Park operated with what Mark Douglas West (2018: 1683–4; see also Wiley 2011) characterized as a ‘democratic social psychology, stemming from an understanding of human nature as universalistic’, which meant that ‘all humans have the same possibilities for intellectual and social development’. This shift from biological race to a socio-cultural

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FIGURE 6.2  Franz Boas (1858–1942), an American anthropologist, 1906. © Bettmann/Getty Images.

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FIGURE 6.3  Robert E. Park, a sociologist. © Bettmann/Getty Images.

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perspective was evident in his analysis of modern migrations. Borrowing from Thomas, he argued that the movement of Blacks from the rural South to the urban North paralleled the migrations of those crossing international borders such as Poles and Italians streaming into American cities (Figure 6.4). In both cases an essentially peasant population from premodern, preindustrial communities was entering and compelled to adapt to a modern, urban, industrial milieu. At the same time, Park understood that race construed as a social construct, and not in a biological sense, had a profound impact in perpetuating group differences and creating different types and levels of barriers to incorporation into the societal mainstream (Kivisto 2017: 5–6; 1993). The studies that Chicago School sociologists produced shared an appreciation of ‘the complexity and fluidity of ongoing group life’, and a resistance to interpretations that are rigidly deterministic or oversimplified (Lal 1986: 281). As this shift gradually made headway in the emerging discipline of sociology, as well as cognate disciplines, biological race theory nevertheless continued to have a potent impact within those disciplines. Indeed, eugenics constituted a global movement (FitzGerald and Cook-Martín 2014: 59). It also informed the views of the public, as well as legislative policies and judicial decisions. A series of judicial actions taken during the early part of the twentieth century reveal the contradictions, ambiguities, vagaries and mixed assessments of how precisely to define race, how to enumerate races, and how to demarcate one race from another. Particularly revealing are court decisions regarding who was and who was not eligible to become a naturalized citizen of the United States. The earliest

FIGURE 6.4  A group of migrant workers from Florida stop alongside the road in Sawboro, North Carolina, on their way to Cranberry, New Jersey, to pick potatoes, July 1940. © Historical/CORBIS/Getty Images.

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naturalization law, dating to 1790, determined that only ‘free white persons of good character’ (actually, only males) were eligible, thereby according to the widely prevailing view immediately barring both the Black victims of the slave trade and the Indigenous peoples of North America from becoming US citizens. The situation would become far more complex as a consequence of mass global migration. This was evident in one of the most highly publicized Supreme Court cases, Ozawa v. US (1922). Takao Ozawa was a legal immigrant from Japan who had resided in the United States for two decades. He graduated from high school and attended the University of California in Berkeley. He and his family were practicing Christians and they spoke English in their home. In 1915 he applied to become a naturalized citizen under the Naturalization Act of 1906 which, as a consequence of the Fourteenth Amendment to the US Constitution that had granted citizenship to former slaves, allowed ‘free white persons’ and ‘persons of African nativity or persons of African descent’ to become naturalized citizens. Ozawa’s lawyers argued that the term white in the law meant to exclude only Blacks and Native Americans. They further argued that the Japanese ought to be considered Caucasian, based on ethnographic evidence. Key to this argument was the claim that the Japanese were racially distinct from the Chinese, who were indeed deemed to be ineligible. Experts debated the merits of this argument, with the court disagreeing with Ozawa, concluding that he was ‘clearly of a race which is not Caucasian’. The court found that Ozawa was located in ‘a zone of more or less debated ground’ that from time to time will necessitate a case-by-case determination involving ‘the gradual process of judicial inclusion and exclusion’ (quoted in Lyman 1991: 208). This decision set in motion numerous similar court cases. Stanford Lyman identified individuals from sixteen groups who sought unsuccessfully to challenge their categorization as aliens ineligible for citizenship, including Chinese, Japanese, Koreans, Burmese, Hawaiians, Armenians, Syrians, Afghans, Arabs, Parsees, Hindus, Puerto Ricans, Filipinos, Amerindians, Canadian Indians and mixed-bloods (1993: 383). He observed that in all of these court cases, the petitioners did not seek to oppose ‘the legislated categorization’ but rather ‘demanded assignment to one of the two eligible classifications, usually insisting on their membership in the “white” category’. The judiciary’s approach to these cases reflected an implicit recognition that a biologically deterministic race science had proven itself incapable of sorting out a rigorous and consistent racial categorization schema, and thus what was required was an ongoing determination shaped by public opinion at the moment and decided in an ad hoc application of unstated rules.

WHAT DO WE TALK ABOUT WHEN WE TALK ABOUT DIFFERENCE? It is in this context that the search for an alternative way of thinking about socially defined group categorizations took hold in sociology. The issue becomes one of answering the question: can we continue to speak about difference in terms of race, or are other concepts necessary? If one chose the former, what might the alternative interpretative framework to biological determinism look like? If one chose the latter, what concepts? In the following pages, we will address these questions by recourse to what Margaret Somers has described as a ‘historical sociology of concept formation’ (1995: 113). She points to efforts to scrutinize such basic sociological concepts as order, agency, structure and society, contending that they are all located within a ‘conceptual network’ that has a ‘narrative structure’.

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Nationality and minority A nation is defined in both spatial and temporal terms. In its social imaginary, it is located in a specific place and its uniqueness is the product of a shared history and culture. Nationalities are groups with a sense of peoplehood and with a political agenda that calls for the preservation and protection of a nation or its creation if external forces have heretofore stood between the imaginary and its realization. Nationalism provides the ideological justification for, among other things, the territorial claims of the group and the implications such claims have relative to other groups (Gellner 1983; Horowitz 1985; Smith 1986; Calhoun 2007). The nineteenth century witnessed the consolidation of modern nation-states in Europe. Thus, for example, the city-states and regions of the Italian peninsula were incorporated into the Italian nation-state by King Victor Emmanuel in 1861 and the modern German state was orchestrated by Otto von Bismarck in 1871 in the wake of the Franco-Prussian War. Intellectual historian Philip Gleason (1991) writes that with the expansion of nationalist ideologies in nineteenth-century Europe and growing concerns about the rights of population subgroups, the term ‘national minorities’ gained traction in Europe. Nothing comparable occurred in the United States, though after the conclusion of the First World War, the American public began to become aware of the apprehensions in Europe about the issue of national minorities. While this included the status of Jews in several European countries, it also was associated with the increased risk of conflict, potentially leading to war, in central Europe. Since American commentators did not think that these tensions were evident in the US context, the idea of national minorities did not appear relevant. However, in the early 1930s the term ‘minority’ was introduced into national discourse, but in a version detached from nationalism. Instead, it began to be used in the discourse of what was at the time more generally called ‘race relations’. Gleason saw the publication of Donald Young’s American Minority Peoples (1932) as a signature moment (Gleason 1991: 394). Young, as the executive director of the Social Science Research Council, was in a position to influence how scholars framed their research. He was clear that in using the term, he wanted to distance social science research from race understood in biological terms. Gleason writes that not only did it become a widely used term in sociology but also acquired broader significance insofar as: It was absorbed into the vocabulary of New Deal liberalism as applied to group relations and was associated with emphasis on the analytical importance of the culture concept, acceptance of cultural pluralism as a social ideal, and with the rejection of nationalism, ethnocentrism, and prejudice as group norms or personal attitudes. (Gleason 1991: 395–6) Louis Wirth provided a succinct definition of minorities as ‘those who because of physical or social and cultural differences receive differential treatment and who regard themselves as a people apart’ (1941: 415). They are located low on the status hierarchy, are denied equal opportunities, are subject to marginalization and experience prejudice and discrimination as a way of life. Gleason points to the lasting impact of this definition of minority in affixing ‘the element of victimization firmly in the concept of minority’ (1991: 399; emphasis in the original). It is in this sense that the term has retained its currency over time, reflected for example in John Skrentny’s Minority Rights Revolution (2002) and in multicultural theorists who use the term to describe the claims-making

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communities of fate that call for various forms of redress to overcome a history of victimization (Young 1990; Kivisto 2012). Critics have identified three problematic features of minority as a concept for intergroup relations. The first is that minority implies the existence of a majority, and in the literature who makes up the majority often goes unanalysed and undertheorized. Moreover, from Wirth forward most scholars using the term have insisted that it need not refer to a numerical minority. Thus, whereas in the American context, African Americans were a numerical minority, such was not the case in apartheid South Africa. The majorityminority dynamic is for them essentially a synonym for dominant-subordinate. Second, given the dichotomous character of majority-minority, it is unclear how one applies the designations in modern societies that are inherently complex, highly differentiated and pluralistic. For example, the two groups historically singled out as the paradigmatic examples of minorities in the United States – African Americans and Jews – have had a fraught relational history that is not easily captured conceptually in this framework. Finally, there is a lack of clarity concerning what constitutes a minority. When the term was introduced in Europe it was as an adjective describing stateless nationality groups, but when it was introduced into the United States, it was designed to be a substitute for race – or at least a signal departure from viewing race in biological terms. However, it soon came to be defined more broadly. This was reflected in a Social Science Research Council report authored by Robin Williams (1947) in which what were presented as three discrete types of minority groups were identified: ethnic, racial and religious. We will return to the distinction made between ethnic and racial groups later, but the point to be made here is that from this mid-twentieth-century understanding to the end of the century and beyond, the term minority acquired an even more capacious character. The list includes individuals falling under the broad LGBTQ label, the physically and mentally disabled, women, the poor, the working class and old people. Iris Marion Young’s (1990) list of minorities, it has been noted by more than one commentator, would include approximately 90 per cent of the population (see, for example, Barry 2001: 306).

Enter ethnicity The first sentence of the introduction to Nathan Glazer and Daniel P. Moynihan’s influential edited book, Ethnicity: Theory and Experience (1975) states, ‘Ethnicity seems to be a new term.’ They observe that it did not appear in the 1933 edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, appearing for the first time in the dictionary’s 1972 supplement, where it cites a reference to sociologist David Riesman’s use of the term in a 1953 article. In Beyond Ethnicity (1986), Werner Sollors notes that Riesman gave no hint that he understood himself to be introducing a new term into the social science lexicon. While he agrees with Glazer and Moynihan that the term is of recent vintage, he pushes the origin to the preceding decade, locating it in the work of the University of Chicago’s W. Lloyd Warner and colleagues in their community studies series, and in particular in the ‘Yankee City’ (Newburyport, Massachusetts) case. Although Warner was an anthropologist, his impact on the conceptual development of ethnicity was felt primarily in sociology – reflected in subsequent refinements and revisions. However, as with the deep histories of most concepts, ethnic and ethnicity had made their appearance decades prior to the 1940s. The adjective ethic was used in the early American sociologist William Graham Sumner’s Folkways ([1906] 1940). Moreover, he

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was responsible for introducing the concept of ethnocentrism to an English-language audience – perhaps deriving it from Ludwig Gumplowicz’s German Ethnocentrismus (Bizumic 2014) – and thereby framing the concept in relational terms predicated on an insider-outsider binary. In tracing the historical trajectory of concept formation, Sumner or Gumplowicz should be seen as precursors, the former being widely cited by American scholars. Historian Fred Matthews (1977: 158) contends that Sumner’s naturalist evolution ‘avoided biological explanations’ for what he considered to be the intractable reality of ethnocentric prejudice, which functioned to preserve group boundaries and defined intergroup relations. Usage of these terms was not confined to the academy. There is evidence not only of them in public discourse but also in their more muddled relationship to race. A revealing instance occurred with an article that Calvin Coolidge, the then Vice-President of the United States, wrote in Good Housekeeping in 1921. Expressing his admiration for Madison Grant’s views, he contended that ‘The Nordics propagate themselves successfully. With other races, the outcome shows deterioration on both sides. Quality of mind and body suggests that observation of ethnic law is as great a necessity to a nation as immigration law’ (quoted in Serwer 2019: 88; my emphasis). Among scholars, the concepts of ethnic and ethnicity emerged principally out of the Chicago School of Sociology, where both W. I. Thomas and Robert Park made use of Sumner’s ideas, albeit in a highly selective and partial way. Although Park is often depicted as a pessimist when assessing the prospects of intergroup relations, Matthews writes that his ‘great service was to transform this theory from within, as it were, accepting its partial truth while supplying it with a dynamic of historical change which allowed for greater optimism about the possibility of improvement in group relations’ (1977: 158). At the same time that ethnicity was gaining currency as a tool of sociological analysis, some turned to it for explicitly political reasons – seeking to find a discourse that distanced itself from – and, indeed, repudiated – the racialist ideology of the Nazis. Soon after Hitler’s rise to power, two prominent British biologists, Julian Huxley and A. C. Haddon, proposed banishing the term race altogether, ‘and the non-committal term ethnic groups should be substituted’ (1935: 58; emphasis in the original). Michelle Brattain explains that for this duo and others, ‘The distance between academic science and public discourse convinced [them] of the need to break the nonacademic public’s habit of using the term altogether’ (2007: 1393; see also Banton 2007: 31; 2014: 335). This was nowhere more explicitly argued than in anthropologist Ashley Montagu’s bestselling Man’s Most Dangerous Myth (1942), in which he declared the idea of race to be meaningless – an argument he advocated for in a UNESCO statement on race eight years later (Gerstle 2001: 192; Brattain 2007: 1393). Chicago School sociologist Everett Hughes, summarizing such efforts, described the term ‘ethnic group’ as a ‘colorless catch-all much used by anthropologists and sociologists’ ([1948] 1971: 153). But he went on to caution those hoping to construct an analytic language free from everyday usage that this was unlikely because ethnic group is a term likely to be taken up by a larger public, and consequently likely to take on color that will compel the sociologists to get a new one, for it is one of the risks of our trade that our words lose the scientifically essential virtue of neutrality as they acquire the highly desirable virtue of being commonly used. (Hughes [1948] 1971: 153)

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Ethnicity as research subject If sociologists have subsequently looked for new terms, they have yet to succeed in getting them to take hold. Rather, they have and they continue to grapple with what we are talking about when we talk about ethnicity and ethnic groups, and moreover, how we should construe the relationship between ethnicity and race. Hughes was well aware of the major research project undertaken by Warner and his colleagues, who were very much the products and exponents of the Chicago School approach. I summarize their proposed approach since it would, as Sollors rightly claimed and Richard Alba and Victor Nee (2003) subsequently reconfirmed, have an impact on research agendas for some time. Warner and Lunt identified ten ethnic groups in Yankee City, defining the term ethic in terms of self-identification with a group and involvement in its activities (Warner and Lunt 1941: 211). In addition to European-origin groups, including Jews, Warner and Lunt included ‘Negro’. Thus, in their formulation, the term ethnic appeared to be viewed as including or encompassing race. However, in The Social Systems of American Ethnic Groups (1945), Warner and his co-author Leo Srole complicated the relationship between race and ethnicity. The book was concerned with the matter of assimilation into the societal mainstream, a preoccupation of the Chicago School. Warner and Srole offered a complex conceptual scheme to account for the likely assimilative trajectories of a wide range of groups that they broadly divided into three categories: ethnic, racial and ethno-racial (the third is not well defined but is meant to capture an interstitial category). The focus of their study was on the differential barriers to incorporation confronting various groups. Key to defining the strength of the barrier was the level and degree of subordination each group confronts, but factored into the equation was the impact of the relative strength of the group’s communal bonds. Located in the social distance tradition, the traits that made incorporation difficult for ethnic groups were described as being cultural in nature and therefore subject to change. In contrast, the racial traits that worked against assimilation were rooted in physical differences, and thus were likely to remain persistent handicaps for racial groups. The ethno-racial groups (the two examples in the study were ‘Spanish Americans’ in the Southwest and ‘mixed bloods’ from Latin America) had sufficiently ambiguous identities that their futures might either look like the futures of ethnic groups or the futures of racial groups (Warner and Srole 1945: 284–92). In their ‘scale of subordination and assimilation’, Warner and Srole combined racial and cultural types to form a grid in which they located each specific group. They offered both a prognosis of the length of time it would take to assimilate (ranging from ‘very short’ to ‘very slow’) and their predicted future social location. In the case of ethnic groups, the movement over time would be from the ethnic group into specific social class locations. At the other end of the spectrum, for Blacks it would be a movement from the racial group to a ‘color caste’ location. Asians were destined to enter a ‘semicaste’ condition, while Latinos would either end up in a class or colour caste location. Thus, they concluded that, ‘The future of American ethnic groups seems to be limited; it is likely that they will be quickly absorbed. When this happens one of the great epochs of American history will have ended and another, that of race, will begin’ (Warner and Srole 1945: 295). This is a rather odd formulation given the prominent role race has played throughout American history, but it does serve to differentiate the future historical trajectories of white ethnics and people of colour. Both methodologically and in terms of

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the theoretical assumptions shaping their work, Warner and Srole’s study can be viewed as emblematic of a tradition of sociological research that extended at least into the 1960s. Their intention was to construct serviceable operational definitions for their community studies that reflected the intergroup situation of the United States two decades after mass migration had ceased. They were not intent on offering a sustained theoretical account, which can account for somewhat fuzzy quality of their concepts. Moreover, they fail to problematize the idea of group, being content to assume that the dominant society’s collective definition of the situation would suffice to account for the existence of groups.

Theorizing ethnicity Max Weber’s writings have proven to be a touchstone for theoretical work on ethnicity. His thinking about race and ethnicity was initially motivated by his critical reaction to biological racial theories, which was evident in a charged debated he had with Alfred Ploetz, a proponent of biologically deterministic race theory. Intellectual biographers have noted the impact that his 1904 visit to the United States had on his thinking. Not only did he encounter the German American community, which he took to be emblematic of the ethnic communities of European-origin immigrants and their offspring, but he also spent several days with Cherokee Indians in Oklahoma and in his trip through the Deep South, he visited Booker T. Washington’s Tuskegee Institute (Figure 6.5). This combined with his extended contacts with W. E. B. Du Bois led him to an appreciation of the sheer

FIGURE 6.5  History class at Tuskegee Institute, Alabama, United States, c. 1899. © Buyenlarge/Getty Images.

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complexity of race and ethnicity in the United States, where a class society existed side by side with a caste system (Scaff 2011: 112–16; Morris 2015: 156–9). The key text in question is ‘Ethnic Groups’, which appears as chapter five in the collection of Weber’s work published posthumously in English as Economy and Society ([1968] 1978). It did not appear in English until nearly a half-century after his death in 1920, and thus until that time the text was not widely known to most Anglo-American scholars. Scaff observes that, ‘If anything stands out in [this text], it is Weber’s extreme skepticism about the use of race and ethnicity without explanation as serviceable terms’ (2011: 114; emphases in the original). This is echoed by Banton, who notes the frequency with which Weber places his terms in quotation marks as if to indicate his uncertainty about his formulation (Banton 2014: 328). Weber defined ethnic groups as ‘those human groups that entertain a subjective belief in their common descent because of similarities of physical type or of customs or both, or because of memories of colonization and migration’ ([1968] 1978: 389). He goes on to contend that the belief may or may not be grounded in ‘an objective blood relationship’. There are three pertinent features to this definition that are worth highlighting. First, the ethnic group is a social construct – and thus not an ascriptive given – that emanates from the sentiments and beliefs of its constituent members. Second, racial groups are construed as a subset of ethnic groups. Though more implicit, to the extent that religious affiliation is an aspect of shared customs, religious identities at least in some instances can be viewed as reinforcing ethnic identities. Conceptually, ethnic groups and religious groups can be overlapping, intersecting or unconnected. Third, the emphasis on those claiming group membership as the sole arbiters of defining the ethnic group fails to appreciate the obvious role of others in imposing group identities on the less powerful and more marginalized sectors of a society (surprisingly given Weber’s usual attentiveness to power in social relations) (Figure 6.6). It is common to compare the ethnic group to the kinship group. Weber did so by contending that ‘Ethnic membership differs from the kinship group precisely by being a presumed identity, not a group with concrete social action, like the latter’ ([1968] 1978: 389). Although this is not an entirely transparent claim, one assumes that the reason for making the comparison in the first place is because of the assumption that the two types of affiliation bear a family resemblance. This is clearly what E. K. Francis (1947) thought when he defined the ethnic group as a subtype of Gemeinschaft groups, defining it in terms of its involuntary nature and the emotive bonds between members. In so doing, he contended that these two features of the ethnic group mean that, although a secondary group, it bears some of the characteristic features of the most important primary group, the family. In a somewhat different take, Craig Calhoun has sought to position the ethnic group in ‘an intermediary position between kinship and nationality’ (1997: 40). In yet another attempt to construct a parsimonious definition of the ethnic group that built on Weber while attending to its problematic features, Christiano, Swatos and Kivisto proposed the following formulation: ‘ethnic groups are composed of people who are presumed, by members of the group itself and by outsiders, to have a shared collective origin and history, and a common set of cultural attributes that serve to establish boundaries between the group and the larger society’ (2008: 155). This definition does not directly address race, but one can use this definition to locate racial groups as a subset of ethnic groups – or to speak of ‘racialized ethnicity’. Left unaddressed is how it is that a group becomes a group. This was an issue that Weber was aware of when he noted that ‘ethnic membership does not constitute a group; it only facilitates group

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FIGURE 6.6  Max Weber, a sociologist and socio-political advocate, Germany, c. 1917. © Ullstein bild Dtl./Getty Images.

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formation’ ([1968] 1978: 389). The sociological question then becomes, how is group formation facilitated? How are ethnic boundaries constructed (Barth 1969)? Subsequent generations of scholars have wrestled with these questions. The most provocative recent response to the question comes from Rogers Brubaker (2004; see also Brubaker 2003; Calhoun 2003). He addresses the issue in his brief on behalf of treating ‘ethnicity without groups’. In making his case, he takes aim at two targets: what he calls ‘groupism’ and aspects or versions of the social constructionist model (though he is himself a social constructionist). Addressing the first of these targets, the central complaint is that it constitutes a form of essentialism, one that encourages a perspective that treats ethnicity as a substance or entity rather than in ‘relational, processual, dynamic, eventful, and disaggregated terms’ (Brubaker 2004: 11). His proposal is indebted to the theoretical perspective of Bourdieu, seeking to replace both a groupist and an individualistic orientation with a new analytical vocabulary. In so doing, he aspires to revitalize social constructionism. In order to do so, Brubaker sketches the outline of what it might mean to treat ‘ethnicity as cognition’ (2004: 64–87). To be more specific, he is interested in exploring a topic rooted in Durkheimian theory, categorization, for ‘without categories, the world would be a “blooming, buzzing confusion”’ (Brubaker 2004: 71). While much of his work is designed to specify what a research programme might look like and whom it might borrow from, he does make one observation relevant to the topic at hand. Referring to the debate within ethnic studies between primordialists (Geertz 1973; Shils 1975; van den Berghe 1981) and circumstationalists (Glazer and Moynihan 1975; Gleason 1983), he contends that contrary to the common assumption, they ought to be viewed as ‘complementary rather than mutually exclusive’ (Brubaker 2004: 83). At a moment in sociology when social constructivism frames this debate, the typical assessment of primordialism is to dismiss it as yet another instance of essentialism. However, Brubaker cautions, this represents a misreading of primordialism. Referring specifically to the seminal work of Geertz (1963), he stresses that what is considered to be a primordial attachment to the givens of cultural life are in fact imputed or ‘presumed’ givens by social actors and not by social scientists. As Brubaker sums up, ‘In fact, on the primordialist account, it is participants, not the analysts, who are the real primordialists, treating ethnicity as naturally given and immutable’ (2004: 83). The task at hand for future research agendas is to – making use of the work of cognitive psychologists and cognitive anthropologists – begin to understand when and under what circumstances participants latch onto ‘the givens’ and when they abandon or ignore them.

RACE AND ETHNICITY Complicating theorizing about ethnicity is a persistent lack of consensus about the relationship between race and ethnicity – in spite of the early efforts to subsume the former under the latter. Three different approaches have found prominent spokespersons. The following summarizes each position.

Race as an aspect of ethnicity Part of the rationale for viewing race as a component feature of ethnicity is to offer an analytical model distinct from historical or everyday understandings. Ethnicity is understood as being predicated on a shared origin – real or imagined – and culture, the

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latter broad term which can include as more or less salient traditions, values, symbols, language and religion. As a boundary creating construct, ethnicity forges a sense of group identity that is considered to be a distinctive community formation by both insiders and outsiders. In this context, race can be seen as one other potential component of ethnic identity and group definition. To the extent that in any particular situation race is highly salient, it is appropriate to speak of ‘racialized ethnicity’. Involved in such cases is the need to come to terms with socially created and embedded notions about group differences predicated on observable physiological differences that are believed to have consequences about innate ability, moral character and durable inequality. In short, from this perspective race can be seen for what it is: a definition of the situation that, to the extent that it is embraced by large numbers of people, will have real consequences in everyday social relations. This was the rationale for introducing the term ethnicity into the conceptual tool kit of scholars of intergroup relations, and it has continued to find support. Prominent contemporary sociologists reflect the view of likeminded scholars. Harvard sociologist Orlando Patterson endorses Montagu’s view that, ‘The term race itself should be abandoned … and the distinction between “race” and ethnicity should be abandoned as meaningless and potentially dangerous’ (1997: 173; emphasis in the original). British sociologist Paul Gilroy challenges those seeking to maintain a distinction between race and ethnicity, writing that it is preferable to consider patterns of conflict connected to the consolidation of cultural lines rather than color lines and is concerned in particular with the operations of power, which thanks to ideas about ‘race,’ have become entangled with those vain and mistaken attempts to delineate and subdivide humankind. (2000: 1; emphasis in the original) As one final example, British sociologist Steve Fenton echoes Patterson and Gilroy, writing, ‘The term “ethnic” has a much greater claim to analytical usefulness in sociology because it is not hampered by a history of connotations with discredited science and malevolent practices in the way the term “race” is’ (1999: 421). One of the implications of this position is that when race does prove to be an especially important aspect of ethnic identity, the focus will be less on race per se than on racism and its consequences.

Distinguishing race from ethnicity Rejecting the previous position, a countervailing argument calls for maintaining the distinction between race and ethnicity. The most influential example of this view is found in Michael Omi and Howard Winant’s acclaimed Racial Formation in the United States (2015; see also Bonilla-Silva 1997). In the third edition of the book, published over thirty years after the first edition had appeared, the authors address historical changes in the ensuing decades, including the election of Barack Obama as President of the United States. However, they have remained firm in their position on the analytic difference between race and ethnicity in their development of the idea of racial formation – a concept indebted to the cultural Marxism of Antonio Gramsci, and in particular his ideas concerning hegemony and crisis. Omi and Winant use the term ethnic groups to describe voluntary European-origin immigrants and their offspring – who collectively have for most of US history constituted a numerical majority of the population. Race is applicable to African Americans and Native Americans – the victims of slavery and colonialism. Their rationale for making this

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distinction is that these groups have had very different historical experiences. Whereas voluntary immigrants often confronted prejudice and discrimination, they experienced nothing resembling the oppression and marginalization experienced by the two racial groups. Distinguishing between ethnic and racial groups is meant to serve as an indicator of the vastly different histories of voluntary immigrants versus others. The idea of viewing race as a component of ethnicity strikes Omi and Winant as amounting to an unwarranted reductionism (Omi and Winant 2015: 40). A complicating feature of their position is that they want to locate Latinx and Asian Americans in the racial category, although the historical experiences of both are rooted in immigration. While it is true that they have experienced more intense nativist hostility than their European-origin counterparts and as a consequence have had a more difficult time entering the societal mainstream, it is also true that their victimhood is not a consequence of slavery or colonization. Critics have pointed to this as indicative of a problem with Omi and Winant’s idea of dichotomous categories, which is that it fails to distinguish a historical distinction from an analytical one. It conflates analytical categories with everyday applied uses of both terms, and in so doing repudiates the motivating rationale for injecting ethnicity in the study of difference. Moreover, as whiteness studies scholar David Roediger (2005) has argued, many European-origin groups were not considered to be white upon arrival in the United States, but instead ‘achieved’ whiteness over time. If true, Omi and Winant can be questioned about their reading of history, which appears to be inflected with an essentialist, binary view of race. Stephen Cornell and Douglas Hartmann (2004, 2007) also seek to maintain a distinction between race and ethnicity, but in doing so they presume that the boundaries are not always precise and can in some instances be overlapping. They begin by noting that both race and ethnicity are concerned with origins – physical difference for the former, a shared cultural history and sense of peoplehood for the latter. Both are ‘constructed social categories based on primordialist claims regarding differences between persons’ or what they call ‘constructed primordialities’ (Cornell and Hartmann 2004: 29, 33). In their estimation, racial categories are typically imposed on a group by others, whereas for ethnic categories the assignment can either come from inside or outside. Whereas race involves power differentials and relatedly differential estimations of relative worth, such need not necessarily apply to ethnicity. Finally, because race is construed as ‘natural’, it is seen as an immutable given. Such is not the case with ethnicity, which is seen as being subject to historical modification. According to Cornell and Hartmann, in most cases ethnicity and race can be viewed as distinct, but in some instances groups are both (Cornell and Hartmann 2004: 30; 2007: 36). Despite their modifications, the argument they advance is still subject to the same criticism directed at Omi and Winant. As Mara Loveman describes it, in such an approach, ‘Commonsense understandings of these categories as they exist [in specific national contexts] are elevated to the status of social scientific concepts’ (1999: 894).

Race and ethnicity as a family of concepts Turning once again to Brubaker, in ‘Ethnicity, Race, and Nationalism’ (2009) he attempts to reframe the way for sociologists to think about these terms. He reminds readers of Weber’s remark that these terms ‘are not precise analytical concepts’ but instead are ‘vague vernacular terms whose meaning varies considerably over place and time’ (Brubaker 2009: 27). The quest to construct them as analytical terms and to offer precise

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distinctions among them that are free from everyday usage ought to end. As Brubaker puts it: Rather than seek to demarcate precisely their respective spheres, it might be more productive to focus on identifying and explaining patterns of variation on these and other dimensions, without worrying too much about where exactly race stops and ethnicity begins. (2009: 27–8) In other words, sociologists should abandon the goal of creating analytical concepts that transcend the way they are used in ordinary social life. Instead, the sociological task is to make sense of how, when and why they are used ‘as idioms of cultural understanding, modes of social organization, and patterns of political claims-making’ (Brubaker 2009: 24). He connects this to the cognitive turn, contending with colleagues: Race, ethnicity, and nationality exist only in and through our perceptions, interpretations, representations, classifications, categorizations, and identifications. They are not things in the world, but perspectives on the world – not ontological but epistemological realities. (Brubaker, Loveman and Stamatov 2004: 45; emphases in the original) As such, they function to help individuals make sense of the world they inhabit, and insofar as they do so, they are reproduced. But while race, ethnicity and nationality are available categories for locating oneself and others in terms of identities, interests and evaluation – moral and otherwise – they are not always salient, nor are they necessarily understood in the same way. Context matters: time and place matter. Instead of the long-standing preoccupation with answering what race, ethnicity and nationality are in a decontextualized, generalized way, sociologists should inquire into how, when and why these categories are meaningful in particular contexts. This calls for research agendas into the constitutive practices of social actors that are inherently comparative and historical.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Race and Gender Crossing Boundaries ALPA PARMAR

INTRODUCTION AND CULTURAL-HISTORIC CONTEXT Tracing the historicity of race and identifying its racial past are key to understanding how it operates in the present (Turda and Quine 2018). In doing so, we must recognize how race intersects with other social cleavages including gender, generation and class, to name a few. In this chapter I focus on the historical trajectories of race and gender and discuss how they have intersected from the 1920s to the present day. Race and gender come into existence in and through each other (McClintock 1995) and shape experiences of everyday life for people across the world. Given that both racialized and gendered social orderings have long been taken for granted, it is a complex undertaking to suspend these assumptions and investigate exactly how they operate (Connell 2009). Questions about gender are as much about men as they are women and questions about race are important for people of colour and white people. This chapter will critically examine the cultural practices, ideas and institutions as they bear on race and gender since 1920 to the present time by drawing on a range of sources and interpretations from multidisciplinary perspectives. The aim of this chapter is to provide an account of how race and gender operate together to produce patterns of inequality, privilege, uneven power and different social and cultural modes of interaction in the world. The chapter will discuss how gender is racialized and race is gendered in ways that go beyond an additive understanding of how race is impacted upon by gender, class and other social cleavages (Glenn 2002). All people are racialized and gendered and race and gender matter because marginalization, oppression, violence and death have been the outcome of racial conflicts, gender protests or for people simply not belonging to the ‘right’ race or gender (Turda and Quine 2018). Despite their contested and elusive meanings, racialized and gendered structures, stereotypes and emotions continue to circulate and have force in society and real consequences. In this chapter the focus will be on discussing the relationship between race and gender. This relationship is complex, contextual and contested, at times revealing further ambiguities instead of clarifying the interrelation. Legislation against gender and racial discrimination is in place in various jurisdictions across the world, alongside policies and practices to embrace diversity and ensure representation. However the enforcement of legislation and measurable change in terms of social mobility and equality has been difficult to detect and stifled because of the embeddedness of institutional racism and the

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illusion of progress that comes with post-racial rhetoric (Bhopal 2018). Furthermore, the mutability of race and racist practices mean that forms of racism, sexism, exclusion and violence do not disappear but rather adapt to take different forms, even when legislation is passed and enforced. This has happened throughout history, for example, although slavery in the United States was outlawed in 1865 and followed by the Civil Rights Act in 1866, violence and racism towards people of colour continued. Segregation laws (known as Jim Crow laws) had been passed by most southern states, and the degradation of Black people continued unabated (Kluger 1975).

HISTORIES OF MASS MIGRATION AND COLONIALISM Levels of ethnic diversity were transformed by mass migration across the globe particularly from the 1950s onwards. The following section focuses on the United States and Britain, and discusses only a few of the ethnic minority communities involved as there is not space here to cover a wider geographical and cultural array of experiences. Immigration law and citizenship policy have always practiced boundary making and as such are one of the most significant tools for the demarcation of social inclusion and exclusion. In this respect, immigration and citizenship laws continue to create hierarchies among migrants that mirror and reproduce the uneven consequences of social membership such as gender, race/ethnicity, nationality, religion and class (Ellermann 2020). Temporariness and everyday precarity are part of the lived experience for some migrants and bureaucratic administrative tools such as visa categories mean that class, gendered and racialized noncitizen hierarchies are pervasive in their production of persistent inequality. The increased demand for labour between 1910 and 1920 resulted in the arrival of close to four hundred thousand Mexican people in the United States. The economic recession of the 1920s however called for stricter immigration policies (Ramírez 2018). It followed then that one of the developments of the eugenics movement was immigration reform, namely the 1924 National Origins Quota Act (Johnson-Reed Immigration Act), which curtailed immigration from southern and eastern European nations and increased policing along the Mexican-American border (Rankin 2017). The 1924 law imposed a limit based on nationality (which meant race) by requiring a visa to enter the United States, criminalizing those who lived there or had entered without a visa. The Act signified Mexicans as ‘illegal aliens’ who previously had been categorized and legally defined as white (Haney Lopez 2006). The 1965 Immigration and Nationality Act finally abolished the national origins quota system, meaning that immigrants could naturalize through their relationship to a US citizen or US employer. Whilst race is no longer a prerequisite for citizenship, the racial hierarchy of the immigration system was sedimented into legal practices and the cultural memory of Mexican and other immigrant communities at this time (Ramírez 2018). The US-Mexico border has had a long history of contestation and its policing has become a symbol of the continued exertion of US control and power over Mexico (Ngai 2014). The Mexican presence in the United States was a result of war, domination and annexation yet twentieth-century immigration law has focused on the need to deport working-class people and constructing Mexican people as inherently illegal (Ramírez 2018). In doing so, processes of Mexican racialization have constructed an entire ethnic group as always foreign and the impacts are wide and consequential. Through careful analysis of immigration policies from 1924 to 1965, Natalia Molina (2014) argues that racialized groups are connected over time and space. ‘Racial scripts’ according to Molina’s thesis, operate so that the racial and gendered experiences of one group can

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determine the exclusionary and inclusionary experiences of another racial group. The policies used to exclude Chinese, Japanese, southern and eastern Europeans, for example, were later repurposed and applied to Mexicans. The malleability of cultural stereotypes enable their application across different ethnic groups, revealing the relational nature of racism as well as its capacity to adapt. For example, racial scripts targeted Mexican and Chinese women during the 1930s and gender and racial biases merged to signify this group as non-normative and a threat to American culture. Medical racialization was applied to Mexican men during the 1940s and 1950s, heightening the culture of fear and blame which contributed towards rationalizing a system of surveillance, control and deportation. Mexican men, even those who held US citizenship, were framed as unable to become full citizens and the threat of them being inherently diseased was central to this construction (Markel and Stern 2002; Molina 2014). Women could also be (and were) divested of US citizenship, as their political identity was determined by the legal status of their fathers or husbands. For example, a Chinese woman who held US citizenship by birth, could be stripped of her citizenship if she married a Chinese national (Volpp 2005). Such restrictions for citizenship were intersectional in terms of gender and race, because although the Cable Act of 1922 allowed women who had lost their citizenship through marriage to rejoin the United States through naturalization, only women who themselves were eligible for citizenship were permitted to do so. Thus, a woman who was ethnic/ racial Chinese was barred from (re)gaining citizenship and such restrictions were in place until the middle of the twentieth century. Today the enforcement of immigration laws in the United States remain decidedly uneven. Deportation laws, whilst written as race and gender blind, are implemented by targeting Black and Latino immigrant men (Golash-Boza 2018). America’s history of slavery is reflected by the Black and African American community today, which amounts to approximately 13.4 per cent of the population whilst white people make up 76.5 per cent and American Indian and Alaskan Native people make up 1.3 per cent. The Hispanic or Latino population makes up 18.3 per cent (United States Census Bureau n.d.). In recent times, the number of women migrating from the Global South to the Global North has increased significantly. Women’s actual and perceived vulnerability and stereotypes of risk and sexuality operate to further restrict their journeys and entry into countries where they have little legal recourse for access and assistance (Pickering and Ham 2013). The ‘feminization of migration flows’ have been created because of various factors including the gendering of the immigrant work force in areas such as domestic work and the service industry as well as the fact that women may be more likely to be pushed towards forced migration because of experiencing domestic violence, poverty and the consequences of war and natural disaster. Women are not merely non-agentic victims of circumstance and masculinities are shaped by migration as much as femininities are. Notwithstanding these points, migration is shaped by policies and social forces that influence gender, race and class. For example, recent migration has been characterized by feminization in places such as Spain because of the demand for care and domestic workers, which means that women are caught in precarious labour positions to ensure their regular status (Wonders 2017). In Britain, from 1945 onwards citizens of Commonwealth countries were invited by government campaigns to relieve labour shortages following the Second World War. People from the West Indies and their families were invited to respond to these shortages and the first arrivals of this cohort came via ships such as the Empire Windrush from Jamaica in 1948 (Figure 7.1). East African Asians displaced from postcolonial Kenya

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FIGURE 7.1  The Empire Windrush arriving in London from Jamaica, 1948. © Daily Herald Archive/Getty Images.

in 1968 and Uganda in 1972 came to England, indelibly changing the demographic profile of Britain’s citizens. The Jamaican-born population of the UK increased from six thousand to a hundred thousand between 1951 and 1961. International migration during this period followed imperial routes with Ireland and India to begin with, and by 1971 Jamaica and Pakistan were the main countries of origin. Since then the range of sending countries has increased due to conflicts and other factors and after 2004 countries such as Poland were more prominent following the expansion of the European Union (Gidley, Hanson and Ali 2018). Nationality and citizenship are central features of modern societies, defining and drawing boundaries between groups of people and countries. Migration and border controls have proliferated and critical scholarship has identified how the restrictions imposed on people continue to be racialized and gendered (Bosworth, Parmar and Vázquez 2018). For example, border crossers are sharply delineated according to the level of privilege they have access to, conceptually divided into ‘vagabonds’ and ‘tourists’ in terms of the ease by which they cross geographical space and national borders (Bauman 1998; Aas 2016). Despite the obvious inequity in global mobility according to race, gender and class, analyses of citizenship and borders have tended to lack an intersectional focus. Instead, scholarly work has focused on either gender or race as a lens through which to understand the lived experience of migrants (Parmar 2016). Migrant men are racialized, infantilized and often framed as effeminate and cowardly alongside being dangerous (Rettberg and Gajjala 2015). Immigration detention and deportation

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regimes have been shown to impact male migrants’ sense of responsibility and ability to provide for their partners and children because of the restrictions on their ability to work. By being presented as ‘bogus’ asylum seekers, male migrants are often forced to reassert their identities having been rejected as being genuinely vulnerable by asylum and refugee policies which simultaneously work to emasculate and infantilize them (Griffiths 2015). In Britain, discussions of ethnic diversity and difference have tended to conceptually organize around ideas of national identity rather than race. Stuart Hall (2017) argued that myths of Englishness are powerfully stabilized by gender and sexuality and that in the British case, national identity has been constructed through the virtues of certain kinds of men who become bearers of the national story and narratives of Britishness. Assumed ‘manly’ virtues of self-discipline and self-restraint are deeply caught up with the stiff-upper-lipped, understated, emotionally armour-plated values of particular kinds of English masculinity, which are then representative of a particular generation and class. And ‘this gendering of national identity is, in turn, intimately related to the forging of the British nation as it is constitutively related to its imperial “others”’ (Hall 2017: 140). In her analysis of colonial Indian migration from the British Empire, Radhika Mongia (2018) asserts that the blurring of the vocabularies of nationality and race acted as a founding strategy of the modern nation-state. The making of the modern nation-state therefore cannot be seen as separate from the context of racialized migration in which it took (and continues to take) shape. Analyses of coloniality and postcoloniality speak directly to the creation of racial hierarchies and the production of categories of race that were so central to the Enlightenment period from the eighteenth century onwards. The gendered aspects of (post)coloniality and race, however, are seldom analysed in detail. According to Maria Lugones, colonialism imposed a new gender system that created very different arrangements for colonized males and females than for white bourgeois colonizers (Lugones 2007: 186). Representations of gender and sexuality were strong features of the articulation of racism during colonial times and such gendered systems became more institutionalized as colonial projects advanced (McClintock 1995; Lugones 2007). In tracing the anthropology of empire, Stoler (1989) too has argued that gender inequalities were essential to the structure of colonial racism, and specifically that sexual control and sexual fears were fundamental to the expression of racial anxieties. Wealthy women too were implicated within the power structures of colonialism and slavery as they profited from the apparatus of slavery and its financial opportunities. Colonial discourses from the late eighteenth century reveal how the work of empire was both gendered and racialized, explaining why we have the stereotypes we do today. Rules of colonial difference instituted during this time of expansion and consolidation of the British Empire included markers of difference between colonizers and ‘natives’, signifying brown and black skin colour, particular hair type and bone structures as inferior to the norm of superiority attached to whiteness. Men and women were constructed as having different characteristics, ‘mapping racial difference onto those of gender difference, and vice versa. Gender-specific sexual sanctions … were ways of marking power and prescribing the boundaries of race’ (C. Hall 2007: 4). As Catherine Hall (2007) goes on to explain, in making despised or desired others, the colonizers articulated themselves; in demarcating brown femininity, they elevated white femininity through colonial discourses which became crucial to this process of mutual constitution. Women’s positions were frequently taken as markers of social advancement. In writings about India, Hindu men were constructed as having extreme contempt for ‘their’ women, further delineating the boundary between the civilized and uncivilized. The Indian woman was articulated as a

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degraded victim of her barbaric society. Constructions of the ‘Hindoo woman’ as oversexualized and oppressed provided an index, for the British, of Indian society’s desperate need for help and promoted the idea that the British were saving Indian women from the barbarities of their archaic and superstitious world. This both reinforced British masculinity and legitimated their rule (Metcalfe 1994). Furthermore, British scholars attempting to make sense of India adopted the notion that there were distinct and fixed communities of Hindus and Muslims with established sets of beliefs and different characteristics. Muslim men were framed as violent and masculine, whereas Hindu men were framed as passive, effeminate and easily conquered. Stereotypes of men and women were part of a system of symbolic constitution argues Hall, ‘of inferior “others” and the enlightened self of Europe’ (2007: 8). Gendered and racialized narratives are clearly based on a long history of intersectional oppression which has entrenched deeper and farther as the decades have gone by. Moves to disrupt such monolithic ideas have come in the form of feminist, anti-racist and social justice movements and it to feminism that we turn in the next section.

FEMINISM Since the 1920s there have been various waves of feminism each with a different focus regarding race and gender. The unifying thread is that all feminist campaigns promote the necessity of equal rights and legal protection for women in all spheres of life. Feminism is broadly categorized in waves, and it is argued that since 2012 we have entered fourthwave feminism, which has brought the importance of women’s empowerment into the public domain. Exposing sexual abuse, rape and unsettling gender binaries, male feminism, highlighting the chronic lack of representation of women in senior business, political and public roles all characterize fourth-wave feminism. In addition to raising attention towards the issues, taking action, and particularly legal action, is regarded as less extreme and more of a right, in contemporary society. Use of social media and the internet have been crucial to fourth-wave feminism and intersectional issues have gained significant traction during this time, with women of colour increasingly and successfully challenging the status quo (Roberts 2020). In charting the development of Feminism(s), we see that the nineteenth century saw racial liberation through the abolitionist movement and civil war and feminist liberation through the suffragette movement. In the United States, Black men received the right to vote in 1870 followed by women in 1920, fifty years later. In the 1970s, women’s liberation (feminism) and Black civil rights gained momentum and became significant cultural and political movements for the decades to come (Zack 2017). Feminists argued for reform with respect to legal rights, bodily rights including access to abortion and reproductive rights, protection from sexual harassment and domestic violence, employment rights and protection from gender discrimination. Feminism came to be criticized from the 1970s onwards for its leadership by and focus on the problems of white middle-class women (Zack 2017). In 1974 the Combahee River Collective argued that systems of oppression are interlocking and that Black women experienced simultaneous oppressions that demanded a different frame of analysis. Their approach argued that Black men and women needed to be united across lines of race while engaging to confront sexism and patriarchy in politics. Black feminism today is re-emerging as an analytical framework for activists challenging oppression towards trans women of colour and police violence,

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for example through #BlackLivesMatter, providing much needed galvanization for the contemporary struggles of Black women (Taylor 2017). The contribution of diverse voices in the feminist debate was highlighted and advanced by Angela Davis and Chandra Talpade Mohanty who criticized the ethnocentrism of Western feminism. Davis’s book Women, Race and Class, published in 1981, undertook a detailed analysis of history showing how Black and minority ethnic women’s experiences were more complicated than for women more broadly. For example, racist population control policies throughout the 1960s and 1970s affected Black, Latina and Native American women, with many sterilized against their will or knowledge (Davis 1981). The unquestioning assumption that ‘first world’ Black women are speaking on behalf of Black women globally has been challenged by Chandra Talpade Mohanty and Gayatri Spivak, raising concerns about authority and authenticity. They suggest that instead ‘experience’ is socio-historically specific and challenge the construction of the category of ‘third world’ women as homogeneous, powerless and implicit victims of socio-economic systems. Cross-cultural descriptions of women’s experiences with regard to religion, sexual politics and economic policy assume women to be a coherent group from the outset and without the nuances of class, culture and religious observance, for example. Such representations are deemed reductive as they adopt an ahistorical, generalized notion of women’s subordination. Such analyses result in simplistic formulations that bypass the reality of class and ethnic identities, leading to ineffectual strategies to combat the real oppressions that women face, in turn reinforcing the divisions between men and women (Talpade Mohanty 1984). Sara Ahmed has taken feminist thinking forward by powerfully arguing for the importance of retracing the steps of feminism and prioritizing and recalling the role of experiences. In her work Living a Feminist Life (Ahmed 2017) she describes how the legacies of scholarship from feminists of colour including Audrey Lorde, bell hooks and Angela Davis enable us to powerfully expose the problems of sexism and racism in the present day. Identity is presented as multiple and intersectional (discussed in the next section) and Ahmed compels us to recognize that she is a person of colour, a lesbian, of an immigrant background, a woman and all of these at every moment. Ahmed presents feminist lesbianism as the embodiment of feminist theory and politics in everyday life and shows us that to practice feminism is to be frustrated, to be named the problem for identifying the problem with patriarchy and racist power structures and that most of all, to practice feminism is to work collaboratively and to recognize emotions and humour as integral to the protest.

INTERSECTING RACE AND GENDER Intersectionality as a concept was crystallized by Black feminist Kimberlé Crenshaw (1991) in her article ‘Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics and Violence Against Women of Color’. The piece argued that in the context of understanding violence against women, the multiple identities and sources of oppression that women of colour were facing were conflated and ignored intra-group differences. Crenshaw’s critique rested on the idea that the experiences of women of colour were the product of intersecting patterns of racism and sexism. However, their multiple experiences were not effectively captured or represented in white feminist or anti-racist theories and in fact were marginalized by these approaches. According to Crenshaw’s thesis, the convergence

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and interlocking of systems – race, gender, class and poverty – are key to the experience of women of colour relative to other groups. Many people experience multiple identities that result in oppression and the framework presented therefore suggested that dimensions of race, gender and class were not reducible but instead mutually constitutive of each other. The aim of intersectionality was to enable multidirectional analysis – to see race through the lens of gender and to see gender through the lens of race. Intersectionality accommodates an understanding of multiple axes of difference – class, sexual orientation, nation, citizenship, immigration status, disability and religion, not just race and gender, according to Carbado (2013), despite the fact that most articles on intersectionality focus squarely on Black women or race and gender. Indeed, intersectionality has gone on to grow as a field where meanings are contested and debated over time and space. Crenshaw herself later returned to intersectionality debates by examining radical feminisms and critical race theory (Crenshaw 2010) and private violence and mass incarceration (Crenshaw 2012). Since its introduction, or framing as a scholarly buzzword (McCall 2005) work on intersectionality across the world has expanded since and highlighted its opportunities as well as its limitations (Lewis 2009). Some have argued that intersectionality is a theory or a meta-theory (Davis 2008), whereas others have suggested it is an analytical tool or metaphor that is implemented in different ways to address a range of issues and social problems (Crenshaw 1991; Collins 2016). Other criticisms highlight the lack of discussion about how to study intersectionality, that its methodology lacks the rigour to examine multiple subject positions and capacity to pay attention to the points of intersection (McCall 2005). In similar vein, others suggest that the focus on what intersectionality is detracts from what it actually does and how it might be implemented (Cho, Crenshaw and McCall 2013). Others suggested that naming an act as intersectional was at times a substitute for the meaningful application of critical analysis (Puar 2014). Some have argued that placing intersectionality’s beginnings within gender studies has ‘whitened’ its enterprise, erasing its beginnings in Black feminist histories and its articulations outside the academy (Bilge 2014; Salem 2018). Furthermore, the very theoretical foundations of intersectionality have been criticized for their role in essentializing the different categories it speaks to, for overlooking the colonial histories of these categories and for instead reproducing fixed racial categories and the gender binary (Narayan 2019). Others have critiqued intersectional applications for not analysing the relationships between multiply marginalized groups and overlooking unmarked categories where power and privilege concentrate (Choo and Ferree 2010). Intersectional approaches according to some critiques have been monopolized by those who emphasize gender and sexuality at the expense of focusing on race; at the cost of women of colour (Carbado et al. 2013; Puar 2014). However, others argue that given the importance of the context for understanding how various forms of marginality actually play out and intersect in practice, it is counter-productive to keep asking which group might be worse off in intersectional debates (Carbado 2013). Perspectives on the philosophy of race have not integrated intersectionality as a useful tool as it places all forms of oppression on the same theoretical level and this is at odds with the philosophy of race approach which regards racism as the main oppression (Zack 2017).

Boundaries, fluidity and performativity In tracing the cultural histories of race and gender and how they work together or against each other, the operation of boundaries and exploring the spaces and times in which

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the boundaries are porous is crucial. Boundaries are spaces for struggle and negotiation and are often where race and gender most vividly overlap. Although boundaries are ideological, they involve material practices and have material origins and effects (Anthias and Yuval-Davis 1992). Both race and gender are mutable categories, mercurial and elusive yet defining in terms of social positioning and structure as the discussion heretofore has shown. West and Zimmerman first suggested that ‘doing’ gender ‘involves a complex of socially guided perceptual, interactional, and micropolitical activities that cast particular pursuits as expressions of masculine and feminine “natures”’ (1987: 126). Being a man or a woman is therefore better understood as becoming, a condition actively under construction (Connell 2009). Race and gender are not necessarily comparable concepts, rather they intersect and are mutually constitutive. However, this leads us to ask whether race can be performative in the same way that gender can. Whilst scholars have also noted the adaptable aspects of race, doing race and have worked to understand race-making (Knowles 2003), there is more debate about whether racial identity can be actively constructed and resisted in the same ways as gender might. The Rachel Dolezal case in 2015 arguably demonstrates the limits of racial fluidity most vividly. Dolezal who had long presented herself as a Black woman and served as president of the Spokane chapter of the NAACP, was ‘outed’ as white by her parents (Brubaker 2016). Although analogies between race and sex are often criticized, their operation as ‘different differences’ are nevertheless instructive (Brubaker 2015). At a time when transgender identities and social movements are gaining increasing acceptance about the possibility of mobility between categories, challenges to existing categorical frameworks in race and ethnicity have been less motile. Although people are more able to accept that people’s racial affiliation, identity and sense of belonging can change, passing as Black in Dolezal’s case was seen as appropriation of a culture, history and social position that legitimately belonged to others (Brubaker 2016). That someone could not choose to be white in the ways that Dolezal could ostensibly choose to be Black, mean that the case did more to reinforce racial categories than to scramble the lines between them.

Mixedness Analyses and discussions of mixedness vary greatly across the globe. There is now much more positive engagement with the possibilities of mixedness as an identity, although the inadequacy of mixed-race as a single and coherent category has been variously raised (Ali 2003). Indeed, it was only from 2000 onwards that the enumeration of ethnic groups allowed for individuals to opt for the ‘mixed’ category in both the United States and the United Kingdom (Song 2017). Research has often subsumed the experiences of mixedrace people into the category Black, hailing the need for ‘critical mixed-race studies’ that attend to various gaps in empirical knowledge. For example, in a study on interactions between the police and mixed race men, Lisa Long and Remi Joseph-Salisbury (2019) found that Black mixed-race men felt that under the white gaze, they were identified to be part of a monstrous Black monolith, thereby refuting any assumption that their mixedness may have resulted in any privilege on the basis of their proximity to whiteness (see, for example, Yancy 2008).

Whiteness, masculinities and femininities The relationship between race and gender is as much about the structure and processes of whiteness and masculinities as it is about the exploration of racial minority groups

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and women. Whiteness has become the norm from which deviations are measured and understood (Frankenberg 1993; Dyer 2017). bell hooks (1992) described how Black people have acquired special knowledge of whiteness through their mechanisms of coping with racism. Understanding how whiteness works to uphold racial disadvantage through active and inactive practices have recently gained traction in public discourse, for example by identifying how white fragility (Deangelo 2018) has the capacity to shut down discussions and confrontations with racial privilege and its consequences. The invisibility of whiteness as a structuring mechanism to exclude and resist change has also been identified (McIntosh 1988). The 1990s saw the growth of critical whiteness studies and the aim of this scholarship was to dislodge the centrality of whiteness rather than generate introspection that might reinstate it (Dyer 2017). As a consequence, Black standpoints on whiteness, such as those by James Baldwin (1984) and W. E. B. Du Bois (1920), have been recognized albeit belatedly (Cervulle 2017). The structures of whiteness have since been catalogued, its complex structures explored and the need for further investigation in order to achieve social justice and dismantling systems of white supremacy acknowledged (Ware and Back 2002). Whiteness is a specific set of cultural practices, however, it is unnamed and unmarked according to Ruth Frankenberg (1993) who examined the relationship between white women and racism. Her assessment was that above all, whiteness should be understood as a process, as practice, rather than an object. Through a similar lens, scholars have argued that European people were constructed as a bounded category, bringing together different ‘white’ ethnic groups perceived to have common ancestry in Europe, primarily to legitimize their monopoly over owning property (Roediger 1994). Despite its fictive and manufactured nature, the reality of whiteness is self-evidenced by the mass accumulation of power, wealth, psychological advantage and overall privilege that white people continue to enjoy in contemporary society (Frankenberg 2001). In an analysis of how white femininity reproduces relations of privilege and racial and gendered hierarchies in Canada, Deliovsky (2010) argues that European women’s gender and race situates them in a subordinate but complementary location relative to European men of the same class/ethnicity. This cultural currency operates like a trope which defines the acceptable conduct of her race, gender, ethnicity and class. Deliovsky goes on to suggest that the ability to abide by white heterosexuality, engaging in rituals of white unity and exclusion and conformity to a normative white femininity are rituals that work to simultaneously privilege and subordinate European women. Women who deviate from these rituals, for example by engaging in mixed-race relationships, are disciplined through regimes that are embedded in the social and cultural fabric of everyday life. The interaction of race and gender in the construction of white identity and privilege has been powerfully shown to be discursively produced, for example, in white supremacist discourse (Ferber 1998). In exploring the visual facets of whiteness and its operation in upholding white privilege, Dyer (2017) suggests that the colour white, carries an explicit symbolic sense of moral and aesthetic superiority. Such practices are perpetuated today through ideals of beauty and practices that try to mimic or attain whiteness. For example, skin lightening procedures are elected by women in the Global South and so-called beauty businesses benefit greatly from the industrial demand for whitening creams and cleansers. The aspiration for lighter skin among Black and Asian women and men is indicative of persistence of colour hierarchies and stigmatization of dark bodies in the modern age (Nadeem 2014).

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Research on white masculinities has suggested that white people often construct themselves as not possessing a race or ethnicity even when they benefit from white privilege (Webster 2008). The category ‘white’ is often only referred to as a comparator, normal or as inherently neutral. Garner’s study looked at the meaning of ‘whiteness’ and found that hierarchies of whiteness and class serve to reproduce social hierarchies by creating and maintaining internal borders between degrees of whiteness (Garner 2007). In thinking about how whiteness and gender intersect, studies have found that whiteness is constituted and mediated by masculinities and class in significant ways. The idea of the white working class particularly in the United Kingdom has tended to be denigrated through representations of excessive artificial appearance, vulgarity and moral irresponsibility (Skeggs 2004). Labels such as ‘white trash’ and ‘chav’ are infused with such stereotypes which are very often gendered. For example, white workingclass girls and women are often portrayed as dependant on state welfare benefits and as scroungers (Mackenzie 2015). White working-class boys and men are often presented as hedonistic and associated with cultural tropes including football and drinking excessive amounts of alcohol (Skeggs 2016). Furthermore, academic constructions of masculinity and femininity are not immune to incorporating racializing discourses. Black and Asian masculinities, for example, are often presented as being ‘in crisis’ and according to convenient binary categorizations (e.g. white/black, inside/outside, straight/gay), which can silence a more complex understanding of the reality of Black subjectivities (Alexander 1996, 2000).

SEEING RACE AND GENDER Representations of race and gender have shifted greatly over time. In charting the cultural history of race and gender we see that the changes in representations of identities are integral to the ways that we understand and see race and gender in current times. In her book Gender Trouble, Judith Butler asserts that the body and the experience of the body are discursively constructed. Thus, bodies are sites of performance in their own right as opposed to surfaces of inscription and it is through the repetition of these performances and by ‘doing gender’ that gender categories are constituted (Butler 1990). The contemporary digital age means that visual representations and exchanges are increasingly the ‘meaning making’ mode through which the performances that Butler describes are circulated and (re)established. Racial imagery is central to the organization of the modern world (Dyer 2017). Ways of seeing are not natural but learned. Perceptual practices are key in advancing both race and gender – intersectionally and separately. According to Gilroy (1997), the category of race itself can be understood as an ‘after image’, a semiotic and material trace of the colonial and imperial cultures that have left their imprint on the ways we see and perceive the world. This emphasis on seeing and perception with regard to race is at the heart of understanding its social construction. The inherently visual aspect of race-making practices led Obasogie (2014) to consider what might be learned by analysing how blind people interpret race. By considering the significance of race outside of vision and suspending the notion that race is visually obvious, the study found that blind people understand race like everyone else and define race by visually salient physical cues such as skin colour and facial features. Social practices are found to train individuals to look differently on certain bodies and it is the attention paid to visual distinctions that create difference by attaching meanings to labels. Other

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sensory experiences including a person’s voice, accent, speech patterns and touch acted as secondary characteristics of race for blind respondents, confirming or pointing to visual cues as opposed to replacing them (Obasogie 2014). Visual representations of gender have been found to constitute and intersect with accepted ideals of beauty and attractiveness (Gooden 2011) and expectations of women and men in terms of education, employment and family life (Kitch 2001). The complexity of visuality – of seeing and being seen – is intimately bound together with social power (Tadiar and Davis 2005). One of the main areas where images are circulated is in the media, making it a key mode through which cultural experiences are consumed and shaped and social identities constructed. Media culture is racialized and gendered and Black feminist thought has challenged representations of Black women in the media as it influences the way in which they view themselves as well as the ways in which they are viewed by others (hooks 1992). In contemporary culture, Black and minority ethnic women are often represented in objectified and hyper-sexualized ways, acting as a contrast to white women. Whiteness is adept at sexualizing racial difference and constructing its others as sites of savage sexuality (Fiske 1996). In addition, Westernized beauty ideals of Black women with light skin, long hair and blue or green eyes are often depicted in music videos (Perry 2003). The dominance of various modes of visualization around us and their immediacy of meaning gives a sense of instantaneous knowing (Evans 2015). This demands that we read images through the lens of race and gender more than ever, reminding us to take responsibility for what we learn to see and for what is made visible (Haraway 1991).

SHIFTING RACE AND GENDER Having discussed the force of racialized and gendered categories in maintaining structures that delimit the life chances and lived experience of racial minorities, we must not overlook the ways in which these structures and injustices have been resisted. Making racism visible through digital media has played an important role in challenging and resisting racist crimes and violence. The emergence of the Black Lives Matter movement in 2013 is a prime example, which began as a result of numerous Black men losing their lives at the hands of the police and the corresponding lack of state sanctions against police. Whilst egregious acts by the police towards people of colour are not necessarily new, circulation of the images, the acts and their contexts allowed them to function as documentary evidence, to some extent. Resistance has been expressed and made in various forms, including physical social protests, widespread galvanization across social media and art, to name a few. #BlackLivesMatter has also led to critical discussions about gender and correspondingly #SAYHERNAME to highlight that women are also subject to racialization, violence and death at the hands of the police and to recognize the vital importance for an intersectional lens to be acknowledged and (re)applied to these forms of critical resistance (Sewell 2018). A powerful example of resistance through art, is demonstrated by artist JR who created large images of Eric Garner’s eyes which were carried through New York as part of the Millions March in 2014 following the grand jury’s decision not to indict the police officer that held Garner in a chokehold, resulting in his death (Figure 7.2). The images and their application disrupt the unidirectionality of racialized surveillance, showing how Garner’s eyes can look back at the police, at society and at state power. Another installation of JR’s work as a form of critical resistance was placed at the US-Mexico border in 2017, underscoring the constructed nature of walls, emphasizing that whilst politicians and the

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FIGURE 7.2  Demonstrations over grand jury decisions in police-shooting deaths, Los Angeles, 2014. © David McNew/Stringer/Getty Images.

FIGURE 7.3  Topshot. View of an artwork by French artist JR on the US-Mexico border in Tecate, California, United States, 6 September 2017. © Guillermo Arias/AFP/Getty Images.

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public centre their fears and emotions on keeping others out, a curious child does not understand or see barriers, walls and boundaries (Figure 7.3). Other forms of resistance have proliferated over the years, in response to the regressive policies instituted by leaders that have pushed far-right and extremist agendas in developed and developing countries. For example, in 2016, misogynistic statements made by Donald Trump in 2005 were made public, revealing his past behaviour, which endorsed approaching women and ‘grabbing’ them by their genitalia, without asking for their consent. Following the recording of him declaring this going viral, various demonstrations were organized across the world to demonstrate abhorrence towards President Trump’s attitude. The Women’s March took place across the world on 21 January 2017, with the main protest held in Washington, DC, and another 408 marches across the United States and 81 in other countries (Figure 7.4). The pussy hat project grew alongside the planned women’s marches, encouraging people to knit hats, wear and give them to others, providing a symbol of unity and solidarity amongst women, races, LGBTQ and straight, young and old, rich and poor.

Empirical studies Academic analyses of race and gender have of course illuminated the nuances of how race and gender operate and intersect. However, as mentioned above, academia has also contributed to the perpetuation of the academic division of labour in how certain topics are researched and their focus. In her piece ‘Asians have culture, West Indians have problems’ (1996), Sue Benson challenged the academic division of labour that had developed in the social sciences whereby sociological accounts of race had focused on Afro-Caribbean

FIGURE 7.4  The Women’s March, New York City, 20 January 2018. © KENA BETANCUR/ AFP/Getty Images.

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youths and anthropological perspectives had focused on ethnicity and the heavy cultural influences on South Asian people. Although such studies were informative and at times critical of the fixedness of culture and religion and disrupted the internal heterogeneity presented about different ethnic minority groups, nevertheless, many approaches served to revive static ideas and reify categories rather than explore difference (Saha 2013). Studies over the years have carefully considered the ways that Black and minority ethnic men resist, cope with and contest the violence of whiteness, stereotypes and tropes of criminality and deviance that they are attributed (Yancy 2017). Racialized males’ search for dignity and respect have been found to be key to the subversion and transgression of fixed racist perceptions (Anderson 1999; Young 2004; Rios 2011; Oeur 2016). In contrast, less research has looked towards understanding how Black women and girls resist. Joyce Ladner (1972) presented an early account of how institutional racism operated in all facets of Black women’s lives. They adapted their circumstances, according to Ladner in order to confront the oppressions of the system. Ladner provided a positive understanding of Black culture and how it adapted in the face of structural racism. More recently, in a compelling account of Black girls living in a homeless shelter in Detroit, Aimee Meredith Cox (2015) found they actively understood that their viability as worthy citizens hinged primarily on their Blackness and gender, despite also believing in the possibilities offered by meritocracy. Through the metaphor of choreography, Cox describes how the young women in her study mobilized their bodies to rewrite the socially constructed meanings attached to them. Bringing to light the creative and strategic efforts that were employed by Black women to write their own worlds, Cox’s analysis shows how they carved out new avenues of meaning about themselves, and how they could transgress the normatively scripted models of self-improvement and social mobility that were too often prescribed to them.

RACE AND GENDER IN THE GENOMIC ERA The implications for race and gender in the genomic era are significant. Despite hopes that the genomic era would prove the fallacy of race at the genetic or biological level, or the end of race (Gilroy 2000), instead the force of race and racial thinking is reinscribed in novel ways. The question raised is: what does this mean in reality for race and gender? As this chapter has underlined, race and gender are socially constructed, however, both continue to have very real effects on people’s lives. Whilst the genomic era was supposed to mark the end of race, instead, as Ann Morning warned us, when racial essentialism comes under attack, it survives by making its way to newer and more authoritative lines of inquiry (Morning 2008). Correspondingly, racial science research has been reinvigorated. Instead of underscoring the fallacy of race, as might be expected following decades of policy to prevent research into biological differences in race, genomics has been widely heralded as representing the most authoritative source of racial expertise in current times (Bliss 2012). Biotechnology and pharmaceutical companies, for example, are capitalizing on information based on assumptions about racial difference at the genetic level to develop and market products. DNA and other samples collected by criminal justice agents in the United States in the course of investigating crimes and arresting suspects, has led to a form of ‘genetic surveillance’ through creating a large bank of DNA information about both convicted and innocent people (Roberts 2011a). Such privacy violations are exacerbated by the racial inequities that shape each part of the criminal justice system

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across the world. Troy Duster (2015) has also argued that the rise in clinical genetics, personalized medicine and forensic science has served to reinscribe race as a biological category, advancing a molecular reification of racial categories. A particularly perturbing example Duster suggests is where DNA evidence is left at a crime scene and the suspect is thought to be of a particular race, the police can then ask for DNA samples of those in the surrounding area who fit the racial profile of the suspect.

CONCLUSION This chapter has discussed some of the ways in which race and gender have always been fused and indeed will remain so over time and space. As we progress through the twentyfirst century, we ought to look critically at how race and gender are enmeshing and be alert to the positive and problematic aspects of these configurations. One such area and the consequences for race and gender is how in the modern era artificial intelligence is embedded in various spheres of everyday life. Whilst the benefits of artificial intelligence, technology and big data analytics are clear in terms of reducing human workloads and predicting risk, they have also revealed the race and gender biases that are reproduced through algorithms and machines (Hannah-Moffat 2019). Facial recognition techniques, for example, have been found to misrecognize Black and Asian people’s faces more often than those of other races (Buolamwini and Gebru 2018; Garvie, Bedoya and Frankle 2016). Artificial intelligence reportedly misgenders Black women as men, Asian men as women and trans, queer and non-binary individuals (Santamicone 2019), and is unable to distinguish between Asian faces (Gao and Haizhou 2009). The concern is that because machines and technology appear to be making the mistakes, accountability for the racism and sexism is more diffuse and harder to trace (Chan 2001; Benjamin 2019; Parmar 2019). The modern era has invigorated the inscription of race in novel, ambiguous and unexpected ways rather than confirmed its disavowal. The challenge for us therefore is to develop conceptual and methodological tools that are able to reveal and challenge these new modes of racialization, while also understanding the foundations of their cultural history, as we journey through the twenty-first century.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Race and Sexuality RICHARD CLEMINSON

INTRODUCTION Of the many sciences that had something to say about race, eugenics was possibly the most vociferous in its prediction of a catastrophic future. Coined by the English scientist Francis Galton in the 1880s while examining the inheritance of intelligence, the science of eugenics adamantly identified the threats that stalked the integrity of national races and stridently warned against the danger of becoming swamped by ‘inferior’ alien others (Galton 1865, 1883) (Figure 8.1). Such a prognosis of population degeneration as offered by eugenics and the related racial sciences from which it drew much of its foundational basis was compelling both in the magnitude of its implications and its urgency. The arresting narrative of this future-oriented science relentlessly uncovered the operation of the inheritance of good and bad traits in the individual’s past and traced their likely appearance at any given moment under the guise of an atavistic return of primitiveness, vice and malformation (Seitler 2008), engendering insights that were often far removed from human ethics but which were replete with promissory transformation. By mobilizing time frames into a potent message about the need to recuperate racial purity and robustness, eugenicists offered visions of the past, present and future that managed to capture the support of significant sectors of society across political, scientific and social divides. Employing this shift between different chronologies as a heuristic device that recognizes the operations of the ‘sediments of time’ (Koselleck 2018) in national spaces contemporaneously, this chapter moves back and forth chronologically in order to explore the intricacies of the relations between science, race, sexuality and the body. It actively seeks to find echoes of the past in today’s genomic age and concedes explanatory power to both a ‘non-linear history’ (De Landa 1997) that does not suppose the continual jettisoning of concepts and values but often their reappearance in different form and a methodology dedicated to providing what Foucault termed a genealogy of the present (Foucault 1991: 31). The chapter also attempts a more global and decidedly non-Anglophone focus than is customary and theories of race from a wide range of geographical spaces are discussed. The chapter, in addition, is particularly interested in foregrounding the connections espoused by racial theories between the ‘correct’ expression of sexuality, usually encapsulated by reproduction and heterosexuality, hygienic interventions in the population, whether mental or physical, and the construction of the categories of ‘race’ and ‘racial diversity’. The racial dimensions of the body, understood as the optimum functioning body as a carrier of racial prowess and healthiness, and the threats against

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FIGURE 8.1  Francis Galton (1822–1911), the founder of eugenics. © Adoc Photos/Getty Images.

bodily integrity, often conceived as being harboured by the ‘primitive’ races, the practice of non-normative sexualities and the action of the ‘racial poisons’, meant that sexuality and the body became powerful sites for management, intervention and control (Foucault [1975] 1980) and, as discussions of the post/colonial context illustrate, of ‘race’ itself (Stoler 1995). In order to explore these themes, after a brief introductory section on the history of theories of ‘race’ within physical anthropology and the evolutionary sciences in the nineteenth century, the chapter is articulated along three principal axes: the

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imaginaries of race and eugenics; the representation of the colonized body in relation to the phenomenon of ‘miscegenation’; and the techniques employed to identify and control the queer body. Rather than a ‘road map’ through the complex nexus of race-sexualitybody, the chapter proposes a set of overlapping insights into how we may recast our views on the history of race in the past and in today’s world.

THE ORIGIN OF THE IDEA OF SEPARATE RACES The idea that different races existed in the human population has a long history and, as Peter Kivisto points out in his chapter in this volume, the significance of ‘race’ and understandings of ethnicity have altered over time. In the nineteenth century, two main theories on the genesis of the different races competed in the field of physical anthropology, in the emerging evolutionary sciences and in wider society more generally. The so-called ‘monogenist’ theory argued that human beings derived from a single point and was commonly supported by a Christian view that favoured the ‘origin story’ of the Creation of Man. By the 1850s, however, the supporters of monogenism were increasingly under attack from supporters of a ‘polygenist’ theory, which supposed that humanity comprised several different species, born from separate origins and which was often used to justify racial hierarchies (Moore and Desmond 2004: xxvii–xxviii). At the end of the nineteenth century, in physical anthropology, a reinvigorated and more secular monogenism became the dominant understanding (Stepan 1982: 84–5; Kohn 1995: 29–30), largely displacing, although not entirely, polygenist understandings (Stocking 1968). These theories, although purportedly scientific, were not immune from social and indeed religious influence. Scientific discussions of human development and differences between different types of humans underwent a transformation in the middle to late nineteenth century amid new theories on the ‘origin of species’ (Darwin 1859) and the ‘descent of man’ (Darwin 1871). Darwin’s work, however subtly, placed ‘man’ in a developmental line with other animals and sought to identify the mechanisms of inheritance and ‘transformation’, later to be called ‘evolution’ in species development. The second of these volumes by Darwin, The Descent of Man, and Selection in Relation to Sex (1871), argued that ‘sex selection’ accompanied by natural selection in humans was the mechanism that explained racial divergence and evolution (Moore and Desmond 2004). It is important to note that such theories were to some degree accretive in that they developed from earlier models and that, from society to society, their reception varied. In France, Spain, Portugal and other southern European and Latin American countries, for example, the work of the biologist and zoologist Jean-Baptiste Lamarck on transformation retained huge explanatory power for its focus on environmental influences on inheritance and species change. The increasingly influential ‘single race’ theory argued that humans were endowed with a high degree of variability in respect of their cultural and biological characteristics. Despite admitting the reality of one human race, however, scientists still talked of different races, by which they meant a variety of biological characteristics that made up ‘difference’ and displayed it in cultural form. By the 1950s, anthropologists had begun to talk in terms of ethnicities, a concept that seemed to avoid the freighted implications conveyed by ‘race’, especially after the Holocaust and the incarceration and extermination of certain racial and other types of human beings. Common to all schools of thought throughout this period was an ever-present concern about the potential implications,

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whether positive or negative, of ‘racial mixing’. Monogenists and polygenists bestowed qualitative evaluations on racial mixing and its implication for biology, culture and the future of the race. In her book on race in France, Elisa Camiscioli illustrated how, in the nineteenth century, monogenists argued that successive crossings between whites and members of the ‘lower races’ would result in improvements for the more ‘primitive’ types (Camiscioli 2009: 78). By contrast, many polygenists such as Paul Broca viewed the métis as infertile and degenerate (79). Given the predominance of Lamarckian thought in France, which accepted slow and accretive ‘evolutionary’ changes in individuals and therefore the species as a whole, the assimilationist (and potentially meliorating) view of racial mixing became widely accepted in this scientific community. A strict division, however, between monogenists and polygenists and between Lamarckians and other theorists of species development cannot be sustained. Camiscioli notes how another French anthropologist, Georges Vacher de Lapouge, was against racial mixing from the perspective of Lamarckianism on the basis that negative influences could readily be transmitted to future generations (85). By the 1930s no consensus had been reached in France. On the one hand, the anthropologist René Martial tended to favour some ‘judicious’ racial mixing between the ‘right types’ by means of the ‘greffe raciale’ or racial graft (Martial 1931, 1937), and on the other hand, figures such as George Montandon were utterly opposed to miscegenation (Montandon 1933) as dangerous for the health of the ‘race’. Such a picture allows us to see how theories of race were in fact highly mobile assemblages allowing for accommodations between ostensibly different understandings of inheritance, racial typology and cultural influence.

FUTURE IMAGINARIES OF RACE AND EUGENICS Eugenic imaginaries regularly employed fact as well as fiction (and often a blurring of the two) to convey their message. Historians and literary analysts have pointed to the presence of racial motifs in a range of influential dystopian novels including H. G. Wells’s well-known The Time Machine (1895) (Figure 8.2). Wells’s book represents a society transported to a fictional future in which the advanced and civilized Eloy live on the surface of planet Earth while the brutish and violent Morlocks subsist below ground in a clear modernistic metaphor of the division between races and classes in the English Victorian period (cf. Childs 2001; Turda 2010). As well as popularizing the idea of time travel and the possibility of intervening in time to change reality, Wells’s depiction in The Time Machine of the threat of attack and engulfment of one people by another, both originally from the same human race before a degenerative ‘fall’ placed the mutant Morlocks below ground, captured themes that were present in explicitly eugenic and racialist texts in different countries across the world. In the United States, the conservationist and eugenicist Madison Grant advocated the supremacy of the white race in Europe and opposed ‘miscegenation’ as a racial danger in his The Passing of the Great Race (1916). The volume, subtitled ‘the racial basis of European history’, through the provision of a clear historicist narrative, advocated the segregation, sterilization and annihilation of ‘defectives’ and the promotion of the ‘Nordic race’ as the repository of civilization and as a bulwark against the invasion of the ‘primitive other’ (Spiro 2009). Grant’s book was commonly cited in eugenic movements across Europe and the durability of his ideas has been such that similar interpretations can be found in the present-day white supremacist

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FIGURE 8.2  Publicity for the film of H. G. Wells’s The Time Machine (1960). © LMPC/Getty Images.

advocacy of ‘replacement theory’, which argues that the supposedly superior and original white population is slowly being supplanted by the darker races who are often Muslim and ‘non-European’ (see Turda and Quine 2018: 5–6). Other theorists at the time of Grant’s writing highlighted the dangers brought by the so-called ‘yellow peril’, that is, the arrival of large numbers of Far Eastern or Asian populations to the United States. In much later utopian, as opposed to Wells’s dystopian, literature, other authors have openly celebrated a distinct lack of racial purity and have embraced racial mixture as part of an alternative vision of humanity’s future. In Ursula K. Le Guin’s novella Always Coming Home (1985) and Octavia E. Butler’s (Figure 8.3) trilogy Xenogenesis (1987–9) (later renamed and published as Lilith’s Brood, 2000), we see such a celebration, or at least acceptance as inevitable, of racial diversity as a doorway to alternative futures. In Lilith’s Brood, transformative sexual practices, described as the ‘erotics of becoming’ by one author (White 1993), are fused with a narrative of human-alien hybridity that is as disconcerting as it is suggestive for changed relations between nature and nurture as mediated by the promise of technology. Butler’s series is replete with eugenic echoes (Curtis 2015) and, like some nineteenth-century anthropological thought on race, deals with the possibility of eliminating negative traits through active fusion between different types of beings. In the books, this fusion occurs when an alien species, the Oankali, offers itself to humans for mating purposes after planet Earth has been destroyed by a nuclear war. Humans’ only salvation appears to be this cross-species amalgamation.

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FIGURE 8.3  Octavia E. Butler. © Malcolm Ali/WireImage/Getty Images.

The Oankali believe that humans are locked into a self-destructive reality that, despite their intelligence, is flawed by the desire for establishing hierarchical social relations. It is through inter-breeding that this propensity for inequality can be eliminated. As the

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biologist Joan Slonczewski (2000) has argued, the final volume of the trilogy appears to confirm the human acceptance of the unavoidability of hybridity not only in order to eliminate destructive behaviours but also as the very means of survival. Both Wells’s and Butler’s work respond to cultural anxieties around race and the future of the species in different ways across time. During eugenics’ period of maximum influence, the 1920s and 1930s, as noted in the French case discussed above and as we will see in other scenarios below, not all racial theories viewed the mixture of races as an inherently negative phenomenon. In other geographical spaces, furthermore, notions of racial hierarchy were rejected by presenting alternative understandings of the ‘racial order’. In 1938, the Indian nationalist and antiimperialist Benoy Kumar Sarkar turned the tables on theories of white racial superiority by writing about the eugenic potentialities of the alleged inferior races and classes with specific emphasis on the situation in India (Sarkar 1938 cited in Goswami 2012: 1483). In this way, and by evoking the politics of race as an anti-imperialist strategy, Sarkar supported ‘The claim of history as an open-ended process, characterized by a “creative disequilibrium”’, a contention that would disrupt conventional politics, imperial structures and racial prejudices. Such a claim became for him ‘the ground for a transformative politics and sociology’ (1483). The time shifts performed by eugenic and racial theory were attractive to Sarkar, allowing him to blend an ‘alignment of politics with a futureoriented temporal logic’ and a version of ‘sociology with a notion of the possible’ (1483). Despite his later support for the Nazi regime and for a similar dictatorial arrangement in India (Manjapra 2014), Sarkar’s writing provides evidence of a rejection of the kind of racial dynamics imposed by colonial rule at the time. As the above example shows, it was often from within colonized and subaltern circles that such ‘talking back’ (hooks 1989) on questions of race was articulated. Although these ideas, as the case of Sarkar shows, were never completely free of the discursive frames of the discipline from which they spoke, they served to juxtapose conflicting evaluations of the significance of racial mixing and to challenge or un-mask racial hierarchies. In Englishspeaking milieus, the writings of the Brazilian sociologist Gilberto Freyre (Figure  8.4) on questions of race and cultural/biological assimilation in the 1920s and 1930s are relatively unknown. Freyre, as an inhabitant of a ‘mixed-race’ society with a colonial past under Portugal, argued that the Portuguese from the time of their oceanic explorations had shown a remarkable propensity to mix racially and to tolerate racial difference in biological and cultural terms (Burke and Burke 2008; Castelo 2019). By implication, he held up Brazilian society as an example of successful racial and cultural exchange. While Freyre’s understandings have recently been critiqued and the consequences of their pragmatic and colonialist adoption by the Portuguese dictatorship under António Salazar in the 1950s fully exposed (Bethencourt and Pearce 2012; Anderson, Roque and Ventura Santos 2019), his ideas were seized upon by many at the time as progressive for their ability to dismantle racial hierarchies. His theory conceded great influence to certain environmentalist premises of racial improvement, many of which were held in common by eugenicists. Some of these eugenicists in the Brazilian context (Stepan 1991: 46–62), often with a background in explicitly environmentalist eugenics, aimed to show that racial degeneration was not entailed by the fact of racial mixing itself but rather by the rise to the fore of ‘poor genes’ present in different races and as a result of the prevalence of disease in the national body. This was the case of the anthropologist and ethnographer Edgard Roquette-Pinto, based at the National Museum in Rio de Janeiro (Wegner

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FIGURE 8.4  Gilberto Freyre. Wikimedia Commons. Public domain.

and Sebastião de Souza 2019). Over the 1910s and 1920s, Roquette-Pinto built up an extensive archive of racial types across the regional and ethnic diversity of Brazil. From a Mendelian perspective he classified anthropological types according to their physical and constitutional features. Unlike many Mendelians who accepted racial hierarchies, however, Roquette-Pinto wished ‘to refute the theories that reaffirmed the existence of

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inferior and superior races’ and also argued that racial mixing could be beneficial for the population as a whole (Wegner and Sebastião de Souza 2019: 95). This position allowed Roquette-Pinto to mount a strong defence of the mestiço or mixed-race individual as a reality and as a favourable outcome in both the present and the future. He refuted the negative aura that racial mixing had acquired and articulated a ‘severe criticism of theses expounding the degeneration of the Brazilian population’ (Wegner and Sebastião de Souza 2019: 95). These theses, he argued, often came from foreign travellers and scientists who were determined to show the supposed cultural and biological inferiority of Brazilians. Ironically, such views in fact sometimes came from other Portuguese-speaking anthropologists. The Porto-based Dr António Mendes Correia, after his trip to Brazil in the 1930s, lamented the presence of ‘compromising skin pigmentation’ and ‘strange curls in the hair’ among Brazilians (Correia 1938: 12). The somewhat nationalistic position harboured by Roquette-Pinto sought the uplifting of the ‘Brazilian race’ and coincided in some respects with that of the Mexican José de Vasconcelos whose notion of an ancient hybrid Mexican race, a ‘cosmic race’, applauded miscegenation and presented the Mexican mestizo as the repository of future wealth for the country. Vasconcelos also believed, however, that the race would progressively become whiter as the ‘best’ elements would rise to the fore and predominate over ‘inferior’ racial characteristics (Stern 2003: 191–2). Roquette-Pinto accepted the immutability of inherited characters, following a Mendelian interpretation, but used this theory to argue that there was nothing in the Brazilian population that demonstrated any increase in degeneration (Wegner and Sebastião de Souza 2019: 96). Rather than decrying mixtures, Roquette-Pinto argued that it was precisely certain combinations of hereditary factors that made the Brazilian race strong and robust. As in other countries, in Brazil this was never a hegemonic viewpoint. In contrast to Roquette-Pinto, the prominent eugenicist and founder of the São Paulo eugenics society, Renato Kehl, was thoroughly opposed to miscegenation. Kehl, one of the more travelled Brazilian eugenicists made his theories known internationally (Wegner and Sebastião de Souza 2019: 97–100) and subsequently moved away from Lamarckian understandings, increasingly adopting Mendelian theories to support his eugenic ideas. His acceptance that racial mixing was harmful further proves the lack of clear association between one set of theories of inheritance and a stance either for or against miscegenation. Contra Kehl, nevertheless, and coinciding with Roquette-Pinto, the agricultural geneticist Octávio Domingues in his book on heredity and education, A hereditariedade em face da educação (Heredity in Contrast to Education) published in 1929, expressed the view that Brazilian racial mixing was ‘a special and precious example of the encounter of the three races [the Hispanic, the Indigenous and Black Africans]. It is the most complete miscegenation history has ever recorded’ (Domingues 1929: 146 cited in Wegner and Sebastião de Souza 2019: 103). Such a positive view never disappeared from Brazilian eugenics even at the height of anti-miscegenation ideas in the 1930s and 1940s. Finally in this section, it is worth considering the case of another eugenics movement that was deeply concerned with the existence of different racial types, the mechanics of cultural assimilation and the possibilities offered by harmonious racial mixing within the construction of a narrative on nationhood. We turn our attention to 1930s Catalonia in the east of Spain. In multiple publications of the 1930s, the demographer and founder of the Catalan Eugenics Society, Josep Vandellós, argued that the races he had identified in Catalonia were variations on an amalgamated Iberian race rather than distinct racial populations. Within and amongst these variations, however, certain mixtures were

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deemed to be more propitious than others for the future of the ‘Catalan race’ as envisaged by him and the members of the Catalan Eugenics Society (Domingo 2012; Cleminson 2019). Always with an eye on the future viability of the Catalan ‘race’ and nation with a separate identity to that of Spain, Vandellós argued that the closer geographical and cultural types, by which he meant the Aragonese and the Murcians, were more easily assimilated by the Catalan population without ‘de-naturalizing’ it or endangering it with ‘de-Catalanization’. Such a pin-pointing of these racial types permitted him to warn against other mixtures within the racial melting pot of Iberia. The least adaptable and adaptive types were, he declared, the Andalusians and Almerians from the south. Rather than arguing that these types should be impeded from entry into the region, however, Vandellós proposed that the long-standing propensity of the Catalans to accept others from outside their borders, echoing Freyre’s remarks on the Portuguese ability to tolerate other races, would allow for the correct assimilation of these others into the Catalan national project. This was partly a pragmatic decision: bearing in mind the fact that Catalonia was not (yet) independent from Spain and could not control its own borders (Vandellós was also a decided Catalan nationalist), the best thing to do was to try to filter for quality and to ‘Catalanize’ immigrants who came from other parts of Spain. Only then could national identity and the possibility of ‘racial’ integrity be maintained and projected forward into a separate nation-state to be founded when Catalonia broke free from Spain.

THE COLONIZED BODY AND MISCEGENATION In light of the previous discussion of the origin of different races and the dangers and opportunities offered by racial mixing within a national space, this section considers a number of very different geographical cases where the question of racial mixing was discussed with diverging outcomes against the backdrop of imperial concerns. While many of the preoccupations articulated in an imperial context were grounded in national terms and found their expression in the national space too, it was the possibility of racial mixing between colonizers and the colonized in other (colonial) spaces that raised most concerns for those wary of such an eventuality (Young 1995). As in the purely national space, however, in colonial territories there were also those who either acknowledged that racial mixing was inevitable or who actively sought it out and promoted it as a key to racial progression not only in the colonies but also, potentially, ‘at home’. The scenarios discussed in light of these debates are colonial Kenya, the Spanish and Portuguese colonies and Australia in the early twentieth century. In Kenya, as Chloe Campbell (2007) has argued, the changes that eugenics underwent in its transfer from Britain to the colony and during its reverse journey are fundamental to the understanding of racial-imperial dynamics in the first half of the twentieth century. The case of eugenics in Kenya confirms that the movement of ideas and practices between the metropole and colonies was not unidirectional; it operated along both axes and was mutually reinforcing. Eugenic know-how in Kenya was advocated and implemented by British and white Kenyan-born doctors. Concepts of racial integrity and health were propounded in Britain, put into practice there and across the British Empire and made their return in a variety of ways. As Campbell illustrates, far from there being no relation between the two expressions of eugenics, Kenyan eugenicists were able to speak authoritatively about race, intelligence and degeneration in the colonial setting and in

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their visits to the metropole. Depictions of the ‘primitive’ Black races found their mirror image in ‘degenerate’ city dwellers in England. This gave Kenyan eugenics, at least for a time, ‘a surprising and distorted authority within the British Eugenics Society’ (Campbell 2007: 3). Theories of racial mixing, therefore, had an impact within the English Eugenics Society and the scientific establishment in the 1930s. As Ann Laura Stoler has argued, the notion that the ‘civilizing missions’ of metropole and empire were somehow unrelated is no longer sustainable (Stoler 1995: 12). Indeed, Campbell shows that ‘supremacy and anxiety’ (2007: 19) went hand in hand when race, sexuality and empire coincided and, in the Nigerian and British case, eugenics clearly placed such concerns at the forefront when it came to racial mixing (25, 29, 125). Similar dynamics, channelled by the transfer of technological expertise, are visible in the case of the Spanish overseas possessions. As Medina-Doménech has illustrated, finger printing techniques and the trialling of identity cards, part of the symbolics and apparatus of ‘nation building’, were undertaken in Spanish Equatorial Guinea in West Africa and, once satisfactory results were gained, were only later introduced in Spain itself (MedinaDoménech 2009). While only some ‘natives’ were accorded an equal juridical status to Spanish nationals, maintaining most Black Guineans in a position of subalternity, the technique to gauge individual and racial characters was ‘extracted’ (Yusoff 2018) from the Spanish colony in order to effect an elaboration of legitimized ‘Spanishness’ and national identity in the metropole. As Benita Sampedro Vizcaya has illustrated, this process of extraction and orientalization of the country and its inhabitants enabled apparently clear-cut differentiations between Spaniards and the local Black African peoples with long-lasting effects in respect of understandings of Spain’s ‘place’ in Africa, in addition to shoring up ideas of an overseas empire contingent with the early aspirations of the Francoist dictatorship (Sampedro Vizcaya 2008, 2018). The search for different racial types within the context of empire provided a thread that ran through some branches of Portuguese physical anthropology from the end of the nineteenth century through to well past the collapse of the fascistic, nationalist dictatorship of António Salazar and Marcello Caetano in 1974. The quest to find evidence of racial purity among the Portuguese, ostensibly located in populations in the centre or north of the country, thus coinciding with the foundational myth of the birth of the country in the twelfth century, was also strong in the field of physical anthropology. But any supposed purity was not only sought in the local space of Portugal; it was also identified in Indigenous and especially Black populations in Africa and the Far East. As Ricardo Roque has argued, one search for purity depended on the other in a transcontinental relationship that identified and mobilized the ‘patriotic primitives’ and subjects of the Portuguese Empire in Asia (Roque 2019) as well as the pure Portuguese nearer home. Such a move afforded a process of racialization of the ‘other’ but also allowed for ‘patriotic affinity with that same “primitive” simultaneously’ through the trope and mechanism of empire (Roque 2019: 159). The result concurred with Freyre’s notion of Portuguese exceptionalism in terms of racial diversity and harmony and this permitted ideas of ‘racial alterity and spiritual similitude’ to be ‘productively articulated together’ (159). The anthropological missions to Timor designed by the Porto-based physical anthropologist António Mendes Correia in the 1950s produced a form of ‘affective racial science’ that did not focus on racial mixing but on a supposedly original and ‘archaic racial form’, spiritually uniting the Portuguese and Timorese in the twentieth-century Portuguese-speaking colonial world through racial and cultural identification (161).

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In another part of the world, Australia, where different eugenics societies across the country’s large expanse differed as to the benefits to be derived from racial mixing (Wyndham 2003), nearly all positions were based on some version of racial supremacy or desire for racial excellence. Clearly, the two are not the same thing, but they were often bound up together discursively and in the minds of those who championed racial fitness. As elsewhere, however, concern over discrimination against the Indigenous population or opposition to racism, a stance in favour of birth control, feminism and progressive politics could all coexist in one individual advocate of racial regeneration or organization dedicated to the dissemination of eugenics. This was the case of the prominent campaigner Ruby Rich who assumed the presidency of the Racial Hygiene Association of New South Wales, an organization primarily concerned with sex education, the eradication and prevention of venereal disease and the dissemination of a broad eugenic message (Rees 2012). Although the precise balance of motivations behind these elements is in need of further analysis (Carey 2012), discussions of the potentialities of racial mixing within this organization and beyond were evidently highly nuanced. While some eugenicists were utterly opposed to any mixing, whether cultural or biological, others argued that miscegenation could help the ‘white race’ in its defence against unfamiliar diseases and would therefore strengthen its position in the racial hierarchy. It was also argued that racial mixing would effectively eliminate ‘inferior’ racial types from the national territory through a process of dilution within a whitened racial body. As Philippa Levine has illustrated, A. O. Neville, the official in charge of the child removal programme in Western Australia, which sought to ‘integrate’ Aboriginals within the colonized territory, believed it was possible to ‘breed out the colour’ (Levine 2010: 52–3). Neville argued that the greater the degree of mixing, the less likely it was that there would be a reversion to an original Aboriginal type. Inter-marriage was therefore proposed in order to prevent the stabilization of, or a return to, Indigenous uniqueness. Miscegenation, under this scheme, became the biological and cultural device for the elimination of the racially ‘inferior’ other.

THE QUEER BODY In many different countries across the globe, turn-of-the-century discourse on criminality, psychiatry and eugenics was a ‘respectable’ way of raising questions about sexuality in societies that were under strong religious influence. Scientific justification, fused with the aspiration to rigour and complexity, grounded sexology and eugenics in supposedly rational, objective and credible language (Oosterhuis 2000). Nowhere was this more the case than in discussions of same-sex sexuality, understood as ‘sexual inversion’ or homosexuality. Developments of knowledge on sexuality were harnessed to underwrite explorations into hitherto morally questionable practices that were often placed in the realms of ‘sodomy’ (Foucault 1990). Early theories posited a variety of explanations for non-reproductive and same-sex behaviours. These ranged from a negative moral environment, including over-crowding in working-class homes and the influence of piquant literature, to physical or bodily causes such as a proliferation of nerve endings in the anal area in men, an enlarged clitoris in women or a hormonal imbalance in either sex (Rosario 1997). In more recent times, from the ‘discovery’ of genetic markers through to the identification of particular brain structures (LeVay 1993, 1996; Hamer and Copeland 1994), homosexuality and gender ‘deviance’ have continued to be the subject of intense

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scientific enquiry. The aim of such work continues to be to explain the roots and supposed causes of same-sex behaviour (Ganna et al. 2019) despite the widespread existence of such activity within the animal kingdom and the apparent lack of definitive genetic explanation for the phenomenon (Bagemihl 1999). While the claims are often bold, the actual evidence and the relation between cause and effect, social structures and genetics, not to mention queries over the size of samples and the reproducibility of the results, have made for doubts about the reliability of – and indeed the motivations behind – the research (Ordover 2003). In 1980 Adrienne Rich illuminated the historic dynamic in Western society whereby heterosexuality became the default assumed and public expression of sexuality. This form of sexuality was acknowledged as the structuring agent of most family experiences and became part of a regime that she designated ‘compulsory heterosexuality’ (Rich 1980). This concept evolved to become ‘heteronormativity’ in later work (Warner 1991; Marchia and Summer 2019). If gender, to paraphrase the historian Joan Scott, can be a useful category for historical analysis (Scott 1986), how might we employ ‘compulsory heterosexuality’ or ‘heteronormativity’ historically to interrogate connexions between race, sexuality and the body? Although non-reproductive expressions of sexuality as phenomena to be explained were central to sexology and sexual psychiatry at the turn of the twentieth century, the racial sciences did not consistently treat these practices as major concerns. In some cases, however, homosexuality became allied, often quite subtly, with a range of behaviours that were viewed as deleterious to racial prospects. These discussions may well have begun with a condemnation of certain non-reproductive heterosexual activities but they quickly spread into the censure of same-sex relations. In Argentina, for example, as Donna Guy has illustrated in her volume Sex and Danger in Buenos Aires (Guy 1991: 180–204), the rounding up of homosexuals and legal measures against them in the 1950s were phenomena bolstered by concerns about the supposed ‘moral repugnance’ of same-sex activity and the need to steer sexuality along appropriate heterosexual channels. The authorities argued that most men were not ‘naturally’ inclined towards the same sex but pushed by circumstances. Afraid of engaging in sexual activity with women because of the danger of venereal disease contagion, men, according to the official account, had become increasingly involved in same-sex relations. In order to combat these acts and to restore what was perceived to be lost national virility in light of the rise of publicly visible homosexuality, hygienists argued that it was preferable for men to engage in ‘clean’ prostitution with women. Prostitution, for the Perón dictatorship, therefore became part of a set of measures to counteract homosexuality (Miranda 2005). In a much more severe scenario, in Nazi Germany, it was the ‘total’ expression of ‘racial hygiene’ once added to policies on reproduction, purity and pro-natalism that led to the demarcation between reproductive and non-reproductive expressions of sexuality and the isolation of homosexuality as a particular threat to the healthiness of the Aryan race and its imagined world destiny (Plant 1986; Grau 1995). On the other side of the Atlantic, in Spain, a different set of dynamics operated as part of the relation between race, sexuality and ‘perversion’. In discussions on how to articulate the Spanish section of the World League for Sexual Reform (WLSR), an organization initially established by the sex reformer Magnus Hirschfeld, Spanish members adopted nine rather than the standard ten planks advanced by the international League. The campaign criteria adopted by the WLSR at its 1928 Copenhagen congress covered the political, economic and sexual equality between men and women, control of

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conception, ‘race betterment’ through eugenics, protection of the unmarried mother and the illegitimate child, a ‘rational attitude’ towards ‘sexually abnormal persons’, including homosexuals, the prevention of prostitution and venereal diseases and systematic sex education (Dose 2003). In addition to the ‘rational attitude’ named above, it was declared that disturbances of the sexual impulse should be regarded as more or less pathological phenomena and not crimes or sins. Further, the WLSR argued that only those sexual acts that infringed on the liberty of another person should be considered criminal. Mutually consented acts should be the business of the individuals involved alone. As Alison Sinclair has argued, it was these two latter proposals that ‘were much less readily going to find favour within Spain’ (Sinclair 2007: 73). It was the last of the set of proposals, on ‘sexual abnormality’, which failed to find support in the Spanish League. Sinclair writes that this proposal ‘was not directly compatible with the agenda of eugenics, which was, after all, concerned with breeding, and not with the tolerance of sexual variation’ (73). Homosexuality, in this formulation, disappeared from view, a form of neglect that may well have contributed unwittingly to the consolidation legal measures against the practice in 1933. After the destruction of the progressive Second Republic (1931–6) during which the Spanish chapter of the League was born, the military regime under General Francisco Franco that emerged victorious out of the Civil War closely monitored attitudes to questions of sexuality and sexual practice. Perhaps surprisingly, questions of race, or at least racial purity, were never at the heart of the regime despite overtures towards a great Hispanic past. In the pre-war period and from the late 1930s onwards, in general Spanish physical anthropology maintained the concept of the ‘racial amalgam’ as the key to understanding the reality of race in Spain. Visigoths, Iberians, Arabs and others had contributed to the construction of the Hispanic race, but it was Catholicism and the unification of the disparate kingdoms in the area under the monarchy of Isabel and Ferdinand that had made Spain what it was (Goode 2009; Martínez, Nierenberg and Hering Torres 2012). Biological understandings of race, therefore, can be seen to become enmeshed once more with political prerogatives and an overarching and somewhat fictitious rewriting of history in accordance with the ideological stance of the regime. Indeed, in such a case, it was the political dynamic that led and constructed the understandings of ‘race’ that prevailed. Such an apparently inclusive concept of race did not impede those on the extreme right of the political spectrum from disseminating what they believed were the dangers of certain aspects of population developments for the new regime. In 1938 the psychiatrist and eugenicist Antonio Vallejo Nágera published a collection of his writings under the title Política racial del nuevo estado (The Racial Policy of the New State) (1938), setting out a range of policies that sought to outlaw abortion and contraception, impose military discipline on children, favour ‘judicious’ marriage between complementary types and install the traditional and Catholic values of the Hispanic race. Although the precise influence of Vallejo Nágera on the new regime’s policies is a topic of ongoing discussion (Richards 2004; Cleminson and Campos forthcoming), Franco swiftly passed legislation once the war was over prohibiting contraception and abortion and set about promoting large families under the banner of pro-natalism. Subsidies for large families, according to Vallejo Nágera, should be the ‘neuralgic centre’ of the new state and, in accordance with this primary objective, pro-family legislation was introduced. Further, in his chapter on the nuptial policy of the New State, Vallejo Nágera argued that the struggle against female and male sterility (that is, a lack of reproduction) should become a function of

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the state. In a chapter about the campaign against being single, he wrote, in italics, that ‘The model citizen of the New Spain will be married and prolific’. Although heterosexual reproduction was placed centre stage, homosexuality per se received little attention from the psychiatrist. Correct upbringing would eliminate any ‘deviant’ expressions of sexuality and would reinforce the cultural norms of femininity and masculinity. While the links between racial type and ‘sexual deviance’ in such thought in Spain were generally absent, the supposed lasciviousness of the Jews was a common trope across Europe. In the Middle Ages, it was also commonly portrayed by scientific literature that male Jews menstruated and that all Jews struggled to keep bodily fluids at bay (Beusterien 1999). Jews were also believed to harbour a propensity to incestuous and homosexual relations (Gilman 1988: 160–2, 173–5). Many such ideas reappeared as part of the totalitarian and fascist ideologies of the early twentieth century. More specifically, however, certain races and particular parts of the world were deemed by European and North American cultural commentators and sexologists to provide the right kind of environment for the proliferation of same-sex activity. The area in the Middle East and eastern Mediterranean identified by Richard Burton in a ‘Terminal Essay’ in 1885 in his The Book of a Thousand Nights as a ‘Sotadic Zone’ where same-sex practices were common and largely accepted is a well-known example (Bleys 1996: 216–19). While Burton’s ideas were more indebted to Orientalist visions than to any association with a particular race – he claimed that his model was ‘geographical and climatic, not racial’ (Burton 1977: 18, cited in Bleys 1996: 217) – and while his identification of the area was from an accepting perspective, others argued that there was a direct relation between racial primitiveness and sexual deviance. In the first decades of the twentieth century, marriage and stable sexual relations were cast as a sign of advanced social evolution and non-procreative or ‘disordered’ sexual lives were understood as evidence of uncivilized or somehow undeveloped behaviour. This was often seen through a lens that depicted ‘connections between Anglo-Saxon civilization, evolutionary progress, and normal marital sex’ by which ‘sexual perversion’ was equated with ‘primitivism and savagery’ (Carter 1997: 155). The performance of heterosexuality, an object both ‘imaginary and real’ in its effects, as Wittig has argued (Wittig 1992: 40–1, cited in Stokes 2001: 14), become imbued with racial hues and the desire to maintain whiteness as ‘pure’ and uncontaminated. Those who did not conform to a strict vision of morality and social evolution were cast as being insufficiently differentiated as men and women, a characteristic that prevented the exercise of clear-cut and optimal heterosexual relations. Such individuals were often viewed as occupying an ‘in-between’ status, either as physical or ‘psychic hermaphrodites’, a term employed early on to designate homosexuals. As Havelock Ellis, who cited a list of eminent thinkers in support of his argument, recorded in his 1897 volume Sexual Inversion: homosexuality was a form of hermaphroditism and it entailed a ‘reversion to the primitive ancestral phase in which bisexualism [that is, the presence of the sexual organs of both sexes] was the normal disposition’ (Carter 1997: 164). Or, as the cultural commentator and author of Degeneration, Max Nordau, would state, the pervert was a morbid deviation from an original type (Gilman 1988: 175). Pervading this kind of thought was the fear that civilization could slide back in evolutionary terms (an unwanted ‘possible future’) in a process of degeneration where negative traits would contaminate and ruin a race for ever (Gilman 1988; Pick 1989; Dollimore 1998). As the ‘lower races’ were predisposed to sex perversion, the argument went that sex perverts were characterized by a form of racial primitivism (Carter 1997: 165), sealing the fate of homosexuality as a primitive and

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atavistic throw-back incompatible with the modern civilized world. Such understandings meant that both ‘savages’ and ‘sexual perverts’ were derided by experts as not quite fully formed human beings and incapable of complete human physical and emotional responses. As Carter has pointed out – there is ‘one thing that savages do not do in sexological representations: they never make love’ (Carter 1997: 159; emphasis in the original). Many, by extension, believed that the homosexual was likewise incapable of love and merely motivated by the desire for sex.

CONCLUSION This chapter has shown how questions of race are often driven equally by understandings of biology as they are by cultural prejudices. In some instances, the actual ‘biology’ of race gives way to its own cultural construction. This drives the very concepts of race that pervade the social sphere as part of languages of optimization, which seek to produce the ‘best’ bodies for humanity’s future. ‘Race’, and racialized bodies, become infused with deep cultural concerns about the appropriateness of certain mixtures between different types of human being and are employed as resources to quell certain desires, particularly same-sex practices and non-reproductive heterosexuality. Such anxieties also respond to the attempt to impede processes of degeneration in the ‘white’ colonial race in order to either strengthen the latter against tropical disease or eliminate the ‘primitive’ races from a particular space. The ‘spectre of eugenics’, in Kevles’s musings on the genomic age (Kevles 1992: 34), is never far from theories of inheritance of good and bad traits and we have been recently reminded that it is necessary to ‘unlearn’ the legacy of eugenics in recent debates on disability, choice and reproduction (Herzog 2018). These theories also become mobile and often no clear relationship can be discerned whereby strict hereditarianism or environmentalism grounds the desirability or otherwise of racial mixing in any geographical area. In this flawed ‘fantasy of identification’ (Samuels 2014), where difference is constantly sought as a verifiable but always elusive category and in a world increasingly becoming accustomed to the re-entrenchment of racial hierarchies, the rejection of certain body types and the rise of sexual intolerance, history once again provides a useful set of tools for the analysis of the past and for the construction of more promising futures.

CHAPTER NINE

‘Anti-Race’? Race, Racism and Colonialism Convergences in Anti-Racist Scholarship GEORGE J. SEFA DEI [NANA ADUSEI SEFA TWENEBOAH] AND ASNA ADHAMI

INTRODUCTION In an era where populism, fascism, White supremacy and White nationalism are again in the open and on the ascendancy, the need to deeply examine and contextually understand how racism is constructed and how it operates is profoundly relevant and timely. We maintain race is real and it is racism that gives race its realness. There is no ‘anti’ about race except anti-racism.  It is equally imperative to appreciate and unpack the ways in which efforts of anti-racism are consequent and responsive interventions and strategies of survival necessitated by racist conditions. In his seminal text Black Skin, White Masks, Frantz Fanon stated, ‘It is the racist who creates the inferiorized’ ([1952] 2008: 68; emphasis in the original). This insight is both telling of the work of anti-racism and encapsulates the immediate tension: that anti-racism efforts are largely responses of objection and rejection – and of recovery and restoration – by those being inferiorized by a dominant or majority other, whether through legislation and/or common social and systemic institutional practices. We define anti-racism in Fanon’s terms, in the context of understanding how power operates in relationships, often leading to the domination and oppression of one group by another. We see racism as endemic and ongoing, something that morphs over time and that is operational in the systems of the dominant. Many anti-racism efforts emerged as necessary resistances to the pervasive legacies of systemically racist practices rooted in historical enforcements of the colonial projects of the last hundred years. The race-based disenfranchisements of these systems of dominance the world over were systematically built into laws, social and community structures, and educational and scientific institutions, and are being contended and challenged to this day. We agree that to take an anti-racism stance is to take a stand against ‘ethnic and patriarchal hegemonies in society, and of institutional practices that engender differential sharing and distribution of power and privilege among groups. Racism as an ideology has historically supported the system of exploitation and oppression of one ethnic group by another’ (Dei 1996: 257). This kind of racialization – imposing false definitions of difference in order to oppress – leads to unequal treatment by privileging one set of peoples by providing them favourable

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access  to resources, opportunities and rights, and comes at the expense of prejudicing another set of people by mistakenly rationalizing why they are not deserving of the same. We use an analysis that is broadly defined, and considers multiple subjectivities and factors, rather than confining the understanding of race and racism to oversimplified and problematic definitions or dimensions, as there are multiple, fluid and evolving ways in which individuals and collective groups may identify and contextualize themselves (Omi and Winant 1993; Bhabha 1994). One has only to look to public movements such as Black Lives Matter, #MeToo, Dalit emancipation or the recent resurgences of antiSemitism, Islamophobia and anti-2SLGBTQQIA sentiments, to understand that these kinds of violent exploitations and oppressions, and their responses, reach beyond outdated biological concepts such as skin markers, ethnicity and sexual identity, and intersect with many more factors including class and national identity. Our analysis delves beyond the surface politics and social dynamics of difference that tend to focus on the optics of either celebrating differences or tolerating diversity that often create the disingenuous impression of harmony, acceptance or coexistence. We examine notions of race and anti-racism through an anti-colonial lens, and show how these concepts have been used to lay claim to, occupy and defend physical and social spaces. Historically in colonial social structures, oppressed and minoritized communities are silenced, their histories erased, their differences pathologized and criminalized, and they are treated – and legislated – as lesser than. Anti-racism work, now more than ever, requires an integrated, interdisciplinary and intersectional understanding in order to recognize its global impact, scope and implications. Anti-racism, thus, has emerged in today’s context as a way to theorize, measure, understand and counter the systemic physical, spiritual, communal and emotional violences enacted by dominant cultures upon the Black, Indigenous, Racialized and other marginalized communities that they live among and beside. Western Euro-colonial hegemony in education is demonstrated, for example, in many educational systems around the world where the emphasis is to teach students based on Eurocentric standards. Such schooling prioritizes English as the medium of instruction over local and Indigenous languages, favours topical dictates of Western capitalism and elevates the writings of Aristotle, Socrates or Shakespeare over the science of Al Khwarizmi, the politics of Nkrumah or the philosophies of Lao Tzu. When some worldviews are systemically privileged over others in such manner, they become considered the norm. Consequently, what constitutes knowledge becomes dominated and racialized. Every other way of knowing becomes prejudiced as alternative or lesser than and is measured against the so-called institutionalized norm. Even today, Western medicine and positivist science are often considered a norm, while Chinese medicine, Ayurveda or Indigenous healing teachings are commonly referred to as alternative rather than collectively as many approaches to medicine or healing teachings from diverse perspectives and experiences. Anti-racist practices challenge the marginalization of certain peoples in society and the delegitimation/devaluation of their knowledges and experiences, particularly when they are defined as subordinate or minority by a dominating class or governing body. The work of anti-racism challenges definitions of what comes to be defined as valid knowledge and pushes for multicentric ways of knowing to be produced and distributed, both locally and globally (Dei 1996: 254, see also Adhami 2015; Dei 2016). The constructed notions of differences or othering – based on characteristics defined through binaries such as inferiority or superiority – attached to notions of race make racism a reality in everyday life, and prevalent in subtle and obvious ways. Due to the permeating nature of colonial

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racism and oppression, our presentation of anti-racism efforts is interdisciplinary, global and intersectional as we now know that these oppressions function in every aspect of life in places all over the globe. Anti-racism efforts arise in response to the proliferation of dominant, imposing and typically inhumane social conditions with the purpose of eliminating and subverting them. The historical awareness and understanding of these errant conditions are still emerging and require further recovery, because dominant groups regularly erase and replace the narratives of the subjugated with their own, whitewashed versions. As such, the documentation and analysis of injustices that have happened or that are occurring now remain a work in progress. Through developments in the immediacy and access to technology, such as the internet and social media, the gaps in our knowing are closing at an ever-increasing speed. At the same time, simply sifting through the sheer volume of data is task enough, complicated by the incredibly prolific availability of misinformation and propaganda. Now, more than ever before, acquiring a salient understanding of social justice issues to any level of complexity or depth, requires the seeker to employ critical contemplation, a willingness to understand events and occurrences from multiple views, and the reasonability with which to consider their own complicities as well as a firm commitment to transformative praxis. In this chapter, we present a selection of theoretical and historical instances on themes of racism and anti-racism, which demonstrate how problems arising from the imposing dominations of colonialism are identified and challenged. As many of the colonial imperial projects underway at the turn of the twentieth century concerned Euro-colonial dominance of Whiteness and White supremacy, our examination reflects on the values, structures and behaviours that were enacted and have since become institutionalized, leaving an enduring legacy on previously colonized populations long after these empires were dismantled. We examine recent examples of colonialism and their contexts of White supremacy, to demonstrate how racism is manufactured and how its long-lasting effects can pollute social climates. By applying the anti-colonial lens, employing critical analysis, centring voices and experiences that were historically silenced, and providing historical context to current anti-racism work, we highlight some of the convergences, patterns and exceptions in anti-racism work, and the painful, restorative, enduring tasks of changemaking. We note that for the purposes of this chapter, our examination of Whiteness and White supremacy emerges directly from instances of colonization where implications of superiority, whether overt or implied, were self-defined and manifested as racism enacted upon non-Whites and any identities defined as other (see also Said [1979] 1994; Smith 2012). By suggesting all positive characteristics belonged to those from the colonizing group, the ideology of supremacy became pervasive, irrationally deeming Whites as more worthy of privileges, and suggesting the world was somehow in need of White dominance, saving and instruction. As Zeus Leonardo wrote, White culture was a normalized ‘amalgamation of various white ethnic practices’. He defined whiteness as ‘the attempt to homogenize diverse white ethnics into a single category (much like it attempts with people of color) for purposes of racial domination’ (Leonardo 2002: 32). Understanding global histories and anti-racism efforts are imperative to recognizing the similarities in how colonial rules were so successfully employed around the world. The Euro-colonial imperialist projects underway at the start of the twentieth century also evidence how the imagined and imposed normalization of constructs of ‘Whiteness’ were used as the measure for meting out systems of rewards and punishments, common methods of domination and rule over the so-called non-White. Common factors include

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the subjugation of peoples of agency, the creation of polarizing narratives of inferiority and superiority (of factors such as race, beliefs, cultures, languages, etc.), robbing autonomy and independence for the imperial goals of the dispossession of their once sovereign lands, the attempted control and exploitation of their bodies, spirits and minds by controlling any and all aspects of life, such as labour, education, culture and beliefs, and the appropriation of any natural resources. This rationale of Euro-colonial imperialist projects naturally led to considerable resistance, response and refusals of categorizations of anything less than equal. We also note that colonial oppressions exist and have existed historically among and across so-called non-White populations and subjectivities as well. It is an important aspect of anti-colonial and anti-racism work to be aware and pay heed to the complicities we may bear in the injustices that are enacted upon those in the world beside and around us. While there are many forms of oppression that can take on the form of racism, our analysis mostly centres on Western Euro-colonialism as a system of racist oppression in order to illustrate these latent and manifest (see also Said [1979] 1994) tendencies. In placing the content we have collected together, the emerging patterns immediately illuminate the enduring creep of pervasive colonialism and systemic racism. If taken at a glance or treated as one-offs, though, they may be more difficult to see, understand or follow, let alone challenge. To undertake any successful anti-racist endeavour it is useful to become familiar with the insidious inner workings of racisms, colonialisms and oppressions, and to build stealth into the approaches we devise to address it.

VOICES IN ANTI-RACISM THEORY In this chapter, we build on and bring together the work of many ardent activists and academics, including Fanon, Bhabha, Said, Smith, Luka, Maldonado-Torres, Mignolo, Gill, Shiva and many others, cognizant of the vast global communities and identities they emerge from, belong to, identify with and may represent. The scope of anti-racism efforts worldwide is vast, and our analysis can in no way be entirely comprehensive or completely inclusive of all global initiatives, experiences or perspectives. Through the theoretical references and historical examples we bring together, we hope to illustrate how social values, institutional structures and cultural behaviours become embedded elements of colonial projects, making them vehicles of ongoing forms of racism and conduits of sustained societal oppressions. It is with an appreciation for the enduring struggles of oppressed peoples in the context of ongoing domination, in overt and tacit forms, that we acknowledge the histories that were often told in mainstream education and official accounts provided by governments were often exclusive, colonized versions where the perspectives, truths and experiences of the non-Europeans were most often obscured and withheld. Today we know this very circumstance calls the legitimacy and accuracy of colonial accounts of history into question. The anti-colonial researcher knows there will always be so much more to the real story, as Dei reminds us ‘political theory is poorly served if Western democracy has primacy at the expense of the exclusions of ideas and practices of other civilizations like Chinese, Egyptian, Indian and Mayan’ (Dei 2016: 38). Dei suggests we use a multicentric approach to shift away from the standards imposed by any particular hegemonic frameworks, such as colonial, neoliberal and Western knowledge, and to instead work with many ways of knowing, placing them alongside (Dei 2016; Adhami 2015). Throughout this chapter, we strive to centre perspectives that

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describe, unpack, narrate, document and evidence the oppressions they have experienced personally or witnessed in their communities or both. We weave together a collective, multicentric (Dei 2016: 38) narrative that demonstrates racism as a practice creates the consequent need for anti-racist work. Paulo Freire describes techniques rulers use to displace any agency or alliances in the communities they overtake, namely (1) conquest, (2) divide and rule, (3) manipulation and (4) cultural invasion. He writes that the dominant cultures will treacherously create social systems based on values, laws and set of social mores that may suggest democratic benefit of all on the surface but in actuality are covertly structured to sustain the power relationship over the oppressed long term, by employing the tactics above. Freire explains this deception thus: The more human world to which they justly aspire, however, is the antithesis of the ‘human world’ of the oppressors – a world which is the exclusive possession of the oppressors, who preach an impossible harmony between themselves (who dehumanize) and the oppressed (who are dehumanized). Since oppressors and oppressed are antithetical, what serves the interests of one group disserves the interests of the others. (Freire [1970] 2005: 145) Canada’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission outlines, for example, how social values and beliefs imposed as Euro-Christian colonial objectives since contact were opposed to Indigenous values, as described in its Executive Summary: 1) the Christian god had given the Christian nations the right to colonize the lands they ‘discovered’ as long as they converted the Indigenous populations; and 2) the Europeans were bringing the benefits of civilization (a concept that was intertwined with Christianity) to the ‘heathen.’ In short, it was contended that people were being colonized for their own benefit, either in this world or the next. (Truth and Reconciliation Commission 2015: 46) Aimé Césaire noted similar impositions in his writings about colonial domination in Martinique and Africa: ‘the chief culprit in this domain is Christian pedantry, which laid down the dishonest equations Christianity=civilization, paganism=savagery, from which there could not but ensue abominable colonialist and racist consequences’ (Césaire [1955] 1972: 2; emphasis in the original). He defined colonialism in terms of what it was unequivocally not: ‘neither evangelization, nor a philanthropic enterprise, nor a desire to push back the frontiers of ignorance, disease, and tyranny, nor a project undertaken for the greater glory of God, nor an attempt to extend the rule of law’ (2). Similarly, Walter D. Mignolo points to colonial implementation of Christianity’s religious binaries of inferiority/superiority and Whiteness, writing: In Spain, the emerging concept of religious racism justified the expulsion of Moors and Jews. In the New World, the surfacing of the ‘Indians’ (people speaking myriad languages among them Aymara, Quechua, Guaraní, Nahuatl, various dialects of Maya roots, as dissected and classified since the nineteenth century by Western linguists), created a crisis in Christian knowledge as to what kind of ‘being’ the ‘Indians’ would have in the Christian chain of beings? (Mignolo 2007: 479) These instances illustrate how the colonizers’ religious values and beliefs, as Freire suggests, are imposed upon the colonized at the cost of their own, under the mask of benefit

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or betterment. The social and systemic values established during projects of colonization and imperialism were also thoroughly entwined in the capitalist and globalism agenda. Colonialism was often ‘innocently’ instigated upon unsuspecting populations, under the guise of friendly trade and curious exploration. As Linda Smith noted, ‘Colonialism became imperialism’s outpost, the fort and the port of imperial outreach … [It] started as a means to secure ports, access to raw materials and efficient transfer of commodities from point of origin to the imperial center’ (2012: 24). Such trading post settlements, and subsequent proxy leaderships models, also became established in many regions of India such as by the Portuguese, Dutch, British and French. They seemingly appeared as tourists, traders and guests looking for tea and spices, only they had no plans of leaving. It was this manner of innocent arrival that eventually led, for example, to British colonial rule of the Indian subcontinent, resulting in the disruption of the natural evolution of – had the partition not happened – one of the world’s most populous nations today. As Euro-colonizers extended their reach across the globe, Smith notes they became more refined in strategic practices of segregation, differential treatment or cultural invasion, and putting them into laws, thus informing the scope and direction of presentday Indigenous, anti-racism restoration work: [W]ho was an Indian and who was not, who was a metis, who had lost all status as an indigenous person, who had the correct fraction of blood quantum, who lived in the regulated spaces of reserves and communities, were all worked out arbitrarily (but systematically), to serve the interests of the colonizing society. The specificities of imperialism help to explain the different ways in which indigenous peoples have struggled to recover histories, lands, languages and basic human dignity. (Smith 2012: 23) Discrediting and denouncing humans as legitimate, free and capable is a systematic tenet of colonialism. Treating groups differently, such as by bestowing favours upon some and not others, is meant to disenfranchise colonized peoples from one another and to create resentments among them. Such delineations, though, would also became harder to maintain for the colonizers, as the relationships formed amongst and across groups of peoples. Smith contends this led to some being ‘referred to as “half-castes” or “halfbreeds”, or stigmatized by some other specific term which often excluded them from belonging to either settler or indigenous societies. Sometimes children from “mixed” sexual relationships were considered at least halfway civilized; at other times they were considered worse than civilized’ (2012: 28). Like Smith, Fanon describes the colonizer’s deliberate targeting and erasure of stories, memories and identities: With a kind of perverted logic, it turns its attention to the past of the colonized people, and distorts it, disfigures it, and destroys it. This effort to demean history prior to colonization today takes on a dialectical significance. When we consider the resources deployed to achieve the cultural alienation so typical of the colonial period, we realize that nothing was left to chance and that the final aim of colonization was to convince the indigenous population that if the colonist were to leave they would regress into barbarism, degradation, and bestiality. (Fanon [1961] 2004: 149) W. E. B. Du Bois noted a complexity of tensions arising from the internalization of these kinds of imposed inferiorities, which also spread amongst and between subjugated groups, in a kind of intersection of oppressions. He described the colonized as experiencing a

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social hierarchy of human relevance, ‘a world which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity’ (Du Bois 1903: 164). And yet these days so much of identity (of colour, culture and race, for example) have come to also be importantly and politically enmeshed with these labels (Omi and Winant 1993). It is from a position of agency and entitlement to primacy, centrality and subjectivity that an anti-racism perspective – like an anti-colonial one – addresses the imposed misnomers and misrepresentations, as primary, central subjects, parallel and equal, rather than as objects (see also Dei 1996; Adhami 2015). What so many anti-racism scholars and activists are pointing out is how dominant powers fashion the annihilation and erasure of histories, knowledges, traditions, cultures, relationships and achievements in favour of the colonizer’s imposed and false narratives, as an effective form of control. Even though every colonized people had a history that preceded contact. That colonizing practices are barbaric and inhumane is a gross understatement, yet such acts were enacted as if divine or ordained in the name of false notions of safety and propriety, in the name of civility. Césaire contended colonialism was actually a process whereby the colonizers enabled, permitted, excused and facilitated their own descent into unabashed barbarianism, which they then unleashed against the colonized people, becoming exactly what the messaging of the colonial mission purported the colonized to be. He writes, ‘We must study how colonization works to decivilize the colonizer, to brutalize him in the true sense of the word, to degrade him, to awaken him to buried instincts, to covetousness, violence, race hatred, and moral relativism’ (Césaire [1955] 1972: 2; emphases in the original). Césaire also posited that the perpetrators of these barbarian acts included the everyday people, ‘the adventurer and the pirate, the wholesale grocer and the ship owner, the gold digger and the merchant’ (2). He suggested these people were complicit because it was on their behalf (their religions, their values and their economies) that their country’s military and political might were convened and employed in the conquest of nations including Madagascar, Algeria, Mexico, India, China, Vietnam and the West Indies, among others. These manufactured hierarchies attempt to and successfully displace the legitimacies of peoples, their lands, their knowledges, their social structures and their beliefs, cultures and traditions. With the advent of critical race, feminist, social justice and anti-colonial practices, and the inclusion and representation of more people of diverse descriptions in institutions of governance, science, education, media and the arts, the work of reclaiming narratives and reinstating omitted histories is ongoing. Gathering accurate historical accounts of racism and its responses can be like solving a puzzle or mystery because most recorded histories of subjugated peoples – rife with omissions, erasures and outright falsehoods – were disseminated as fact by oppressors, sharing usually only the oppressors’ perspectives. To be critically aware and to take strategic action is the work of the anti-racism scholar, citizen and activist, not only to identify and correct the past mistakes while also improving conditions for the future.

RACE, RACISM AND HISTORY Many colonial projects were underway by the time of the 1900s, ongoing for decades if not centuries, and resulted in the unthinkably normalized mistreatment of people. One

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can consider, for example, how oppressive practices were shared and refined over time, as Smith (2012) suggests. We know now how the ongoing colonization of African nations by the Portuguese, Dutch, English, German, Italians and French, eventually supported and led to the pan-national atrocities of slavery, and in the Americas, colonization by the Portuguese, English and French forces, among others, led to violence, torture and genocide of Indigenous peoples. It was not until the twentieth century that Canada finally closed its last residential school, ending a cruel practice that had been ongoing for over a century, where Indigenous children in Canada were taken from their families, for the purpose of cultural erasure. Indigenous peoples fought, resisted and contested these separations throughout that time, but it took thousands of court cases, which became class action suits, to finally ensure the survivors’ stories of abuse, violence, neglect, displacement, estrangement and worse, would be formally heard and recognized. The Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement was announced in 2006, and the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada was constituted as a result of the Agreement, and the many related lawsuits. On the very first page of Honouring the Truth, Reconciling for the Future: Summary of the Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, the Commission outlines how Canada’s Euro-Christian colonial agenda was complicit in cultural genocide against the Indigenous people, such as by enacting policies that legitimized residential schooling: Cultural genocide is the destruction of those structures and practices that allow the group to continue as a group. States that engage in cultural genocide set out to destroy the political and social institutions of the targeted group. Land is seized, and populations are forcibly transferred, and their movement is restricted. Languages are banned. Spiritual leaders are persecuted, spiritual practices are forbidden, and objects of spiritual value are confiscated and destroyed. And, most significantly to the issue at hand, families are disrupted to prevent the transmission of cultural values and identity from one generation to the next. In its dealing with Aboriginal people, Canada did all these things. (Truth and Reconciliation Commission 2015: 1; emphasis in the original) The Summary outlines how dominant values were sanctioned by those in power and implemented by institutions, citing Canada’s first Prime Minister Sir John A. Macdonald’s 1883 remarks to the House of Commons, ‘Indian children should be withdrawn as much as possible from the parental influence, and the only way to do that would be to put them in central training industrial schools where they will acquire the habits and modes of thought of white men’ (Truth and Reconciliation Commission 2015: 2). While reconciliation and redress remain key outcomes named in this document, and are echoed in the findings of numerous similar reports prior to and since, Indigenous communities are still advocating for recommendations to be implemented and fighting against the ongoing racialized inequalities that continue from the colonial era to impede progress towards self-governance, treaty-acknowledgement and land repatriation or access to such essentials as safe drinking water, proper housing and health care. It was this kind of dehumanizing barbarianism of colonialism that Césaire suggested had in recent centuries traditionally become reserved for use by European colonizers against the non-Europeans, that Hitler adopted in his terrorizing campaign of Nazism that led to countless atrocities against the Jewish people primarily, and other populations it deemed inferior, including the Roma, people with disabilities, people defined as homosexuals and people of dissident political views. The Nazi extremists implemented

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new legislations, including those that established concentration camps, forced people to wear identifying markers and that led to mass deportations and land dispossessions. Eventually, Hitler’s horrific goal of genocide was underway and over six million people were known to have perished in what became known as the Holocaust. The mentality of dehumanizing incarceration, though not known to be seen on the same scale since Second World War Germany, is a historic tool, implemented throughout history. In Canada, for example, citizens and residents of Japanese descent were stripped of their basic human rights, and when the government invoked the War Measures Act in 1942, they were forced into internment camps, labour camps or to work on farms in the interiors of the western provinces. For the atrocities they enacted on Japanese-descent Canadians, the Federal Government would apologize and offer a redress settlement in 1988, which also led to the founding of the Canadian Race Relations Foundation, a centre for race inequity awareness, advocacy and education. Perhaps a point of consideration would be to understand the colonial/imperial use of internment as a tool of control and annihilation, and what resemblances different instances may bear. Many activists today are currently protesting the treatment and conditions of Mexican children taken from their families, detained at American borders and held in US detention centres, adamant the conditions echo those of the camps in Nazi Germany. Another important consideration is in understanding how and why the ruling forces were – and even today are still – able to garner the support and the assistance of everyday citizens in the apprehension, criminalization, internment and detentions of their neighbours and peers. As Freire and others have suggested, dividing and privileging some and not all was favoured and devastating imperial/colonial practice was intended to drive wedges between otherwise amenable peoples. Eventually, these practices would evolve into the social conditions that were used to legitimize racializing practices of segregation, slavery, deportation, land expropriation, scientific and medical experimentation, disproportionate incarcerations, removal of children from families and, in the worst scenarios, warfare and genocide. Dei noted some examples of the systemic, dehumanizing, rogue ‘expeditions’ in the name of science and education that took advantage of the objectified others, including ‘the Tuskegee experiments; the development and deployment of atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki; eugenics; lobotomy and bloodletting practices of psychiatry; and craniometry’. Such control and domination extended into every aspect of the colonized life, including in ‘the classroom, the court room, policy development and its absence, and global responses to deprivation, violence, and transnational practice’ (Dei 2016: 32–3). These projects reflect how when Whiteness was centred through the lens of imperialism at the interstices of dominance, politics and colonization, then injustice for any defined as other, was often the result. As Linda Smith notes, at times there were complex complicities amongst different groups of colonized people, when colonizers brought in subjects from other colonies as slaves, labourers and indentured servants to guard and tend to the resources they stole from their newly colonized populations. She writes, ‘Hence there are large populations in some places of non-indigenous groups, also victims of colonialism, whose primary relationship and allegiance is often to the imperial power rather than to the colonized people of the place to which they themselves have been brought’ (Smith 2012: 28). The Euro-colonial system of imperialism took full advantage of fundamental differences in worldviews, as also in the case in the African continent. In the early twentieth century, Africa was still the site of projects of Euro-colonial domination over its many sovereign territories. European

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countries competed with one another for ownership over land, resources and people. The intersectional gaze of colonialism, Christianity and capitalism had a devastating impact on the peoples of the continent, including the kidnapping, enslavement and deportation of its people to European nations and colonies. Fanon describes the devastating impact: The sweeping, leveling nature of colonial domination was quick to dislocate in spectacular fashion the cultural life of a conquered people. The denial of reality, the new legal system imposed by the occupying power, the marginalization of the indigenous population and their customs by colonial society, expropriation, and the systemic enslavement of men and women, all contributed to this cultural obliteration. (Fanon [1961] 2004: 170) These systems of dehumanization and displacement still function as the foundation of antiBlack racism today. While slavery may have been abolished in practice, it was its residue and the remaining grasp of colonialism that enabled laws of segregation in the United States and models of apartheid regimes to emerge in places such as South Africa. Both enacted legislations, which in reality only legitimized the tacit social conventions already in place which privileged White citizens in every social and economic way imaginable, such as with prime opportunities for education, resources, land, business and employment while access for the Black populations was denied, restricted or menial. Towns, streets, drinking fountains, public transit and other spaces became officially segregated. hooks describes a subtle, daily kind of microaggression, which the dominant culture member invented and enacted to affirm their status as superior to their own satisfaction: ‘Even a small gesture – like showing a black servant a new dress that she would not be able to try on in a store because of Jim Crow laws – reminded all concerned of the difference in status based on race’ (hooks 1994: 95). Centuries of individual acts of resistance and organized support for freedom were finally gaining traction in pockets around the world. In the United States, writings of Du Bois, Césaire and Fanon inspired many movements of Black consciousness and organizations such as the Black Panthers, feeding the appetites of those seeking civil rights in America leading up to the 1960s and the end of apartheid in South Africa, which eventually came to pass in the 1990s. As Susan M. Brigham (2013) writes, ‘the historical legacies of past injustices’ can track into the present, and it is important to be aware and vigilant of the patterns and the premises under which injustices that were seemingly put to rest can reactivate or reoccur. One just has to look at the global headlines to see that the rhetoric of problematizing people, polarity and propaganda are once again geopolitical strategies commonly invoked by a number of world leaders, disseminated instantly worldwide over social media and the internet. During the 1930s and onwards, there seemed to be an urgent need for agency and independence among colonized peoples. Around the world, and the Euro-colonial empires, grasps on the colonies were beginning to crumble. The independence of India and Pakistan from British Rule in 1947 set a precedent that many of the colonies were seeking, and even after witnessing the price of freedom in bloodshed and displacement, many nations quickly followed suit. In his study of the post-colony in Cameroon, Achille Mbembe described the phenomenon of how if populations emerging from colonization internalize racist colonial hegemony, they may in due course replicate the problems of oppressing their own people because the way post-colony state power is organized models colonial rule. In some instances, the power structures and the citizen subject engage in rituals of relationships that ‘reaffirm tyranny’ and ‘become a unitary system

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of ensnarement’ (Mbembe 1992: 25). For the governors it can lean towards excess and fetishizing, and even turn into objects of ridicule by the masses, but when power is exerted in this almost totalitarian configuration of the ruling and the ruled, it is swift and brutal. Mbembe wrote: ‘[I]t has resulted in the mutual zombification of both the dominant and those whom they apparently dominate. This zombification meant that each robbed the other of their vitality and has left them both impotent (impouvoir)’ (4; emphasis in the original). One of the legacies of independence was also the threat of ongoing unrest and division among the populations the colonizers had so astutely been able to divide. Fanon noted how even the newly restored ‘African unity’ was under siege, as the colonial and postcolonial dominant would attempt ‘to break this will to unify by taking advantage of every weak link in the movement’ by exacerbating previous rivalries among communities (Fanon [1961] 2004: 107). He surmised that the violence of colonization would need a similar level of violence to counter and end colonial terror. In the aftermath, he envisioned a new social order of unity and common good but also warned about the kinds of divisive colonial traps that Mbebe described that endanger social cohesion. It is worth considering, as Ziauddin Sardar (2008) notes, whether global grounds gained across populations towards civil rights and relationships since the fall of empires and world wars were similarly eroded after the terror attacks of 11 September 2001. In Fanon’s revised foreword to Wretched of the Earth, he notes how cultures of fear reinstate themselves in new and old ways: A great deal has changed since Fanon’s time. But the underlying structures of oppression and injustice remain the same. Empire shaped the current national identity of Britain, France, Spain, Portugal and the Netherlands. And Empire continues to play a key role in the psychological makeup, political and cultural outlook of Africa and Asia. The old European empires have been replaced by a new Empire, a hyperpower that wants to rule and mould the world in its own image. Its ‘war on terror’ has become a license to flout every international law and notion of human rights. Racism, both in its most blatant and incipient forms, is the foundation of Fortress Europe – as is so evident in the reemergence of the extreme right in Germany and Holland, France and Belgium, as well as Scandinavia, and the discourse of refugees, immigrants, asylum seekers and the Muslim population of Europe. Direct colonial rule may have disappeared; but colonialism, in its many disguises as cultural, economic, political and knowledge-based oppression, lives on. (Fanon [1961] 2004: xviii–xix) Anti-Muslim sentiments and Islamophobia have also become increasingly prevalent again after 9/11. Like Sardar and Mbembe, Vandana Shiva warns of the fear-based tactics we should remain attuned to, by looking to the past to understand the implications of the politics that may arise: Whether it is the Patriot Act in the US, Prevention of Terrorism Act in India (POTA), or the Anti-terrorism, Crime and Society Act in the UK (ATCSA), new laws created after 11 September 2001 are not just laws against terrorists – they are also laws against citizens’ democratic defence of their fundamental freedoms that are being trampled upon by the forces of globalisation. Fear and violence are currently the dominant forms of human expression, and ruling through fear and violence are becoming the dominant mechanism for governance. In another period, it would have been described

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as the rise of fascism and totalitarianism, with the totalitarianism of corporate control over markets combining with totalitarianism of militarised states taking away from people their fundamental rights and freedoms. (Shiva 2004: 7–8) Under such circumstances, White supremacy, extreme right and so-called alt-right ideologies are once again prevalent, as are populist politics and right-wing administrations, echoing the colonial sentiments of past empires. Nelson Maldonado-Torres offers the insight that colonialist and imperial philosophies are deeply embedded in nationalist and right-wing politics, suggesting governments that employ these agendas see their actions as divinely ordained and have no reservations about using military might to further them. He writes: Discourse around the idea of defence of the Homeland, which echoes Heidegger’s beloved Heimat, furthers racist geopolitics and leads to the justification of military aggressions, which are conceived as missionary work. America has to be defended from evil men who come from evil places. The Middle East and Latin America are first in line, along with those other liminal subjects of Western modernities (Africans, blacks, indigenous peoples and people of color more generally). (Madonado-Torres 2004: 48) Maldonado-Torres suggests the modern American model of nationhood and allegiance echoes such intersections. He posits the American discourse on evil ‘is simultaneously articulated with a prayer for the Homeland (“God bless America”). US Americanism grounds the logic of coloniality on the old and traditional onto-theology which assigns a primary role to God, goodness and evil’ (Maldonado-Torres 2004: 48–9). He suggests America has a desire to become the Western centre of ontotheological nationalism, in the way that he describes that ontological Germancentricity anchors Europe at its very centre and whose agenda is manifested through globalization (49). In Canada, the 2019 final report of the National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls declared the disproportional and ongoing violence towards Indigenous women and girls a continuation of the genocide that began with the colonization of these territories centuries ago. It establishes ‘Calls for Justice’ as ‘important ways to end the genocide and to transform systemic and societal values that have worked to maintain colonial violence’ (National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls 2019b: 168). As the Inquiry’s Chief Commissioner Marion Buller notes in the preface, ‘This report is about these beautiful Indigenous people and the systemic factors that lead to their losses of dignity, humanity and, in too many cases, losses of life. This report is about deliberate race, identity and gender-based genocide’ (National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls 2019a: 5). The report details the colonial process of dehumanization through long-standing practices of domination and violence that evolved within systemic structures and that aimed to eradicate the colonized peoples’ dignity, beliefs, traditions and customs in favour of those of the colonizers, dehumanizing principles that were established initially during contact. There is a long history of inquiries and commissions of Canada looking into the treatment the First Peoples of Turtle Island, predicated on their challenges of the injustices enacted upon them. However, the pursuit of justice is still a hard win when racism is societally normalized and institutionally ingrained. Razack (1998) recounted examples where race and culture intersect in the judiciary, including the case of Kitty Nowdlok-Reynolds. The Inuk woman sought justice from the courts after being raped in

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1990, but was grossly mistreated by the justice system instead. She filed a complaint that launched a RCMP Public Complaints Commission inquiry into her treatment. Razack (1998) describes how the Commission considered its practices and policies, the survivor’s rights and even the incompetence of their bureaucracy but not the tenuous historical relationship between Indigenous people and the White police officers and the impact that had on her treatment at the hands of the courts. Razack writes that there was no conclusive finding as to whether the police behaved in a racist or sexist manner, or not, even while the commissioners acknowledged racism was a factor in Nowdlok-Reynolds’s treatment, as was police insensitivity, leaving the public to surmise whether or to what degree factors of race and gender to impacted how police treated Nowdlok-Reynolds (Razack 1998: 81). Similarly, in the seminal case of Donald Marshall Jr, the young Mi’Kmaq man was just seventeen when he was imprisoned for a murder he did not commit. He spent eleven years in jail before finally being acquitted in 1983. The provincial government appointed a Royal Commission in 1986 and the Royal Commission on the Donald Marshall, Jr., Prosecution report released in 1989 declared the police response and the investigation to be ‘inadequate, incompetent and unprofessional’ (1989: 19–20, see also Paul 2006). The Commission also affirmed, ‘Having found that racism played a part in Donald Marshall Jr’s wrongful conviction and imprisonment, we believed it was important to ensure that our justice system will not – and cannot – be influenced by the color of a person’s skin’ (Royal Commission on the Donald Marshall, Jr, Prosecution 1989: 10) and it made over eighty-two recommendations. It was called a landmark case in Canadian history. Over thirty years later, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada penned ninetyfour overlapping calls to actions to address and reconcile the abuse and detainment of Indigenous children from over one hundred years of mandatory residential schooling, and the Final Report of the National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls made numerous calls for justice, all directed at addressing the effects of racism and dismantling the systems that perpetuate it.

RESISTANT RESTORATION AS A RESPONSE AND OTHER WORDS OF CAUTION It seems that there is an ebb and flow to the prevalence of racism within the systems as they are structured now, which demands attention and analysis, to keep so-called facts or common understanding of any given situation in context, and decommission the slick marketing and clever work of spin doctors. Sherene Razack cautions that anti-racism advocates and their work of reassertion and reconciliation remain at risk of being undermined, dismissed, discounted, judged or accused of being essentialist in the colonial present: ‘In such a scenario, those who judge have a better chance of appearing calm, confident, all knowing, and in control,’ while any Indigenous or other people fighting for change are usually dismissed by those in power as ‘restless’ (Razack 1998: 169). As identities were pillaged and voices of the oppressed silenced through societal domination and institutional impositions, anti-racism activists throughout history were often forced to document and safeguard their struggles in oral traditions of songs and poetry, written stories, and art depicted in coded metaphor, even while they were kept well occupied with the fight and denied the legitimacy or means to know or keep their stories (see also Paul 2006; Burney-Abbas 2007). Similarly, Rajdeep Singh Gill (2013) in the context of arts curation and archiving and what he refers to as the ‘artworld-academia post/industrial complex’, suggests acts of recovery can become

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entrenched with the biases that exclude or distort the messaging of what was so carefully crafted and preserved. For example, after decades of unceremonious looting and selfentitled, unapologetic plundering, whether by war or in the name of academic research, we are now seeing communities the world over asking museums for the return of the remains of their loved ones and ancestors, sacred objects of worship and countless other so called ‘artefacts’, as they seek to restore traditions and meanings. bell hooks also acknowledged the increasing presence of diverse voices and institutional representation; she offered a significant observation about a peculiar, ongoing issue, ‘radical pedagogy (I use this term to include critical and/or feminist perspectives) has in recent years truly included a recognition of differences – those determined by class, race, sexual practice, nationality, and so on. Yet this movement forward does not seem to coincide with any significant increase in black or other nonwhite voices joining discussion about radical pedagogical practices’ (hooks 1994: 9–10). hooks highlights a systemic problem in change-making. The minoritized may often be invited by the dominant culture to participate in its anti-racism efforts, but their legitimate, appropriate and necessary contributions will be dismissed, discounted and ignored because they were included only for the sake of optics to legitimize the dominant culture’s hollow anti-racism efforts. As authentic, appropriate and necessary as their contributions are, the colonized scholar may still struggle to participate in practices and conversations that lead to the actual transformation of education and institutions, and end up maintaining the status quo. What hooks identifies here is the struggle for progress and advancement, not only of the issues and the people but also of societal change and especially a need to remain critical and observant. For example, in 2018, Canada commemorated Viola Desmond of Black Nova Scotian descent as a Canadian civil rights hero on the new issue of the $10 bill. For challenging racial segregation in a Nova Scotia movie theatre in the 1940s, Desmond became the first Canadian woman to be featured on the currency. Not surprisingly, there is little mention of the systemic racism, social conditions or the Canadian laws of segregation that necessitated her taking that stand in the first place, let alone the incarceration and legal battle she endured following the incident, or that she was finally pardoned in 2010, many years after she had passed. Nor did the Bank of Canada explain its change in attitude towards ‘ethnic’ depictions on currency, as it was only a few short years earlier, in 2012, that it pulled the depiction of a female scientist from its $100 bill design because some people in their focus groups complained the depiction was too ‘Asian looking’ and the image was redesigned to be more ethnically ‘neutral’ (Brigham 2013: 124). In this example, there are many intersecting legal, societal and institutional circumstances and without unpacking and understanding them properly, they may well track again, as Brigham suggests, into the present and the future. As progress and change are made, new obstacles surface and regression occurs creating an ongoing, unending struggle. Similar problems of colonial narratives and resistances emerging and re-emerging from within communities are historically mirrored in other parts of society. Canada’s broadcast industry has been critiqued for biased depictions, representation and reporting based on colonial narratives that condone the racisms of the day. Long-time broadcaster Rita Shelton Deverell (2009) documents her journey as a participant and activist in the Canadian media landscape, advocating for the inclusion of women, minorities, persons with disabilities and Indigenous peoples. During her career in public broadcasting in the 1970s and 1980s, she was denied on-air opportunities because of prevailing attitudes that ‘Canadian people are not ready’ (Shelton Deverell 2009: 144) to see a Black woman in such roles as a TV host or depicting a Canadian farmer. Through countless efforts

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and solidarities from people among the so-called designated groups, she describes the industry eventually shifting towards inclusions that saw, for example, the birth of the Women’s Television Network and the establishment of the Aboriginal Peoples Television Network during the 1990s. People started to reclaim broadcast spaces and provide narratives and stories from their own perspectives, as Garrick Cooper and Fanon suggest, working around the dominant narratives. This evolution in ownership of storytelling spaces is also mirrored in Mary Elizabeth Luka’s (2013) personal account of creating and producing CBC ArtSpots for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. While the programme’s mandate was to represent artists of all genres from across the country, Luka also devised a system of Advisory Committees, in collaboration with artists and communities from the regions, who rigorously scrutinized layers of representations to ensure the show’s presentations were as balanced as possible in terms of cultural identities, ethnicities and other diverse designations. This carefully crafted approach made full use of the opportunities available to a public broadcaster, by enabling media production staff, volunteer advisors and the artists involved to collectively shape and impact – through their ‘creative citizenship’ – contexts of national identity as understood and presented by a national institution (Luka 2013). Even with all the changes in the broadcast industry, and as hooks pointed out in the case of the academy, the need for sustained inclusivity, representation and advocacy continue, in calls for better representation and roles for diverse actors, directors, screenwriters, filmmakers, technicians, executives and for their recognition at awards ceremonies. According to Dei (2016) Indigenizing the academy is integral to transforming it. This includes taking up perspectives of scholars such as Smith, Mignolo, Fanon and Césaire, as in the examples above, who address the ravages of hegemony by giving voice to the marginalized, racialized, colonized and the dispossessed. Adhami captures the challenging simultaneity and effort required to uncover, recover and discover our stories, identities and notions of belonging in the phrase un/re/discovering. She writes, ‘There was a trauma to losing connections to places, people, beliefs and stories, especially through injustice or segregation, and consequently there may be some trauma encountered in their un/re/dis/ covery. But the un/re/dis/covery is essential to the healing process’ (Adhami 2015: 178). Hopeful as these sentiments are, it may not be until every last element of systemic inequity that holds Freire’s notion of ‘impossible harmony’ in place is dismantled, that hope for real change may be possible. Dei contends Indigenous and non-Western ‘concepts, philosophies of education, ethics, values, and social norms’ must be incorporated into the contemporary education and the academy must work with ‘Indigenous principles of community responsibility, mutual interdependency, ethics, sharing and reciprocity’ (Dei 2016: 37). Glen Coulthard cites Philip Blake’s description of the Dene worldview, to reassert Indigenous ways of knowing that inherently counter colonial capitalist projects: [L]ocates us as an inseparable part of an expansive system of interdependent relations covering the land and animals, past and future generations, as well as other people and communities. This self-conception demands that we conduct ourselves in accordance with certain ethico-political norms, which stresses, among other things, the importance of sharing, egalitarianism, respecting the freedom and autonomy of both individuals and groups, and recognizing the obligations that one has not only to other people, but to the natural world as a whole. It is this place-based imaginary that serves as the ethical foundation from which many Indigenous people and communities continue to

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resist and critique the dual imperatives of state sovereignty and capitalist accumulation that constitute our colonial present. (Coulthard 2010: 82) When Garrick Cooper’s efforts to integrate Māori epistemologies into his academic practice led to a kind of academic banishment and being relegated to an ‘epistemological wilderness’, his liberatory strategy unapologetically re-established the primacy and legitimacy of traditional Māori knowledge, historical narratives, languages in ways that bypassed the Western system: A conscious decision is made to remain aloof from the concerns, questions and debates that sciences are consumed by, and instead listen to and address questions that are important to Māori communities, as decided by Māori communities. (Cooper 2012: 67) Being visible and having a voice is one step towards reclaiming spaces and being treated as equals. Bringing the entirety of who we are to our lives every day, and choosing how we identify as we traverse the terrain is also the work of the anti-colonial activist. So it becomes the work of anti-racism, as well, to restore and repair the erasures, reestablish agency and dignity, as Smith, Du Bois and others assert. Fanon describes, in this context of negritude, the reformation of a natural kind of unity: [T]he emotional if not the logical antithesis of that insult which the white man flung at humanity. This rush of negritude against the white man’s contempt showed itself in certain spheres to be the one idea capable of lifting interdictions and anathemas. Because the New Guinean or Kenyan intellectuals found themselves above all up against a general ostracism and delivered to the combined contempt of their overlords, their reaction was to sing praises in admiration of each other. (Fanon [1961] 2004: 150) Edward W. Said also advocated for unity, collaboration and the return of traditional educational values and practices, having collected, documented and described numerous accounts of centuries of disparaging attitudes and otherings some Europeans strategically exacted upon Asians, Arabs and Muslims. We still have at our disposal the rational interpretive skills that are the legacy of humanistic education, not as a sentimental piety enjoining us to return to traditional values or the classics but as the active practice of worldly secular rational discourse. The secular world is the world of history as made by human beings. Critical thought does not submit to commands to join in the ranks marching against one or another approved enemy. Rather than the manufactured clash of civilisations, we need to concentrate on the slow working together of cultures that overlap, borrow from each other, and live together. But for that kind of wider perception we need time, patient and sceptical inquiry, supported by faith in communities of interpretation that are difficult to sustain in a world demanding instant action and reaction. (Said 2003: 24) Similarly, Rajdeep Singh Gill in bearing witness to such and other activations of antiracism, developed his own response to creating a more caring and ethical approach to the field:

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My envisioning of transformative curatorial practice through transdisciplinary and plural worldview engagement involves acknowledging and engaging diversity of thought, experience, history, and practice; mapping and developing connections and common ground across intellectual and social borders; positing a creative, open, and evolving vision-practice of relational knowledge; and keeping personal and collective responsibility and accountability at the heart of a shared, interactive process of knowledge-making. These efforts are in part motivated by and an activation of bridging, an intentional, constructive process of community. (Gill 2013: 26–7)

CONCLUSION Each of the examples we curated for this chapter demonstrates how supremist colonial rules instated racist, xenophobic and systemic barriers that necessitated anti-racism movements and actions to be taken in response towards the recovery and repair of social systems and institutions. There is a distinct relevance to digging for these obscure details, the nuance of key details and placing them alongside one another (Adhami 2015). Each academic work cited is in itself the ardent activism of anti-racism and anti-colonial scholars in action. These works permeate within and beyond the institutions they are a part of and become vehicles that safeguard critical information and convey it to coming generations. Their work is informed and infused with the efforts of countless others, whose collective efforts make change possible. As we have also seen in these examples, change has taken repeated efforts and unending insistence over the course of decades, if not centuries. The fact remains, the landscape keeps shifting and we need to keep fighting these fights until the dominating groups put an end to their racist practices altogether or at least take up the anti-racism causes themselves and implement equalities in equal and larger measure. Protests, inquiries, commissions and movements are all a part of anti-racism work, reactions to racisms in environments, but lasting change begins at the root, with a willingness of every person of any privilege to understand their complicities and complacencies, and attend to them by actively rebalancing resulting hierarchies equitably. Until then, our anti-racism work remains that of asserting ourselves, our ontologies, histories, traditions, cultures, identities and epistemologies with confidence and conviction, unapologetically and without a second thought. As Fanon said: ‘It is the racist who creates the inferiorized’ ([1952] 2008: 68; emphasis in the original).

NOTES

Chapter 2 1 The US Naturalization Law of 1790 granted citizenship and naturalization to immigrants who were ‘free White persons of good character’. It excluded migrants, Native Americans, indentured servants, slaves, free Blacks and later Asians. 2 People of colour and Indigenous peoples have been engaged in political organizing long before the 1990s. In this section, however, I am referring to ‘environmental studies’ in its written form, which privileges a form of history at the expense of others. For more on the histories of subaltern environmentalism in the United States, see Egan (2002). 3 The proportion of African Americans in New Orleans fell from 67 per cent in 2005 to 59 per cent in 2013, and is accelerating downwards as the city continues to gentrify rapidly. 4 For the sake of analytical clarity, I specify chattel slavery in this section and settler colonialism in the next section. However, as is clear in the example of New Orleans, these racist structures were dependent on one another for colonial capitalist development, a connection long made by scholars of race and ethnicity.

Chapter 4 1 Progressivism, or the Progressive Movement, emerged in the latter part of the nineteenth century in the United States and other industrializing countries. It emphasized regulation and control of economic and socio-political processes (such as monetary and commercial policies) and was based on arguments for the importance of efficiency and social/political control over unbridled laissez-faire practices. Progressive ideology was a response to numerous problems associated with industrialization, including boom and bust economic cycles, unemployment and trade union organizing.

Chapter 5 1 However, the German government has not espoused this position consistently. In 2016, Germany recognized the killing of over a million Armenians by the Ottoman Empire in 1915–16 as a genocide, thus clearly seeing the term as applicable to events that took place before 1948, but refusing to employ it to describe Germany’s actions in Namibia. 2 For a discussion of both approaches and of the corresponding patterns of racialization, see Slabodsky (2014: 161–68). 3 The term is clearly used here as the racial obverse to Weber’s version of the ‘Black Horror’, the loathed presence of Black soldiers at Germany’s borders, and is as such in line with what has been described as Weber’s ‘political economy of cultural differences’ (Boatcă 2013). 4 The official term used by the German administration for the eastern and southern European workers contracted to rebuild the German post-war economy in the 1950s and 1960s was Gastarbeiter (guest workers), implying that their presence on German territory was temporary and preventing the understanding that Germany is a country of immigration. This perception and the accompanying discourse have only started changing in the early 2000s.

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CONTRIBUTORS

Asna Adhami is a PhD student at the Ontario Institute for Studies in Education, Canada, as well as a journalist, producer, poet and photographer. Her Master’s work In the Spirit of Inclusive Reflection: Reflections of a Cultural Expeditionist at Mount Saint Vincent University, Canada, is multi-award winning. Her unique, Sufi and South Asian heritageinspired ways of creating content follow traditional principles of ‘dil ko dil se raah hoti hai’ and interconnecton, activating the heart in pedagogy and as praxis, expeditioning into themes of identity, culture and belonging in ways that invite introspection and considerations of power and relationships on the path to positive transformation. Garland E. Allen is a Professor Emeritus of Biology at Washington University, Saint Louis, USA, the former President of the International Society for the History, Philosophy and Social Studies of Biology and an international leader in the history of eugenics. He is working on a book on the history of genetics from 1880 to 1980, tracing the development of the field from the post-Darwinian era through the rise of the Mendelian paradigm and through the development of molecular genetics from the 1940s through the 1980s and the framing of the Human Genome Project. Manuela Boatcă is Professor of Sociology and Head of School of the Global Studies Programme at the University of Freiburg, Germany. Her work deals with world-systems analysis, postcolonial and decolonial perspectives, citizenship and gender in modernity/ coloniality and the geopolitics of knowledge production in eastern Europe and Latin America. She is author of Global Inequalities beyond Occidentalism (2016) and Laboratoare ale modernității. Europa de Est și America Latină în (co)relație, IDEA (2020) as well as­ co-editor, with Vilna Treitler, of ‘Dynamics of Inequalities in a Global Perspective’ (Current Sociology, 2016). She has recently completed a monograph with Anca Parvulescu, titled Creolizing the Modern. Transylvania Across Empires (forthcoming). Richard Cleminson is Professor of Hispanic Studies at the University of Leeds, UK. He works at the intersection between gender, sexuality and history with a particular interest in how science and culture interact in Iberia. His published books include Catholicism, Race and Empire: Eugenics in Portugal, 1900–1950 (2014) and Anarchism and Eugenics: An Unlikely Convergence, 1890–1940 (2019). He is currently working on a cultural history of ‘Black Lisbon’ in the early twentieth century. George J. Sefa Dei [Nana Adusei Sefa Tweneboah] is Professor of Social Justice Education and Director of the Centre for Integrative Anti-Racism Studies at the Ontario Institute for Studies in Education of the University of Toronto, Canada. He is the 2015, 2016, 2018–19 Carnegie African Diasporan Fellow, and Professor Extraordinaire from the Department of Inclusive Education, University of South Africa (UNISA). In 2017, he was elected as Fellow of Royal Society of Canada. He has received many awards for his work

206

CONTRIBUTORS

and been published widely, including thirty-five books and many journal articles. In June 2007, he was installed as a traditional chief in Ghana. Tanya Maria Golash-Boza is the founder of the Racism, Capitalism, and the Law (RCL) Lab and a Professor of Sociology at the University of California, Merced, USA. She has published several books on race and immigration including Immigration Nation: Raids, Detentions, and Deportations in Post 9/11 America (2015), Deported: Immigrant Policing, Disposable Labor and Global Capitalism (2016) and Forced out Fenced In: Immigration Tales from the Field (2018). Peter Kivisto is the Richard A. Swanson Professor of Social Thought at Augustana College and a Research Fellow at both the University of Helsinki, Finland, and the University of Trento, Italy. He publishes in the areas of immigration, race and ethnicity, religion, and social theory. His recent publications include The Cambridge Handbook of Social Theory (2 vols, 2021) and Populism in the Civil Sphere, co-edited with Jeffrey C. Alexander and Giuseppe Sciortino (2021). Alpa Parmar is Associate Director of Border Criminologies at the Faculty of Law, University of Oxford, UK. Alpa’s research interests focus on race and gender (and their intersection) and how they shape criminal justice, criminal law and migration. Her current projects include exploring policing migration in Britain and its racialized dimensions and a study that examines the life histories of young Black and South Asian people who are caught up in the criminal justice system. Alpa’s forthcoming monograph Crime and the Asian Community: Disentangling Perceptions and Reality considers how raced colonial histories of social control, law and criminalization map onto present-day constructions of racialized groups in Britain. Saher Selod is an Associate Professor in the Department of Sociology at Simmons University, USA. Her book Forever Suspect: Racialized Surveillance of Muslim Americans in the War on Terror (2018) examines how Muslim men and Muslim women experience gendered forms of racialization through their surveillance by the state and by private citizens. She has published several articles in journals including Sociology Compass and Sociology of Race and Ethnicity. Her new research aims to uncover how African Muslim immigrants are caught up in racialized surveillance because of their racial and religious identities and how this differs from the experiences of South Asian and Arab Muslims. Lila Sharif is Assistant Professor of Asian American Studies at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign, USA, and affiliated faculty for the Department of Sociology, the Center for South Asian and Middle East Studies, and the Unit for Criticism and Interpretive Theory. Her research is concerned with bridging Indigenous studies and critical refugee studies to explore issues of land and environment, identity, culture and decolonization. Her book-in-progress Olive explores decolonization through the Palestinian olive. She has published in the Critical Ethnic Studies Journal, the JMEWS and Verge. She is a co-founding member of the Critical Refugee Studies Collective (www.criticalrefugee studies.com). Raymond Taras is a Professor of Political Science at Tulane, USA. He is the author or editor of over twenty books: on the collapse of the USSR, Russia’s identity in international

CONTRIBUTORS

207

relations, the rise of liberal and illiberal nationalisms, the internationalization of ethnic conflicts, the threat of xenophobia and Islamophobia, the critique of multiculturalism, the impact of fear on foreign policy making, a reinvented understanding of the concept of nationhood and anxieties of community breakdown in our extreme times. He has been honoured with two Fulbright Distinguished Chairs and has served on the faculty of universities in North America and Europe. Alan Templeton is the Charles Rebstock Professor Emeritus of Biology at Washington University, Saint Louis, USA. His work involves the application of molecular genetic techniques and statistical population genetics to a variety of evolutionary problems, both basic and applied. He applies evolutionary approaches to clinical genetics, including the study of the genetics of complex diseases, such as Alzheimer’s disease, autism and COVID-19. This work also involves the development of new bioinformatic tools at the single-gene to genomic levels. He also applies evolutionary genetics to conservation biology, such as the conservation genetics of the federally endangered Hine’s emerald dragonfly.

INDEX

abjected peoples 45 abolition of slavery 100, 130 Aboriginal peoples 66, 152 abortion 75 abstract liberalism 23–4, 30 academic division of labour 138–9 adaptive alleles 83 Adhami, Asna Sefa 171, 205; co-author of Chapter 9 affirmative action 22–4, 29, 56 Afghanistan 45 African Americans 10–13, 20–30, 37, 40, 115, 122 Ahmed, Sara 131 Alba, Richard 117 Alexander, Michelle 25–6 Algeria 102 ‘aliens’, exclusion and inclusion of 53–7 Allard, LaDonna Brave Bull 44 Allen, Garland 205; co-author of Chapter 4 alt-right ideology 168 America, brutal and violent colonization of 1 ‘American Dream’ 24 Americanism 168 Americanization thesis 32 Andalusia 150 Angola State Penitentiary 39 animism 65 anthropology 109 anthropometric measurement 75 anti-blackness 15, 26, 28, 166 anti-racism 59–60, 136–8, 157–63, 169–73 definition of 157 scope of 160 voices in 160–3 anti-Semitism 5, 51–2, 61–3, 97, 158 Antwerp 103 apartheid 2, 10, 13, 60, 87, 90, 166 APOLI gene 13 Appiah, Anthony 59 Arabs 29–32 Arendt, Hannah 87 Argentina 153 Aristotle 158

artificial intelligence 140 Aryan superiority 75–6, 153 Asian migrants 7, 26–8, 53 Asiatic Barred Zone in the US 53 assimilation and assimilationism 20–1, 24, 42, 117, 144 associations between chromosomes and genes 13 asylum seekers 129 Aung San Suu Kyi 15 Auschwitz 5 Australia 7, 11, 66, 152 Bailey, Moya 32 Baldwin, James 134 Balibar, Étienne 97, 102 Balkan Wars 51 Bangladesh 69 Bank of Canada 170 Banton, Michael 107–8, 119 ‘barbarians’, barbarianism and the ‘crime of barbarity’ 20, 52, 67, 93, 163–4 Bat Ye’or 63 Bauman, Zygmunt 52 Bayoumi, Moustafa 46 beauty ideals 136 Benedict, Ruth 58, 109 Benedict XV, Pope 91–2 Berlin Congo Conference (1884/5) 88, 90 bias, racial 7 biological theories of race 13, 18–19, 33, 52, 71–2, 77, 96–7, 107–9, 112–15, 118, 156 biometrics 73 The Black Book of Communism 67 ‘Black Horror’ campaign 91–3 ‘Black Lives Matter’ movement 107–9, 112–14, 130–1, 136, 158 blackness 59, 61, 93 Blake, Philip 171 Blumenbach, Friedrich 18 Blumer, Herbert 109 Boas, Franz 19, 71, 109–10 Boatcă, Manuela 101, 205; author of Chapter 5 Bolivia 65

INDEX

Bonilla-Silva, Eduardo 17, 23, 30, 32 border-crossers 128 boundaries ethnic 116, 121 racial 132–3 Bourdieu, Pierre 121 Brattain, Michelle 116 Brazil 5, 147–9 Brigham, Susan M. 166, 170 Britain and Britishness 127, 129 broadcasting 170–1 Broca, Peter 144 Broeck, Sabine 100 Brubaker, Rogers 121, 123 Bullard, Robert D. 36 Burton, Richard 155 Bush, George W. 31, 37, 40, 46 Butler, Octavia K. 145–7 Caetano, Marcello 151 Cainkar, Louise 28 Calhoun, Craig 119 ‘calls for justice’ 168 Camiscioli, Elisa 144 Campbell, Chloe 150–1 Campt, Tina 93 Canada 7, 21, 35, 66, 134, 161, 164–5, 168–71 capitalism, racial and colonial 35 Carbado, Devon W. 132 Carter, Julian 155–6 cartoons 14 Catalonia 149–50 Cayton, Horace 109 Césaire, Aimé 59, 87, 161, 163, 166, 171 chemical weapons 46 Chesterton, Gilbert K. 77 Cheyfitz, Eric 67 Chicago school of sociology 109, 112, 116–17 childcare facilities 47 Chile 15 chimpanzees 82–3, 86 Chin, Vincent 27–8 China 65, 76–7 Chinese migrants 27 Christianity 161 Christiano, Kevin 119 chromosome 22q12 13–14 Churchill, Winston 54 citizenship 33, 98–101, 126–8 denial of 28 civil rights 12–13, 21–3, 28, 130 civil rights movement 59, 77, 81

209

civil wars 64 civility 163 civilization, concept of 161 civilizing missions 153 clash of civilizations 51 Cleminson, Richard 205; author of Chapter 8 climate change 47, 66 Clinton, Bill 29 ‘closed’ populations 79 coalescent theory 84 Coates, Ta-Nehsi 60–1 cocaine 25 Cold War 51–2, 69, 77, 99 Cole, Mike 52, 65 Cologne 103 colonialism 18, 23, 33, 41, 49, 66, 90, 97, 104, 129, 158–66 definition of 161 military 46 colonization 1, 45, 159, 162–3, 167–8 ‘colour-blindness’ 30, 57 Combahee River Collective 130 Commons, John R. 108 Coolidge, Calvin 116 Coon, Carleton S. 78, 109 Cooper, Garrick 171–2 Cornell, Stephen 123 coronavirus 14 Correia, António Mendes 149, 151 correlation coefficient 73 Coulthard, Glen 171–2 Court of Claims 43 Courtois, Stéphane 67 Cox, Aimee Meredith 139 crack 25 Creation of Man 143 Crenshaw, Kimberlé 32, 131–2 Creoles 40 crime fighting of 24 targeting minorities 33 critical race theory 132 cross-breeds 76 cultural capital 24 cultural differences 20–1, 52, 119 cultural genocide 67 cultural racism 23–4, 30, 52, 97 ‘curse of Ham’ 18, 61 Dakota Access Pipeline 42–4 Darwiin, Charles (and Darwinian theory) 71–2, 143

210

Davenport, Charles B. 74, 76 Davis, Angela 131 decolonization 99 dehumanization 168 Dei, George J. Sefa 160, 165, 171, 205–6; coauthor of Chapter 9 Deliovsky, Katerina 134 democratic values 56 Desmond, Viola 170 detention facilities see prisons deterioration, genetic 75–6, 96 DiCaprio, Leonardo 44 Dietze, Gabriele 102 disaster response 37 discrimination, racial 27–32, 53–6, 64, 66, 86, 152 international convention on the ­elimination of 68 diseases, foreign 66 DNA 139–40 ancient 84 Dobzhansky, Theodosius 71, 78 Dolezal, Rachel 133 Doménech, Medina 151 Domingues, Octávio 149 ‘Dreamers’ 54 Dreyfus, Alfred 62 drugs, misuse of 24–6 Du Bois, W.E.B. 19, 59, 61, 118–19, 134, 162–3, 166, 172 Dunn, Leslie C. 71–2 Durkheimian theory 121 Duster, Troy 140 Dyer, Richard 134 Ebens, Ronald 28 Ebensee concentration camp 6 Ebert, Friedrich 93 ecotypes 83–4 education systems 10, 158 Ellis, Havelock 155 emigration, government opposition to 98 Empire Windrush 127–8 English language 158 Enlightenment thinking 129 environmental justice 36–7, 48–9 environmental racism 35–6, 39, 41, 47–8 equality of opportunity 55 Espiritu, Yen Le 28, 46 essentialism 108, 121 ethnic groups 116–19, 122–3 definition of 119

INDEX

ethnicity 20, 116–18, 121–4, 143 concept of 107 ethnocentrism 52 eugenics 2–7, 18–19, 72–7, 86, 107, 112, 141–56 decline of 77 and the Holocaust 3–5 movements and organizations in 73, 76 research methods in 73–6 European Union 53, 128 Constitution and Treaty of (2004) 57–60, 100 Racial Equality Directive (2000) 55 evolution, human 85 exceptionalism 88, 102–5, 151 Eyes on the Prize 22 Eysenck, Hans J. 81 facial recognition techniques 140 Fanon, Frantz 59, 87, 157, 162, 166–7, 171–2 ‘feeblemindedness’ 74–5 feminism 130–1 black 130–2, 136 waves of 130 Western 131 Fenton, Steve 122 Ferguson, Rod 20 Finland 52 Fischer, Eugen 75–6 Fischer, Sybille 101 Flint (Michigan) 35 flood-control systems 37 food stamps 24 Foucault, Michel 141 ‘four wishes’ (Thomas) 109 France 52, 62, 64, 75, 90, 102 Francis, E.K. 119 Franco, Francisco 151, 154 Frankenberg, Ruth 134 Franklin, Isaac 39 Frazier, E. Franklin 109 free movement of people 57 Freire, Paulo 161, 165 French Revolution 100 Freyre, Gilberto 147–51 Galton, Francis 72–3, 141–2 Garner, Eric 136 Gat, Azar 58 Geertz, Clifford 121 Geiss, Immanuel 104 gender inequalities 125–40

INDEX

genetics and genetic variation 19, 71–85; see also Mendelian genetics genocide 42, 66–8, 88–90, 165 cultural 164 genomic mapping 13–14 GEO Group 47–8 German South West Africa 76, 88–91, 101 Germanness 102 Germany 64, 75, 87–91, 101–2, 105, 114 Giddings, Franklin H. 108 Gill, Rajdeep Singh 169–72 Gilroy, Paul 122, 135 Glazer, Nathan 115 Gleason, Philip 114 globalization 97, 167–8 Goddard, Henry H. 74 Golash-Boza, Tanya Maria 206; editor and author of Introduction Gonder, Mary Katherine 82 Gould, Stephen Jay 80 Gramsci, Antonio 122 Grant, Madison 3, 107, 116, 144 groupism 121 Gumplowicz, Ludwig 108, 116 Guy, Donna 153 Haddon, A.C. 116 hair type and texture 17, 129 Haiti 101 Haldane, John Burdon Sanderson 71 Hall, Catherine 129 Hall, Stuart 129 haplotype trees 84 Hardy-Weinberg model 75 Hartmann, Douglas 123 hate crime 29, 51 Hayslette, Ruben 48 Head Start programme 78, 81 hegemony 45 heredity 72–5, 107–8 ‘heritability’ (h2) 78–80 Hernstein, Richard J. 5, 80–1 Herskovits, Melville 109 Hickel, Jason 60 hierarchies, racial 2, 18, 88, 109, 129, 147 hijab wearing 29, 32 Hilberg, Raul 61 Hindu communities 130 Hirsch, Jerry 80 Hirschfeld, Magnus 153 Hirschman, Charles 109 Hitler, Adolf 3–5, 13, 93, 98, 116, 164–5

211

Holocaust, the 3–5, 15, 52–3, 61–2, 67, 88, 96, 104, 143, 165 Homo erectus 78 homogeneity, ethnic 98 homosexuality 152–6 ‘honorary whites’ 32 hooks, bell 131, 134, 166, 170–1 Houma Nation 41 ‘housewifization’ 101 Hughes, Everett 109, 116–17 human rights 13 humanitarianism 67 Hungary 15 Hurricane Katrina 37–41, 45, 49 Huxley, Julian S. 71, 116 hybridity and hybridization 3, 147 identity ethnic 122 national 129 ideology 24, 157 racial 14 imaginaries, eugenic 144–50 immigration policy 2–3, 6–11, 98–9, 126–7; see also quotas for immigrants; visa controls Immigration Restriction League 108 imperialism 18, 33, 97, 162, 165 Implicit Association Test 53 inclusion, policies for promotion of 32; see also integration India 162 Indian Residential Schools Resettlement Agreement 164 indigenous peoples 41–2, 65–6, 164, 168–9 ‘inferior’ races 2, 86, 72, 77, 96, 147–9, 152, 155, 157 Ingle, Dwight J. 77 institutional racism 27, 30, 33, 125, 139 integration 20–4, 27, 55 intelligence quotient (IQ) 78–81 intelligence research 5–6 intermarriage and interbreeding 20, 61, 71, 86, 96, 152 internalization 59 International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination (1965) 68 internment 165 intersectionality 32, 37, 49, 52, 60, 125, 130–3 Interstate 10 highway 40

212

Iran 29, 99 Iraq, American attacks on 45, 51 Ireland and the Irish 20, 29 Isabel and Ferdinand, monarchs of Spain 154 Islam 59, 61, 99 Islamophobia 15, 51–2, 63–5, 167 Israel, state of 41, 88, 96 Italy and Italians 29, 98, 114 Ivancheva, Mariya 99 Japanese immigration to America 21, 27–8, 53, 98 to Canada 165 Jenkins, Roy 54 Jensen, Arthur 78–80 jihad 51 jihad 65 Johnson, Lyndon 78 Joseph-Salisbury, Remi 133 JR (artist) 136–7 Judaism and Jewishness 5, 14–15, 17, 53, 61–2, 93, 96–7, 115, 155, 161, 164 Judaken, Jonathan 63 Kallikak family 74 Kamin, Leon 80 Kaplan, Jonathan 83 Kehl, Renato 149 Keim, Wiebke 96 Kennedy, John F. 24 Kenya 150–1 Kenyan Asians in Britain 127–8 Kevles, Daniel J. 156 Al Khwarizmi 158 Kibria, Nazli 27 King, Thomas 66 kinship groups 119 Kivisto, Peter 119, 143, 206; author of ­Chapter 6 Kössler, Reinhard 88, 90 Kroeber, Alfred 109 Kuchibhota, Srinivas 27 Kurdi, Aylan 46 Ladner, Joyce 139 Lakota territory 42, 66 Lamarck, Jean-Baptiste (and Lamarckian thought) 143–4 land severalty 43 Lao Tzu 158 Latin America 3, 31, 76 Laughlin, Harry H. 7 Le Bon, Gustave 108

INDEX

Le Guin, Ursula K. 145 Lemkin, Raphael 67–8 Lenz, Fritz 75 Leonardo, Zeus 159 Le Pen, Marine 102 LeVine, Mark 67 Levine, Philippa 152 Lewontin, Richard 80 linguistic preferences 58 Linnaeus, Carolus 5, 18 four groups of humans distinguished in Systemae Naturuae 1–2 Lisbon Treaty (2008) 57 literacy tests 21 Long, Lisa 133 Lorde, Audrey 131 Louisiana Purchase (1805) 39 Louisiana Superdome 40 Loveman, Mara 123 Lowie, Robert 109 Lugones, Maria 129 Luka, Mary Elizabeth 171 Lunt, Paul S. 117 Lushan Rebellion 67 Lyman, Stanford 113 lynching 102–4 McAdam, Sylvia 66 McClintock, Anne 42 Macdonald, Sir John A. 164 Magilow, Daniel H. 62 majority, concept of 115 malaria 13 Maldonado-Torres, Nelson 168 Mamdani, Mahmoud 64 Mandela, Nelson 60 Māori people 172 Mark, James 99 Marks, Jonathan 6 marriage 101–2, 152, 155; see also ­intermarriage and interbreeding Marshall, Donald Jr 169 Martial, René 144 masculinity 129–30 mass migration 126 Matthews, Fred 116 Mayes, Malcolm 14 Mbembe, Achille 166–7 Mead, Margaret 109 meaning-making 135 medicine, Western and Chinese 158 Melber, Henning 90 Mencken, H.L. 77

INDEX

Mendelian genetics 71–5, 86, 148–9 Méndez, Gonzalo 12 mercantilist theory 98 Merkel, Angela 102 MeToo movement 158 Mexicans 3, 20–1, 30–1, 52, 102, 126–7, 149, 165 microaggression 166 middle-class black families 23–4 Miele, Frank 5–6 Mies, Maria 101 Mignolo, Walter D. 104, 161, 171 migration 113 feminization of 127 militarization 40, 46–7 minorities ethnic, racial and religious 115 national 107, 114 miscegenation 142–4, 149, 152 ‘misogynoir’ (Bailey) 32 Missouri River 42 mixing, racial 78, 96, 133, 143–52, 158 Mohammed the Prophet 61 Mohanty, Chandra Talpade 131 molecular genetics 81–4 Molina, Natalie 126 Mongia, Radhika 129 monogenism 143–4 Montagu, Ashley 19, 71–2, 80, 116, 122 Montandon, George 144 Moors 161 Morel, Edmund 91 Morning, Ann 139 Moynihan, Daniel Patrick 24, 115 multiculturalism 55, 114–15 multi-locus nested clade phylogeographic analysis (MLNCPA) 84 Murray, Charles 5–7, 81 Muslim communities 17, 28–31, 65, 99 compared with Hindus 130 Myanmar 15, 65 Mycoskie, Blake 48–9 Myrdal, Gunnar 20 National Security Entry Exit Registration System (NSEERS) 29 nationalism 33 methodological 104 nationality 107, 115, 128–9 Native Americans 18, 41–3, 122 natural selection 83–6, 143 naturalization 9, 28, 30, 100, 112–13, 127 nature‒nurture debate 75

213

Navajo territory 42–3 Nazi regime 2, 5, 11, 19, 62, 67, 75–7, 87, 93, 96–7, 105, 116, 147, 153, 164–5 Nee, Victor 117 negritude 52, 59–61 neoconservatism 23–4 Netherlands, the 102 Neville, A.O. 152 New Orleans 40–1 New York Times 42 New Zealand 90 Nigeria 151 ‘9/11’ 51, 54, 167 Nitz, Michael 28 Nixon, Richard 24, 31, 81 Nkrumah, Kwame 158 Nordau, Max 155 Nordic race 3–9, 36, 75, 116, 144 Northern Ireland troubles 69 Nowdlok-Reynolds, Kitty 168–9 Nüremberg Laws (1935) 96 Nüremberg Trials 77, 96 Obama, Barack 46, 60–1, 122 Obasogie, Osagie K. 135 Odum, Howard 109 Omi, Michael 23, 30–1, 122–3 Orbán, Viktor 15, 102 Orientalism 29 Ostergreen, Robert C. 98 Oxford English Dictionary 115 Ozawa, Takao 113 pairwise fst 82–3 Palestine 41, 45, 88, 96 panethnic identity 28 Paris climate accord 44 Park, Lisa Sun-Hee 48 Park, Robert 19, 109–12, 116 Parmar, Alpa 206; author of Chapter 7 Patagonia (company) 49 Patterson, Orlando 122 Pearson, Karl 73 pedigree studies 73–6 Pellow, David 48 peoplehood, sense of 114 Perón, Juan Domingo 153 Physical Culture (magazine) 4 Pigliucci, Massimo 83 Pius XI, Pope 91–2 Ploetz, Alfred 118 Poland and Poles 5, 57, 128 police action 136, 169

214

politics, racial 87–93, 96–7, 102–4 engagement with 105 long history of 87 pollution 40, 47–8 polygenesis 18 polygenism 143–4 population statistics 127–8 populism 168 positivism 158 post-racial thinking 29, 125–6 Powell, Enoch 54 precarity of migration 126 prejudice 29, 56 prisons 47–8 Prodi, Romano 57 propaganda 90, 93 ‘puericulture’ 75 purity, racial 75, 77, 84, 96, 151 ‘pussy hat’ project 138 Quebec 59, 66 queer bodies 143 quotas for immigrants 7, 21, 53 race concept of 35, 104–5 definition of 17, 19, 33, 59 and ethnicity 121–4 in the formative period of sociology and anthropology 107–13 and gender 125–40 justification for oppression on grounds of 2 links with discredited science and ­malevolent practices 7, 122 philosophy of 132 and politics 87–105 reality of 17, 107, 157–8 and religion 51–69 and science 7, 71–86 semantics of 52–3 and sexuality 141–56 race relations 99, 114 race relations cycle 20 ‘race riots’ 99 ‘race suicide’ 76 racial categorization 5, 13–14, 17–19, 27, 30–3, 52–3, 57, 86, 113, 117, 119, 123 racial formation, theory of 30 ‘racial scripts’ 126–7 ‘racial state’ concept 96 racial theories 141, 144, 147 racial thinking 14, 96, 105, 139

INDEX

racialization 20–1, 24, 27–31, 35, 51, 53, 57, 60, 88, 96–8, 101, 129–30, 139, 151, 156 definition of 31 medical 127 ‘racialized ethnicity’ 119 racism 9–10, 14–15, 20–33, 36, 51–3, 57–61, 67, 72, 75–8, 81, 86, 90, 93, 105, 109, 122, 126–7, 131, 166–9 de facto (everyday) 20 delegitimization of 97 ebb and flow of 169 failure to reject outright 97 new types of 22 primary, secondary and tertiary 52 religious 161 typology of 52 see also anti-racism; cultural racism; institutional racism radical pedagogy 170 Razack, Sherene 168–9 Reagan, Ronald 24, 29–30 Reel Bad Arabs 29 religion 17, 19, 33 and race 51–69 religiosity 59, 65 religious fundamentalism 99 religious groups 119 religious practices and beliefs 53, 57–9 religious warfare 51 replacement theory 144–5 reproductive rights 2 return of artefacts 170 Reuter, Edward B. 109 revolts 67, 88 Rhineland region 90–3, 102 Rice, John G. 98 Rich, Adrienne 153 Rich, Ruby 152 Richwine, Jason 6 Riesman, David 115 Roediger, David 123 Roosevelt, Franklin D. 21 Roque, Ricardo 151 Roquette-Pinto, Edgard 147–9 Ross, Edward Alsworth 108 Ross, Loretta 37, 40 Roy, Olivier 64 Safran, William 58–9, 63–4 Said, Edward 29, 88, 172 Saint-Domingue 100–1 Salazar, António 147, 151

INDEX

Salvini, Matteo 9 Sampedro Vizcaya, Benita 151 Samuels, Ellen 156 Sardar, Ziauddin 167 Sarich, Vincent 5–6 Sarkar, Benoy Kumar 147 Sartre, Jean-Paul 59–60, 87 Scaff, Lawrence A. 119 scapegoating 9 Schengen system 57 science and race 71–86 scientific racism 15, 19, 96, 98 Scott, Joan 153 Second World War 5, 11, 66 secularism and secularization 59, 64–5 segregation 10, 12, 20–4, 61, 74, 109, 126, 166 residential 20, 24 in schooling 20–3, 77 Selod, Saher 206; author of Chapter 1 Senghor, Léopold Sédar 59 separate races, origin of the idea of 143–4 settler societies 41, 66, 90 sexism 131 sexual violence 42 sexuality 141–56 Shaheen, Jack 29 Shakespeare, William 158 shamanism 65 Sharia law 64 Sharif, Lila 206; author of Chapter 2 Shelton Deverell, Rita 170–1 Shiva, Vandana 167–8 Shockley, William 81 Shohat, Ella 88, 102 sickle cell disease 13–14 Silverman, Lisa 62 Sinclair, Alison 154 Sivanandan, Ambalavener 57 skin colour 10–11, 17, 80, 83, 100–1, 104, 129, 169 Skrentny, John 114 Slabodsky, Santiago 88 slave labour 88 slavery 18, 20, 39–40, 166 Slonczewski, Joan 147 Smith, Linda 162–5, 171 social construction 17, 19, 30, 33, 51–2, 59, 100, 112, 139 Social Darwinism 107–8 social disaster 39 social media 130, 159 sociobiology 81 socio-cultural perspective on race 109–12

215

sociology 109, 112–13, 117, 124 Socrates 158 Sollors, Werner 115, 117 Somers, Margaret 113 sorcery 60 South Africa 10–11, 59–60, 87, 166 Spain 127, 153–5 Spanish empire 17 Spanish migrants 31 Spencer, Herbert 108 Spivak, Gayatri 131 Srole, Leo 117–18 Stalin, Joseph 67 Stam, Robert 102 standard of living 13 Standing Rock Sioux Reservation 42–5 state policy 87 stereotyping 20, 24, 29–30, 90, 102, 127 sterilization 2–3, 7, 18–19, 74–7, 93–6, 131 Stoddard, Lothrop 107 Stoler, Ann Laura 129, 151 subaltern groups 59, 147, 151 subspecies 78, 82–3 suffragette movement 130 suicide 42 Sumner, William Graham 115–16 Swatos, William H. Jr 119 Sweden 3, 52 Syria and Syrian refugees 46, 64 systematic racism 20 Taguieff, Pierre-André 52 Taras, Raymond 206–7; author of Chapter 3 Templeton, Alan 207; co-author of Chapter 4 terrorism 31, 33, 54, 167 thalassophilia 74 Thomas, William I. 109–12, 116 Thoreau, Henry David 36 Three Legs, Bobbi Jean 44 Tiosano, Dov 83 TOMS Shoes 49 totalitarianism 167–8 Toussaint L’Ouverture 100 transnational frameworks 36 Trudeau, Justin 57 Trump, Donald 9, 14, 27, 29, 43–7, 54, 61, 100–4, 138 truth and reconciliation commissions 161, 164, 169 tubal ligations 3 Turkish migrants 64 Tuskegee Institute and Tuskegee experiments 90, 118–9, 165

216

INDEX

Ugandan Asians in Britain 127–8 ultra-violet (UV) radiation 83 ‘unit-character’ concept 74 United Kingdom legislation British Nationality Act (1948) 54 Commonwealth Immigration Act (1968) 54 Equality Acts (2006 and 2010) 55 Immigration Act (1971) Race Relations Acts (1965, 1968 and 1976) 54–6 United Nations 88, 90 Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) 71, 77, 81–2, 96, 116 resolutions 41, 68 United States 7–15, 18–22, 26–32, 107, 166 Amendments to the Constitution 113 Asiatic Bar (1917) 20 Census 26–7, 30–2 Supreme Court 12, 22, 26, 113 United States legislation Cable Act (1922) 127 Chinese Exclusion Acts (1882 and 1902) 20, 53 Civil Rights Act I(1964) 21, 26, 87 Dawes and Allotment Act (1889) 42–3 Emergency Quota Act (1921) 98 Hart-Celler Act (1965) 53 Immigration and Nationality Acts (1917, 1952 and 1965) 22, 26–7, 32, 53, 126 Johnson-Reed Act (1924) 7, 9, 21, 98, 126 Luce-Celler Act (1946) 19 PATRIOT Act (2001) 31 Personal Responsibility and Work ­Opportunity Reconciliation Act (1996) 29 Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948) 11–13 uranium mining 42–3

von der Leyen, Ursula 57 von Trotha, Lothar 88 voting rights 130

Valiavicharska, Zhivka 99 Vallejo Nágera, Antonio 154–5 Vandellós, Josep 149–50 vasectomies 3 Versailles Treaty 90 victimhood and victimization 114–15, 123 Victor Emmanuel, king of Italy 114 violence black-on-black 60 sexual 42 visa controls 54, 126 visuality and visualization 136 voluntary and involuntary migration 123

xenophobia 9, 14–15, 31, 51–2, 57, 60 xeno-racism 57

Wade, Nicholas 6 Warner, W. Lloyd 115–18 Washington, Booker T. 90 Weber, Max 93, 118–23 Weinberg, Wilhelm 75 ‘welfare queens’ 29–30 Wells, H.G. 144–7 West, Candace 133 West, Kanye 37 West, Mark Douglas 109 Westphalia, Peace of (1648) 67 Whitaker Report (1985) 88 white supremacy 11, 33, 35–6, 52, 61, 102, 107, 109, 134, 144–5, 159, 168 whiteness 9, 26, 28, 31, 59, 61, 92, 123, 129, 133–6, 155, 165 definition of 159 Wieczorek-Zeul, Heidemarie 88 Williams, Robin 115 Wilson, Julius 24 Winant, Howard 23, 30–1, 122–3 Wirth, Louis 109, 114 witchcraft 60 Wittig, Monique 155 Wolfe, Patrick 42 women rights of 130 subordination of 131 see also gender inequalities Women’s March (2017) 138 women’s movement 22 World League for Sexual Reform (WLSR) 153–4 worldviews 158, 165 Wynter, Sylvia 101

‘yellow peril’ 20, 27–8, 145 Yellowhammer, Anna Lee Rain 44 Yemen 46 Young, Donald 114 Young, Iris Marion 115 Zimmerman, Andrew 90, 97 Zimmerman, Don 133 Znaniecki, Florian 109 Zuckerman, Solly 71

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218