Global Transformations in the Life Sciences, 1945–1980 0822945274, 9780822945277

Table of contents :
Contents......Page 6
Foreword by Joanna Radin......Page 8
Preface......Page 10
Acknowledgments......Page 14
Introduction. Life Sciences in the Era of Decolonization, Social Welfare, and Cold War (Patrick Manning)......Page 16
Chapter 1. India Abroad: The Transnational Network of Indian-Trained Physicians after Partition (David Wright, Sasha Mullally, and Renée Saucier)......Page 30
Chapter 2. The Postcolonial Context of Daniel Bovet’s Research on Curare (Daniele Cozzoli)......Page 46
Chapter 3. The Disappointment of Smallpox Eradication and Economic Development (Bob H. Reinhardt)......Page 62
Chapter 4. "Dermatoglyphics" and Race after the Second World War: The View from East Asia (Daniel Asen)......Page 76
Chapter 5. Global Epidemiology, Local Message: Sino-American Collaboration on Cancer Research, 1969–1990 (Lijing Jiang)......Page 93
Chapter 6. From Sovietization to Global Soviet Engagement? (Doubravka Olšáková)......Page 114
Chapter 7. Sexological Spring? The 1968 International Gathering of Sexologists in Prague as a Turning Point (Kateřina Lišková)......Page 129
Chapter 8. The "Brain Gain Thesis" Revisited: German-Speaking Émigré Neuroscientists and Psychiatrists in North America (Frank W. Stahnisch)......Page 143
Chapter 9. What’s in a Zone? Biological Order versus National Identity in the Biological Sciences Curriculum Study (Audra J. Wolfe)......Page 161
Chapter 10. For the Benefit of Humankind: Urgent Anthropology at the Smithsonian Institution, 1965–1968 (Adrianna Link)......Page 175
Chapter 11. What Counts as Threatened? Science and the Sixth Extinction (Jon Agar)......Page 195
Notes......Page 210
Bibliography......Page 274
List of Contributors......Page 318
Index......Page 324

Citation preview

Global Transformations in the Life Sciences, 1945–1980

Global Transformations in the Life Sciences, 1945–1980 Edited by Patrick Manning & Mat Savelli University of Pittsburgh Press

Published by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, Pa., 15260 Copyright © 2018, University of Pittsburgh Press All rights reserved Manufactured in the United States of America Printed on acid-free paper 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Cataloging-in-Publication data is available from the Library of Congress ISBN 13: 978-0-8229-4527-7 Jacket art: Ethiopian poster illustrating the activities of the Smallpox Eradication Programme © World Health Organization/Ato Tesfaye, 1975 Jacket design by Alex Wolfe

CONTENTS

Foreword by Joanna Radin Preface Acknowledgments

vii ix xiii

Introduction. Life Sciences in the Era of Decolonization, Social Welfare, and Cold War Patrick Manning

1

Chapter 1. India Abroad: The Transnational Network of Indian-Trained Physicians after Partition David Wright, Sasha Mullally, and Renée Saucier

15

Chapter 2. The Postcolonial Context of Daniel Bovet’s Research on Curare Daniele Cozzoli

31

Chapter 3. The Disappointment of Smallpox Eradication and Economic Development Bob H. Reinhardt

47

Chapter 4. “Dermatoglyphics” and Race after the Second World War: The View from East Asia Daniel Asen

61

Chapter 5. Global Epidemiology, Local Message: Sino-American Collaboration on Cancer Research, 1969–1990 Lijing Jiang

78

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CONTENTS

Chapter 6. From Sovietization to Global Soviet Engagement? Doubravka Olšáková

99

Chapter 7. Sexological Spring? The 1968 International Gathering of Sexologists in Prague as a Turning Point Kateřina Lišková

114

Chapter 8. The “Brain Gain Thesis” Revisited: German-Speaking Émigré Neuroscientists and Psychiatrists in North America Frank W. Stahnisch 128 Chapter 9. What’s in a Zone? Biological Order versus National Identity in the Biological Sciences Curriculum Study Audra J. Wolfe

146

Chapter 10. For the Benefit of Humankind: Urgent Anthropology at the Smithsonian Institution, 1965–1968 Adrianna Link

160

Chapter 11. What Counts as Threatened? Science and the Sixth Extinction Jon Agar

180

Notes Bibliography List of Contributors Index

195 259 303 309

FOREWORD

Long before anyone was talking about “the Anthropocene,” thoughtful observers of the post-1945 world saw the life sciences as central to imagining the human future on a planet that they had already irrevocably transformed. René Dubos, for example, in his 1966 book, Man Adapting, remarked of the species, “The more human he is, the more intensely do his anticipations of the future affect the character of his responses to the forces of the present.”1 Though Dubos may not have been thinking of the rise of feminism or even a broader upending of a gendered system of life, he was keenly aware that any consideration of human survival, let alone potential, was going to be intimately entangled with transformations in the fields of biology and ecology. Dubos was born in France but spent his career as a microbiologist, environmentalist, and public intellectual in the United States, where he popularized the maxim “Think globally, act locally.” The present volume makes clear that an expansive history of life science and world history are, together, uniquely suited to the task of interpreting how scientists deployed their expertise in the service of geopolitics as well as interventions into the lives of specific people. The contributors have taken a global approach that, in each chapter, plunges into deeply rooted and local histories of life. Even as it brings new attention to the role of humans and social welfare in the vii

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postwar life sciences, this volume interrogates the anthropocentric aims promoted by Dubos in its consideration of new postwar agendas of conservation and environmental stewardship. Moreover, for these authors, life science includes but also goes far beyond the important molecular and genetic work that has been the overwhelming focus of scholarship on postwar history of biology. Today, many—from heads of state to businesspeople to citizens—are still struggling to make sense of the factors that Dubos’s generation faced. Think, for instance, of the ways Silicon Valley entrepreneurs promote innovation without questioning whose lives are most likely to be transformed and at what costs. Indeed, the rise of “global health” has been made possible in large part by the philanthrocapitalism of America’s digital age. It has involved vaccines and pharmaceuticals, international organizations that focus on both human health and environmental conservation, and the politics of decolonization, which has reproduced race-based forms of exclusion and violence. What is global health, then, if not the effort to harness the promises of the sciences of life—in particular biomedicine, anthropology, and ecology—in the name of future social welfare, biosecurity, and diplomacy? The history of global health is the history of life science since the Second World War. The health of the globe and its inhabitants is on the minds of countless who are experiencing the reemergence of old tensions once thought to be history. While Cold War standoffs between the United States and the Soviet Union have not played an outsize role in histories of postwar life science, the advent of nuclear technologies, the rise of biomedicine, fossil fuel– induced climate change, as well as neoimperialist projects of modernization and economic development have deeply shaped the conditions of possibility for the present. The complex and detailed contributions to this volume are an invaluable resource for understanding the past and reimagining it in a way that creates futures in which science can be used to support the flourishing of many kinds of life.

Joanna Radin Section for the History of Medicine, Yale University

PREFACE

This collective work expands into the late twentieth century an inquiry into the global patterns and global implications of scientific investigation, pursuing history of science in the light of the expanding fields of world and global history. The interest of world historians in history of science can hardly be surprising. Especially in the past twenty years, the overlapping fields of world history and global history have developed rapidly, addressing the whole of human history, but with particular focus on global interconnections of the early modern and modern eras. Key contributions in this era of expanding publication have focused on environmental and migration history, supplementing earlier world historical concentration on civilizational, imperial, and political history. Additional contributions emerged in economic history at the turn of the twenty-first century, especially through comparison of European and Asian centers of economic life. World historians showed interest in technological change though not much in global scientific connections. Social, cultural, and intellectual issues, while they advanced in many fields of historical study during the late twentieth century, did not develop vigorously in the world historical context. Thus, world historical thinking and research unfolded in uneven fashion, especially because of the widely ranging topics of interest. Never-

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theless, the desire for comprehensive and systemic approaches to the past inevitably brought globalists to the history of science. The World History Center at the University of Pittsburgh opened in 2008 as a center for research, institutional development, and teaching in world history. It benefited from its establishment within a department of history with a strong tradition in social history and benefited further from proximity to the university’s well-known Department of History and Philosophy of Science and its associated Center for Philosophy of Science. Within a year of its establishment, the World History Center came to be a partner in a publication initiative with the Department of History and Philosophy of Science and the University of Pittsburgh Press to synchronize the publishing activity of the press with key strengths of the university. The full initiative, funded by the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, has resulted in collaborations and activities that are supporting the press’s efforts to expand its publishing program in the history of science. It has allowed for the employment of a new acquiring editor at the press, three postdoctoral fellows and two distinguished lecturers hosted by the Department of History and Philosophy of Science, and three conferences organized by the World History Center, supported by the employment of three postdoctoral fellows serving as co-organizers of the conferences and coeditors of the resulting volumes. For the World History Center, this was an exciting opportunity. World history was already developing subfields in the study of empire, migration, and environment. Here was the possibility of developing a subfield in world history of science. The hope was to articulate the study of science (and technology) within world history and to identify global perspectives in the history of science. The center’s proposal for the three conferences ranged fairly widely across time and topic. The first conference took place in May 2012 under the title “Linnaean Worlds: Global Scientific Practice during the Great Divergence,” codirected by Patrick Manning and Daniel Rood, which resulted in the publication of Global Scientific Practice in an Age of Revolutions, 1750–1850 (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2015). A second conference, on which the present book is based, took place in May 2014 under the title “The Life Sciences after World War II,” codirected by Mat Savelli and Patrick Manning. A third conference, “Found in Translation: World History of Science, 1200–1600 CE,” took place in October 2015, codirected by Abigail Owen and Patrick Manning. Each symposium gathered a range of junior and senior scholars with background both in history of science

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and global approaches, with the intention of exploring in further detail the global interactions in expansion of scientific knowledge. In the call for papers for the 2014 conference, we asked authors to address global perspectives on the life sciences after the Second World War. The idea was to study the work of postwar scientists amid universities, government agencies, international organizations, profit-making corporations, and charitable foundations.1 We envisioned this collaborative life science in an implicit comparison with the largely individual work of life scientists in earlier centuries. The conference itself was highlighted by keynote addresses by Joanna Radin (Yale University) and Sanjoy Bhattacharya (University of York). Since the 2014 conference, the editors and authors have carried on a conversation that has ultimately balanced the evolution of scientific work in the life sciences with the multiple but powerful social processes of the postwar world.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

We express our appreciation to the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation for supporting the collaboration at the University of Pittsburgh between the World History Center, the Department of History and Philosophy of Science, and the University of Pittsburgh Press to publish innovative studies in history of science. We express our thanks to the faculty and staff of the World History Center, notably its former administrator, Katie Jones, for support of the conference and postconference activities in support of this volume. We express our thanks to members of the Department of History and Philosophy of Science at the University of Pittsburgh, especially to James Lennox for analytical insights and logistical support. And we express deep appreciation to our colleagues at the University of Pittsburgh Press, who have guided us expertly through each stage of the publication process, and particularly for the editorial work in this volume. Peter Kracht served as director of the press and Abby Collier, senior acquisitions editor, has conducted the editorial task with both substantive knowledge and editorial skill.

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Introduction Life Sciences in the Era of Decolonization, Social Welfare, & Cold War Patrick Manning

The decades after the Second World War brought great advances to the life sciences. Expansion in biomedical knowledge spanned issues from the foundation of molecular biology to the conceptualization of the biosphere. To a substantial degree, these advances were the cumulative results of analysis and practice in biomedical studies since the opening of the twentieth century. The effort to synthesize Darwinian evolution and Mendelian genetics led gradually to a new understanding of the mechanisms of life.1 The creation of new instrumentation, from the electron microscope and X-ray crystallography to the inoculation gun of the antismallpox campaign, enabled new levels of precision in observation and new levels of public health efficiency.2 The work of biochemists brought the discovery of vitamins and mass production of antibiotics, ultimately improving nutrition and limiting certain infectious diseases while expanding the pharmaceuticals industry. These advances, plus worldwide improvements in sanitation and public health, were able to extend millions of lives. Research institutions, international collaboration, and national systems of health care expanded clinical work, supporting a remarkable improvement in levels of human health worldwide. The interplay of these factors created the field of ecology and built a formidable life science establishment.

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At the same time, the great conflict of the Second World War, the culmination of upheavals earlier in the twentieth century, profoundly shaped the postwar transformations in life sciences. The scientific world, along with human society in general, had been shaken seriously by the economic depression of the 1930s and especially by large-scale hostilities from 1937 to 1945.3 The war itself was probably the most destructive in human history, with huge numbers of military and civilian casualties, ending with two atomic explosions. The Axis powers began the war with nationalistic expansion and pursued the fighting as a campaign for racial hierarchy, with devastatingly direct results in much of Europe, Asia, and the Pacific as well as indirect effects elsewhere. The total Axis defeat led to a forceful affirmation that racial hierarchy would no longer be a governing principle of the world order. While implementation of that priority required generations, the victorious coalition and mobilized societies moved rapidly to expand the scale of many human institutions and arenas of social practice, moving toward general recognition of human rights in principle.4 The prewar exploration of eugenics, with its racialistic tinge, declined sharply. More broadly, an immense postwar effort arose at all levels to halt further conflict and to purge the hatreds that had fed warfare. A powerful if momentary global consciousness called for creation of institutions and alliances for worldwide welfare. Two great powers survived the war: the United States, whose economic power and physical distance from the fighting put it in a position of great strength; and the Soviet Union, which bore the heaviest costs on the ground but managed somehow to grow in strength during the war. The polarization of the world in nuclear stalemate, opposing the resulting two armed camps, has commonly been seen as the principal driving force for the evolution of postwar history, in scientific change as in sociopolitical transformations. Yet other postwar processes, notably decolonization and the growth of international organizations, were also influential. In this collection of studies on the life sciences, we seek to account for both the long-term evolution of scientific practice and the sudden impact and consequences of world war. The framework of study extends temporally to the whole twentieth century but focuses on the years 1945–80; it addresses the processes of evolution in numerous life science fields and subfields; and it explores the scientific consequences of major postwar social processes. In exploring this wide range of scientific and social issues, the authors have identified relationships that, in our opinion, add new knowledge and call for further study.5

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This volume emphasizes three related issues in life sciences in the postwar era. First is that the impulse to emphasize social welfare, in response to the destruction and mortality of war, brought high priority to campaigns—distinctive for each world region—that improved conditions in health and education to a remarkable degree. On the whole, these campaigns at once drew on and accelerated changes in the life sciences, providing real-world laboratories where new theories and technologies could be tested, implemented, and revised. Decolonization—for Asia, Africa, and the Caribbean—was the biggest arena for advances in health in 1945–80. Parallel campaigns advanced health conditions through the welfare states of Western Europe, the pragmatic programs of North America, the institutions built under state socialism, especially in Eastern Europe, and the programs of populist regimes in Latin America. International organizations, forming immediately after the war, played a substantial role in applications of life sciences.6 Development—in effect, an ideology of social engineering—remained prominent throughout the postwar generation, though with contestation between those who understood “development” in terms of economic growth and those who saw it as community welfare.7 From the lab to the field, these monumental shifts colored changes across the life sciences. Cold War confrontation affected the life sciences in interaction with the factors just listed; overall, it had rather less importance for the life sciences than for natural sciences, especially physics, and engineering.8 The second main emphasis of the volume is how prewar advances—in biochemistry, public health, and in articulating a neo-Darwinian thesis (or modern synthesis)—laid the groundwork for postwar improvements in global health, but these scientific advances required the high priority of social welfare to bring about the investment that enabled the campaigns to succeed. The pace of discovering the mechanism of genetic reproduction was accelerated by the introduction of modeling from physics beginning in the 1930s, as has been established in the literature on molecular biology. The life sciences included a wide range of subfields at all levels—eugenics, dermatoglyphics, infectious disease, urgent anthropology—which did not all thrive but recur periodically. Further, the practical implications of development programs, many of them unexpected, led to growing concern for environmental studies and conservation efforts. Our third emphasis is on the restructuring and integration of relations among life science fields. The postwar context facilitated interregional and interdisciplinary approaches to pursuing the life sciences that had the transformative effect of reducing the importance of internal-external

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and basic-applied dichotomies that had characterized pre–Second World War science.  Thus, Vannevar Bush’s 1946 manifesto, Endless Horizons, emphasized the primacy of government investment in basic research. Yet subsequent scholarship downplays the significance of the dichotomy of basic versus applied science, as well as the dichotomy separating the internal evolution of science from external influences.9 The chapters here, while focusing on the specificity of developments in selected arenas, bear out the validity of recent interpretations in their documentation and analysis of the interplay among numerous and expanding elements of the life science professions. Indeed, the integration of many elements in life sciences became clear by the 1990s with the expansion of biotech and conservation studies. The chapters in this volume range widely over the issues in life sciences, in research, applications, and administration. From the smallest to the largest scale of biomedical study, they range across biochemical development of synthetic forms of the alkaloid curare for use in anesthesia, contributions to emerging neuroscience by scholars who had escaped their German homeland in the 1930s, diagnostic research on throat cancer, the program of smallpox eradication, phenotypical studies of skin ridges, academic exchange in sexology, the practice of general medicine by internationally migrating physicians, a campaign of “urgent anthropology” to document rapidly changing cultures, classification of flora and fauna threatened with extinction, the preparation and dissemination of biological textbooks, and the formulation of scientific policy by United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) structures. The chapters richly touch on each of these discrete areas of study but also on the other social and professional issues affecting postwar science. All the chapters involve international connections and most of them highlight the work of international organizations, both formal and informal. Historians of science, in thinking of the past several centuries of scientific study, have been asking how best to place the history of science in global context. Sarah Hodges notes the analytical benefits of the rise of social history of medicine in the 1980s, and asks whether the subsequent studies with a global focus have lost track of power relations. Kapil Raj looks back to the founding texts of Needham and Basalla—the former questioning why China did not lead the scientific revolution and the latter arguing for the diffusion of science from Europe to the world. Raj offers notions of circulation and knowledge making as improved frameworks for study of science.10 Fa-ti Fan expresses skepticism about Bruno Latour’s

INTRODUCTION

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view of centers of calculation, preferring Raj’s emphasis on spaces of circulation of scientific knowledge—which, in turn, has similarities to Peter Galison’s notion of trade in physics (involving exchange among parallel scientific subcultures), and to Mary Louise Pratt’s notion of contact zones that link knowledge in a situation of asymmetrical power.11 Sujit Sivasundaram emphasizes the benefits of reading widely and using documents for unexpected purposes: he tells tales of using Scottish missionary sources to reveal perspectives of Tahitians and of using palm-leaf manuscripts from Ceylon as a key to reading European botanical gardens. Sivasundaram, along with others, sees merit in applying Bourdieu’s theory of practice to the exploration of scientific practice.12 David Chambers and Richard Gillespie, followed by Carla Nappi, emphasize localities as components of the global history of science.13 We seek to apply these insights to the subject matter at hand.14 We use the term “global” not only in geographical terms but also to encompass various scales of social and academic life. The field of world history has featured efforts not only to expand the geographic scope of studies but to include a full range of the temporal and topical dynamics of global interaction. In particular, world historical analysis currently challenges interpretations relying on diffusion of innovations from a putative global center or giving excessive emphasis to top-down and civilizational interpretations. In contrast, current world historiography involves developing techniques for tracing historical interactions—in this case, interactions yielding the creation, discovery, and exchange of scientific knowledge—in all directions, to document the equilibrium of a social system or to locate erratic system behavior. For instance, Sebastian Conrad uses the example of steps in the adoption of Western timekeeping in Japan to note that a change in technology results not only from a connection to make new technology available but a social reason to make it productive.15 We hope that these studies, when combined with parallel studies, will contribute to revealing the elements of a global and globally tightening system of knowledge about the life sciences in the postwar era.16 As the contributions to this volume will show, the life sciences developed along many different axes and at scales from the molecular to questions of mass extinctions of species.17 Among those axes, the scientific work motivated by decolonization and the era of social welfare was innovative in many ways: it both contributed to and relied substantially on the main line of evolving biomedical knowledge. Of all the great postwar changes, decolonization most strikingly re-

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shaped the world order. In Asia during the 1940s, in Africa from the 1950s to the 1970s, and in island and other territories from the 1960s, nations gained independence in a restructuring that not only created governments responsible to their national constituents but also shifted the balance of global politics.18 The territories occupied by Japan, from Manchuria to Burma, underwent at least two politico-military transformations within a decade. While decolonization liberated new nations from wartime occupation and former colonial masters, scientific communities were disrupted and finances for necessary expenditures, such as lab equipment, became subject to new vicissitudes of economic transformation. In many cases, institutions of higher learning needed to be constructed and existing structures faced shortages of qualified personnel. As John Merson has written, the era of decolonization did not necessarily end the former colonies’ dependency on the science and technology of former imperial centers.19 With that in mind, however, many newly independent nations saw in the life sciences the promise of development and nation-building, offering shortcuts to improving health, agriculture, and nutrition.20 The advances in social welfare in ex-colonial countries up to 1980 were extraordinary. While the ex-colonial regions did not experience rapid rates of economic growth, especially per capita, the levels of literacy and the average expectation of life at birth rose at remarkably high rates. Average African life expectancy at birth rose from less than thirty-five years in 1940 to almost fifty years in 1980; Asian equivalents were from less than forty years in 1940 to sixty years in 1980.21 Literacy rates are hardly known at all for Asia and Africa in 1940, but had risen to rates ranging from 30 percent to 60 percent of adults by 1980 and have continued to rise since. The implementation of old-age pensions, workers’ compensation, and other forms of social insurance also began in this era, with the support of the International Labor Organization.22 Meanwhile, debates and shifts in racial categorization persisted through the postwar era. Formal racial segregation was challenged in country after country; programs of “affirmative action” were implemented in India, Malaysia, and then in the United States. Social welfare was a similarly important theme throughout the postwar world. The era from 1945 to 1980 was a time of relative social equality worldwide—that is, a time of unusual minimization of social inequality.23 The studies of Thomas Piketty, focusing on the major capitalist economies, show a sharp drop in economic inequality during the Second World War to a level that remained roughly constant until 1980. In addition, comparisons across the planet during the postwar generation show that national

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investment in social services of health, education, and employment was unusually high in all parts of the world. Remarkable parallels appear in comparisons of Western Europe, the United States, Latin America, Japan, the Soviet Union, Eastern Europe, and in Asia and Africa. In Western Europe, programs that became explicitly known as “the welfare state” were established by social-democratic governments.24 The expansion of large-scale institutions in government, economy, and society not only characterized the immediate postwar era but has continued in various forms ever since. The United Nations was to be the core of a wide range of international organizations. Of particular importance from the perspective of science was UNESCO—its mission in education included natural sciences, social sciences, human sciences, and cultural affairs. This expanded wave of international organizations marked a new era of international institutional forces that regularly brought scientific actors from across the globe into contact with one another and raised a mix of concerns about development, conservation, race, mobility, and the developing understanding of thinking in terms of systems. The founding director-general of UNESCO (1946–48), the British-born biologist Julian Huxley, became an outspoken advocate for internationalism in the full range of UNESCO’s newly defined scope.25 In UNESCO, the International Council of Scientific Unions (ICSU) was rechartered and expanded as the coordinating body for natural sciences. An array of international scientific unions, disciplinary-based organizations, and national academies of sciences filled out this academic map. Within the natural sciences, the physical sciences of physics, chemistry, and geology were best organized, while the life sciences had less access to resources.26 UNESCO was founded in the atmosphere of Huxley’s brimming enthusiasm for international collaboration. There were reasons for skepticism from various directions. American officials saw Huxley’s outlook as too close to socialism, and managed to limit his appointment to two years. Those from the colonial regions knew of Huxley’s earlier association with eugenics, and in any case the colonial regions were not central to early UNESCO projects. As Sanjoy Bhattacharya warns, these United Nations–affiliated organizations should not be viewed as monoliths.27 Rather, these new international structures were agglomerations of a multitude of sometimes divergent interests. The goals and methods associated with the “center” (whether Geneva, New York, or elsewhere) did not always align with what unfolded “in the field.” As historians, we need to question how “global” these new scientific bodies truly were. Despite the internationalism of

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Huxley, the body would become subordinated to Euro-American interests for a time.28 As Patrick Petitjean has underscored, this period was marked by competing types of scientific internationalism.29 In response, there were even attempts to craft “neutral science” to avoid this type of competition.30 The Cold War dimension of the postwar life sciences is necessarily a part of this volume’s analysis. The recent collection edited by Naomi Oreskes and John Krige centers on the debate in which Paul Forman argued that U.S. physical scientists, while receiving Cold War military largesse for their studies, shifted their outlook in response to official priorities, while Daniel Kevles responded that the evidence does not support this case.31 The issue has now been debated across multiple fields: the results have documented various transitions in the relations of government and scientific research without resolving the debate. The Cold War doubtlessly served as a central driver of scientific development in physics and engineering within this era. Within the life sciences, however, the Cold War dimension never became as central as in the physical sciences.32 In a remarkable example of the interaction among the various national programs of social welfare, David Wright, Sasha Mullally, and Renée Saucier (chapter 1) trace the movement of medical professionals, trained in India’s expanding institutions of medical education, to employment in the United Kingdom and then to North America. Theirs is a contrast of the notions of brain drain and brain gain, focusing particularly on the flood of scientific and medical experts leaving India for the West during the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s. Britain, Canada, and the United States benefited immensely from this deluge of highly trained physicians. Implicit in the authors’ argument, once one accounts for the contemporary improvements in health conditions within India, is that the training of physicians in India was expanding sufficiently to meet growing domestic demand, while also training numerous medical professionals who emigrated. That this “brain drain” presented a problem for India is without doubt; such a problem was not uncommon in the postcolonial context. Yet as Wright, Mullally, and Saucier demonstrate, the much-heralded universal health care services that became linchpins of the welfare state in both Canada and Britain were largely possible because of an in-migration of physicians from the developing world. Although economic aid flowed from the West to former colonies, scientific and medical migrants represented a sort of “aid in reverse.” The ethos of decolonization expanded to include Latin America. As Daniele Cozzoli shows (chapter 2), the postwar studies of researcher Daniel Bovet, who had moved from France to Italy at the end of the war, involved

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expeditions to Amazonia and required the formation and management of new transnational collaborations between scientists in Europe and South America. The Italian Higher Institute of Health encouraged Bovet’s work to achieve recognition for its collaboration with Brazil and with the newly established World Health Organization (WHO). Bovet’s research on curare—used as a muscle relaxant in its natural and synthetic forms—yielded him a 1957 Nobel Prize and reflected a mastery of the postwar conditions of scientific research. “Development” was another policy concern, related to social welfare, that gained more attention than ever before in the postwar era.33 Development programs, at all levels, proposed to rely on human agency to transform and improve the environment. Medical advances to prolong life were among the most inspirational examples of development and the optimism that it set forth: the great hopes placed on the insecticide DDT and the antibiotic penicillin were examples of the postwar logic of development. Those in the scientific community became devoted, in some cases, to the cause of development, reorienting their research around it; in other cases, scientists sought more opportunistically to appropriate resources from development programs to support their existing research. In one sense, competing national and corporate units sought to use science as an instrument for development, exploiting the natural world in new, more efficient, and sometimes more devastating ways. In an international development collaboration, Chinese–American collaborations in the field of cancer research, as documented by Lijing Jiang (chapter 5), center on the research of the physician Li Bing, who developed an effective system for screening esophageal cancer that laid the groundwork for a national cancer survey in the 1970s. The cancer survey, in turn, encouraged the work of T. Colin Campbell of Cornell University, who was able to conduct a very broad 1983 nutrition survey in China. These two surveys, important in cancer studies generally, took place at a time when Chinese–American contacts and the Chinese social situation were propitious. Over time, however, the rapid transformation of China and the modernization of Chinese biotechnology, partially products of this scientific collaboration, eroded the ability to conduct the sweeping epidemiological studies that had made the collaboration so productive in the first place. The WHO-sponsored campaign for the eradication of smallpox, launched in the midst of the Cold War in 1958 and ending in 1977, was in one sense a strongly humanitarian campaign. Bob H. Reinhardt traces the United States–led portion of the campaign in Africa through the Centers

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for Disease Control (chapter 3). He demonstrates the tensions between scientific advancement, health improvement, and economic development, underscoring the ways in which some of those involved in the American campaign later reinterpreted smallpox eradication as a (lost) opportunity to catalyze broader socioeconomic changes in Africa. The question of conservation of the natural world, while rarely the leading item on the life science agenda, rose occasionally to prominence. In the postwar era, Rachel Carson’s detailed 1962 cri de coeur in response to the effects of DDT on bird populations brought a widespread response that led by the 1970s to national bans on DDT in many countries, though not before DDT-resistant mosquitoes had appeared.34 This instance of the tension between development and conservation was soon seen to extend to a range of parallel cases, such as threatened human communities. Adrianna Link (chapter 10) details the nascent discipline of urgent anthropology, an academic response, focused in the years 1964–84, to identifying and documenting threatened and rapidly shrinking human populations. The founders of urgent anthropology, drawing on ecology and conservationism, sought to preserve an ethnographic record of human diversity and the relationship between vanishing groups and their environments. Looking specifically at the urgent anthropology program developed under the auspices of the Smithsonian Institution, Link demonstrates that this emerging discipline, centered in the United States, developed a distinctly international identity. The most widely publicized development in postwar life sciences was the emergence of molecular biology and the growing understanding of biological replication and heredity brought about by research in this field. The details of these discoveries have been written up widely and effectively.35 Of the numerous key steps in this process, here is a brief selection: Oswald Avery confirmed in 1944 that nucleic acids rather than proteins were the basis of genes; James Watson and Francis Crick announced the double-helix structure of DNA in 1953; messenger RNA was documented in 1960; and in 1961 Marshall Nirnberg’s group completed the initial validation of the DNA code for selecting an amino acid, phenylalanine. While it took some time for the benefits of these discoveries to influence practice in other life science fields, biological studies as a whole gained an informal sense of unification through these advances in learning the underlying code of life.36 UNESCO facilitated the interconnection of international academic unions throughout the natural sciences, the social sciences, and the humanities. Kateřina Lišková (chapter 7) describes the participation of

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Czechoslovak scholars in sexology during the postwar years, focusing on a 1968 international meeting of sexologists held in Prague. Research in sexual science had enjoyed a long tradition in Czechoslovakia, as the Sexological Institute had been established in 1921; after the Second World War a group of medical doctors worked there without disruption for the duration of state socialism and beyond. Lišková demonstrates the Cold War dimension of discourses during the 1968 congress, particularly how broader ideas in which both East and West embedded their regimes shaped approaches to human sexuality—in the Czechoslovak case, a shift  from “pliable” social grounds attributed to deviance as perceived in the early, utopian phase of the regime to the fixed biological grounds in the late stage of the regime that was, correspondingly, rigid. By and large, Western sexologists at the 1968 meeting clung to the notion that sexuality was biologically fixed. In contrast, Eastern experts identified culture—theoretically open to change—as the chief driver of sexuality. The UNESCO framework enabled the broader discourse to continue in sexology and in many other disciplines. Doubravka Olšáková (chapter 6) traces the UNESCO career of Viktor Abramovich Kovda, a soil scientist who became, in 1959, head of UNESCO’s Natural Sciences Department. As he came to office, the Soviets had rapidly become influential proponents of the International Geophysical Year (IGY) and the program for smallpox eradication. From his vantage point, Kovda had great influence over the formulation of the International Biological Program (IBP), 1964–74. Following the success of the IGY, plans for a parallel IBP began within the International Union of Biological Sciences, headed by G. Montalenti of Italy, with a focus on genetics. Olšáková shows how Kovda and his colleagues from Eastern Europe planned carefully to maximize their voting strength, so that the principal agenda of the IBP was gradually revised from genetic studies to an emphasis on ecology and environmental science. By 1963 it was agreed that the subtitle of the IBP would be “The Biological Basis of Productivity and Human Welfare.”37 By its conclusion in 1974, more than seventy countries had participated in the IBP, completing hundreds of research projects on a diverse range of studies including the “production ecology of ants and termites,” the “higher fungi of the Estonian peatlands,” and the “biology of high altitude peoples.” Cambridge University Press would go on to publish more than two dozen volumes dedicated to synthesizing the research carried out under the auspices of the IBP. In one notable IBP success, the biomes project, backed heavily by the American government, produced computer models

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of entire ecosystems, which were instrumental in promoting the systems approach to studying ecology.38 Nevertheless, financing the IBP had also been a consistent problem; loans from UNESCO and the ICSU were needed to keep things afloat, a problem worsened by the beginnings of global economic stagnation. As one commentator noted midway through the project, “The more innocent biologists had clearly been misled by the vast sums of the International Geophysical Year.”39 The postwar tension of internationalism and nationalism emerges in a different form as seen in the study by Audra J. Wolfe (chapter 9) on American biology textbooks, prepared for the post-Sputnik age but also for export. The exported texts were to be “adapted” rather than just translated, in collaboration with local educators, to account for local biology and social conditions. At the same time, they were to emphasize scientific method over practical applications, to develop a modernizing young elite. Wolfe thus reveals how biologist educators in postcolonial societies were excited to partake in an American-led international project yet simultaneously expressed the nationalist ambitions of postcolonial societies in Asia and Latin America. After 1980, the emergence of biotechnology and expanded attention to conservationism brought new interconnections to the life sciences. At much the same time, the postwar world underwent new economic difficulties and transformations. From the mid-1970s, the growth in prosperity and attention to social welfare that had persisted since 1945 gave way to stagnation in output, rising levels of debt, and growing labor conflict. There was no single planetary shock to mark the end of an era as had been the case in 1945; instead, a series of social transitions, apparently independent of each other, gradually signaled the opening of a new era. The petroleum crises of the 1970s raised oil prices, interest rates, and levels of debt, especially in tropical nations. Dictatorships arose in Latin America, Africa, Asia, and, more briefly, in Europe. From 1980, prosperity expanded mostly for the wealthy as rates of economic inequality grew worldwide, though the expanding economies of China and India tended to counter the global trend of stagnation. Nationalistic sentiments had run high in the immediate postwar years, accompanying decolonization, socialist regimes, and industrial growth, yet in an atmosphere that was critical of racial categorization. From the 1980s, civilizational and even racial categorizations gained in influence. Thus, while the results arising from analysis of the human genome gave primacy to the commonality of humans, it did not take long for merchants to begin

INTRODUCTION

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selling DNA-testing procedures that did not identify people by their individual characteristics but classified people into national and racial groups. The rise of national sentiment in China may be one of the reasons for the rebirth there of interest in dermatoglyphics. Daniel Asen’s essay (chapter 4) on this field, which begins with its emergence in the interwar years, picks up the story again in the 1980s as the energetic work of Zhang Haiguo built a thriving Chinese research community working to conduct national and ethnic classification through the study of dermal ridges on fingertips, the palms of hands, and the soles of feet. Dermatoglyphics gained in international scientific collaboration: Asen’s chapter reveals how the category of race remained an important topic of exploration despite shifts in the wider political climate. Meanwhile, increasing evidence arose to document the exhaustion of natural and human resources. As the century progressed, international bodies took an increasingly central role in discussions over how to safeguard humankind’s collective future.40 In chapter 11, Jon Agar addresses conservation but shifts the discussion to animal species on the verge of disappearing, in place of the vanishing human populations that are the topic of Link’s study of urgent anthropology. Conservationists applied the term “sixth extinction” to this process, referring at the same time to five immense extinctions known from the geological record. By the late twentieth century, governments and conservationists across the world recognized that human activities threatened the survival of many types of animal species and that such a problem could only be tackled on a global scale. In this context, Agar’s contribution explores how new international organizations and conservation programs implemented quantitative methods to measure whether particular species qualified as extinct, endangered, or safe. Ultimately, Agar reveals how these methods were subject to substantial scientific and political debate. Taken as a whole, the chapters in this volume highlight the complex evolution of the life sciences in the post–Second World War period. Practitioners participated in extraordinary advances in human health and in important beginnings in the study of ecology, while resolving many mysteries of the molecular level of life. The aftermath of devastating war, the emphasis on social welfare as much as on economic growth, the end of colonial empires, and Cold War confrontation both shaped and responded to the applications in life sciences. New international institutions were capable of tackling the grandest of scientific challenges, yet they were also paralyzed by the national ambitions of their members. Political ideology

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could constrain research, nationalist sentiment could redirect research, but the spirit of internationalism just as commonly prevailed. By the end of the twentieth century, wide-ranging alliances of life scientists were joining in the unprecedented exploration of biotechnology. At the same time, new understandings of ecology were put to the test in facing the rising threat of environmental degradation.

Chapter 1 India Abroad The Transnational Network of Indian-Trained Physicians after Partition David Wright, Sasha Mullally, & Renée Saucier In the early years after Partition, the Indian government sought to address the interconnected challenges of poverty, illiteracy, and infant mortality coexisting among a vast population. Although a substantial network of Western-oriented medical schools had been established over the previous century, the fledgling country witnessed shortages in health care practitioners across its constituent states, and especially concentrated in rural areas.1 As bureaucrats in New Delhi constructed multiyear national plans for their health services, they became increasingly frustrated by an out-migration of highly skilled professionals—predominantly engineers and doctors—from the Indian subcontinent. The origins were fairly benign: handfuls of Indian-trained physicians traveling temporarily to Britain or North America for advanced training in the 1950s, some encouraged and funded by bilateral agreements arising from the establishment of the British Commonwealth. Yet a trickle in the 1950s turned into a flood during the 1960s as many Western countries began to relax their immigration laws with regard to nations of origin. Hundreds of Indian doctors began migrating westward on an annual basis during this decade; by the end of the 1960s, it was clear that many would never return. 15

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Although the presence of South Asian–trained medical practitioners was much discussed in medical circles at the time, only recently have historians and sociologists begun to research their long-term influence on health services in different national and postcolonial contexts. Margret Frenz, for example, has explored the role of Indian (mostly Goan) doctors in Kenya before and after Independence, identifying the racial segregation of British East African health services that saw the emergence of “Indian” hospitals separate from those for “Whites” and “Africans.”2 She also identified the pattern of migration of African-born Indians traveling abroad to receive undergraduate medical training, either in India itself or as far afield as Ireland and Britain.3 They would have found themselves part of a visible minority physician population in postwar Britain, which itself was suffering from a problem of physician distribution during the first decade of the National Health Service.4 Joanna Bornat, Parvati Raghuram, and Leroi Henry have examined the influx of hundreds of “Asian” (meaning Indian and Pakistani) doctors to Britain in the 1950s and 1960s, building on a long tradition where travel to England for further medical training was “embedded in South Asian doctors’ professional cultures.”5 Along with Julian Simpson, Stephanie Snow, and Aneez Esmail, they demonstrate how South Asian doctors were often guided into undersubscribed specialties such as geriatrics and psychiatry.6 Some of these South Asian–trained physicians would work for a few years in temporary posts in the National Health Service, receive their accreditation by the General Medical Council (GMC), and then continue on a westward migratory path to Canada and the United States.7 By the early 1970s, the sheer size of physician migration from “developing” to “developed” countries emerged as a major medical and political crisis in the United Nations and the World Health Organization, with accusations that Western countries were, in fact, receiving an “aid in reverse” from poor countries. Decrying the thousands of Indian doctors in Britain, the United States, and Canada, Indian medical authorities searched in vain for a solution to their own “brain drain.”8 This chapter seeks to build on this scholarly literature by examining in greater detail the emigration of South Asian–trained physicians who would ultimately settle in Canada, Britain, and the United States during the period 1955–75. These three countries were identified as requiring further examination since they represented the top three “recipient” countries in terms of foreign-trained doctors by 1970, as well as having a certain degree of exchange of physicians among the three countries.9 Although many so-called nations were affected by this upsurge in what we might

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now call the “globalization of health human resources,” the Indian medical diaspora was the largest national one in the world by the end of the period under study. As practitioners of world history point out, cross-community migrations, migrations that bring one sociolinguistic group in contact with another, are fundamental to human history.10 Migration—precipitated and facilitated by many events and factors such as war, famine, climate change, disease, advances in technology, and the circulation of new ideas—both reacts to and drives environmental, political, cultural, and social change. As Manning points out, cross-community migrations encourage one to think of connections, “at least because every migration connects a point of origin and a destination.”11 To identify a medical and scientific diaspora is thus to describe a mass migration event that makes new transnational connections and transforms both the donor and recipient communities. This chapter examines the connections forged between and among communities of South Asia who attempt to cope with the dramatic loss of physician expertise in the middle to later decades of the twentieth century, and the nations that received their expertise and clinical experience. We draw on sources from the Indian medical community and the recipient countries to construct a multiple perspective on a phenomenon that was dynamic and transnational. We investigate the out-migration of scientific expertise more generally, carefully examine the factors that pulled them from the Indian subcontinent into wider circulation, and discuss the relationships that emerged when the diaspora of science experts connected the Indian subcontinent to wealthier nations within the former British Empire and the new British Commonwealth. As the chapter will demonstrate, the migration of Indian physicians was channeled by traditions of medical education, by changing immigration regulations, by the demands (or not) of countries for medical personnel, and by a series of postwar bilateral agreements aimed at enhancing scientific capacity in “developing” countries. South Asian migrant physicians found themselves at the center of an ever-shifting landscape of accreditation and job opportunities that can only be understood by examining more than one national jurisdiction.12 Identifying the “Brain Drain” The emigration of Indian doctors after Partition did not go unnoticed by the medical community back home, though there was considerable confusion as to its amplitude, its permanence, and its underlying causes. From the mid-1950s, the Journal of the Indian Medical Association (JIMA) began

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to track what appeared to be the rising number of Indian physicians residing in the United Kingdom. They reported with alarm not just the absolute numbers of Indian doctors training and working in other countries but also, perhaps more disturbingly, the intention of a growing minority to settle permanently abroad. Unsurprisingly, the earliest and largest cluster appeared in Britain, when British-born doctors were leaving the National Health Service in droves for North America as the reforms of the National Health Service took hold. Indeed, it was the Royal Society (of Great Britain) that had coined the term “brain drain” in the 1950s to describe the flow of highly educated scientists to North America.13 The migration of South Asian and other doctors within the former British Empire was framed by three principal factors. First, there had been a long-standing tradition of the (mostly) sons of the British Empire coming to Britain for undergraduate and postgraduate training, to such an extent that it had become deeply embedded in medical cultures from Christchurch to the Cape, from Canada to the Caribbean. India was certainly no exception to this, where leading medical educators in the country had themselves often traveled to Britain for training and a certain degree of medical status before returning to the subcontinent.14 Second, regarding residency status, the British Nationality Act of 1948, passed in the same year as the National Health Services Act, established the right of Commonwealth citizens to live and work in the United Kingdom under the category of “Citizen of the United Kingdom and Colonies (CUKC).”15 This category of “imperial citizenship” had long-lasting effects that disrupted subsequent legislative efforts to pinpoint the status and exclude the in-migration of Commonwealth citizens.16 Finally, the very creation of the British National Health Service (NHS) unleashed a pent-up demand for medical services that existing supplies of doctors and nurses simply could not meet. Thus, in the context of the thousands of unskilled workers who flooded to Britain in the 1950s to fulfill jobs such as bus drivers in London and textile workers in the Midlands, there was a concurrent influx of highly educated doctors and engineers.17 There has been, as yet, no time-series analysis of data illuminating precise figures for this immigration, but most fragmentary evidence and contemporary commentary suggests that the arrival of Indian doctors to Britain was sizable and growing. As the British government struggled with the demand for medical care under the National Health Service, they struck parliamentary committees intent on rationalizing what would be covered and, more important to this chapter, examining the degree to which there

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was (or was not) a doctor shortage during the first ten years of universal state-run health insurance. The parliamentary Willink Committee, which began deliberations in 1955, reported that approximately 12 percent of doctors were “overseas-trained,” though it is unclear what proportion of these were refugee doctors who had arrived in the late 1930s and 1940s.18 It also notably, and somewhat paradoxically, recommended that the government reduce medical school capacity by 10 percent.19 The number of medical school student places consequently declined in the short term, from 2,220 in 1955–56 to 2,030 in 1958–59.20 The British Medical Journal reacted angrily to these conclusions, arguing that the NHS was only rendered sustainable by the influx of substantial numbers of migrant Indian and Pakistani doctors in the late 1950s.21 Medical journals teemed with articles commenting on the large number of “Asian” doctors working in junior posts in the National Health Service.22 Some of the editorials and commentary pieces focused on the dramatic rise in the number of foreign doctors as house officers (some quoting a figure as high as 40 percent of all house officers being “foreign doctors” by 1960); others decried the flight of British doctors to North America that, they alleged, had caused the growing dependence on foreign doctors in the first place. Extracting Indian doctors from the data employed is challenging, since they were variously labeled as “Indian,” “Asian,” or sometimes conflated with all “foreign” doctors. However, using the United Kingdom’s General Medical Council data, JIMA itself estimated that approximately 1,600 Indian doctors were in “training courses” in Britain in 1962, “of whom 400 had been there for more than five years.”23 It is one of the ironies of the times that Enoch Powell, then minister of health and later famous for warning of the social unrest of unrestricted nonwhite immigration, actively (if quietly) encouraged Indian doctors and West Indian nurses to staff the lower ranks of the NHS.24 As anti-immigrant sentiment began to rise in Britain in the early 1960s, the British government responded by passing the Commonwealth Immigrants Act of 1962, which aimed to impose immigration controls on all Commonwealth citizens, except for those from the United Kingdom or bearing a passport issued by London (as opposed to a U.K. passport issued by colonial governments).25 Thereafter, the British government distinguished between “citizenship” (CUKC) and “belonging” (those who were “born British” and those who were bearers of London-issued passports).26 A three-tiered, quota-restricted “employment voucher scheme” was introduced to attempt to reduce the settlement of “Black” and “Asian” immi-

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grants, broad nonwhite groups that might include individuals from locations as diverse as Trinidad, Uganda, Malaysia, and Sri Lanka.27 Demand exceeded the quotas and a backlog of applications quickly accumulated. The following year the quotas were reduced further and “additional qualifications” added to each category to deliberately cut down on potential applicants, particularly applicants of color.28 In light of the deteriorating views of immigrants in Britain, it appears that Indian doctors began to join the hundreds of British-born and -trained doctors who were leaving the NHS annually to settle in Canada and the United States. As it turns out, the United States and Canada were only too ready to accept large numbers of physicians in response to their own “doctor shortages.”29 The United States, of course, had been active in reconstruction programs in Europe in the postwar period and had taken part in bilateral or regional development programs. The Fulbright Act of 1946 provided educational assistance to students in the “developing world” with specialized skills, while the Smith–Mundt Act of 1948 created an exchange visa program that gave professionals the chance to train in the United States.30 Physicians were one of the larger groups of skilled workers on such exchange visas, the stated purpose of which was bilateral knowledge transfer rather than permanent resettlement.31 The United States was also an early member of the Colombo Plan for Co-operative Economic Development in South and Southeast Asia, a multilateral development plan established in 1950, with seven Commonwealth countries. The Colombo Plan facilitated the temporary exchange of scientists and technical workers (including health care practitioners) within South Asia and from South Asian countries to Britain, North America, and Australasia.32 Preexisting bilateral programs became affected by dramatic immigration changes in the United States and Canada. As the British government was attempting to tighten its borders in the early 1960s, the United States passed the Immigration and Naturalization Act (INA) in 1965, which ostensibly ended “race-based” immigration policies and paved the way for waves of highly skilled migrants to enter the United States. The “Third Preference” of the INA facilitated the immigration of scientists and professionals while the “Sixth Preference” opened the doors for those in occupations experiencing labor shortages, such as doctors, to migrate to the United States.33 By the mid-1970s, the United States was home to a staggering 63,000 foreign-trained medical graduates, prompting the Bureau of Health Manpower Education Division to comment that the rate of foreign medical graduates entering the country “has increased at a faster rate than

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domestic production . . . [and that] developing countries, particularly in the Far East, have become the principal sources of supply.”34 Within the triumvirate of Anglo-American countries, the United States would overtake Britain as the country with the largest absolute numbers of Indian doctors. American policymakers observed a radical change in the ethnic composition of immigrants to the United States in the wake of the 1965 Immigration Act amendments, but reassured critics that immigrants from countries with “English heritage” were still overrepresented among health workers.35 In 1969, they were in receipt of an estimated 1,877 new Indian doctors, most of whom were receiving some sort of postgraduate or fellowship training.36 By 1974, there were just under 4,000 Indian doctors in U.S. hospitals and a further 7,000 Indian “students” in the country.37 In Canada, a movement toward non-race-based immigration practices was also afoot in the early 1960s. New immigration regulations of 1962 prohibited race, or national origin, from being used as factors in approving migrants.38 However, it was after the changes in immigration regulations in 1967 that significant numbers of South Asians began to immigrate to Canada.39 The new 1967 regulations introduced a “points” system for candidates, one that emphasized “highly skilled manpower” and occupational shortages. This reform of the Canadian Immigration Act was, in part, economically motivated and rooted in perceived labor shortages, particularly in professions like science, medicine, and engineering.40 Meanwhile, the Royal Commission on Health Services (1961–64), known as the Hall Commission, which would usher in universal health care north of the 49th parallel, highlighted Canada’s need for more doctors and nurses, even suggesting that Canada should increase its acceptance of foreign medical graduates in order to fill the gaps.41 The immigration changes resulted in an upsurge of South Asian physicians entering the United States and Canada. Much to the shock of one Indian-based professor coordinating a study for JIMA, the United States surpassed Britain in absolute numbers of Indian physicians by 1965. In Canada, by contrast, a mere 100 Indian practitioners were licensed in Canada in 1966, though this number quintupled to 504 by 1971, in response to the 1967 immigration changes, making it the second-largest “national” group of foreign doctors practicing in Canada (after the British).42 Reflecting on the ethical dimensions of the movement of health care practitioners from poorer jurisdictions to the industrialized West, one contemporary researcher observed: “The loss of large numbers of physicians is something developing countries cannot really afford. Each physician represents an 18

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to 20-year educational investment by both the individual and the country.”43 In 1967, the Times of India reported that the concern had reached political circles with the Indian minister of commerce, then on a trade visit to Ottawa, complaining about the “emigration of Indian doctors and other professionally skilled people to Canada and other ‘advanced’ countries.” He argued that the “‘brain drain’ cannot be reduced . . . unless the developed countries also co-operate . . . instead of welcoming them en masse as at present.”44 The Doctor Shortage in India In response to the growing recognition of the loss of doctors (and also engineers) to the West, in 1962 the Ford Foundation provided financial support for the Indian government to create the Institute of Applied Manpower Research (IAMR) in Delhi.45 The IAMR issued reports and surveys of regional and occupational manpower and in 1965 introduced its own Manpower Journal.46 One of its first reports was tellingly titled “Migration of Indian Engineers, Scientists and Physicians to the United States” (IAMR Report no. 1, 1968) and was followed by two studies on Indian physicians and scientists residing temporarily in America.47 The so-called Stock Study reported on the characteristics of Indian physicians, relying predominantly on American Medical Association data; the equivalent study for scientists used data from the National Register of the National Science Foundation.48 The problem, unsurprisingly, was that there was no systemic tracking of the emigration of Indian physicians and scientists from India. As a consequence, Indian researchers were forced to backtrack from data created in recipient countries. To counteract this lack of data about outmigration, the research group undertook an unusual and rather painstaking study of passports issued in India to “highly educated” Indians from 1960 to 1967. The second phase of the study was to attempt to locate the migrants and evaluate their movements and intentions. In 1970, the Institute published “The ‘Brain Drain’ Study,” which concluded, The percentage of gross outflow to total outturn [sic] is indeed striking in the case of Engineers; and more so, in the case of Medical Doctors. In the case of Engineers, the gross outflow was equal, on average, to about one-fifth of the total outturn [domestic production from engineering schools]; and in the case of Medical Doctors it was, on average, more than one-fourth of the total outturn. The percentages of gross outflow to the total outturn in 1966 and

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1967 are much higher than the average percentages over the eight-year period in the case of both categories and suggest the possibility of a sharply increasing trend in the outflow of Engineers and Medical Doctors.49

The analysis showed that, for the period 1960–67, engineers were the largest single group of trained professionals granted passports for long-term departures (44 percent), followed by doctors (24 percent). Indeed, passports had been issued to 27 percent of the 38,709 doctors who graduated in India during the period under study. The outflow of nurses, teachers, veterinary scientists, and postgraduate scientists was significant, but comparatively less pronounced.50 As the study conceded, the methodology was somewhat suspect: not all passport holders necessarily went abroad, and some did return. Using data from the Indian section of the National Register, it was estimated that over half of scientific and technical personnel reported returning to India during that time. Medical doctors had an estimated 58 percent rate of return (6,153 returning as compared to 4,455 remaining abroad).51 The study called for further investigation of the outflow of doctors and an attempt to produce a “qualitative profile of Indians abroad.”52 Needless to say, many Indian commentators were rueful in the face of addressing the country’s public health needs while hundreds of doctors were flooding to the West: “It is interesting to note,” lamented one commentator, as he sensed the transnational domino effect of physician migration: that doctors from low income countries are migrating to high income countries and as our doctors are migrating to England about 400 English doctors are annually leaving their home to set up practice in countries like [the] United States, Canada and Australia. As we are finding difficulty in staffing primary health centres and dispensaries, so also England is finding difficulty in staffing the hospitals with doctors. In 1963, the percentage of doctors from overseas countries [working in] England rose to 42% and the total rose by 1,094 to 3,941. That is, England’s National Health Service is increasingly depending on doctors from Commonwealth countries.53

The solution, however, was less than straightforward. This same commentator suggested a type of compulsory “national service” for those who wanted, ultimately, to settle abroad. More radically, he even mused that passports could be withheld from Indian practitioners who did not “give an undertaking to return home.” However, the author acknowledged that

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this would be largely unworkable and ineffective, since most of those migrating were specialists and research scientists, and the most pressing need in India was for general practitioners working in the villages. Nevertheless, for twelve months starting November 1964, it does appear that the Ministry of External Affairs imposed some restrictions on the “extension of passport facilities to medical doctors, dentists, surgeons, and nurses.”54 One Indian doctor recalled the episode more than thirty years later: At that time Mrs. Ghandi was the Health Minister and she banned all Indian doctors going abroad at that time. . . . So she asked the passport department to deny passport[s] to doctors wanting to go abroad . . . so I couldn’t, if I want[ed to] I couldn’t get out of India at that time. And then the Indian medical association took the ministry to court and the supreme court then [over-]turned the government decision say[ing] it’s illegal. It is a fundamental right of an Indian to hold passport, what they do with it is their business and they can’t deny passports. So I got the passport and then I came here in 1967.55

This short-term government intervention had only limited effects. The number of passports issued to medical doctors dropped from 1,186 in 1964 to 992 in 1965, before rebounding to 2,064 in 1966.56 A more inventive measure was to attempt to prevent Indian physicians from taking the Foreign Medical Graduate examination required to practice or pursue graduate studies in the United States. When India passed a “brain drain” law against this exam in 1970, 500 Indian doctors traveled to Sri Lanka and joined 400 Sri Lankan physicians taking the exam.57 The following year, the examination was banned in Sri Lanka for the same reason. Subsequently, 1,100 Indian physicians applied to the Education Council for Medical Graduate Examinations organized by the Malaysian American Commission. Only 500 were able to successfully make the trip to Kuala Lumpur.58 In this cat-and-mouse game, the Indian government was at a distinct disadvantage. Reciprocal agreements between Britain and Canada, and between Canada and the United States, facilitated the licensing of Indian-trained physicians in North America, particularly those who had already gained experience and residency in the United Kingdom. Thus, Indian-trained physicians would migrate to Britain for postgraduate or fellowship training, work for a few years in the British hospital system, become qualified and registered under the General Medical Council of Britain, and then use this accreditation to migrate to a Canadian province or American state in need of doctors. Faced with an almost impossible

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situation to regulate, the Indian government introduced incentives to attempt to entice scientists, technologists, and physicians to return.59 To ease the transition back, the government provided returning physicians with guaranteed temporary work with the Union Public Service Commission and offered “special aid” to those establishing clinics, especially in rural areas.60 It appears to have had some effect. From 1958 to 1967, just under 800 doctors had apparently returned home to work.61 The situation in India was further complicated by the uneven distribution of doctors throughout the country. The Journal of the Indian Medical Association documented severe doctor shortages in some Indian states—including Madhya Pradesh and Orissa—and underemployment of physicians elsewhere.62 In addition, and not unlike many industrialized countries, there were stark urban–rural differences. In India, rural areas contained 80 percent of the population but only one-third of the country’s doctors.63 A special 1970 expert report on the “brain drain” characterized the problem as one of regional oversupply and shortages: Although accurate figures are not available, it is known that in many of the States, a number of posts in the medical and public health cadres is vacant. It is also estimated that 15 to 20 per cent of the posts of Teachers in medical colleges have not been filled due to lack of adequately qualified personnel. At the same time, in some States, there already appear to be more Medical Doctors seeking employment in Government than there are vacancies. However, a general “shortage” of Medical Doctors may be said to prevail in the country at present and a recent study of the IAMR indicates that there would be a shortage of about 5,000 Medical Doctors by the end of the Fourth Plan period.64

The Indian Medical Association called repeatedly for the government to deploy physicians to underserviced areas, highlighting the paradox that Indian doctors appeared willing to serve rural areas not only in industrialized countries—such as the phenomenon of Indian doctors in rural Wales—but also in what they considered to be “less developed” countries.65 As one commentator observed: “It is not news to our Central and State Health ministers that countries like Burma, Malaya, Indonesia, Ghana and Nigeria have recruited large numbers of Indian doctors for service in rural areas. If these doctors could go so far, surely they could be persuaded to volunteer for services in rural India if the authorities really wanted them? The Indian Medical Association has, over many years, repeatedly suggest-

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ed suitable terms for employment of qualified doctors in rural areas, but the authorities have ignored them.”66 One 1977 JIMA editorial suggested that unemployment (due to uneven distribution) was a factor driving physicians out of the country, and argued that the government was ignoring the “growing trends of unemployment among doctors.” He blamed the government for mismanaging the issue: for failing to devise a uniform medical education and recruitment policy, for proving unable to orient medical education toward rural and community needs, and for refusing to undertake a national manpower survey (as the Indian Medical Association had demanded). The lack of hard data fueled disagreement and political inaction.67 Closing of the Gates The Times of India and JIMA covered the brain drain of Indian students and physicians with some disquiet, reporting government figures on their distribution in Britain, the United States, and Canada, their ages and job experience, and their rate of return.68 By 1969, the journal reported that over half of UK doctors were foreign-trained (up to 68 percent of junior doctors in some areas) and that the overwhelming majority of these medical practitioners were from India and Pakistan.69 They also tracked the “closing of the gates” through tightening immigration laws and licensing requirements in Western countries in the 1970s. The authors highlighted the responses to restrictions on registration of South Asian practitioners in Britain in the early 1970s, which “brought on a fury of protests from Indian organizations in the UK.”70 To add insult to injury, Singapore also withdrew recognition of Indian, Ceylonese, and Pakistani medical degrees, which (like all degrees accepted by the British GMC) it had automatically recognized previously.71 The Times of India strongly criticized Britain’s approach of retaining Indian doctors “on its own terms.” Arguing that the NHS would “grind to a halt” without doctors from developing countries, specifically South Asia, the editorials identified a silver lining: “Although Indian doctors have been keeping the National Health Service going for many years now, they have received little thanks for their efforts; on the contrary, they are frequently the butt of criticism. Nor are they always given senior jobs even when they deserve them. The most charitable view that can be taken of the latest stipulation is that it might indirectly do some good to countries like India if it deters their doctors from seeking fortunes abroad only to find that they

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are humiliatingly rated as second-class professionals.”72 A Times of India contributor, K. N. Malik, further charged that a U.S. curb on physician immigration, rather than responding to the international concerns over the brain drain of doctors, was actually a reactionary piece of legislation that was responding to domestic (American) physicians who resented the competition. Despite the motivation, the tightening on the part of the United States, United Kingdom, and Canada in the 1970s was considered “a blessing in disguise” for India. In an interesting aside, Malik added that the demand for Indian doctors in West Asia and Africa, by contrast, continued unabated and was welcomed by the Indian government because many physicians sent remittances home.73 Notwithstanding the waning of enthusiasm for the licensing of Indian-trained physicians in Britain, Canada, and the United States, by 1975 between 10,000 and 15,000 Indian physicians were in this Anglo-American medical community forming networks of medical communities that were informed by specialty, by medical school associations (back in India), by family, and by religion. This medical diaspora created its own professional and cultural links that were in part facilitated by professional conferences and networking, but also by new popular periodicals like India Abroad, which created a sense of common identity of professional Indians in the English-speaking industrialized world. Indian publications, both home and abroad, sought to follow the experience of those doctors who had settled abroad and news articles began to document the less-than-ideal working conditions and reception. One 1967 Times of India article cautioned Indians, particularly engineers, about the challenges of finding recognition and employment in Canada, citing examples of mechanical engineers working as taxi drivers, shoe shiners, and security guards. The reporter quoted a Toronto Star interview with an Indian scientist employed for the Attorney General’s Centre of Forensic Sciences: “A peeved Dr. S. S. Krishnan told the Toronto Daily ‘Star’ that he was advising his friends to apply for jobs in the United States.” He added that, if he left his position, he would have to work in the United States, for there were no jobs for him in Canada.74 In 1975, JIMA published a piece titled “The Exiles: Indian Doctors Abroad,” by Satra Prakash Kaushal, an orthopedic surgeon who had returned and taken up a position at the Postgraduate Institute of Medical Education and research in Chandigarh. Kaushal sought to elicit sympathy for the plight of the physicians themselves, who self-identified as exiles and were unhappy about their dual “outsider” status. “Being one of this group,” he acknowledged, “I will try to analyse the reasons for this phenomenon

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and suggest means of stopping this socio-economic disaster for our land.” He argued that it was necessary to understand the reasons why émigré physicians would “commit the folly of being called traitors, deserters and brain drain by their home country and be considered second class citizens with inferior education abroad.”75 The author described how the position of the foreign medical graduate (FMG) had changed. Against the claim that Western countries had invited FMGs abroad for advanced training on the understanding that they would return home to help their countries, he argued that the expansion of health care in “developed” countries depended on a supply of ready-made doctors (at least, until each Western nation could provide its own supply). He asserted that FMGs were exploited through “slave-like” residencies and denied the opportunities for advancement. They experienced job and housing discrimination, were seen as “disposable workers,” and pushed into the “medical underground.” The real profit accrued to Western nations, which restricted the influx to suit their own needs when the domestic shortages eased. The FMGs, in his estimation, were left in the lurch. Adjustment to new countries was challenging in innumerable social and cultural ways, but many doctors also found that they could not apply their training in their home country,76 and many became increasingly reluctant to return as war broke out in 1972. Indian physicians were acutely aware of the professional struggles FMGs faced as a result of the dual medical education system and more general racialized attitudes toward them. India Abroad chronicled issues of the Indian diaspora in the United States in the 1970s and 1980s, becoming a forum for migrant physicians to express their frustrations at the unfairness of the medical profession and constant questioning of their skills and language abilities. As one physician observed, “The brown man can reach the second highest position in a large company here or become the associate dean of a school, but not the boss.”77 On the discourse of FMGs in medical journals, one physician wrote in India Abroad that FMGs were cast as “mysterious, dark, with holy animals . . . who prayed to different Gods.”78 News magazines like India Abroad provided a forum for Indian migrant physicians to collectively share their experiences, and criticize what they perceived as racialized medical systems. By the middle of the 1970s, Canada and the United States began to severely curtail the immigration and licensing of foreign-trained doctors. However, this marked the end of a twenty-year period in which the influx of foreign medical graduates (referred to in the United States as “alien doc-

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tors”) had been so pronounced that they ultimately constituted between one-third and one-quarter of the entire physician workforce under examination. The World Health Organization studies, under the authorship of Alfonso Mejia, as well as national examinations, such as Rosemary Stevens, Louis Wolf Goodman, and Stephen S. Mick’s Alien Doctors in the United States (1978), and D. J. Smith’s British Overseas Doctors in the National Health Service (1980), brought the multiple challenges of foreign-trained doctors to a wider audience in their respective countries.79 As Roberta Bivins has recently demonstrated, Indian and Pakistani physicians in Britain occupied an awkward institutional space, depicted in cartoons and newspaper articles as valued medical professionals and yet exotic and somewhat mistrusted foreign practitioners whose very presence was itself a damning commentary on the sustainability of the NHS.80 The transnational migration of doctors from poorer jurisdictions to richer jurisdictions contained no few ironies. While the West was priding itself on bilateral aid for developing countries, it was simultaneously introducing immigration reforms that were facilitating the exodus of skilled personnel from these very countries they claimed to assist. Although the National Health Service (in Britain) and Medicare (in Canada) were being lauded within these countries as great events of social justice and equality among citizens, it was social justice brought about at the expense of many poorer nations. Thus, while many Indian government health clinics had vacancies, 10 percent of all Indian-trained doctors were working abroad by 1968. Of course, from time to time, health economists attempted to quantify the lost dollars (or in this case, rupees) resulting from this multilateral brain drain. JIMA republished IAMR calculations that the education of a physician cost 80,000 rupees,81 and the Times of India publicized a United Nations report (in 1968) claiming that the United States had enjoyed US$4,000,000,000 in “reverse aid.”82 Perhaps unsurprisingly, United Nations proposals to mitigate the damage by introducing taxes for immigrants and the countries that received them did not receive overwhelming support from the countries that would have had to pay.83 The permanent resettlement of thousands of doctors and scientists from poorer to richer jurisdictions must have had a profound impact both on their countries of origin and in their adopted communities. However, these were not mere abstract figures. The sheer absolute number of South Asian–trained practitioners gave these “foreign doctors” some degree of shared community and, much later, professional clout. For example, F. J. Van Hoek estimated 15,000 Indian and 3,300 Pakistani doctors who were

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working abroad by 1970.84 Within these extraordinary numbers significant clusters emerged, such as the poorer districts of major British cities, including Manchester, Birmingham, and London. Indian doctors in Britain ultimately organized into a British Association of Physicians of Indian Origin (BAPIO). In the United States, Indian doctors appeared to congregate in and around Detroit, Newark, and New York City. 85 Perhaps it is no surprise, then, that, given the numbers, Indian physicians organized, in 1981, into an advocacy group—the American Association of Physicians of Indian Origin (AAPI)—which was headquartered in suburban Detroit. By 1986, the AAPI had reached a membership of about 7,000 physicians.86 This transnational migration of doctors, accelerated by important immigration changes of the 1960s, occurred among a broader movement of “highly skilled manpower.” For not only doctors but also scientists, nurses, dieticians, veterinarians, dentists, and researchers were on the move. Indeed, between 1963 and 1968, the Times of India reported that India had lost some 6,000 professionals in total to the United States, and over 3,000 to Canada.87 India, of course, was only one country of dozens affected by the new hunger in the West for “highly skilled manpower,” but it was, in many respects, the paradigmatic group of transient doctors from a developing country, at least before the South African medical exodus of the late 1980s and 1990s.88 As a consequence, their preeminence among highly educated migrants constitutes an illustrative case study that illuminates an important chapter in the transnational history of the life sciences in the twentieth century.

Chapter 2 The Postcolonial Context of Daniel Bovet's Research on Curare Daniele Cozzoli

In 1943 Daniel Bovet, a researcher at the Pasteur Institute, began working on synthetic substitutes for natural curare, which had been recently introduced in anesthesia as a muscle relaxant. At the end of the Second World War, he joined the Higher Institute of Health (Istituto Superiore di Sanità) in Rome, where he developed his research fully. It was mainly owing to this research that he was awarded the Nobel Prize in physiology or medicine in 1957.1 In this chapter, Bovet’s research on curare is framed within the transition from the colonial context of biomedical research at the Pasteur Institute during the 1930s and the 1940s to the Cold War and decolonization context of biomedical research at the Italian Higher Institute of Health in the postwar years. It will be argued that Bovet fully developed his research on curare in the peculiar context of the Italian Higher Institute of Health in the 1950s and 1960s. Research on curare involved sending expeditions to the Amazon rainforest, but also complex ethnobiological work, which was made possible by establishing a network of collaborating scientists between Italy and South America. Both the national and international context facilitated the establishment of such networks within which Bovet’s teamwork research was framed. The institute encouraged collaboration with developing countries as it sought to gain international standing in the postwar 31

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world by acting as a benchmark for developing countries under the auspices of international institutions such as the World Health Organization (WHO) and the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO). With regard to Bovet’s research on curare, it was UNESCO that played a major role. Brazilian and Italian researchers involved in research on curare were able to frame their research plans within the UNESCO postwar agenda.2 Postwar Italian governments aimed to integrate the country within the Western bloc, and participation in intra-European and international institutions was part of this strategy.3 Another important factor in promoting research on curare in Italy was that a number of Italian researchers became interested in coming face-to-face with the Amazon world and its peoples as a way of understanding their role in postwar Italian society. Such interest is explained in light of the cultural climate of postwar Italy, which was dominated by the Catholic religion and Gramsci’s Marxism.4 Largely influenced by postcolonial studies, historians of science and medicine have focused on the evolution of scientific relationships between ex-colonies and their former colonizer countries.5 As highlighted in the introduction to this volume, scholars of twentieth-century science and decolonization have primarily dealt with the relationships between a colonial power and its former colonies.6 Crucial issues have been the opposition to the diffusionist model of scientific knowledge from the center to the periphery, the questioning of the distinction between center and periphery, and historical compensation for the exploitation of resources belonging to colonies.7 However, this chapter deals with a topic largely unexplored by scholars as it cannot be included in the context of the above-mentioned historical questions that postcolonial scholars are interested in. This is how the broader global context of the world after 1945 disclosed new scenarios and allowed for the development of scientific relationships between already independent countries, such as Brazil, and countries that had abruptly lost their colonies, such as Italy. In this respect, in this chapter it is stressed that both countries, Brazil and Italy, exploited the new international situation to establish collaboration, which could not be done before the Second World War. This chapter follows the approach to historical research outlined by Christopher Bayly in the introduction to The Birth of the Modern World, whose influence on historians of science has unfortunately been somewhat limited so far.8 According to Bayly, regional histories can be better explained by connecting them to global historical processes in light of comparative histories or metanarratives, which postcolonial historians reject, for they deem that metanarratives are complicit with the very processes

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they seek to describe. However, postcolonial authors often conceal their own underlying metanarratives.9 It is not the intention of the author of this chapter to deny the centrality and the reasons of postcolonial critics; rather, the aim is to state that the case study examined here may be better investigated by taking into account the interplay between the national and the global contexts. The Cold War and the decolonization processes outlined in the introduction to this volume are the metanarratives in which the local events described in this chapter will be framed. This approach may stimulate a rethinking of the very idea of biomedical colonial research in the first half of the twentieth century. Indeed, the chapter will show how biomedical research at the Pasteur Institute was not only, as suggested by Anne-Marie Moulin, related to the relationship between metropolitan France and its colonies, but to the complex geopolitical dimension of the interplay of the rivalry between France and Germany and the colonial dimension. As a consequence of this approach, it will be stressed that research on topics apparently unrelated to the colonial dimension, such as antihistamines, became crucial at the Pasteur Institute, whereas research apparently much more related to the colonial venture, such as curare, were not crucial and acquired importance only in the world of the Cold War and decolonization. The Colonial Context of Biomedical Research at the Pasteur Institute In 1929 Daniel Bovet, who had just been awarded a PhD in zoology at the University of Geneva, was hired by the French pharmaceutical firm Rhône-Poulenc to work on the preparation of citric acid.10 As the new laboratories of the company at Vitry-sur-Seine were not yet operational, Bovet was sent to work at the Therapeutic Chemistry Laboratory of the Pasteur Institute, which was partly financed by the company.11 The Pasteur Institute was set up in 1887 thanks to a public international subscription to support Pasteur’s work on rabies. It took a leading role in French colonial policies.12 A number of institutes affiliated with the Pasteur Institute in Paris were created in the French colonies, often at the request of the colonial administration, which financed and maintained them. Furthermore, the Pastorians participated in scientific and medical missions in areas where France had a strong geopolitical interest or in missions studying diseases affecting French colonies. The mission to Egypt in 1883 was based on geopolitical interest, whereas the medical mission to Rio de Janeiro was to study yellow fever, which was endemic in the French colony of Senegal.13 Nevertheless, it

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is important to stress that the institute was created based on the view that the fight against rabies was part of the révanche.14 As we shall see, the two processes were strictly related. In 1911 the Therapeutic Chemistry Laboratory was set up at the Pasteur Institute in Paris. The lab was partly financed by the pharmaceutical company Poulenc Frères, which later merged with the Société Chimique des Usines du Rhône.15 Ernest Fourneau, a former member of the board of directors of Poulenc Frères, was appointed head of the new lab. As stressed by Ilana Löwy, the creation of the laboratory led to the establishment of an integrated innovation network linking the Pasteur Institute and one of the major French pharmaceutical companies. Viviane Quirke has reconstructed the story of the collaboration between Rhône-Poulenc and the Pasteur Institute as a major success story focusing only on the laboratory’s discoveries.16 However, it is worth noting that innovation in scientific research related to industrial production, such as drug research, differs from scientific discovery or from invention. It differs, for instance, from the sense in which Thomas Kuhn referred to the motion of the Earth as Copernicus’s innovation in order to explain the novelty of Copernicus’s contribution to sixteenth-century astronomy. Kuhn emphasized that the Copernican system meant that the order and relative sizes of planetary orbits could be determined by observation and that any change in order or in relative size of the orbits would affect the whole system, whereas in Ptolemaic astronomy the size of epicycles could be shrunk or expanded without affecting the sizes of other planetary orbits. Sixteenth-century astronomers acknowledged this element as an innovation in their discipline.17 By contrast, innovation in scientific and technological research related to industrial production not only requires the assessment and acquiescence of the scientific community, it also requires the ability to fruitfully incorporate discoveries and inventions into the production process.18 In this regard, a pharmaceutical company needs not only to discover a new chemical process or a new effective compound, something competitors do not possess, but also must be able to produce and market the new drug cheaper and faster, and obtain market shares before competitors are able to market similar products. In the early nineteenth century, the French industry of synthetic pharmaceuticals could not compete with the German one. The first movers in the pharmaceutical sector, German and Swiss companies based in the Rhine Valley, set up economies of scope and economies of scale that acted as entrance barriers to the market: whenever a French company tried to produce some of the compounds marketed by its German competitors, prices dropped, as the

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German companies had already paid off their initial investment; therefore, the newcomers were cut off from the market.19 Fourneau was aware of the technological gap between the French chemopharmaceutical industry and its outer-Rhine neighbors. Several years later, he described the situation of the French pharmaceutical industry at the beginning of the twentieth century: “At the time, the French pharmaceutical industry was practically non-existent. Everything either came from Germany or was produced in German factories established in France, the most widely known of which was in Creil. To avoid tariffs, unrefined products were brought into France, where they were purified and manipulated. Trying to produce antipirin, sulfonal, veronal or aspirin in France was totally pointless. The Germans had already paid off their investments, so whenever we tried to start manufacturing a product, prices dropped quickly and stabilized at a much lower level than that required to pay off the investment.”20 In 1904 the firm sent Fourneau to work in a number of German laboratories, where he learned the secrets of German chemistry and closely observed German innovation networks.21 On his return to France, Fourneau planned a program to catch up with the Germans, which he explained several years later: “Thus, I thought that the only way of giving an honorable place to the French industry of pharmaceutical products consisted first of finding something new and in clearing this feeling of emptiness that weighed on the French industry; second, of focusing on the production of products in scarce quantity though expensive, the manufacturing of which was also expensive, such as certain alkaloids that French specialists bought in Germany; and third, of undertaking the production of new products immediately after their manufacture, before their research and production costs had been paid off.”22 In the following years Fourneau carefully studied German patents and reports, and spent his summer holidays attending conferences and meetings in Germany where new products were showcased.23 Developing what he learned in Germany, Fourneau discovered something new: a local anesthetic derived from cocaine, which he called Stovaïne (“Fourneau” means “stove” in English).24 In 1911 Fourneau transferred the catch-up program he had developed at Poulenc Frères to the Pasteur Institute. It is worth noting that the creation of the Therapeutic Chemistry Laboratory at the Pasteur Institute also meant that the catch-up of the French pharmaceutical industry was framed within the discourse of the French civilizing mission worldwide in which the Pasteur Institute was fully involved. The outbreak of the First World War accelerated the process of identification

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of the catch-up of the network Rhône-Poulenc/Pasteur Institute with the French civilizing mission worldwide. Fourneau overtly invited French industrialists to copy German products.25 What was considered before the war as unfair competition could now be presented as patriotic behavior. In 1916 Bayer synthesized the first highly effective compound against sleeping sickness, 205-Bayer, which was also called Germanine. Three years later, the German authorities were about to launch a massive program to combat sleeping sickness in Cameroon, when the country became a French protectorate.26 Bayer had not disclosed the Germanine formula in order to prevent French competitors from appropriating it.27 According to Fourneau, the Germans kept the secret of the Germanine formula because they aimed to trade it for control over Cameroon.28 This seems quite implausible and the author of this chapter has not been able to find other sources confirming this aside from the Pastorians’ writings, but it reveals the way in which both Bayer and Rhône-Poulenc aimed to identify their own industrial interests based on the geopolitical goals of their countries. In 1924 Fourneau’s lab, working from the description of the Germanine contained in the German patent, succeeded in finding the chemical formula.29 The report of the Pastorians presented it as a patriotic success.30 Bovet’s Research on Curare at the Therapeutic Chemistry Laboratory of the Pasteur Institute As already mentioned, Daniel Bovet joined Fourneau’s laboratory in 1929 and started working in the context of Fourneau’s catch-up program outlined in the previous section. He studied the molecules synthesized by German researchers in order to find something really new. Bovet’s work in the laboratory consisted of studying the pharmacological effects of substances synthesized by chemists at the institute for every possible effect. As he recalled several years later, he worked in close contact with the chemists of the institute: “Chemists followed the trials on animals with interest and would often come to get information; I, in turn, visited the laboratory to ask for a larger amount of the product or one of its derivatives. Later this valuable method, which allowed for real, true teamwork, would inspire my entire life as a researcher.”31 After having selected compounds to be submitted to clinical trials, Bovet worked with clinicians of some hospitals in Paris to perform clinical trials. It comes as no surprise that Bovet’s first research concerned synthetic antimalarials and compounds against sleeping sickness.32 The two

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diseases were not a major health concern in metropolitan France, but they affected civil and military personnel in the colonies. Focusing on understanding large German molecules, Bovet developed skills in decomposing large molecules. In 1936, working on Prontosil Rubrum, the first sulfa drug developed by Gerhard Domagk in collaboration with Bayer chemists, Bovet found the active ingredient in the German molecule.33 In the early 1940s he found something the Germans did not possess: synthetic lowtoxicity compounds that could reverse the action of histamine. In the 1940s, in collaboration with Rhône-Poulenc chemists and pharmacologists, Bovet developed the first anti-allergy drugs.34 In 1942 Harold Griffith and G. Enid Johnson published their results on the use of d-tubocurarine, an alkaloid extracted from the Chondrodendron family, as a coadjutant in anesthesia.35 Early European travelers and explorers of the Amazon were intrigued by the fact that a number of Amazon hunters used a poison prepared by mixing different substances to hunt, which was able to paralyze but was not poisonous if ingested.36 Claude Bernard and Alfred Edme Vulpian cast light on the physiological action of curare. Bernard argued that curare altered sensitivity but did not directly affect muscular fibers. In his own words, “It separates the properties of sensory and motor nerves, as it is observed that it conserves the properties of sensory nerves and annihilates those of motor nerves.”37 Vulpian pointed out that curare blocked nerve-ending transmission. When it is injected, curare paralyzes respiratory muscles and causes death. Although the main action of curare is peripheral, it also affects the central nervous system.38 This could mean that curare would be valuable in the treatment of neurological diseases such as hydrophobia, epilepsy, and tetanus. The action of curare blocks nerve-ending transmission, but muscular excitation and nervous function remain untouched. This means that curare does not affect functionality of the cardiovascular or central nervous systems.39 Although researchers were intrigued by curare, it was only with the work of Griffith and Jones that it became important in medical practice, as its introduction in anesthesia allowed long operations to be safer. Alexander von Humboldt had given the first reliable description of curare preparation, and established that the active substances were derived from some plants. Nevertheless, it was not known which plants were responsible for curarizing effects. In fact, more than fifty different alkaloids are known to produce a curarization effect. It was not until 1935 that Harold King obtained the first alkaloid with curare action, d-tubocurarine chloride.40 Research on curare, however, posed many problems. First, expeditions to distant and unsafe

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places had to be organized to find plants and curare specimens. Second, laboratory facilities had to be set up on-site, as plants tended to quickly lose their alkaloid content. Third, chemists had to work with specimens of curare and plants containing many different substances that were brought back by expeditions. Moreover, d-tubocurarine was difficult to standardize, its effects could vary greatly, and it also had side effects.41 In 1943, while focusing on the chemical structure of d-tubocurarine, Bovet worked on finding simpler molecules whose effects could be more predictable along the lines of Fourneau’s catch-up program. The collaboration with Rhône-Poulenc was crucial, because of its ability to provide a large number of substances to be tested. In 1946, in collaboration with Simone Courvoisier, René Ducrot, and Raymond Horclois, researchers from Rhône-Poulenc, Bovet studied the pharmacological properties of the first synthetic curare-like substance, R. P. 3381, which showed effects comparable to d-tubocurarine, but also its undesirable side effects.42 In the following years, while working on simplifying the chemical structure of compounds synthesized by both the chemists of the institute and those of Rhône-Poulenc, Bovet found other substances with curarizing action but no side effects.43 The Postcolonial Setting of the Higher Institute of Health In 1948 Daniel Bovet and his wife and coworker Filomena Nitti joined the Higher Institute of Health in Rome, where the head of the institute, Domenico Marotta, set up a completely new therapeutic chemistry laboratory for him.44 The Bovets decided to leave Paris for personal reasons. On the liberation of Paris, Fourneau resigned. He was accused of collaboration and imprisoned. Although the allegations against him were dropped, because of his fall from grace his laboratory was restructured.45 As of the mid-1930s, differences arose between Fourneau, Daniel Bovet, and the Nitti siblings, on the one hand, and Jacques Trefouël, the current director of the institute, and his wife, Thérèse, who also worked in Fourneau’s laboratory, on the other.46 The move from one of the leading biomedical institutions to Rome may appear to be a mistake, but Marotta was transforming an institute originally conceived as a health institute into a world leading biomedical institution. The Italian institute had been founded in 1934 thanks to the support of the Rockefeller Foundation, which focused on fostering public health worldwide.47 The following year Marotta was appointed director of the institute and began transforming it into an institution mainly devoted to

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biomedical research.48 Mussolini’s expansionist military policy, however, hindered Marotta’s project by draining resources from scientific research to the military campaigns. Although the institute did not play a major role in the racial and colonial policy of the regime, during the 1930s and 1940s it primarily worked to produce sera and vaccines for the army and to train medical military personnel.49 After the fall of fascism in the summer of 1943, Marotta joined the antifascist camp, and at the end of the war he cleansed his fascist past and obtained the protection of the Christian Democrat premier, Alcide De Gasperi. Thanks to his political ties with De Gasperi, Marotta succeeded in gathering financial resources for his institute.50 In 1948 Marotta also hired Ernst Boris Chain, who had been awarded the Nobel Prize for the discovery of therapeutic properties of penicillin three years earlier, and put him at the head of the new international microbiology center and of the penicillin pilot plant donated to the institute by the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration.51 The hiring of Bovet and Chain was instrumental in transforming the institute into a leading international biomedical establishment. Marotta’s aims were framed in the new geopolitical context of decolonization, where international organizations such as the WHO played a pivotal role.52 During the 1950s and 1960s the institute cooperated with developing countries and participated in the activities of the WHO and UNESCO, the new international bodies created after the war. The penicillin pilot plant of the institute worked as a WHO training center, and as a reference center for antibiotic standards,53 and the institute provided consultancy to institutions in developing countries and trained technicians from developing countries.54 Both the new geopolitical postcolonial context and Italian history contributed to shaping the institute’s foreign relations after the Second World War. Indeed, the institute’s international collaborations were reoriented from countries where Italy had deployed its colonial expansion (Libya and Eastern Africa) to countries where Italy had deployed its emigration (South America).55 This process was the result of various factors, of different scientific and political aims and designs. First, the institute strove for cooperation with developing countries and with new international institutions thanks to the ability of its director, Marotta, to couple his projects with the aims of the Italian postwar governments. Indeed, centrist governments encouraged the merging of international scientific institutions as a way of firmly placing the country in the Western bloc.56 Moreover, Marotta saw collaboration with developing countries and international institutions as a way of gaining international renown for the institute. Second, a new

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generation of Catholic and left-wing scientists emerged on the scene. They were sensitive to cooperation with developing countries. Some of them came back home following exile and had not witnessed the fascist colonial expansion. In other cases, links with Italian emigration in South America were resumed after the war. Throughout the 1950s and 1960s the institute engaged in intense collaboration with South American researchers and institutions.57 As we shall see in the next section, Bovet was able to fully develop his research on curare because of the new potential afforded by the decolonization processes and the Cold War at the national and international levels. Bovet’s Research on Curare in Rome and Collaboration with Brazil It was in the context outlined above that Bovet developed his research on curare. In Rome Bovet adapted Fourneau’s catch-up program, which was particularly suitable in a country with a good but not excellent research tradition in biomedicine and whose economy was growing fast throughout the 1950s.58 As one of Bovet’s coworkers, Alberto Oliverio, recalls, Bovet thought that in order to compete with larger American industrial and academic laboratories they should focus on cutting-edge research that could be carried out with relatively few resources.59 This was nothing but an adaptation of Fourneau’s program to catch up to the new context. In Italy, Bovet found more resources, as well as smart young scientists who were less well-trained but enthusiastic.60 One of Bovet’s coworkers, Giorgio Bignami, who graduated in medicine in Rome in the mid-1950s, recalls that he received very poor training at the university. He learned the lecture notes given by his professors by heart to pass exams, but he would read English textbooks his father gave him. By the end of 1957, Bignami joined Bovet’s laboratory and recalls shock as his first impression: he had never before seen the sophisticated activity carried out at Bovet’s lab.61 In 1949, in collaboration with Farmitalia, a joint venture between Montecatini and Rhône-Poulenc, Bovet’s team published their findings on succinylcholine, a substance whose action was faster and more predictable, and whose side effects were negligible. Succinylcholine became the drug of choice for anesthesia.62 Bovet and his coworkers studied the properties of a number of substances having curare-like effects, which acted fast, were quickly eliminated, and were also low in toxicity. Writing to Ernest Fourneau, Bovet praised his master’s teaching: “I gave my first talk in Ital-

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ian since my return to Italy before the Milanese section of the chemistry society. I showed how the road from tubocurarine to succinylcholine was akin to the path that you draw from cocaine to stovaine.”63 Eight years later, in 1957, Bovet was awarded the Nobel Prize in physiology or medicine “for his discoveries relating to synthetic compounds that inhibit the action of certain body substances, and especially their action on the vascular system and the skeletal muscles.”64 The formulation encompassed all the research Bovet had carried out during his career. However, concluding his internal report for the Nobel Prize, Börje Uvnäs noted the importance of Bovet’s research on curare in the decision to award the prize.65 In Rome Bovet collaborated with two researchers, Giovanni Battista Marini Bettolo and Ettore Biocca, who, having lived and worked in South America, were interested in dealing with South America and its people. In 1949 Marini Bettolo won a public competition and was hired at the institute.66 He had spent a couple of years in Latin America teaching at the Universidad Católica de Santiago in Chile in 1947, and at the Universidad de Montevideo the following year. His hiring was crucial because he was a talented chemist with expertise in extracting alkaloids from natural substances that Bovet needed.67 Marini Bettolo enabled Bovet, who had so far focused on synthetic substances, to work on alkaloids derived from Strychnos plants.68 Bovet also resumed his ties with two Brazilian researchers he had met at the Pasteur Institute: Paulo Berrêdo Carneiro and Carlos Chagas Filho.69 The former had studied with the Dutch chemist Júlio Lohmann, who had gone to Brazil to study tobacco cultivation and preparation, and had previously worked on the chemical composition of tea at the vegetable chemistry laboratory of Buitenzorg Botanical Garden in Java. In 1927 Carneiro came to the Pasteur Institute in Paris to work on natural curare with Gabriel Bertrand.70 During his stay at the Pasteur Institute, in 1938 Carneiro synthesized two natural curares: stricnoletaline and curaletaline.71 Furthermore, Carneiro explained that curarization was a chemical phenomenon based on inhibition of the exciting action of acetylcholine.72 Although Bovet knew Carneiro and his research from their years at the Pasteur Institute, their collaboration began only after the Second World War in the new decolonization context of biomedical research. As mentioned, the Pasteur Institute had been involved in collaboration with Brazilian researchers since the beginning of the century. As Ilana Löwy has reconstructed, the collaboration between the Pasteur Institute and Brazilian institutions largely benefited the development of Brazilian microbiology, but it was rooted in French interests in yellow fever, a disease

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that was endemic in the French colony of Senegal.73 It is quite paradoxical, but it is worth noting that, although the Europeans became intrigued by curare because of the colonial expansion in South America, research on curare did not play a crucial role in the colonial setting of biomedical research before the Second World War. Research on curare up to the 1940s focused on its role in tetanus and other central nervous system diseases. In the 1930s Ranyard West had obtained interesting results in the use of curare in tetanus treatment. However, he failed to convince Burroughs & Wellcome, the authorities of British Guiana, and the Medical Research Council (MRC) to fully support his research and, therefore, he discontinued his study on curare.74 None of the above-mentioned actors saw curare research as a priority. For the MRC and the colonial authorities it did not provide any remedy for diseases affecting the colonies, and for pharmaceutical companies, although encouraging, the results on tetanus therapy could not justify the effort, the risks, and the resources required for research on curare. Curare research was not crucial at the Pasteur Institute either, as it was not crucial in colonial policies and in the geopolitical rivalry between France and Germany. After the Second World War the scenario changed radically. The international scientific community became concerned about studying and preserving humanity from a nuclear war. A number of scientists affiliated with the International Biological Program (IBP) discussed projects aimed at collecting and freezing blood samples and genetic materials of populations that were considered a portal to the human past. Certain geographical areas, such as the Amazon, acquired much more importance in biomedical research during the Cold War.75 In this context some Brazilian researchers tried to exploit the favorable situation so as to capture the interest of the international scientific community and the international organizations created after the war for research related to the Amazon and its peoples. In 1946 Paulo Carneiro succeeded in persuading the UNESCO board to set up the Instituto Internacional da Hiléia Amazonica in Rio de Janeiro to exploit the Amazon’s scientific resources.76 The postwar situation led Bovet and his coworkers at the Higher Institute of Health to couple their interests with those of the Brazilian researchers. Bovet had found in curare research a valuable field of study and was fully supported by the institute management and Italian policymakers and partially by Farmitalia. As already noted, Ranyard West, lacking the support of the MRC and the British Guiana colonial administration, gave up his research on curare in the 1930s. Bovet’s coworkers in Italy saw curare research as part of a broader strategy aimed at placing the Amazon and Brazil at the center of the international research agenda.

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Consequently, although Bovet and Carneiro had worked in the same years at the Pasteur Institute, their collaboration on curare materialized only in the 1950s. According to Bovet’s son Daniel Pierre Bovet, it was during his father’s stay in Paris that he also met Carlos Chagas Filho and asked him to procure curare specimens.77 In the early 1950s, Bovet resumed his ties with Carneiro and Chagas Filho, head of the Institute of Biophysics at the University of Brazil in Rio de Janeiro. In 1954, funded by UNESCO and in collaboration with Chagas Filho, Bovet’s team organized an expedition to the Amazon involving botanists, chemists, ethnologists, and pharmacologists under the auspices of UNESCO.78 Bovet brought back to Rome specimens of seven species of Strychnos, on which chemists at his laboratory directed by Marini Bettolo worked. Later, both Carneiro and Chagas Filho, who worked on the action of radioactive curare in the biophysics of the Electrophorus electricus (electric eel), spent some time in Rome.79 In 1955, Carneiro suggested that Bovet organize a workshop on curare in Brazil.80 A major conference on curare was held in Rio de Janeiro, August 5–12, 1957, and funded by UNESCO, the Conselho Nacional de Pesquisas, the Academia Brasileira de Ciencias, and Rio de Janeiro University. The conference was organized by Bovet’s team in collaboration with Brazilian researchers Carneiro, J. C. Cardoso, Arthur Moses, and Chagas Filho.81 The participation of both national and international institutions was crucial to developing research on curare, as Bovet’s success with synthetic substitutes for curare had, to some extent, led pharmaceutical companies to lose their interest in research on curare. In 1955 Otto Wintersteiner, at that time director of the Squibb Institute for Medical Research, explained the situation to Ranyard West, who was trying to resume his research project on curare in tetanus therapy: The fact of the matter is that while Dr. Dutcher and I are still privately and academically interested in curare alkaloids and their uses, we gave up research in this field some 7 years ago in favor of other projects, mainly because any practical incentive for continuing this line of research was lacking. With the advent of succynilcholine and other curare substitutes, tubocurarine is gradually losing ground in the market, and it would be difficult to persuade our management that we might possibly be able to recoup our position in this field by looking into other curare sources for new alkaloids with prolonged lissive action, or others exhibiting the selective kind of activity you mention. The deterrent here is uncertainty; the unlikelihood that such alkaloids, even if one succeeded in identifying the plant source, could ever be produced in

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commercial quantities, unless one was willing to take a very long view of the problem and bank on their eventual synthesis after having determined their structure.82

As already explained, the interest of Italian researchers was not commercial; rather, it was related to their scientific and cultural interests and was eased by the above-mentioned global context. Collaboration between the Italian Higher Institute of Health and South American researchers developed throughout the 1950s and 1960s. As stated, several young researchers from South America were given fellowships to work in Italy with Marini Bettolo, who in 1964 was appointed director of the institute.83 In Rome, Bovet and Marini Bettolo also collaborated with another researcher, Ettore Biocca, a parasitologist who happened to be in the United States at the outbreak of the Second World War. Biocca, an antifascist, did not want to participate in Mussolini’s war, so he decided not to return to Italy and got a position in the Laboratorio Paulista de Biologia, a private laboratory in São Paulo, where he remained until the end of the war. In São Paulo, Biocca met a young Brazilian chemist of Italian origin, Maria Ippolito, who became his wife and introduced him to the study of South American plants. At the end of the war, the Bioccas moved to Italy and Ettore became a professor of parasitology at the University of Rome.84 Between November 1962 and July 1963, Biocca headed an ethnobiological expedition that widely covered the Amazon rainforest between the middle Rio Negro and the high Orinoco, a region inhabited by the people of the Yanomámi (aka Yanoáma and Yanomámo). The expedition, which was supported by the Italian National Research Council (Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche), was a coordinated effort by different scientists and cultural institutions from Italy and Brazil.85 Other members included the biologist Francesco Baschieri, anthropologist Guglielmo Mangili, parasitology technician Marcello Bagalino, psychologist Ezio Ponzo, who had already worked in Africa, and Brazilian taxidermist Mozart Guerra. Biocca conceived of collaboration among psychologists, anthropologists, botanists, and chemists as a way of understanding the system of knowledge of a highly distant civilization. The Yanomámi caught his interest because he thought that their ability to resist the penetration of the white man enabled the existence of a civilization that had best adapted to the Amazon.86 As Biocca described the aim of the expedition: “We had, therefore, wanted to gather information about the Yanoáma from an anthropological, psychological, and cultural point of view. We were interested in studying the biological

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meaning of their houses, their food and even of their language and chants; we wanted to study primitive medicine, shamanism and mythology in the general framework of the biological environment of an equatorial forest.”87 It is worth noting that chemists emphasized that they were unsure whether active alkaloids were already contained in plants or were formed during the extraction process.88 Biocca argued that the curare maker was acting, to some extent, like an expert chemist and toxicologist. According to him, the curare maker used plants that had different functions. An initial group of plants possessed a high content in active alkaloid, a second group of plants aided the release of the alkaloid, and a third one allowed the formation of the quaternary ammonium base (the base of active curarizing alkaloids).89 Biocca’s hypothesis was proved experimentally by Bovet’s coworkers, Marini Bettolo, Galeffi, and Carpi, who compared curare prepared by the Yanomámi and the Makú with the alkaloids extracted from plants.90 Colonial and Postcolonial Research Bovet’s research on curare played a pivotal role in Italian biomedical research in the 1950s by adapting the research style he had learned in the colonial prewar context of biomedical research to the context of Italian science and culture of the 1950s and 1960s. As we have seen, Bovet was able to achieve his results thanks to the scientific, cultural, and political context of postwar biomedical research. However, the national and international circumstances that had contributed to setting up a virtuous circle changed by the mid-1960s. The project of the UNESCO Instituto Internacional da Hiléia Amazonica followed the course of the other international research institutes created by UNESCO, which were unable to establish an international research agenda capable of interacting virtuously with the interests of the countries involved and, therefore, it turned out to be a substantial failure. The institute moved first to Manaus and then to Montevideo.91 As explained in the introduction to this volume, UNESCO and, above all, the International Biological Program played a major role in setting the agenda of international biomedical research and in influencing it beyond its initial scope during decolonization, despite the fact that many historians describe UNESCO’s action as a failure in achieving its initial goals. The story of collaboration between Brazilian and Italian researchers on curare suggests that researchers who were able to couple their scientific goals with UNESCO’s aims were able to engage in fruitful collaboration in the spirit of UNESCO.

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In 1963 Bovet left the Italian Higher Institute of Health as a consequence of the judiciary prosecution that involved Marotta and the current director of the institute, Giordano Giacomello, and reoriented his research interests on a smaller scale.92 Nevertheless, research on curare was carried out at the Higher Institute of Health up to the beginning of the 1970s. Marini Bettolo continued working on curare and achieved important results. In 1970 he and his coworkers found out that d-tubocurarine had a slightly different structure from that described by Harold King in 1935.93 However, in the 1970s the international situation changed too: several South American countries fell under dictatorship regimes, and both the left-wing researcher Biocca and the Catholic researcher Marini Bettolo gave up scientific collaboration with South America.94 Indeed, Marini Bettolo discontinued his collaboration with Uruguayan researchers during the dictatorship.95 In 1972 Biocca was planning a new expedition to the Amazon but the expedition never materialized because, when attending a conference in Brazil, Biocca was so taken aback by the cruelty of the dictatorship that he decided that it was much more important to struggle against it than to make a new expedition to the rainforest. Thus, instead of a new expedition, he published a book denouncing the crimes of the dictatorship, Strategia del terrore: Il modello brasiliano (Strategy of terror: The Brazilian model), dramatically depicting how the Brazilian dictatorship was trying to influence domestic policy in other South American countries.96 As Tanya Harmer has reconstructed, this is what happened the following year, in 1973, when the Brazilian military was heavily involved in Pinochet’s coup d’état.97 The Italians did not organize new expeditions, although Marini Bettolo continued working on specimens of plants and curare sent to him by Father Luigi Cocco (a missionary who had also helped Biocca’s expedition) and by Boris Krukoff, a botanist at the New York Botanical Garden who had worked on curare as a consultant for Merck.98 The story told in this chapter may be seen as an example of the in-depth changes in life sciences after the Second World War, described in the introduction to this book, which interplayed with the global processes of the Cold War and decolonization. Daniel Bovet and his coworkers framed their research in a broader context where Italian and Brazilian policymakers, the agenda of international organizations, such as UNESCO, the interests of pharmaceutical multinationals, and the political ideals of scientists all fused. The articulation of all these factors made it possible for Bovet to fully develop his research on curare during the decolonization era.

Chapter 3 The Disappointment of Smallpox Eradication and Economic Development Bob H. Reinhardt

In July 2006, the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) in Atlanta hosted a celebration for the global eradication of smallpox. Most of the participants were veterans of the CDC’s Smallpox Eradication and Measles Control Program (SMP), a bilateral U.S. program in nineteen West and Central African countries that ran from 1966 to 1972, which contributed to the broader global effort supervised by the World Health Organization (WHO) that declared victory over smallpox in 1980. The Atlanta meeting was a largely cheerful affair, with old friends seeing each other for the first time in years, lectures to young CDC trainees about the challenges of epidemiology in the days before the internet, and, of course, recognition of a remarkable accomplishment: the first, and to date only, deliberate elimination of a human disease. Underneath the celebration lurked a question: was smallpox eradication enough? Asked to reflect on the value of the program, William White, who worked as a technical and logistics expert in Upper Volta (now Burkina Faso), said that he and his colleagues puzzled over that very question forty years earlier: “We had conversations about this even during the course of the training in Atlanta. . . . If we were successful in eradicating smallpox and controlling measles, what was going to happen in those countries? We

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weren’t doing anything to change the economy; there wasn’t necessarily anything else that we were doing that was going to change the larger health structure. And so from a philosophical point of view, one of the questions we asked ourselves in late-night conversations with wine and cheese was basically: What were we accomplishing?”1 Clearly, smallpox eradication was a good thing, both for formerly smallpox-endemic countries (in Africa and Asia, mostly) and for countries like the United States that need no longer fear importation of smallpox. But as White and his colleagues prepared to head off for West and Central Africa, they wondered: Shouldn’t we be doing something to “change the economy” and “change the larger health structure”? Those concerns point to a question raised during the eradication program and since: should smallpox eradication have contributed to the loftier goals of economic development, or was it enough to merely eliminate an age-old scourge? Such questions seem at first unsurprising, given that smallpox eradication began and evolved during a period of enthusiasm and even dogmatic devotion to development theory—“modernization as ideology,” in historian Michael Latham’s words.2 American liberals in the 1960s—politicians, bureaucrats, and academics—were particularly enamored with the idea that foreign aid and private investment in science, technology, and bureaucratic and management efficiency could help push postcolonial societies through the “stages of growth,” as W. W. Rostow theorized in The Stages of Economic Growth: A Non-Communist Manifesto, moving them away from the temptations of Soviet communism and toward American-style capitalism and democracy.3 As the editors of this volume note, development (or “modernization,” as the linear path toward Western industrialization was also known) attracted adherents throughout the world. The Soviet Union provided its own models and foreign policy instruments for economic development, leaders of newly independent countries sought their own paths to modernization, and development became the guiding principle of international agencies like the World Bank and the transnational professionals who worked there.4 Development ideology inspired and shaped a variety of postwar endeavors in the life sciences, from the expansion of scientific fields like “dermatoglyphics” (explored in this volume by Daniel Asen) to the application and dissemination of established scientific knowledge, such as the effort to internationalize and adapt biology education as discussed in this volume by Audra Wolfe. The global effort to eradicate smallpox— first proposed in 1953, officially adopted by the World Health Assembly

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in 1958, “intensified” in 1965, and concluded in 1980—evolved in a context of intense interest in the theories, ideas, and rhetoric of economic development. But the influence of this context on smallpox eradication has been unclear. In general terms, health programs—national, regional, and global—bore the marks of economic development theory: modernizing economies would contribute to better public health systems, healthier citizens would contribute to economic development through more efficient production and increased consumption, and modern science and technology would make all of that possible.5 As Iris Borowy writes, it was generally assumed that “development was good for health” and vice versa: “antidisease policies, notably large-scale eradication programs, relied on diffuse expectations that health improvement would spur economic growth in developing countries.”6 The first global malaria eradication program, approved by the World Health Assembly (WHA) in 1955, presents the most obvious example of this logic.7 Advocates for malaria eradication explicitly justified the program in terms of malaria’s negative effects on a nation’s economy, arguing that the elimination of malaria would remove a major obstacle standing in the way of development. Through application of the latest advances in science—specifically, dichloro-diphenyl-trichloroethane (DDT)—global malaria eradication promised a relatively simple technical fix for a complicated health program, thereby freeing postcolonial societies to move through the stages of development—a false promise, it turned out, precisely because the malaria eradication program did not provide the kind of long-term investment in public health that would have been necessary for malaria eradication to succeed.8 The connection between development and smallpox eradication seems comparatively less straightforward. Economic development reasons were not central to the stated and public justifications for the program; in fact, the economic argument for smallpox eradication focused on the benefits for developed countries that would no longer need to vaccinate against the threat of smallpox importation. Moreover, one of the reasons smallpox became a target for eradication was that it was relatively simple to eliminate: just a quick, one-time administration of the world’s oldest vaccine provided lasting protection. Smallpox eradication required a series of short-term, temporary vaccination campaigns, rather than any long-term investment in health infrastructure.9 Smallpox eradication, in this interpretation, was an anomaly compared to other health programs: a uniquely successful program that did not promise or require economic development.

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Closer examination shows that smallpox eradication was very much shaped by economic development—one of the strongest social and political-ideological frameworks referred to by this volume’s editors. Scholars of smallpox eradication, including especially Erez Manela and Sanjoy Bhattacharya, have explored some of the ways in which development ideology shaped the “knowledge regime” in which smallpox eradication programs evolved from the international to local levels.10 This chapter examines how that ideology evolved from the ideological background and context of smallpox eradication to one of the explicit justifications for eradication—thereby complicating efforts to assess the success of the program. Although smallpox eradication efforts always focused on the goal of disease elimination, the broader objectives of economic development became increasingly important as the eradication program evolved from its official launch in 1958 to official certification of success in 1980. The first proposals for global smallpox eradication avoided mention of economic development, but that way of thinking shaped the program’s conceptualization. Eradication advocates framed smallpox as a problem in the developing world that could be solved through application of the developed world’s scientific knowledge and technology. The linkage between smallpox eradication and economic development became more explicit in 1965 when the United States finally supported global smallpox eradication and its own bilateral smallpox eradication (and measles control) program in West and Central Africa, coordinated by the Communicable Disease Center (the CDC, now the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention). As the CDC and WHO developed training programs and manuals for smallpox eradication staff, the language and logic of economic development bubbled under the surface, particularly in the WHO program. Out in the field, day-to-day work continued to focus on the single objective of smallpox eradication, but exposure to the environments and people of the developing world forced reconceptualization and reevaluation of the purposes of the eradication effort. By the time humanity declared victory over smallpox, the elimination of an age-old scourge was no longer good enough. Assessments by the CDC and WHO additionally justified smallpox eradication in terms of cost–benefit calculations and economic development. Expectations for economic development contributed to the complex and ambivalent legacy of smallpox eradication: a clear victory that still seems, somehow, insufficient.

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Proposing Eradication, Alluding to Development The first proposal for a global smallpox eradication program came in 1953, from the WHO’s first director-general, Brock Chisholm, a Canadian with a deep interest in meaningful and long-term investment in public health.11 In the case of smallpox eradication, however, Chisholm avoided making any connections to economic development. Saying that it was time for the World Health Organization to follow through on its constitutional promise to lead international cooperative health programs, Chisholm gave three reasons to select smallpox for such an effort: “It was a disease affecting the whole world; because smallpox control was relatively simple and within the possibilities of most governments; and, finally, because the disease still existed despite the discovery of a method of control more than 150 years ago.”12 In short, the world should eradicate smallpox primarily because it could—science had developed a vaccine that could easily and effectively eliminate a terrible disease. Smallpox was a relatively simple problem to solve, one that did not require any investment in public health infrastructure. In Chisholm’s argument for smallpox eradication, economic development played no role, either as a necessary precondition or as a probable benefit. Chisholm’s colleagues were not entirely persuaded by his optimism, and the 1953 World Health Assembly deferred the matter of smallpox eradication for five years. Finally, in 1958, the World Health Assembly agreed to support a global smallpox eradication program, approving a Soviet proposal that more thoroughly dissociated smallpox eradication from economic development.13 Echoing Chisholm, the 1958 Soviet proposal emphasized the feasibility and even simplicity of smallpox eradication—“a practical possibility with a minimal expenditure and within a relatively limited period of time.” The Soviet delegation went on to argue that smallpox eradication did not require “highly-developed public health services”; instead, local health workers “could be taught in about a week” how to vaccinate against smallpox, using vaccine provided by countries with industrialized production facilities. Global smallpox eradication, then, did not require (nor would it produce) economic development in smallpox-endemic countries, because the already-developed countries could produce all the vaccine necessary. The WHA endorsed the Soviet proposal, initiating a global smallpox eradication program backed by relatively little funding—just $55,568 in 1959—consistent with the argument that smallpox eradication would be easy, cheap, and unrelated to economic development.14

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Yet, even as the Soviet Union’s and Chisholm’s proposals avoided connecting smallpox eradication to economic development, their arguments for smallpox eradication framed the problem in that logic. This was particularly true for places where such a program would be active: primarily recently (or soon-to-be) decolonized countries in Africa and Asia, as well as parts of South America. By the time the Soviets made their eradication proposal, smallpox did not afflict the entire globe equally: in 1958, North American and European countries reported a total of 32 cases, compared to 279,434 cases in the rest of the world.15 Smallpox remained endemic in precisely those areas targeted by development and modernization, often current and former colonies. As a French delegate to the 1958 WHA noted, “smallpox was a problem mainly in its overseas territories.” And it was in these countries that proposals for smallpox eradication found their strongest support. In the 1958 WHO executive committee meeting that discussed and approved the Soviet eradication proposal, the delegations from Costa Rica, Cuba, Ecuador, India, Indonesia, Iraq, Nepal, Nigeria, and Sudan were enthusiastic in their support for smallpox eradication, especially in comparison to the cautious approval offered by France, Belgium, and other developed countries. Similar to the biology educators discussed by Audra Wolfe in this volume, health officials in developing countries were generally eager for smallpox eradication programs, while also seeking to control how such programs would evolve.16 Smallpox, then, was a problem of the developing world, and it was one that the developing world itself very much wanted solved. That solution would not come from inside the developing world, but from advanced industrial countries, where “the modern status of medical science and health protection” (as the Soviet proposal put it) was sufficient to provide the methods, tools, and material for smallpox eradication. This volume’s introduction noted John Merson’s work, which reveals how developing countries continued to rely on science and technology from the developed world, and that was clearly the case with global smallpox eradication.17 Specifically, industrialized vaccine production facilities in the Soviet Union, United States, and elsewhere had the machinery and capacity to create the millions of doses of high-quality, freeze-dried smallpox vaccine that would be necessary to attack smallpox in the developing world. These postwar developments in scientific knowledge and practice provided the means by which to eradicate smallpox, just as science and technology provided the means to advance through the stages of development. In addition, part of the justification for the program depended on the premise that the whole world was interconnected, a fundamental tenet

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of economic development, which required open transportation and trade networks to move ideas, goods, and labor (and, yes, disease) across borders. When Chisholm stated that smallpox “affected the whole world,” he did not mean that the disease sickened and killed as many North Americans and Europeans as Africans and Asians, but that people and places were becoming more and inextricably connected to each other. And so, even though the 1953 and 1958 proposals for smallpox eradication did not justify smallpox eradication explicitly in terms of economic development, that approach to understanding the world’s problems—where the problems lay, how they should be fixed, and why they had to be fixed—helped shape the conceptualization of smallpox and how it ought to disappear. The United States Connects Smallpox Eradication and Economic Development Even with the World Health Assembly’s approval of the 1958 Soviet proposal, it was not until 1965 that global smallpox eradication started in earnest and became more explicitly tied to economic development. In that year, the President Lyndon B. Johnson’s administration finally provided American dollars and personnel for smallpox eradication, backing not only the WHO’s program, but also a bilateral program for smallpox eradication and measles control in nineteen countries in West and Central Africa.18 This was the CDC program—the Smallpox Eradication and Measles Control Program—that attracted William White and so many other young Americans to international service, and would, along with the WHO’s Smallpox Eradication Program (SEP), generate so many questions about the broader purposes of smallpox eradication. Such questions were present from the beginning of the U.S. commitment to smallpox eradication, as American foreign policymakers struggled to clearly define the relationship between health and development. At the United States Agency for International Development (USAID), established in 1961, health programs occupied an ambiguous status in the agency’s vision for American foreign aid. Although USAID pointed to the economic development benefits of disease eradication (which would “increase the effectiveness of the labor force,” as USAID’s first planning document explained), the agency devoted a measly 4 percent of its first-year budget to health programs.19 USAID’s ambivalence on this matter echoed larger discussions, as Iris Borowy has shown in her discussion of development experts who touted vaguely explained theories connecting disease control

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to economic growth.20 For some American foreign policymakers, health played a significant but not critical role. For example, in a 1966 report on development programs in Africa requested by President Johnson, the U.S. ambassador to Ethiopia, Edward Korry, accepted that “debilitating disease impedes economic progress,” but he ranked health programs below investment in communications, transportation, and power—“the base on which development must take place.”21 Others argued for a more complex understanding of the role of health in economic development. As Dr. Philip Lee, the director of Health Service in the Office of Technical Cooperation and Research at USAID, explained in a 1964 report on the connection between health and development, health programs “enable a country to create and effectively use capital and the technology of industrial development.”22 Even without consensus about the relative importance of public health programs, health and economic development became increasingly and inextricably linked in American foreign policy and foreign aid discussions. The support of the United States for global smallpox eradication further contributed to these discussions that linked health and economic development. USAID, which funded the CDC’s smallpox eradication efforts in Africa, made clear the development purposes of the program: it represented an effort to eliminate one of the most important “killing and debilitating diseases that sap the human resources of these countries.”23 Philip Lee framed smallpox eradication as part of a broader effort to close “the increasing gap between rich and poor, the haves and the have-nots.”24 In addition, the postwar scientific means and tools of economic development shaped American investment in and enthusiasm for smallpox eradication. In announcing the CDC’s bilateral program in Africa and U.S. support for the WHO global eradication program, President Johnson pointed to “the recent development of jet injection equipment,” referring to the Ped-OJet, a tool that brought remarkable speed and efficiency to the vaccination process. Science and technology, the main tools of economic development, would make smallpox eradication possible. In joining the international battle against smallpox, then, the United States hoped modern means would deliver modern ends and help countries develop their “human resources” and their economies. Planning and Executing Eradication and Development As the CDC and WHO planned their smallpox eradication programs, ambivalence about the linkage between smallpox eradication and eco-

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nomic development continued. To prepare the SMP staff for their work in Western and Central Africa, the CDC crafted a two-month-long training course and a 272-page “manual of operations.”25 Together, the manual and training covered a wide variety of topics, from West African history and languages to vaccination procedures and maintenance of the Ped-O-Jet vaccination guns. SMP training and the manual of operations deliberately sidestepped messy political and socioeconomic issues, instead seizing on the relative simplicity of vaccination—a straightforward procedure that, thanks to temporary vaccination stations and mobile vaccination teams, required little to no investment in public health infrastructure. Moreover, the SMP focused on a clear goal: the eradication of smallpox and the control of measles (although this latter element introduced problems, as will be discussed later). Similarly, the WHO manual, the “Handbook for Smallpox Eradication Programmes in Endemic Areas,” emphasized efficient application of scientific knowledge to the problem of smallpox, such as sophisticated survey sampling techniques to gauge effective vaccination rates. The WHO’s approach was in some ways even simpler than the CDC’s; the WHO recommended vaccination by bifurcated needle (a two-pronged pin that delivered precisely the correct amount of vaccine) rather than the relatively complex and expensive Ped-O-Jet vaccination gun. At the same time that the CDC and WHO focused on the specific means of vaccination and the narrow objective of disease elimination, their plans also suggested that more was at stake. The SMP training manual occasionally referred to broader objectives: the program would train local health officials and workers in some basic principles of epidemiology, which might help future disease control programs, and the manual expressed a vague hope that “supervisory resources will be expanded within the country.”26 The WHO was even more explicit about the role of smallpox eradication in a country’s public health infrastructure and, more broadly, economic development.27 In examining the causes of endemic smallpox, the WHO handbook explained: “A fertile soil is provided especially in the lowest socio-economic sectors, where response to vaccination is normally poor, where unprotected individuals from unvaccinated rural areas commonly migrate, where maintenance vaccination programmes are difficult to carry out and where birthrates are high.”28 Poverty, poor education, rural–urban labor migration, poorly coordinated public health infrastructure, high birthrates—these are all markers of underdevelopment, and they all provided a “fertile soil” for the spread of smallpox. A section of the handbook titled “Smallpox Eradication and the General Health Services” elaborated

Figure 3.1. Smallpox Endemicity, 1955. Source: Untitled CDC publication, 1955. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention Public Health Image Library, ID 5665, accessed February 24, 2016, http://phil.cdc.gov.

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on this connection between the disease and development. Smallpox vaccination campaigns could help “in breaking the vicious circle of excessive sickness, low productivity, and poverty”; the eradication of smallpox could help unleash a society’s economic potential.29 For planners at the WHO (and, less explicitly, at the CDC), the science of smallpox eradication represented an important objective that could and should contribute to the “ultimate goal” of comprehensive and long-term health improvement. In executing these plans, CDC and WHO health workers and their national counterparts in eradication programs focused day-to-day on the technical and logistical challenges of eliminating smallpox, not on developing local economies. Reports filed by CDC staff in West and Central Africa dealt with topics directly relevant to the goal of smallpox eradication: morbidity and mortality tables, vaccination rates and coverage, descriptions of recent outbreaks, and plans for upcoming vaccination campaigns.30 To execute vaccination programs, the SMP did not try to develop long-term health-care infrastructure—after all, that was part of the promise of smallpox eradication, which would require no such investment!—but instead drew on immediate and often imported tools, including Michigan-made Dodge trucks and vaccination guns from New Jersey. The same was largely true of the WHO smallpox eradication program. Vaccinators demonstrated remarkable determination in pursuing smallpox eradication: hitching rides on elephants, timing vaccination campaigns to coincide with nomadic movements, bribing reluctant children with chocolate, and other creative innovations that developed local smallpox immunity rather than local economies. Most tellingly, as the smallpox eradication program developed in the field, the CDC and WHO settled on a vaccination strategy that precluded broader objectives: “surveillance-containment,” which focused on quickly identifying and snuffing out smallpox outbreaks, rather than engaging in lengthier mass vaccination campaigns that might identify and perhaps even address other health problems. Some CDC staffers and national health officials in Western and Central Africa specifically complained (rightly so) that surveillance-containment would undermine efforts to control measles—the second (and for many African health officials and patients, more important) objective of the CDC’s Smallpox Eradication and Measles Control Program.31 In practice, then, rather than pursuing the vaguely defined “ultimate goal” of “long-range health development,” the day-to-day work of CDC and WHO vaccinators aimed at the immediate goal of smallpox eradication, leaving the matter of modernization for another day, project, or agency.

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Figure 3.2. Tony Masso, CDC, examining a child in Niger. Source: The Global Health Chronicles, accessed February 24, 2016, http://www.globalhealthchronicles.org/items/show/3374.

At the same time, their day-to-day work exposed eradication staff to situations that pointed to deeper, more fundamental problems. In their field reports and correspondence with each other, SMP and SEP staff often noted challenges and problems that obliquely suggested a relationship between modernization and eradication. Poor roads that slowed vaccination campaigns, local “superstitions” about smallpox and improper “education” about vaccination, insufficient (or nonexistent) public health infrastructure—when field staff complained about these issues, they were complaining about a country’s lack of economic development. When Tony Masso arrived to work for the SMP in Niger in 1967, he remembers “people literally with no more than one little clay pot and a little fire and a few seeds . . . moving from place to place on the back of a donkey. I remember many times I’d say to myself, people shouldn’t be living in places like this.”32 Exposed to such environments—in the language of the time, such undeveloped, backward environments—field staff in the SMP and SEP had to reassess their diagnosis of the problem of endemic smallpox. Masso, White, and their international colleagues were dealing not just with a lack

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of immunity, but with a lack of economic development. Faced with such a fundamental challenge, they had to ask themselves, in the words of William White, “What were we accomplishing?” Assessing the Value of Smallpox Eradication There were, and are, at least three answers to White’s question. The first is that the SMP and SEP accomplished the first and to date only deliberate elimination of a human disease in history. That simple and important fact was quantified in more detail in post-eradication assessments by the CDC and WHO. In 1971, USAID commissioned an independent report on the CDC’s SMP by four consultants from the American Public Health Association, who concluded that the campaign against smallpox had delivered a clear victory. The report noted the impressive immunization total of “more than 122,000,000 individuals against smallpox,” which had led to the disease’s absence since May 1970.33 Measles control produced more ambiguous results: although the disease “continues as a serious epidemic disease in some countries,” the vaccination of 20 million children prevented “untold morbidity and mortality from measles.” The WHO’s official history of the global program, Smallpox and Its Eradication (published in 1988), quantified the results of this remarkable effort: the prevention of 10–15 million cases—and 1.5–2 million deaths—of smallpox per year.34 Clearly, the elimination of all that death and suffering counts as a significant—and, it bears repeating, still unique—accomplishment. The second answer quantifies and justifies that accomplishment using the language and logic of economic development. According to the USAID consultants, the SMP “contributed substantially to the permanent growth and improvement of the socio-economics of the countries concerned.” The consultants even calculated the precise value of this contribution: assuming that vaccination increased the number of males surviving past the age of fifteen who then entered the labor force, the CDC’s efforts provided total benefits of $601 million. The WHO, too, sought to quantify the value of smallpox eradication. In May 1980, the same month that the World Health Assembly officially declared the eradication of smallpox, the WHO’s magazine, World Health, was devoted entirely to the subject of smallpox’s demise, and included a brief piece, called “A Windfall for Development,” authored by James Magee, the SEP’s publicity officer.35 “Calculations indicate that in the post-smallpox era a sum of nearly US $1,000 million annually,” would be

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saved because smallpox eradication had eliminated the costs of protecting against smallpox. All that money “could have massive impact,” continued Magee, “provided it is diverted to development programmes” such as clean water and sanitation, nutrition, maternal and child care, drug availability, oral rehydration kits (to combat diarrheal diseases), and, of course, immunization. From this perspective, eliminating smallpox freed up resources for broader public health efforts as part of a broader economic development strategy. Smallpox and Its Eradication included an even more precise accounting of savings in the developing world: $1 billion per year from “diminished economic productivity” caused by smallpox, $50 million per year from smallpox vaccination, and $20 million per year for the care of smallpox patients. All of this cost the international community just $98 million—a significant accomplishment for economic development.36 The third answer to White’s question is more ambivalent: yes, one of the most ambitious public health programs ever devised actually succeeded in saving millions of lives every year, but, somehow, that is not quite good enough. Today, some of that reservation stems from the limits of smallpox eradication that persistently appear in the news: concerns about the use of smallpox as a bioweapon or the discovery of unknown vials of the virus.37 The eradicators, then, did not achieve total and permanent victory against smallpox; the disease is gone, while the virus lives on as a phantom threat that will never disappear. But different, deeper concerns troubled William White and other participants in the eradication program when they discussed the limits of their work: smallpox eradication, they feared, did not do “anything to change the economy.” Such concerns and questions about the relationship between eradication and development were implicitly present from the first proposals for a global program, even as those proposals deliberately avoided the complexity of economic development. As eradication plans developed at the CDC and at WHO, and as those plans were executed in the field, smallpox eradication and broader development goals became more closely associated. By the end of the program, the potential of smallpox eradication to deliver economic development had become explicit, leading to higher expectations for, and ambivalent assessments of, the accomplishments of global smallpox eradication.

Chapter 4 “Dermatoglyphics” and Race after the Second World War The View from East Asia Daniel Asen

Following the clash of Japanese and Chinese Nationalist soldiers in the vicinity of the Marco Polo Bridge in July 1937, Beijing was occupied by Japanese forces amid an expanding regional war that lasted until the defeat of Japan in the Second World War. At Beijing University Medical School, faculty from Japanese institutions began to staff academic departments and pursue collaborations with Chinese colleagues that built on the school’s two-decade-long history of Sino-Japanese exchange.1 Ueno Shōkichi, an affiliate of Tokyo Imperial University, soon took a position as faculty director of the school’s legal medicine department.2 One of the research projects that Ueno and his associates carried out during their tenure in Beijing was a large-scale “racial biological” (minzoku seibutsugakuteki) study of blood types, fingerprint patterns, and palm patterns of individuals in north China.3 The study drew on decades of research on the fingerprints and other biological parameters of various East Asian populations, many of which had experienced varying degrees of Japanese political and military domination. By the early 1940s, researchers working in various disciplines and in multiple countries—including Japan—had become deeply interested in exploring the scientific research applications of fingerprint patterning, a physical trait that was understood to be in part genetically in-

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herited, unchanging throughout an individual’s lifetime, and impervious to environmental influences. A bit less than forty years later, the anthropologist and medical geneticist Zhang Haiguo began what would be a long career at the Shanghai Second Medical University (later the Jiaotong University School of Medicine). Over subsequent decades, Zhang became the preeminent advocate of “nationality dermatoglyphics” (minzu fuwenxue), a field of study focusing on the scientific analysis of the fingerprint and palm patterning of China’s fifty-six “nationalities” (minzu). By the early 2000s, Zhang and his colleagues had established a massive database of information on the anatomical topography of fingers and palms of those living all across China and belonging to both the majority Han and “minority nationalities.”4 The result of this research has been a scientific representation of China’s population that posits integrated genetic connections across geographical regions and “nationalities,” which are now conceived in biological terms quite different from the linguistic and cultural criteria originally used to classify these groups. That it is a Chinese community of researchers that now represents the country’s ethnoracial diversity to international academic audiences is itself a historic development. For much of the twentieth century, those affiliated with Japanese anthropology and legal medicine departments had exercised a de facto monopoly over this area of anthropological knowledge about China’s population.5 The decades that elapsed between these two research programs saw the rise and decline of the scientific agenda that animated both: the classification and analysis of fingerprint patterns for purposes of investigating human heredity and “racial” ancestry. In the early decades of the twentieth century, a diverse group of researchers in physical anthropology and other fields carried out this work. By mid-century, this field had acquired the status of a scientific discipline, “dermatoglyphics,” a term coined by American anatomists Harold Cummins and Charles Midlo in 1926.6 Over subsequent decades, and culminating in the post–Second World War period, researchers in dermatoglyphics developed a systematic methodology for investigating and comparing fingerprint and palm patterning as well as organizational structures that could facilitate academic collaboration. A large number of researchers, situated in anthropology, medical genetics, forensic medicine, and other fields, carried out a massive body of research on the ridged skin patterning of fingers, hands, and feet, and the applications that this knowledge might have for the diagnosis of congenital diseases, paternity testing, and other areas of theoretical and practical interest in the life

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sciences.7 Ultimately, however, as the discovery of the double-helix structure of DNA has revolutionized understandings of genetics, the new field of genomics has come to provide tools for addressing the anthropological, medical, and forensic problems to which dermatoglyphics researchers had long dedicated themselves. The ascension of microbiology within human genetics thus led to the culmination of a longer process through which the genetically oriented science of dermal ridge studies has become increasingly “marginal” within the life sciences.8 Throughout the twentieth century, dermatoglyphics researchers have investigated the ethnoracial identity, historical origins, and migrations of human populations, the very same concerns that have informed research in seroanthropology and, more recently, anthropological applications of genomics.9 This research was carried out over a period in which scientific understandings of “racial” identity and difference underwent substantial transformation.10 A basic assumption of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century scientific racism was that biological (racial) inheritance had a determining effect on intelligence, health, tendency toward criminal behavior, and other socially relevant traits and outcomes, a notion that was used to legitimize the hierarchical ordering of races, institutionalized forms of discrimination, and all manner of everyday and extraordinary violence. Some of those who conducted dermal ridge research during this early period did make explicit claims about the relative evolutionary development of different “races,” as well as criminals and other “degenerate” groups, on the basis of theories about the advanced or “primitive” nature of particular patterns.11 A much greater number of dermatoglyphics researchers have investigated the relationships between different groups, conceived similarly as “races,” but without making explicit claims about levels of evolutionary development or hierarchy.12 As Patrick Manning notes in the introduction to this volume, the post–Second World War period has been one in which the idea that “racial hierarchy would no longer be a governing principle of the world order” has been formally accepted in international relations, one element of a broader postwar reaction to Nazi racist ideology and the Holocaust that spawned criticisms of scientific racism even while it revealed the depth of scientific and popular commitments to notions of racial difference.13 A large body of scholarship has shown, moreover, that “race” did not disappear from the life sciences after this point, but rather has been maintained in late twentieth- and early twenty-first-century genetics amid a complex field of political, social, and economic interests.14 By tracing a historical arc extending from Ueno Shōkichi’s early 1940s

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research and its predecessors to the “nationality dermatoglyphics” of present-day China, this chapter explores the ways in which inquiry into ethnoracial difference has been carried out in one field of the life sciences amid profound shifts in the East Asian and international political orders and no less significant transformations in scientific understandings of human genetics and biological difference.15 While this is an “East Asian” story in the sense that research communities, institutions, and politics located in this region take center stage, it is at the same time the story of the formation and development of the discipline of “dermatoglyphics” itself, a largely Anglophone field of knowledge that, it is conventionally narrated, originated in the nineteenth- and early twentieth-century dermal ridge studies of European and North American investigators. I suggest that there are reasons to revise this narrative in order to highlight the roles played by a more geographically dispersed set of actors located in Japan and, more recently, China and the influence they have had on the data sets, methods, and direction of dermal ridge science. Beyond the history of dermatoglyphics itself, the fact that researchers continue to make claims about ethnoracial identity and difference on the basis of fingerprint and palm patterning raises a larger question that is relevant to the history of the post–Second World War life sciences more broadly: what are the commitments—disciplinary, political, and otherwise—that continue to make “race” an object of scientific inquiry in the second half of the twentieth century? Dermal Ridge Research in Early Twentieth-Century East Asia The history of dermatoglyphics that appears in Harold Cummins and Charles Midlo’s synthesis of the field, Finger Prints, Palms and Soles (1943), traces the development of this discipline from ancient carvings and impressions of finger patterns to those modern researchers, beginning with Francis Galton (1822–1911) most immediately, who systematically investigated inheritance, racial variation, and other biological dimensions of finger, palm, and sole patterning.16 In fact, this narrative omitted one of the most important communities of early twentieth-century dermal ridge researchers: those who worked in the anthropology and legal medicine departments of Japan’s universities in the context of the expanding regional claims of the Japanese Empire. Japan’s colonial and military expansion provided opportunities to collect fingerprint data from diverse subject populations, as Ueno’s study in occupied Beijing shows.17 For much of

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the twentieth century, in fact, Japanese researchers held almost exclusive authority over the scientific representation of the palm and fingerprint patterning not only of Japan’s population, but of those in Korea, China, and other areas that had fallen under Japanese domination. In this field as in others, Japanese researchers made internationally recognized scientific contributions that belied their “latecomer” status.18 This reflected the successes of their training, which often combined study abroad, knowledge of German (and other Western languages), and connections with continental European networks of scientific knowledge. The discipline of physical anthropology developed in late nineteenthand early twentieth-century Japan alongside the country’s expanding claims over Hokkaido and colonization of Taiwan, Korea, and other areas in northeast and southeast Asia.19 Scholars such as Oguma Eiji and Tessa Morris-Suzuki have shown that throughout the twentieth century there have been diverse and shifting views on the racial and historical origins of the Japanese vis-à-vis imperial subjects, the extent to which Japan is characterized by racial heterogeneity or homogeneity, and even the explanatory value of biological conceptions of “race” for resolving these questions.20 Overall, however, understanding the origins and “racial” status of the Japanese vis-à-vis Europeans as well as the myriad peoples of the expanding empire constituted a major problem for physical anthropologists, some of whom conducted studies that became part of the body of postwar dermatoglyphics knowledge. This was the case, for example, with Kubo Takeshi, an anatomist who established his academic reputation through detailed studies of Korean bodies, but who also pursued fingerprint studies.21 As Hoi-eun Kim has shown, in 1921 Kubo incited controversy when he made remarks about the racial inferiority of Koreans following the presumed theft of a skull at his academic home institution, Keijō Medical College, in Seoul. This research, conducted under Japan’s colonial relationship with Korea, had far-flung afterlives. When composing their chapter on “racial variation” in Finger Prints, Palms and Soles, Cummins and Midlo drew on Kubo’s research for data on the pattern frequencies of Korean (as well as Japanese and Chinese) fingerprints.22 By the 1920s and 1930s, legal medicine too had emerged as an important disciplinary site for the biologically inclined investigation of fingerprints, much as it had already become for research that used the distribution of blood groups to examine questions of heredity and race across different populations. The legal medicine department of Kanazawa Medical University was one of the most important sites. Furuhata Tanemoto (1891–1975), a

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major figure in the development of serology in Japan who had a long career as director of legal medicine at Kanazawa (1924–36) and Tokyo Medical University (1936–52), played an important role in organizing and overseeing this research.23 Furuhata became quite well known among Euro-American dermal ridge researchers for an article, published in English translation in 1927, that provided an overview of Japanese research on racial variation in fingerprints.24 As we will see, this article influenced the development of Anglophone research both in the raw data that it provided and in Furuhata’s method for comparing “racial” samples. In fact, this short publication merely hinted at the significant interest in fingerprint patterning that underlay research at Kanazawa and other Japanese institutions during this period. Published in national journals of anthropology and legal medicine, Japanese researchers explored various dimensions of the morphology, demographic and racial variation, and genetic inheritance of fingerprint patterning.25 In these studies, the patterned topography of fingers was measured and analyzed in different ways, at times alongside data on the distribution of blood groups and anatomical features. In focusing on statistical comparison of the frequencies of fingerprint patterns (especially arches, loops, and whorls) across different groups, researchers in Japan were following a basic orientation shared by those who worked in this field of research in Europe and America (see figure 4.1). While early proto-dermatoglyphics enthusiasts like Francis Galton and Harris Hawthorne Wilder (1864–1928) were clearly interested in the question of whether particular “types” of fingerprint and palm patterns could be associated with particular “races,” it became apparent very quickly that group differences in these patterns only emerged statistically in a group’s relative proportion of arches, loops, whorls, and other factors.26 Thus, much as in contemporary research on the “racial” distribution of blood groups, the goal of such studies became, in the words of Cummins and Midlo, statistical investigation of the “racial character of a mass sample.”27 Furuhata Tanemoto created a simple way of comparing the fingerprint patterning of different populations by formulating a “fingerprint index” (shimon keisū) that was calculated by dividing the percentage of whorl patterns in a given population by the percentage of loops and multiplying by one hundred.28 By calculating index values on the basis of the data provided in existing studies, Furuhata ordered the world’s major “racial” populations in a scale that ranged from “The West European type” (index value of fifty or lower) to “The Manchurian type” (ninety or higher) and encompassed “The Japanese type” (seventy to ninety), “The Italian type” (sixty to seventy), and “The Indian type” (fifty to sixty).

Figure 4.1. Main fingerprint pattern types: arch, loop, and whorl. Superimposed lines indicate a method for counting ridges within the pattern, a technique used in dermatoglyphics research to measure and analyze the physical form of fingerprints. Source: Sarah B. Holt, The Genetics of Dermal Ridges (Springfield, IL: Charles C Thomas Publisher, 1968),

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Because fingerprint patterns were understood to be a partially inherited trait, the underlying assumption was that similarity in two groups’ ratios of particular patterns indicated a genetic relationship, not simply coincidence or environmental influences. A researcher using such an index could make claims about the origins and identity of groups on the basis of these comparisons. As Furuhata noted of the Ainu, for example, “the Ainu is a race whose anthropological position is undecided. Many investigators seem to deem that they belong rather to the Caucasian than to the Mongorian [sic]. The index of their finger prints being 48.61, the Ainu differ much from the Japanese, the Korean, and the Chinese [who have higher whorl/loop index values], and bear some resemblance to the European [on the basis of their lower whorl/loop index values].”29 Such an index could be used to explore the genetic relationship between any populations for which there was quantitative data on the distribution of fingerprint patterns. For example, a student affiliate of Kanazawa legal medicine used existing data on fingerprints from all across Japan to establish that the population as a whole fell within index parameters established by Furuhata and to elaborate regional differences across the expanse of the home islands.30 When conducting their survey of fingerprints in north China in the early 1940s, Ueno Shōkichi and his associates used several fingerprint indexes, including Furuhata’s, to establish comparisons between their 45,000 test subjects from north China and the data that earlier researchers had collected from Chinese and other groups.31 Upon calculating the index value for the male Chinese test population as a whole (100.86), for example, they found the greatest quantitative similarities with “South Sea natives” (104.67), inhabitants of Chahaer province (106.56), Koreans (101.98), and those in Manchuria and Mongolia (114.88). In subsequent decades, dermatoglyphics researchers used these same techniques to investigate a wide variety of populations.32 Published in German and English, the work of Furuhata Tanemoto, Kubo Takeshi, and other Japanese researchers soon caught the attention of those who were developing dermal ridge studies in Europe and the United States and whose work subsequently formed the basis for Cummins and Midlo’s synthesis of “dermatoglyphics.” For example, the zoologist Harris Hawthorne Wilder, “pioneer investigator of dermatoglyphics” whose right handprint graced the inner cover of Finger Prints, Palms and Soles, drew on the published work of physical anthropologist Hasebe Kotondo (1882–1969) to drastically expand his data set of palm and sole prints.33 This increased sample size allowed Wilder to confirm his own findings regarding anatomical differences across Chinese, Japanese, and Euro-American populations

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as well as the utility of using palmar and plantar ridge patterning to investigate “racial” differences in the first place. Over the 1920s and 1930s other researchers with an interest in fingerprint and palm patterns drew heavily on the works of Japanese researchers for data on populations in China, Japan, and Korea.34 Moreover, the index that Furuhata created was the first of several quantitative measures that were created to compare the frequency of fingerprint-pattern ratios across populations. Furuhata’s whorl/loop index thus became a point of reference for later researchers such as the Dutch anatomist Johan Dankmeijer, who advocated his own whorl/arch index.35 Building an International Discipline: Dermatoglyphics after the Second World War Much work had been done on the biology of fingerprint and palm patterning before the identification of this broad-ranging research agenda with the name “dermatoglyphics.” The creation of this new disciplinary identity for scientific fingerprint studies had a great deal to do with the work of Harold Cummins, who carried out foundational research on different aspects of this field during the 1930s, and coauthored Finger Prints, Palms and Soles in 1943. The latter was especially important for elaborating the scope of dermatoglyphics and its disciplinary identity and status vis-à-vis other fields of the midcentury life sciences. The book provided a methodology for documenting, measuring, and analyzing the skin patterning of palms and fingers as well as an overview of the main areas of research in this field, including the anatomy and embryology of dermal ridge patterns, inheritance and “racial variation,” and the use of dermatoglyphics to investigate various aspects of individual “constitution,” including the diagnosis of medical conditions. It became a foundational text for those engaged in this field and saw practical use by researchers as they carried out their own studies. We can see how this work established a new disciplinary foundation for existing data by examining the chapter on “racial variation.”36 In this chapter, the authors extracted data from numerous existing studies and used Cummins’s own “index of pattern intensity” to rework the data into a new representation of the world distribution of fingerprint patterning. Different from indexes such as Furuhata’s that represented the ratio of particular patterns (for example, the percentage of whorls and percentage of loops), the “index of pattern intensity” indicated the relative number of triradii appearing in the finger patterns of members of a given population. A trira-

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Figure 4.2. The formation of triradii, which are used in the analysis of fingerprint and palm patterns in dermatoglyphics. Source: Sarah B. Holt, The Genetics of Dermal Ridges (Springfield, IL: Charles C Thomas · Publisher, 1968), figure 4, p. 14. Courtesy of Charles C Thomas Publisher, Ltd., Springfield, Illinois.

dius is any point at which three distinct patterned surfaces meet within a single fingerprint, thus constituting loops and whorls (see figure 4.2). The “index of pattern intensity” is computed by adding the percentage of loops in a given population to twice the percentage of whorls and dividing by ten.37 This represents the working principle that loops contain one triradius and whorls two triradii (arches contain zero). Cummins and Midlo reanalyzed other authors’ data according to this index, ordering “racial” populations in a vertical chart according to their index values. In creating this representation of the global distribution of fingerprint patterning, Cummins and Midlo relied heavily on Japanese studies, using these data to establish index values for Chinese, Japanese, Korean, “Formosan Chinese,” “Manchurian Chinese,” and “Aino” populations.38 By providing East Asian data sets that expanded the number of world populations that could be compared, the older Japanese studies thus became part of the conceptual architecture of dermatoglyphics and its construction of “race.” Over the decades following the Second World War, researchers in this field also began to establish new organizational structures. An initial meeting of interested researchers was held at the Second International Conference on Human Genetics in 1961 in Rome, out of which developed International Conferences on Dermatoglyphics, an organization that was reorganized as the International Dermatoglyphics Association (IDA) in 1971.39 While the IDA reflected the significant influence of Anglophone researchers in the field, it also played the role of a genuinely international organization with members from across the globe and the Iron Curtain.40 The IDA sponsored scholarly meetings and issued what was initially called

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the International Dermatoglyphics Association News Bulletin, a publication containing organization business, news of the field, abstracts of papers and ongoing research, and reports of new publications. By the 1980s, the IDA’s newsletter took the form of a journal, Dermatoglyphics: Bulletin of the International Dermatoglyphics Association. By the late 1980s and early 1990s, the IDA had been eclipsed by another organization that provided a similar framework for international exchange, the American Dermatoglyphics Association (ADA).41 The ADA was originally meant to foster regional development of the field within the Americas, with increasing attention given over time to connections in Central and South America.42 This organization became even more “internationalized” over time, eventually accepting participating members from countries beyond this regional orbit as well as a number of former IDA members.43 Much as in the case of the IDA, meetings of the ADA took place in conjunction with other associations such as the American Society of Human Genetics, International Congress of Human Genetics, International Congress of Twin Studies, and American Association of Physical Anthropologists.44 The ADA also issued Newsletter of the American Dermatoglyphics Association, a publication containing organization business, notices of new publications, and research reports. Many arrived at dermatoglyphics in this period from an interest in the developing field of medical genetics. Harold Cummins’s early discovery in the 1930s of the distinctive skin patterning associated with Down syndrome, understood at the time as a disorder called “mongolism,” suggested that dermal ridge analysis might have utility for diagnosing congenital medical conditions.45 This area of dermatoglyphics research and application maintained significance well into the post–Second World War period. As Fiona Miller has shown, for example, Norma Ford Walker’s innovative research at the University of Toronto on the etiology of congenital diseases relied on dermal ridge analysis to assess developmental anomalies that had occurred in the womb and to provide insight into the relative importance of hereditary and other factors.46 Those invested in this field worked under the assumption that investigating the complex set of genetically and developmentally governed traits embodied in the patterning of fingers and palms could contribute to understandings of disease etiology and, eventually, clinical application. By the mid-1970s investigators had conducted a significant amount of research on the relationship between dermatoglyphics and various medical disorders, at times demonstrating correlation between particular disorders and “abnormal” patterning.47

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Researchers in dermatoglyphics also continued to investigate the history and ethnoracial identity of human populations, often focusing on the same kinds of questions that had animated earlier studies. Edited volumes produced under the auspices of the IDA and ADA contained numerous papers on the origins, history, and genetic relationships of populations that were conceived in the same typological terms, even if concepts like “ethnic group” and “population” were used alongside “race” to describe them.48 The rise of genomics, of course, has provided a new set of tools for investigating these same questions. This field has gained tremendous authority since the 1980s and 1990s as it has supplanted anthropologically oriented blood group studies, the “cutting edge” of previous decades. Anthropological studies of the history of different human populations, not to mention commercial ancestry tests, now rely on the collection and comparison of DNA samples.49 This shift in the very foundations of understandings of human genetics has not meant, however, that researchers have stopped using the tools of dermatoglyphics to investigate these same questions. Indeed, researchers still find value in a discipline that, it is commonly assumed, can reveal genetic relationships between individuals and groups through the use of fingerprints—a biological material that is easily collected and analyzed. Turning now to the case of “nationality dermatoglyphics” in post-Mao China, we will explore the complex terrain of technical knowledge and politics on which post–Second World War dermal ridge research is mobilized to investigate the ethnoracial parameters of a national population. “Nationality Dermatoglyphics” in Post-Mao China Researchers in China formed their own academic communities devoted to dermatoglyphics at about the same time that researchers in the Americas formed the ADA. While dermal ridge research carried out for the purposes of investigating ethnic groups had been conducted before the Cultural Revolution, it was not until the early 1980s that institutions were created to support inquiry into this field.50 Initially, these activities were supported under the Genetics Society of China (Zhongguo yichuan xuehui), which established within its Committee on Anthropology and Medical Genetics an organ devoted to research in dermatoglyphics. This organization, which adopted the English name “Chinese Dermatoglyphics Association” (CDA) (Zhongguo fuwenxue yanjiu xiezuo zu), convened its first national conference in October 1982. Since then, it has held conferences on a number of

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occasions, forming the basis for academic exchanges as well as the development of standardized research practices. The current state of dermatoglyphics research in China owes much to Zhang Haiguo, an anthropologist and medical genetics faculty member at Shanghai Jiaotong University School of Medicine. Zhang completed his undergraduate coursework at Fudan University, graduating in 1977 with a specialization in anthropology. According to Zhang’s own recounting, it was during this period that he began to develop an interest in dermatoglyphics, which he first encountered while receiving instruction in physical anthropology. Zhang pursued this line of research following his appointment to a teaching position at the Shanghai Number Two Medical University (Shanghai dier yixueyuan) following graduation from Fudan.51 It was at this point that Zhang became involved in the early efforts to institutionalize dermatoglyphics that were just beginning among anthropologists and medical geneticists in China.52 By the mid-1980s, Zhang had taken formal leadership positions in the CDA, which he was presiding over as the organization’s director by 1998.53 Over this same period, Zhang established contact with both the IDA and ADA, introduced the CDA to members of these organizations, and disseminated the findings of Chinese researchers’ studies through these organizations’ English-language bulletins.54 A major focus of this community of dermatoglyphics researchers has been the collection and analysis of palm and fingerprint samples from China’s officially recognized ethnic groups, or “nationalities” (minzu). In the mid-1950s, linguists, ethnologists, and the newly established communist state began the momentous task of creating a manageable ethnic classification scheme in the diverse southwestern province of Yunnan.55 In subsequent decades, this scheme was extended to the entire country, thus establishing the existence of fifty-six discrete “nationalities,” with the majority “Han” accounting for over 90 percent of China’s population. “Nationality dermatoglyphics” (minzu fuwenxue), as conceived by Zhang Haiguo and his colleagues, has involved the creation of a massive database of information on the finger, palm, and, in some cases, sole patterning of all of China’s minzu. While Zhang has personally collected some of these data, much of it has been extracted from decades of work published by biology, anatomy, and genetics researchers and medical clinicians working in more than forty medical schools, research institutes, hospitals, and clinics across China. In collecting and analyzing these data, researchers have broadly adopted protocols based on Cummins and Midlo’s methodology for examining the skin patterning of palms and fingers.56

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Over the past decade, Zhang and his colleagues have published broad analyses of these data in both Chinese and English.57 In carrying out these studies, Zhang has followed the conventions and methodologies used in other studies of the anthropometric and genetic parameters of China’s population. For example, these works rely on cluster analysis to group minzu samples according to the similarity of values across eleven categories that include total finger ridge count, frequencies of arches, loops, and whorls, and other variables representing the anatomical topography of the palm. On this basis, Zhang has argued that China’s population can be grouped broadly into Southern and Northern as well as “mixed” (hunhe) transitional groupings.58 This research thus corroborates other anthropometric and genetic studies that claim the Yangtze River as a significant dividing line in the distribution of human genetic diversity in China.59 At the same time, Zhang also claims that a “racially” homogeneous foundation lies beneath this regional diversity.60 Because the Han and Zhuang nationalities are of the “same race” (tongyi renzhong), for example, the dermatoglyphic differences that exist between them are less pronounced than those that exist between the “Mongolian race” and the “Caucasian race.”61 The political implications of this research are clear from the title of an article on the state-run online news service Xinhuanet that presents Zhang’s findings to a popular readership: “Our country has completed a study of skin-patterns: the Chinese nation (Zhonghua minzu) has been one family since ancient times.”62 This claim regarding the historical and biological cohesion of China’s population is based on the finding that the dermatoglyphic characteristics of all minzu cluster into a small number of cohesive groups that are firmly identified with major geographical regions of China. That even samples from an “outlying” area such as Tibet, for example, have been found to cluster with the Northern group suggests the extent to which China’s population is biologically integrated, at least according to the analysis of dermatoglyphic patterns.63 These claims also rest on the finding that samples identified as “Han” are found to cluster with a variety of other nationalities across the North/South spectrum.64 Zhang has interpreted this finding as evidence of a long history of cultural and biological exchanges between the Han and China’s other minzu, a process in which they have become entangled biologically as well as politically. As noted in the Xinhuanet report, “this proves that the Chinese nation is both plural and one.”65 The ambition of investigating the biological parameters of China’s population—including through the use of fingerprint and palm patterning—is

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not new. This “dream” (mengxiang), as it has been described by Zhang Haiguo, is not fundamentally different from the goals of the similarly ambitious research program of Ueno Shōkichi or other Japanese researchers who, as Zhang himself has acknowledged, initiated the work of “nationality dermatoglyphics” in the first decades of the twentieth century.66 There are differences, of course, and they are significant. Contemporary dermatoglyphics researchers have access to data collected from across China, especially the tremendously diverse southwest. More important, it is now Chinese researchers who hold the authority to set the terms on which the genetic diversity of the country’s population is known, and to represent this knowledge to “international” communities of dermatoglyphics and life sciences researchers. As a result, “nationality dermatoglyphics” is carried out in support of a state-sponsored classification scheme that is meant to facilitate the practical governance and political legitimacy of the People’s Republic of China. In this sense, this research program is hardly unique, but rather suggests a pattern that is observable in other countries as well: populations that are conceived from the outset as national populations—an a priori political and social assumption—are investigated, classified, and in the process reified through the production of biological knowledge.67 The drive to carry out such research in the first place generally derives from the fact that building modern nation-states requires establishing an authoritative knowledge of the population and its diversity, whether conceived in ethnolinguistic or “racial” terms.68 Ultimately, however much scientific theorizations of “race” have changed over the course of the twentieth century, the imperative to craft a compelling representation of national community using authoritative knowledge associated with science has not. Institutional power and everyday social assumptions thus continue to legitimize the pursuit of ethnoracial knowledge as an area of scientific research. The history of dermatoglyphics provides a unique perspective on the ways in which scientific constructions of human difference have shifted over the course of the twentieth century as well as the complex continuities underlying this process. Initially, dermal ridge studies grew out of the concerns and methods of physical anthropology. Over time, the field developed affinities with the new genetically oriented science of blood groups, a discipline that similarly focused on genetic markers understood to be immune to environmental influence and irrelevant to the selection of mates.69 Some researchers—for example, Furuhata Tanemoto—were involved in

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both fields, and the interdisciplinary connections undergirding this field developed in new ways in the post–Second World War period as medical genetics became an increasingly important site for experimentation with dermatoglyphics. While the anthropological use of dermatoglyphics, much like its medical applications, might appear to be “outdated” today in comparison to techniques associated with serology and genomics, it is important to acknowledge that over the twentieth century many researchers viewed the ridged skin of fingers and palms as promising evidence for the investigation of genetic relationships and biological inheritance.70 It is also important to acknowledge that subsequent iterations of genetic knowledge—most recently genomics—have been mobilized to investigate the histories of “culturally and politically meaningful human groups” as well, the very area of research that has so long driven the development of dermal ridge science.71 A broad geographical perspective is important for investigating the history of race and racism as they have been negotiated across intersecting fields of state, society, and science in different national and regional contexts. Seemingly universal concerns with biologically based identities, racial science, and eugenics take on different forms and have different meanings in different places.72 At the same time, the transnational circulation and exchange of data and techniques across multiple directions and different (and shifting) “centers” and “peripheries” of science have also been important themes in the construction of scientific knowledge about race. This chapter has briefly described the process through which the particular form of “dermatoglyphics” formulated by Cummins and Midlo and embodied in Anglophone scholarship and institutional structures such as the IDA and ADA attained the status of a universal “international standard” in the post–Second World War period.73 This same history, I have suggested, must also be understood as part of a century-long process of discipline building that has occurred at national, regional, and international scales of activity, significant dimensions of which occurred in East Asia. Thus, in applying “Cummins’ standard or the Euro-American standard,” as Zhang Haiguo and his colleagues have described their methodology, dermatoglyphics researchers in China are in fact using a body of knowledge that has complex historical linkages to the geographic regions in which it is now being used.74 Finally, this chapter has highlighted the agency of non-Euro-American actors, institutions, and politics in the making of scientific knowledge about race as well as in the organization of international scientific collaborations

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during the twentieth century. The present moment is one in which much innovation in genomics research and biotechnology is taking place in research institutes and companies that are located outside of long-standing Euro-American centers of scientific research and that involve new kinds of regional and international collaborations as well as new ways of imagining the political identities and economic interests of emerging regional collectivities.75 A deeper understanding of the full range of actors and interests that played a role in shaping the modern history of race and science can provide useful context for understanding the new collaborations, forms of knowledge, and politics of difference and identity that the globalized life sciences of the twenty-first century will undoubtedly continue to produce.

Chapter 5 Global Epidemiology, Local Message Sino-American Collaboration on Cancer Research, 1969–1990 Lijing Jiang

No matter where it occurs, cancer is a terrible disease. By the late twentieth century, it had become a common health problem in industrialized nations and was known as “the emperor of all maladies.” It is now well recognized that in the United States, a government-sponsored “war on cancer” mobilized the postwar life sciences in the 1970s to unveil etiology and establish a cure.1 At about the time President Nixon gave his second State of the Union address in which he announced “an intensive campaign to find a cure for cancer,” a lesser-known cancer program of yet a larger scale took place in the vast rural areas of China. Instead of a cure, the Chinese campaign first sought prevention through involving contributions from the rural masses. Chinese cancer researchers, many of whom had been sent down to rural regions to be reeducated during the Cultural Revolution, coordinated with local governments, health workers, and medically trained peasants known as barefoot doctors to conduct surveys, chart mortality rates, investigate oncogenic environmental factors, and carry out trials. As Nixon knocked on China’s door and the diplomatic relations between the United States and China began to recover in the 1970s, researchers of the two campaigns eventually met and learned from each other during a series of exchange activities on science, art, and sports, including the famous “ping-pong diplomacy.” Instead of simply offering scientific tourism that 78

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characterized many research interactions of that time, discussions about cancer between the two countries led to scientifically meaningful conversations and eventually to a productive collaboration. It would hardly be surprising, however, that at times the lessons that the two parties learned were different in both scientific and societal aspects.2 These international exchanges spearheaded a larger process through which the Chinese life sciences in general were rapidly updated with advanced molecular biotechnology, high-end diagnostic and radiation machines, and clinical trials that met international standards. American visitors interested in cancer research, on the other hand, were impressed not only by certain ingenious, low-cost diagnostic and research designs that they found in rural centers on cancer surveillance but also by what they saw as an effective social organization of health surveys and prevention campaigns, accomplished with mass mobilizations unseen in the United States. In particular, American researchers were fascinated by a nationwide cancer mortality survey in progress showing that some cancers uncommon in the United States had exceptionally high rates in certain regions in China, such as the high rates of esophageal cancer in Lin County, liver cancer near Shanghai, and lung cancer in Xuanwei County, Yunnan. Most follow-up collaborations, perhaps not surprisingly, dealt with topics of epidemiology, some of which looked into nutritional influence on cancer rates. These interests certainly did not emerge only because of the unusual epidemiological patterns found in China. Before the collaboration, American critics had already singled out epidemiological and nutritional research on cancer as an underrepresented research area in the United States and had lobbied for additional support toward these directions from the National Cancer Institute (NCI). At least in T. Colin Campbell’s case, studies in China lent reference points to a poignant critique that interference of research based on commercial interest of tobacco, chemical, and food industries led to a lopsided American focus on a cure instead of seeking potentially more effective measures in public health. Chinese researchers initially saw the self-directing criticisms uttered by their American collaborators as irrelevant to China’s circumstances, although, much to their chagrin, the reform era would soon bring these problems of commercialization and diet into the reality of Chinese science and policy. The increasing activities in Sino-American scientific exchange in the 1970s brought about a series of events that started the mutual discovery of the two countries, often bridged by academic interest, after more than two decades of relative isolation. The decade of the 1970s also bridged China’s

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Cultural Revolution that officially ended in 1976 and the economic reform that started in 1978. In the late 1960s, when the Cultural Revolution went through its most intensive years, almost all intellectuals, artists, and scientists were persecuted and sent down to rural regions to be reeducated. The economic reform that reintroduced market values to Chinese society also signified the reestablishment of these experts as important for the country’s recuperation from the earlier decade. Straddled between the two signposts in history that marked the nadir and the revival of experts’ role in society, these exchanges were particularly telling of the changing organization of science while China went through its own transition to capitalist redevelopment. Previous studies of Sino-American scientific exchange since the 1970s usually emphasized, often rightfully, such exchange’s influence on developments in science, education, and policy on the Chinese side.3 The series of exchanges started after Nixon’s 1972 visit had brought in opportunities of research and learning for a number of persecuted or isolated science workers in China, and eventually opened up ways for a large number of Chinese students and researchers to study in the United States. Although visiting American scientists had a high level of interest in Chinese science as well, it is often unclear what they learned from a short tour in studying China’s science of “self-reliance.” As Sigrid Schmalzer has pointed out, these exchanges have involved constructions of meanings and differences of sciences between both countries, sometimes serving as a reference point for some American scientists (such as entomologists) to criticize unfavorable trends back home.4 This chapter offers a different case with which American scientists criticized the narrow focus of the oncogenes in American cancer research. In the 1970s, as studies of how certain viruses and genetic mutations cause cancer became dominant among cancer researchers in the United States, a handful of researchers started to resist such dominance and to argue that these programs that focused on a cancer cure would be fruitless. A better approach would be based on prevention through proper nutritional intake, a balanced diet, and an environment free of carcinogens. These American dissenters found a ready reference point in the Chinese research on cancer epidemiology. In addition, with the contributions from several Chinese cancer epidemiologists and experimental biologists, hundreds of working staff including barefoot doctors, and a vast number of Chinese peasants donating blood and urine samples, the chapter shows an area for which Chinese collaborators and population offered both ingenuities and a tremendous amount of material and labor to global life sciences.

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Taking advantage of biomedical bodies in a faraway land for epidemiological research was hardly a new strategy in American biomedicine. As Adriana Petryna and several other scholars have shown, since the foundation of an industry of outsourcing standardized clinical trials offshore in the 1970s, American epidemiologists have been on the lookout for a relatively homogeneous population uncontaminated by excessive drug use, which could give quick turnaround for testing new drugs newly issued from pharmaceutical companies. Fraught with complex ethical issues about safety, risk, compensation, and inequality that informed consent forms usually could not address adequately, these outsourced clinical trials, as well as collections of human biological samples for biomedical research done far afield, usually ended up reaffirming the global economic health inequality and neocolonial hierarchies.5 The surveillance of nutritional state and cancer epidemiology that American researchers carried out in rural China was certainly part of the larger search for relatively isolated, homogeneous human subjects ideal for studies of certain diseases. In addition, frozen samples of the collected blood eventually were stored away at several research centers located in the United States, Britain, and Europe for future research use for many other purposes. Campbell nevertheless had gingerly tried to avoid various ethical pitfalls in using the Chinese blood, turning down requests to use these blood samples for testing trace content of opium or AIDS viruses, for example. The overall scheme still recapitulated a pattern of extracting “raw materials” from third world countries for the benefits of biomedicine done in the West.6 However, the collaboration also involved relatively high levels of participation and contribution from Chinese scientists and research associates. How did the participation of local actors of different social backgrounds make the case of Sino-American cancer research different from recruitments and uses of human subjects in other cases in which Western scientific dominance was more explicit? Did the special social organization of the research as well as the knowledge generated from it actually help to transform the gene-centric research paradigm in American cancer research? Or did it instead transmit the “American” biocapital value of human subjects to the Chinese research community? What do answers to these questions tell us about the potentials and limitations of transnational flows of materials and expertise in global biomedical research? With these questions in view, this chapter traces the cause, process, and effect of collaboration between the United States and China on cancer research and shows both its success in combining tactics of two national

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biomedical campaigns against cancer and its limitation in framing it as completely scientific in nature with little political implication. Through examining the research operations, institutional steps, and scientific connections that forged these collaborations, I show that the material, manpower, and political bases for collaboration were for the most part legacies of the Chinese Cultural Revolution. However, these collaborations were framed only in the name of science, masking what else was at stake for researchers of the two countries. Therefore, although the transnational epidemiological research powerfully catalyzed the modernization of China’s biotechnology, during the commercialization of the medical system in the era of economic reform, similar projects eventually lost crucial access to the manpower and biological resources originally set up for “cancer research for the people.” At the same time, as some American scientists cited cancer research in China in contradistinction to American projects, they soon found that their criticisms could also apply to Chinese science and society in rapid westernization. The chapter gives an overall outline of the two countries’ approaches to cancer, their initial scientific exchange, and eventually the collaborative process, using the 1983 nutritional survey, known as the “China Study,” as a concrete case to illuminate various points. Different Origins and Tactics of Two “Wars” on Cancer With both countries using military metaphors, the two approaches to cancer nevertheless reflected diverging concerns about what were the proper means and ends of a biomedical warship. While the rhetoric of the American case positioned the war on disease as a more positive target than the conflict in Vietnam, the Chinese campaign used the term “war” to indicate a reliance on biomedical science as a tactic similar to the strategy of the people’s war that mobilized mass efforts and creativity. The successful deployment of the latter strategy, with communist rural guerrilla warfare, was believed to have played a deciding role during the Chinese Communist Revolution.7 This difference in understanding of tasks at hand led to distinct research promises, products, and organizations of the cancer campaigns in the two geopolitical contexts. The political force behind the U.S. National Cancer Act of 1971 was initially lobbied for by a small number of powerful citizens who had strong hopes that the postwar medical-industrial complex would conquer a number of fatal diseases.8 Since its planning stages, the mission-oriented goal and the legislative means of the act received considerable criticism regarding the possible consequences of

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guiding research to dead ends and wasting resources. Critics believed that the resources used to search for an elusive cure could instead be spent on more effective public health measures, for example.9 With the budgetary boost for cancer research after the passing of the act, at least fifteen new cancer research centers were established at various academic institutions, with a large number of biomedical researchers taking the opportunity to reformulate ongoing research topics to relate to the problem of cancer, such as those involved with cancer viruses and the mitosis of eukaryotic cells.10 From the cancer virus research in the early 1970s to the expanding oncogene paradigm in the 1980s, basic molecular research on cancer expanded into a gigantic enterprise, a peculiar bandwagon, in late twentieth-century American life sciences.11 While the central players in the American war on cancer were powerful citizen activists, politicians, and scientific experts, the Chinese campaigns in the 1970s featured the participation of a large number of health workers, barefoot doctors, and local cadres, along with scientists. These players mobilized peasants in collecting data in the vast rural lands. To a certain extent, the campaign bore the hallmarks of a rural mass movement, and occasionally claimed “nationwide alignment” (quanguo da chuanlian), a traveling scheme for Red Guards in the early years of the Cultural Revolution, as a working mode for scientists traveling between villages and coordinating surveys. Instead of a cure, participants were seeking preventive measures based on Mao’s directive for medicine: “Put prevention first.”12 Although in many cases, prevention was translated to mean early diagnosis and treatment, in areas where environmental, dietary, and habitual factors seemed to incur high rates of cancer, residents were mobilized to reduce these cancer-causing factors with bona fide preventive campaigns. The contrast in priorities and organizations between the two campaigns across the Pacific Ocean seems to reinforce a widely accepted notion in the field of science and technology studies that the dominant means of knowledge production is reflective of a social order within a certain society.13 Certainly, the political emphasis on developing medicine for the peasantry and the Down to the Countryside Movement for urban youth during the Cultural Revolution (1966–76) provided a desirable social underpinning as well as a literate, trainable workforce for large-scale rural epidemiological research. However, Chinese researchers had also learned from earlier international experience that indigenous work in local epidemiology often interested foreign colleagues more than projects that mimicked the study of cancer through cell or molecular biology already well established in the Western world.

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The largest public health enterprises in the early years of Communist China were devoted to disseminating hygienic knowledge and mobilizing citizens to eliminate parasites, such as the waterborne snails responsible for transmitting schistosomiasis. Between the 1950s and 1970s, life expectancy in China increased by about twenty years, from forty to sixty-one years, largely due to these public health measures. Rising life expectancy made cancer a more visible health problem within the population.14 In 1958, after victory was claimed in eliminating schistosomiasis, cancer was singled out as a disease that called for specialized hospitals and laboratories. Several specialty hospitals and research centers were established in large cities, such as Beijing Ritan Hospital (established in 1958). Initial efforts were devoted to cancers with relatively high frequency in China such as liver cancer and esophageal cancer, as well as to less common ones, such as cervical cancer, which nevertheless had been widely studied internationally. Biochemistry, cytogenetics, morphological studies, and epidemiology were among the topics investigated.15 In 1960, Chen Ruiming (陈瑞铭, 1915–94, PhD 1951, University of Cambridge), a cell biologist who worked at the Institute of Experimental Biology of the Chinese Academy of Sciences (CAS) in Shanghai, established one of the first human liver cancer cell lines from tissues excised from a fifty-six-year-old male patient.16 However, researchers such as Li Bing (李冰, 1920–2002), the assistant director of the Beijing Ritan Hospital, sensed at the Moscow Cancer Congress in 1962 that the Chinese projects closely attuned to the world development of cancer biology were often seen as banal copies of what was already established in scientifically advanced countries. Relatively low-tech screenings and surveys of cervical cancer rates in Chinese urban areas, in contrast, were instead appreciated as a novel contribution.17 The physician Li Bing would become an important leader of etiological studies of esophageal cancer in Lin County and of a large-scale nationwide cancer mortality survey in the 1970s. Both projects would gain international reputations and become attractions, often the raison d’être, for American cancer researchers to visit China. Li’s father, Li Kenong (李克农, 1899–1962), had been a prodigious intelligence agent planted in the Guomindang party during the Communist Revolution and was placed in high leadership after 1949. Li Bing had thus maintained a personal relationship with Premier Zhou Enlai since her youth, and later served as Mao Zedong’s personal physician for some time. Because of the wartime circumstances, Li missed the opportunity to get a doctorate degree and had only graduated from a nursing school. While practicing in the 1940s

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in Yan’an, Li learned surgical techniques from physicians, including the Soviet surgeon Andrei Orlov. This unusual background, in fact, became an asset for her under the Communist state as she acquired a leadership role in several cancer research projects. With close ties to party leadership and having been trained in Communist Yan’an, Li and projects under her name were relatively immune from the devastating persecutions that intellectuals usually endured during the Anti-Rightist Movement and the Cultural Revolution. During the Cultural Revolution, she actually managed to recall back to Beijing some cancer researchers who had already been sent down to rural locations, and even established an English study group in the Beijing Ritan Hospital.18 In 1969, when most Chinese academic institutions remained paralyzed, Li was appointed director of the newly established National Office for Research on Cancer Prevention and Treatment that led thirteen coordinating research groups dispersed throughout the nation. With Premier Zhou’s strong support, cancer epidemiological research not only continued throughout the rest of the Cultural Revolution but also unexpectedly benefited from involving the rural masses.19 Although Li managed to stay in Beijing, political activities dominated daily work and frustrated the research group. Lin County, where the esophageal cancer rate (approximately 10 percent) was extremely high, was one of the destinations where Beijing’s intellectuals and youth were sent down to be reeducated. Some of Li’s former colleagues were sent down and lived there. In 1969, Li asked to be sent there as well. After her request was fulfilled, she joined coworkers in Lin County, an arid, mountainous area in the northeastern corner of Henan Province.20 As early as 1965, in the wake of the issuance of the new health work guideline known as the June 26 Directive, researchers from the Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences (CAMS) visited Lin County to exercise Mao’s new directive, “putting emphasis on rural areas in medical and health work.”21 As Li and others picked up earlier contacts and started to study cancer in 1969, they formed a research squad consisting of about forty researchers from CAMS who frequently traveled among villages within Lin County. As the squad was screening esophageal cancer among local peasants, hypotheses were raised about the potential causal roles of water, food contamination, and dietary habits in the area’s high cancer rate. Barefoot doctors were then a major group of part-time health workers; originally peasants, they had been trained and were now filling positions in the new Maoist three-tiered rural health-care system. Coordinating with barefoot doctors as well as local cadres, the research squad developed prevention campaigns to advocate

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drinking purified water, avoiding moldy food and pickled vegetables, and changing insalubrious dietary habits.22 County officials were soon enamored with the prevention campaigns and planned to expand esophageal cancer research in the county. Initially, two hotel rooms at the commune of Yao Village were revamped for laboratory space. In 1973, the county government eventually built a two-story laboratory for the shared research use of the Beijing research squad and the Henan Provincial Coordinating Group for Cancer Research and Prevention.23 One goal of the researchers during residence in Lin County was to design a noninvasive, low-cost screening method. In the late 1950s, the usual diagnostic procedure was to use the esophagoscope, a painful process that involved inserting a metal tube into the esophagus. The method often induced minor bleeding, and led some peasants to describe it wryly as “swallowing the sword.” The esophagoscope was thus dispensed with unless telling symptoms of the cancer had already become apparent. Shen Qiong (沈琼, 1911–2005, MD 1945, National Central University), then a physician working at Henan Medical University, became interested in this technologically challenging problem. Residing with peasants of Lin County, he tested various options for an early diagnosis of esophageal cancer and eventually refined a technique using a gadget made of a net attached to a balloon. The patient would inhale the balloon into the esophagus, and their esophageal epithelial cells would be pulled out together with the net for cytological examination. The technique was improved by the early 1970s and was widely used in Lin County. Its design greatly impressed foreign visitors and was presented as a sign of Chinese medical ingenuity.24 Cancer researchers in other provinces soon followed suit and started to involve rural health workers and sent-down youth to carry out surveys. Chinese cancer surveys certainly did not take place in an ideological vacuum isolated from class struggles and other issues characteristic of the Cultural Revolution. Quite the contrary­—“Mao’s Thoughts” were frequently quoted as doctrinal canons for boosting spirits, justifying ends and means, and warding off criticism. Conflicts among workers on class-struggle issues and material distributions emerged and persisted.25 Quoting from scientists, physicians, patients, and health workers alike, papers had been published to attack cancer agnosticism (aizheng bukezhi lun, the view that the real etiology of cancer could not be fully known) as betraying Marxist dialectical materialism.26 In 1974, the leading Chinese journal on philosophy of science, Natural Dialectics, organized a conference that invited cancer researchers to attest to the victory of the Cultural Revolution. During the conference,

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many spoke enthusiastically about how Mao’s rubrics about “prevention first,” the rural emphasis, and the importance of learning from traditional Chinese medicine had inspired or guided their work. As one example, Gu Jianren (顾建人, born 1932), a cell biologist who by the end of the century had unveiled several oncogenes related to hepatic cancer, was quoted as stating that “cancer cells can be reversed back to normal” due to the theoretical truth of dialectical change.27 Some noted that the viral and immunological studies occupying a predominant share of research energy in the West might be too conservative to compete with the strategy of Mao’s “people’s war” in tackling the cancer problem. Workers and peasants who had recovered from cancer also spoke, usually with extreme optimism and heroism, testifying that with patients’ proper self-directed “thought reform,” cancer could crumble just like a “paper tiger.”28 The series of papers published in Natural Dialectics reached the office of the American Cancer Society as well as the Committee on Scholarly Communication with the People’s Republic of China (CSCPRC) in October 1974, the same year as the conference, and became one of the earliest sources for American scientists to learn about cancer research in China during the later part of the Cold War.29 Wars against Cancer Aligned, or, United States–China Cancer Diplomacy in the 1970s As both countries used military metaphors with disparate understandings of what such metaphors entailed, the leading political headmasters of the cancer campaigns, Nixon and Mao, met in Beijing in 1972. The thaw of Sino-American diplomatic relations, made possible by the U.S.–Soviet diplomatic fallout, was accompanied by a series of exchange activities in science and technology. The U.S. National Academy of Sciences (NAS) Pharmacology Delegation visited China in June 1976 and the nationwide cancer surveys caught its attention.30 In 1977, two U.S. cancer delegations visited, one organized by the American Cancer Society, the other by the CSCPRC. In 1979, the International Agency for Research on Cancer organized a group that visited China for forty days for a technology transfer project. With some of the finest cancer scientists on board, the three delegations were intrigued by both the unique epidemiological patterns of cancers in China and the Maoist science organizations behind the massive surveys.31 Between 1975 and 1978, Li Bing and her colleague Li Junyao (黎钧耀, born 1935) coordinated provincial research groups for the nationwide cancer mortality survey. This coalition was initially motivated by the diagnosis

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of Premier Zhou’s bladder cancer in 1973. To answer Zhou’s call for a system of larger-scale cancer research for the people, the nationwide survey aimed to build upon ongoing local surveys to chart a comprehensive atlas reporting cancer mortality of different types in the country between 1973 and 1975. It was said that approximately one million medical workers were involved in this national survey and within three years, the collection of data from a population of 800 million people in 29 provinces was completed.32 It was perhaps more than a little ironic that while the national survey underwent rapid development under Zhou’s name, the premier himself was already ill at the time, but Mao postponed his surgery until it became too late to delay the premier’s death.33 Meanwhile, American visitors who viewed the data realized the importance of such work, commenting, for example, “It was immediately obvious that this remarkable cancer survey would become the foundation for virtually all substantive collaborative epidemiological programs.”34 In 1979, the survey results were published in the stunningly color-coded, large-print volumes of Atlas of Cancer Mortality in the People’s Republic of China, produced in both English and Chinese. Li Bing and Li Junyao would report these results at the first bilateral Sino-American conference on cancer research held at Columbia University in 1980. By the time of the conference, the Chinese political regime had changed significantly since the start of their nationwide cancer survey. In 1976, the epoch-making leaders of Communist China, Zhou and Mao, had both passed away, leaving the nation’s future path undecided. American visitors would experience sudden cancellations of their exchange trips. And when the exchanges were restored, they would hear about the downfall of the Gang of Four—a four-person clique within Mao’s leadership that was later blamed for the devastating aspects of the Cultural Revolution—and eventually, about the complete negation of such a revolution.35 As economic reform began under the new Deng Xiaoping leadership, and the modernization of China through expert science became a priority, it may have seemed anachronistic and politically incorrect to mention the Maoist mass sciences. Although the survey work had been done much in the ethos of the mass science of the Cultural Revolution, at the Columbia conference, two directors of the survey project introduced their work to American colleagues in exceptionally clean scientific language without stating its complex historical background.36 In the United States, incentives for studying the relation between diet and cancer had been growing since the late 1970s. With the lobbying efforts of a parent association whose members’ children suffered from acute

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lymphoblastic leukemia, the NCI generated the Diet, Nutrition, and Cancer Program in 1974, initially to conduct research on the optimal dietary regime for these sick children.37 As it became apparent that cancer programs focusing on viral causes failed to deliver useful solutions for the treatment of most cancers, a few nutrition scientists pointed out that some cancers might be affected by dietary factors. In particular, advocates of nutritional research cited the growing epidemiological literature showing that Japanese and Polish immigrants had developed cancer rates similar to those of the U.S. population once they adopted the typical American diet. Ernst Wynder rhetorically estimated that nutrition would explain 50 percent of cancer occurrences in the United States, and nutrition research certainly could no longer be easily neglected.38 The etiology and prevention components of cancer research obtained only a quarter of the funding from the Diet, Nutrition, and Cancer Program in the 1970s, and pronouncements like Wynder’s set the stage for an emerging scientific trend that targeted poor diet and nutrition as the major preventable causes of cancer after smoking.39 In 1980, the NCI asked the NAS to conduct a comprehensive survey of the literature on cancer and nutrition and to prepare dietary recommendations. The resulting 1982 report Diet, Nutrition, and Cancer, widely considered an authoritative document, cited a number of nutritional studies in Lin County to support the dietary recommendation of “reducing consumption of smoked and salt-cured food,” while reducing fat intake and generally increasing vegetable and fruit portions.40 Since Lin County and some other counties already had recorded patient populations, and health workers were still in place, some American cancer researchers took fellowships from the NCI and the NAS to visit China in the early 1980s. Many of them chose to study the epidemiology of cancer with particular interest in the links between cancer and environmental factors such as diet, nutrition, and infectious diseases. Connecting Divergent Interests to Transnational Cooperation on Cancer These collaborations primarily followed the signing of a Memorandum of Understanding on November 19, 1979, between the Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences and the National Cancer Institute.41 At the Columbia conference, NAS president Philip Handler noted that among the four areas of future Sino-America collaborations on cancer, the first was epidemiology and the second, carcinogenesis.42 At a time when a number of exchange

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programs on other subjects predominantly benefited Chinese developments, exchanges on cancer research eventually led to meaningful collaborations and left important results on both sides. A major destination, again, was Lin County. Encompassing the Red Flag Canal that was considered a Communist construction miracle, Lin County attracted a large number of tourists during the reform era. It thus had well-constructed facilities and a local government friendly to foreign visitors. More important, in the early 1980s, the medical and production setup established during the Cultural Revolution remained, offering pockets of research centers in rural areas ready to work. From 1980 to 1984, three major conferences were held in the United States for reporting cancer studies in China.43 Major collaborations were formed, for example, to investigate esophageal cancer in Lin County, lung cancer in Shanghai, placenta cancer in Beijing, and stomach cancer in Shandong Province. Researchers learned that some Chinese populations were exposed to high levels of environmental contaminants, while others were subjected to a chronic nutritional deficiency that predisposed its members to certain cancers. Interest from both countries was strong and genuine. Chinese researchers were particularly interested in learning about modern biotechnologies to better detect carcinogens, diagnose cancers, and facilitate surgeries. With funding from the Chinese government, hundreds of Chinese physicians and biomedical researchers visited laboratories in the United States and Europe, working overseas for a short time, learning of advanced techniques and recent developments in science. For example, researchers in Guangxi and Sichuan learned how to conduct the Ames Test, an assay of carcinogens based on mutagenesis in Salmonella strains. By the mid-1980s, these researchers had started to use the assay to detect carcinogens in food, soil, and water sources.44 In 1983, the Chinese Committee on Science and Technology listed cancer research as a key activity in the sixth Five-Year Plan, with research on the molecular biology of cancer as one major focus. Since molecular biomedical investigations had not previously been systematically promoted due to the emphasis on rural medicine and the damaging effects of class struggles in research institutions, some thought that studies of oncogenes represented the actual starting point of molecular biotechnology in China.45 Similar to other areas of exchanges, Chinese American scientists played important roles in the initial communications between the two countries on cancer.46 Frederick Pei Li (born 1940), a Chinese American physician working at NCI’s Epidemiology Branch, visited a number of cancer re-

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search sites in China in 1979 with a CSCPRC exchange fellowship. Along with his wife, Elaine L. Shiang, he reported to the United States extensively on Chinese cancer research.47 The Lis had also helped significantly with the proofreading and editing of the English version of the Chinese Cancer Atlas. Chung S. Yang, a Taiwanese American nutritional biochemist at the University of Medicine and Dentistry of New Jersey, brought his own automatic pipettors and vortex mixers to China in 1980. Working with the local research team, he stayed at Lin County for several months to measure and compare the nutritional status of different villages. Yang published a review summarizing earlier esophageal cancer research in Lin County and eventually facilitated a clinical trial to test whether vitamin supplements would reduce esophageal cancer risk in the county.48 U.S. researchers usually found their collaborators in China through delegation visits or through their students and visiting scholars from China, a group that began to trickle into the American educational system in the early 1980s. By 1985, the NCI had sponsored four major collaboration projects; three had “epidemiology” in their titles and another was a project on the nutrition interventional trial in Lin County. For these projects, Chinese provincial governments and the Chinese Ministry of Health took care of the paychecks for the health workers who were organized to enroll volunteers and collect samples.49 Baruch S. Blumberg, awarded the Nobel Prize in 1976 for the discovery of the hepatitis B virus (HBV), visited China as early as 1977 in hopes of determining whether the high liver cancer rate in China was related to a high rate of the infectious HBV. A talk given at the 1974 International Cancer Congress in Florence, Italy, by the Coordinating Group for Alpha Fetoprotein of Shanghai and Beijing had spurred Blumberg’s plan for such research, which eventually became possible with the increasingly frequent U.S–Chinese interactions and with funding from Fox Chase Cancer Center in Philadelphia. In 1982, Robert S. Chapman brought a high-volume particulate sampler provided by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) to Yunnan Province. This was for a joint project between the EPA and the Chinese National Center for Preventive Medicine to investigate a possible correlation between cancers and domestic indoor pollutants from cooking and heating. The collaboration resulted from the United States–China Protocol for Scientific and Technical Cooperation in the Field of Environmental Protection, and was originally signed by the Chinese government and the EPA in 1980. Following others’ footsteps, George M. Singer from NCI visited Lin County in 1984, and he proposed and carried out the collection of food samples for assessing their carcinogenic content.50

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For American researchers, the special socialist organization of science and medicine for the people in China was no longer explicit. The accelerated rise of neoliberalism in capitalist countries since the late 1970s began to be felt in China. The local patients involved earlier in cancer epidemiological research during the Cultural Revolution now became part of the biocapital newly mined in service of a global science. Their bodies and tissue samples now started to be viewed as resources primarily for the interest of biomedical researchers. The attractions of doing research in China were the epidemiological patterns and possibilities of running more extensive and efficient surveys and clinical trials at a relatively low cost and with abundant patients. As a 1986 NAS report on the U.S.–Chinese educational exchange stated, “While Chinese scientists and researchers receive advanced training and access to up-to-date instrumentation, American laboratories and universities can acquire valuable scientific specimens of cancers that are rare in the United States.”51 Consequently, most of these epidemiological collaborations targeted rural or semirural areas with low population mobilities, high compliance rates, stable dietary and environmental patterns, and research stations whose operation had continued from the 1970s. However, all these favorable factors would soon change during the fast-paced economic reform. In the next section, I illuminate these changes by discussing a 1983 nutritional survey, its divergent interpretations, and its troubled continuation in the changing reform era. Local Interpretations of a Global Nutrition Study Chen Junshi (陈君石, born 1935) and T. Colin Campbell (born 1934) both specialized in nutrition and its relation to diseases. Before their collaboration, both had been concerned about food toxicities, though from quite different perspectives. Campbell graduated with a PhD in nutrition and biochemistry in 1961 from Cornell University. He had been the last student of Clive McCay, who had successfully extended the lives of rats through reduced calorie intake, and was widely recognized as a forerunner of caloric restriction research in modern biogerontology.52 After graduation, Campbell went to the Philippines and encountered phenomena that seemed to suggest that animal proteins might in a sense be carcinogenic. There he became acquainted with a famous local doctor, Jose Caedo, who told Campbell that liver cancer seemed to occur in children in wealthy families with access to high-protein diets.53 By the late 1970s, based on nutritional experiments in rats, Campbell became convinced that animal proteins

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were natural carcinogens. He was then on the lookout for epidemiological studies to test this idea, which was considered heretical by some because protein was largely believed to be an essential source of nutrition.54 In 1980, his laboratory at Cornell received a Chinese visitor, none other than Chen Junshi, then traveling from the Chinese Academy of Preventive Medicine (CAPM). Campbell later remembered vividly that he and Chen watched a Nova television program, “The Cancer Detectives of Linxian,” and learned about cancer research in China, especially the nationwide cancer mortality survey.55 After looking at the color-coded cancer atlas and learning that dietary patterns in Chinese communes were quite stable, Campbell realized that China might be the best place for a large-scale survey through which he could explore the relation between nutrition and chronic diseases. As Chen and Campbell planned to collaborate, they added their own associates to the project. One of them was Richard Peto, an eminent epidemiologist from Oxford who had coauthored with Richard Doll an influential book, The Causes of Cancer, which authoritatively linked smoking to a high risk of lung cancer.56 The other was Li Junyao at CAMS, a codirector of the nationwide cancer survey in China. The NCI, the American Cancer Society, and the CAPM were in favor of the collaborative nutritional survey and provided portions of the funding. Chen became interested in the project, but his motivations were quite different from Campbell’s. During the Cultural Revolution, Chen, like his colleagues in cancer investigations, was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to continue research on regional diseases. He was assigned to study Keshan disease, a cardiovascular disease commonly found in mountainous regions like Keshan County in Heilongjiang Province. For no apparent reasons, victims’ cardiac muscles would degenerate, dissolve, and generate compensational tissues.57 Chen suspected that Keshan disease was related to low levels of selenium in local diets, and planned to use samples from the collaborative nutritional survey with Campbell to test this hypothesis. In the fall of 1983, right after the harvest season, the survey started with collections of food, blood, and urine samples from 65 counties selected from the 2,392 counties covered in the earlier cancer mortality survey. By combining the new data on nutrition with earlier results on disease rates, the team tried to link nutritional patterns with disease patterns. The 1983 survey was smaller in scale than the earlier survey, with only fifty households tested in each county. Food samples representing typical local diets were collected at marketplaces and adjusted through the household food

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consumption by collecting food at household kitchens over a three-day period. A diet and lifestyle questionnaire was also given to each subject. Blood samples were drawn, with half of the subjects offering urine samples as well. These samples were first collected at the survey station set up at a commune hospital or at a production brigade clinic, the latter of which was usually a legacy of the Maoist medical establishment. Although the study required each individual to remain at the survey station for a stretch of four to five hours, and peasants often felt reluctant about having their blood drawn, the compliance rate was almost 100 percent, which Campbell attributed to Chen’s skillful persuasion.58 Once the samples were obtained, they were placed on ice in thermoses, transported to the county laboratory, and divided into smaller portions. Within two months, the samples were shipped to the Institute of Nutrition and Food Hygiene, Chen’s work unit in Beijing. In February 1984, about 1,200 aliquots of blood and urine samples as well as dried food collected from the 65 counties traveled with Campbell to Cornell University, while other samples remained in Beijing.59 At that time no official regulation constrained the transportation of biological samples out of China, and Campbell managed to conduct assays on these samples in his own laboratory. The 1983 nutritional survey was a multination, large-scale collaborative project in the true sense, and to use the appraisal of the New York Times, a “Grand Prix of epidemiology.”60 Survey sites were scattered across the far reaches of China, ranging from semitropical coastal areas, the mountainous southwest, to the wintry northeastern areas near Siberia. Samples were eventually shipped to more than twenty other laboratories on four continents. The NCI provided the initial funding ($2.9 million) for the project and the Chinese Ministry of Health paid the salaries of approximately 350 health workers. According to Campbell’s own estimate, if a similar project were done in the United States, it would have cost at least $50 million.61 Researchers in Ithaca and Beijing conducted analyses of various parameters of these samples, though each with a different focus. While those at Cornell concentrated on features of lipid and protein metabolism and the content of food intake, researchers in Beijing emphasized the concentrations of trace nutritional substances such as certain vitamins and minerals.62 As Chen, Campbell, and two other authors carried out different assays with different aims, they found it hard to draw unified conclusions and decided to write the conclusion separately. While Chen analyzed the selenium contents in soil, water, and food, with results confirming a deficiency of selenium at locations with high rates of Keshan disease, Campbell

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noted that the rates of an array of degenerative diseases, including cancer, diabetes, and cardiovascular diseases, had an inverse relationship with the levels of animal-based food intake among different counties. The major point Campbell made, however, was that studies of multiple factors related to cancer might be more important than the study of single factors. He considered it possible that dietary factors could offset or exacerbate the effects of other cancer-inducing factors, such as smoking.63 While in China, Campbell was impressed by the high proportion of plants in rural diets. Although a rural Chinese male adult had a caloric intake of 3,000 versus a caloric intake of 2,400 for his American counterpart, the Chinese peasants Campbell studied consumed much less fat, less protein, and more fiber and iron because of the high proportions of vegetables, grains, and fruits. Campbell thus considered that a diet rich in fat and animal protein was “malnourishing” because it lacked sufficient plantbased foods. He called the disease group including cancer, diabetes, and coronary heart disease, which all occurred more often in the richer areas of China, “diseases of affluence,” and sometimes “Western diseases.”64 In the 1980s, however, Chinese dietary patterns were changing rapidly, making Campbell’s appraisal seem outdated or overly optimistic by the end of the decade. As consolidations of the new “production responsibility system” progressed, the government expected rapid growth of the livestock sector.65 Fast-food chains, H. J. Heinz (1986), and Coca-Cola (1988) also insinuated themselves into Chinese markets. Worries about nutritional deficiencies in the early 1980s soon altered by the end of the decade to concerns about rising obesity, diabetes, and other “diseases of affluence.”66 Having made a rather mild point in the 1990 report, while exploring different research directions based on the samples collected, Campbell increasingly focused in later years on the relation between cancer and animal proteins. He liked to describe those years as a period during which he gained increasing confidence in the link between cancer and animal-based food in spite of others’ criticisms. In 2006, Campbell wrote his argument into a trade book, The China Study, advocating a plant-based diet. In the book, he sprinkled trenchant criticisms stating that industrial funding of cancer research had delayed recognition of the link between smoking and lung cancer, and continued to prohibit impartial nutritional studies of cancer.67 Although he wrote a blurb for Campbell’s book, Chen soon clarified before Chinese media that Campbell’s radical argument did not apply to China because a considerable portion of the Chinese population still consumed insufficient quantities of milk and other forms of animal

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protein.68 Campbell’s ideas were also criticized in the United States, yet it was noteworthy that Chen did not criticize Campbell based on universal nutrition science as other American scientists did. Instead, Chen chose to suggest a constituent difference between the dietary patterns of two countries, although to what extent this difference persisted in the early 2000s may well be questioned. As a well-recognized spokesperson for food safety in China, Chen had by then commented that food in China was relatively safe and citizens had been overly worried about nutrition and contamination without a proper scientific understanding.69 Some agreed; others were infuriated. Exasperated bloggers pointed out that Chen had received substantial industrial and governmental funding for his work, which skewed his view, echoing Campbell’s earlier criticisms of nutrition science in America.70 In many ways, collaborations on cancer epidemiology between the United States and China became more challenging after the 1980s. The Tiananmen Square Massacre on June 4, 1989, caused the United States to curtail a number of exchanges and investments, and dampened the hopes many scientists had of continuing cancer investigation in China.71 As the rural medical care system began to be fully absorbed into the market economy, health care became profit driven and less affordable for rural populations. Although the Communist Party made some effort to resurrect the profession of barefoot doctors in the early 1980s, the attempt was later given up and the number of peasant health workers dwindled.72 Villages that maintained the cooperative medical care program dropped from 90 percent to 5 percent by 1985. Many health workers, whose efforts had been relied on by previous epidemiological research, sought jobs in the cities. Without skilled and low-cost medical workers, the kinds of massive survey projects Li Bing led in the 1970s, and Campbell and Chen managed in 1983, had become unimaginable by the 1990s. Furthermore, based on an argument that Western drug companies were exploiting valuable Chinese genetic resources in the global biomedical competition, in 1997 the Chinese government halted the shipment of all human biological samples that were scheduled to be sent out from customs. Chen Junshi, then collaborating with a biotech company in North Carolina, had to hold back eight thousand blood serum samples as a result.73 Sino-America collaborations on cancer did not cease completely due to these new regulations, but persistent researchers had to meander through red tape and deal with increasing hurdles.74

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The effects of the Sino-American collaborations in the late 1970s and early 1980s, however, were immense. Major players in China often associated the takeoff of biomedical molecular technology in China with these earlier collaborations. For the scientists at the forefront of the American war on cancer, on the other hand, China had for more than a decade provided workers to conduct epidemiological research in addition to providing access to rural populations with unique disease patterns. Perhaps more important for some visitors, earlier Chinese cancer research had offered a working method of epidemiological studies and a science for the people that the American war on cancer could learn from. The samples from the China Study developed by Campbell, Chen, and others continued to be studied for another two decades and generated hundreds of publications discussing the role of nutrition in cancer and other diseases. Among them, Campbell’s books advocating a plant-based diet became national best sellers and convinced a community of concerned readers to adopt such a diet. As Chinese society has experienced rapid industrialization and privatization since the 1980s, not only did the dietary, living, and medical conditions of rural populations change significantly, but the methods and roles of cancer research in society were also fundamentally altered (shall we say Americanized?). Although Chinese cancer research still focused on several kinds of high-incidence cancers, such as liver and stomach cancers, little scientific credit was given to mass cancer screening and preventive projects. The premium was on cutting-edge biotechnology. After successfully discovering a series of proto-oncogenes and other genetic products involved in hepatic cancer, Chinese research soon followed the trends of systems biology and genomics emerging in the Western world at the end of the twentieth century. As the Human Liver Proteome Project became headquartered in China and became one major component of a global collaboration on proteomics, the liver started to be depicted as the quintessential “Chinese organ” and its proteomics a suitable Chinese “big biology,” based on the reasoning that proteomics was amicable to the holistic logic of traditional chinese medicine.75 Sigrid Schmalzer has aptly pointed out that the reincorporation of capitalist market values into Chinese society in the 1980s has since colored our evaluation of earlier socialist sciences—the Maoist mass science, often based on low-tech work of a large scale, appeared backward in retrospect.76 For most scientists, the large-scale cancer surveys done during the Cultural Revolution became a historical relic that deserved no reexamination, scientifically or historically. Some would invest funding and effort into

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exploring potential cancer drugs within the trove of the Chinese materia medica that had been copied and modified for millennia, rather than devote energy to examining the survey results obtained a decade earlier, in search of potentially missed lessons. The stain of the Cultural Revolution seemed also to have resulted in a shortage of funding for historical research on the cancer surveys completed before the economic reform. That is, the funding proposals submitted by a committee of scientists who had worked on these surveys, many of whom had become eminent themselves by the 1990s, were turned down repeatedly.77 Through depicting the historical developments of U.S.–Chinese collaborations in cancer and its historical foundations in Chinese science and society, I hope this chapter offers a slice of history and a think piece for historians, scientists, and policymakers alike to evaluate what has been gained and lost in the increasing communications, collaborations, and synchronizations between nations of unequal standings in biomedical exchange of the past half century. One important lesson among others is perhaps this: although large-scale epidemiological surveys and clinical trials driven by neo-colonial or commercial interests have held sway globally, it was not historically inevitable that these interests, instead of the interests of the disease population, had to be the driving force, as attested by the cancer survey in 1970s China.

Chapter 6 From Sovietization to Global Soviet Engagement? Doubravka Olšáková

Post–Second World War shifts in the world order had a crucial influence on scientific development. The emerging structure of state alliances reframed traditional patterns of international cooperation in science, with the bipolar system transforming international organizations such as the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO), the International Council of Scientific Unions (ICSU), and others into “battlefields” of the Cold War. Both blocs tested various strategies to achieve their goals: isolation, sanctions, a bilateral modus of scientific cooperation, restricted internationalism, and, in the end, multilateral cooperation in large-scale programs.1 As Lijing Jiang demonstrates in chapter 5, the growing tendency toward globalism during this era, which penetrated the Communist bloc through “infrastructural globalism,” created demands for a global approach to what might otherwise be seen as local issues.2 The same could be said of Soviet science policy after 1955, when it broke free of its preceding international isolation. Previously, international restrictions, local measures, and global challenges had shaped Soviet science and limited its influence on society; new types of global research programs offered a way out of this isolation.

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The International Biological Program (IBP) was launched in 1964 following the successful completion of the first large-scale international scientific project that included both sides of the Cold War, that is, the International Geophysical Year (IGY). The IBP came in the immediate aftermath of the official Soviet rejection of the pseudoscientific theories of Trofim D. Lysenko and was actually launched the same year Lysenko’s theories were officially dismissed and just a few months before Lysenko was removed from his post as director of the Institute of Genetics. Lysenkoism was one of the fundamental building blocks of the Great Stalin Plan for the Transformation of Nature, which was officially enacted by decision of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union in October 1948. The IBP was the complete opposite; it was an enormous multilateral project, which, in place of defined methods and procedures, guaranteed scientific freedom in research. Up to then, the idea of founding the IBP had been attributed exclusively to Western European and American scientists and politicians, including Sir Rudolph Peters, Giuseppe Montalenti, Lloyd Berkner, and Conway H. Waddington.3 To date, however, two important perspectives have been completely left out of the historiography of global institutes: the institutional perspective and the Soviet perspective. Although the IBP was not closely linked to UNESCO, as there was no joint committee formed by the two, the role of UNESCO in getting the IBP off the ground is unquestionable.4 Waddington himself does not deny the effect of the Soviet Union on the IBP, although he does overlook the role of the Soviets and their allies.5 The differences between these two projects is surprising not just because the IBP came into existence relatively soon after the launch of the Stalin Plan—just sixteen years later—but mainly because, as a general rule, the same scientists were at the head of both projects in the Eastern Bloc countries. The main question this chapter poses focuses on the role of international politics in defining scientific priorities and scientific agendas in individual countries, especially totalitarian ones.6 The special conditions under which science developed in the Soviet Union have already been described in detail, although the international and global contexts have been neglected. Thus, this chapter aims to look at changes in Soviet and Central European scientific policy in the context of changes in international priorities, especially changes in the international situation brought about by Khrushchev’s thaw and the period before the adoption of the Brezhnev Doctrine.7

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International Cooperation in Eastern Europe before 1955 and after Geneva Immediately after the end of the Second World War, that is, before the Communists came to power in Central Europe, most of the countries of Eastern and Central Europe actively and voluntarily participated in revising and restoring the activities of international institutions focused on cultural and scientific cooperation, including UNESCO. Thirty-seven countries signed the UNESCO constitution in November 1945, although only twenty would go on to ratify it in November 1946. The Soviet Union joined UNESCO in 1954, although Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Hungary had already ratified the UNESCO constitution in 1946.8 Following the Communist putsches that took place in Central Europe between 1946 and 1948, the Soviet Union increased pressure on isolating Central and Eastern Europe and on ending cooperation with the Western world. For example, despite initial positive reception of the Marshall Plan in Poland and Czechoslovakia, both countries had to rescind their involvement under Soviet pressure (on July 4, 1947, and July 10, 1947, respectively). The Soviet Union also increased the pressure on these countries’ involvement in international institutes such as the UN and UNESCO. In the end, the influence of the Soviet Union on the international engagement of Eastern European countries was so strong that by 1953, Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Hungary announced that they would leave UNESCO, each one month apart: Poland was first (on December 5, 1952), Hungary second (on December 31 of the same year), and Czechoslovakia (on January 29, 1953).9 The isolation of these states did not last long, and after Stalin’s death the participation of Eastern Bloc countries in international organizations was revised. No one was surprised when the Soviet Union joined UNESCO in April 1954, faithfully accompanied by its Soviet republics: the Belorussian Soviet Socialist Republic (SSR) and Ukrainian SSR. Soon after, states in Central Europe also changed their position on this “instrument of the cold war,” as this institution was called in contemporary Communist propaganda. These countries rejoined UNESCO under the direction of the Soviet Union with all the grace that could be expected of a totalitarian regime: the Soviet Union officially joined UNESCO on April 21, 1954, and Belorussia and Ukraine on May 12 of the same year, whereas Hungary finally renewed its membership on July 1, 1954, Poland on July 18, 1954, and Czechoslovakia on September 9, 1954.10

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UNESCO membership was important for becoming involved in activities of the International Council of Scientific Unions (ICSU).11 During the Cold War, the ICSU played a very important role as an international platform for communicating and coordinating global science. It facilitated the global circulation of knowledge, yet despite its international science agenda, its activities were often shaped by political and ideological priorities whose aim was, depending on the international situation, either to pave the way for or to hamper international bi- and multilateral cooperation. These international organizations played a crucial role for both blocs and the advancement of sciences in a period of isolation and sanctions. In the postwar period, Central Europe was well represented in the ICSU, especially after the Czechoslovak biologist Bohumil Němec was elected its vice president in 1946. At that time, all signs seemed to indicate that international scientific policy would continue to develop successfully. Once the Communists came to power however, the involvement of the countries of Central Europe in this organization were fundamentally revised and restricted. For example in 1950, the Czechoslovak Ministry of Foreign Affairs concluded in relation to the ICSU (during an audit of the foreign activities of Czechoslovak researchers) that “at least not all unions were of equal importance, and that there were differences between them with regard to practical importance, which can also be deduced from the fact that, e.g., the USSR was only a member of three unions, whereas Czechoslovakia belonged to fourteen.”12 This conclusion is based on a fundamental lack of understanding of the actual logic of international cooperation in science. ICSU membership could serve as a comparative basis for measuring the degree of involvement of Communist countries in postwar international science (see table 6.1). Surprisingly enough, one of the most isolated states in the international arena before 1955 was the Soviet Union.13 In 1954, the Soviet Union was officially a member of only two scientific unions, whereas Czechoslovakia was a member of eleven and Poland, six.14 In 1956, the Soviet Union became a member of four more and Poland two more. Czechoslovakia was still a member of eleven unions. In 1958, the Soviet Union became a full member of all fourteen scientific unions, thus surpassing Czechoslovakia and Poland, as Czechoslovakia was still a member of thirteen unions and Poland twelve. From a purely pragmatic perspective, the Soviet Union made an unprecedented jump, as the administrative work surrounding accepting new members of the International Council of Scientific Unions requires even today careful administrative coordination and a great deal of diplomatic engagement. In the 1950s, however, getting

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FROM SOVIETIZATION TO GLOBAL SOVIET ENGAGEMENT?

Table 6.1. International Council of Scientific Unions (ICSU), Membership in ICSU disciplinary affiliates of the Soviet Union, Eastern European states, and West Germany, 1954–1974. Source: ICSU Yearbooks, 1954–1974 . 1954

1956

1958

1959

1960

1963

1964

1966

1972

1974

Soviet Union

2

6

14

14

14

15

15

16

17

18

Czechoslovakia

11

11

13

13

14

15

15

16

17

18

Poland

6

8

12

12

13

14

14

14

17

18

Hungary

5

6

10

10

11

12

14

15

17

18

Romania

4

2

6

6

9

11

11

13

13

13

Bulgaria

1

?

4

5

6

10

10

10

12

17

Federal (West)

8

13

14

14

14

15

15

16

17

18

GDR (East)

0

0

0

2

2

11

15

10

15

18

Germany

the Soviet Union, a world power, to join global institutions such as the UN and UNESCO was a clear priority.15 The Soviet Union’s joining of UNESCO after “nine years of virtual boycott” was the result of changes in the highest echelons of the Communist regime in Moscow—in other words, it was closely related to the new policies adopted by Nikita Khrushchev. In contrast to Stalin, Khrushchev systematically focused on foreign policy, and some historians have labeled his approach “revolutionary diplomacy”—especially when compared to the preceding period.16 In this context, the Geneva Summit, which saw the first postwar meeting of the “Big Four” in July 1955 also played a highly significant role in the development of standard international coordination in Eastern Europe. After the Geneva Summit, the Soviets no longer opposed international collaboration between the West and the East. After the summit itself, another, no less important conference was held: the first United Nations International Conference on the Peaceful Uses of Atomic Energy (August 8–20, 1955). This conference confirmed the conclusions of the Geneva Summit and created the framework necessary to put into action the conclusions of the Geneva Summit that involved scientific cooperation and exchange of information.17 Although none of the proposed projects were realized in the sphere of politics and the “spirit of Geneva” contained in the promises of future cooperation later vanished, an unprecedented opening up of international scientific cooperation took place. For example, at the Polish Academy of

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Sciences, a new department for international relations was established, about which the scientific secretary of the academy stated: “If the development of international relations follows the ‘Geneva’ line then the tasks of this department will be very broad.”18 Before the Geneva Summit, science diplomacy in Central and Eastern Europe was suppressed and any broader international scientific agenda in the Eastern Bloc was relegated only to hard-line Sovietization. Cultural or scientific agreements were the only possible model of cooperation between these countries and were regularly subject to detailed inspections by the central committees of Communist parties in each country. A typical example of this international cooperation under a Stalinist scheme is the Great Stalin Plan for the Transformation of Nature, which was adopted in the Soviet Union on October 20, 1948 under the official title “On the plan for planting of shelterbelts, introduction of grassland crop rotation and construction of ponds and reservoirs to ensure high crop yields in steppe and forest-steppe areas of the European USSR.” Stalin’s Plan for the Transformation of Nature has been studied extensively,19 but it has never been studied from the perspective of international cooperation. The Stalin Plan was an atypical large-scale program in the life sciences that was launched under totalitarian conditions in Eastern Europe in the 1950s. This accounts for many of its unique “Sovietized” features: instead of multilateral international collaboration, it was based on international bilateral collaboration between the Soviet Union and its satellites. Instead of working hypotheses, working groups, and data sharing, unique Soviet methodology was implemented on a large scale. Instead of free research competition, political requests and ideological pressure dominated the agenda. The Stalin Plan was implemented in all countries of the Eastern Bloc in parallel. The scientific agenda was set by the top figures in Soviet science, that is, the leadership of the Academy of Sciences of the Soviet Union and the Lenin All-Union Academy of Agricultural Sciences. Lysenkoism became the fundamental doctrine on which science was based, and therefore, in the archives of all the academies of sciences in the Eastern Bloc we can find detailed reports on meetings and discussions with Lysenko. In the medical sciences, the teachings of Ivan P. Pavlov were central, and were spread in Central Europe mainly by Soviet scientists Yuri Petrovich Frolov and Konstantin Mikhaelevich Bykov. What Lysenko and Pavlov were for the agricultural and medical sciences respectively, Viktor Kovda became for the technical sciences and issues of complex research. Kovda led the Division for Special Tasks and later headed the Commission for the Great

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Works of Socialism. The uncritical adoption of Soviet ideas was typical throughout the 1950s. The writings of both Lysenko and Pavlov were mass published in Central Europe. Kovda’s works on the successes of great works of socialism were translated in Czechoslovakia, Poland, and East Germany. While the Great Stalin Plan for the Transformation of Nature was officially being implemented in Central Europe and the Soviet Union until 1964, the Soviets took advantage of the possibilities offered by the global institutions they had joined in 1954 and immediately became involved in international cooperation. After a short period of international isolation and exclusively bilateral cooperation, the principle of multilateral cooperation seemed utterly new. Eastern European countries immediately took part in planning the first large-scale international program launched by the International Council of Scientific Unions: the International Geophysical Year, which was implemented in sixty countries in 1957–58. Approximately 60,000 researchers took part in this program, which had a budget of about $1 billion. For the first time, and in close alignment with the process of de-Stalinization, Communist scientists and scientific institutions became involved in a global scientific program. In a certain sense, the IGY did indeed bring about a breakthrough: the scientific communities of the Eastern Bloc emerged from isolation, and they liberated themselves from obligatory bilateral cooperation with Moscow. The question is whether the Communist states of Central and Eastern Europe were actually involved as equals in this international program, or whether they played a part that was defined for them by the political interests of others. According to the principle of voluntary involvement in the IGY, it was not possible to coerce individual states into the IGY. In Eastern Bloc countries, however, the position of the Soviet Union played a crucial role in the decision making about whether or not to become involved. As soon as the position of the Soviet Union was known to be positive, it was highly unlikely that other Communist states would not become involved in the initiative. Where the response to the idea of cooperation was not particularly positive, individual scientific communities were simply coerced by Moscow. At first glance, it could therefore seem confusing that Czechoslovak scientists joined the initiative at its inception, as the first Communist country to do so. The first statewide conference to debate Czechoslovakia’s participation was called in March 1953. At the time, however, Czech scientists were acting without approval from Moscow; the official and definitive approval of Czechoslovak involvement by Moscow came three years later.20

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The Czechoslovak committee, which in 1953–56 worked on its own national IGY research program, was forced in the fall of 1956 to completely change its initial plan under pressure from Moscow. The original research plan was completely pushed aside and replaced by a new program, which was developed and approved by Moscow.21 The German Democratic Republic (GDR) became involved in preparations for the IGY program very late. It is noteworthy, however, that this happened not at the impetus of the scientific community, but due to pressure from the GDR government.22 The Soviet Academy of Sciences first advised the (East) German Academy of Sciences at Berlin (Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin; DAW) of the opportunity to become involved in March 1955. The response of the presidium at the start of July 1955 was negative. The main reason was the structure of the IGY, where in the opinion of the East German Academy meteorology played the main role. On Soviet pressure, the East German government insisted that the DAW become the coordinator of all activities related to the IGY, which in the end did happen at the start of 1956. The case of Poland confirms how carefully the Soviet Union structured the coordination of all IGY activities in Central Europe. Before the start of the IGY, a delegation of Soviet scientists (under the leadership of academicians Ivan Pavlovich Bardin and Aleksander Vasil’evich Topchiev) arrived at the Polish Academy of Sciences (PAN) with the goal of establishing a precise research plan.23 In April 1956, a Soviet delegation including professors J. D. Bulanz (vice chairman of the Soviet IGY committee), N. P. Bienkov, and P. K. Yevseyev arrived in Poland with the goal of critically evaluating the standard of equipment of academic institutes there. As in the case of Germany, there was in Poland a relative delay in the establishment of a national committee; the Polish secretariat of the IGY committee officially began functioning on April 28, 1956. The IGY in Central Europe was fully controlled and dominated by Soviet interests. UNESCO, the Ultimate Aim? Based on the progress of the IGY in Central and Eastern Europe, it can be sensed that despite the opening up of scientific cooperation between East and West, the Soviet Union’s interests in world power still played a key role. Khrushchev could “afford” to engage in détente, because—as Vojtěch Mastný claims—he was deeply convinced of the strength and cohesion of the Soviet regime, both internally and in the international system.24 Similarly,

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Soviet scientific elites were also aware of this inner strength and cohesion, which by that point none of the Eastern Bloc countries had openly questioned for many years.25 The fact remains that the Soviets took full advantage of the potential of this global institution. The Soviet Union’s joining of UNESCO was supported by a massive campaign that culminated on the eve of the tenth general assembly of UNESCO on November 3, 1958, in Paris. In an article titled “Whither UNESCO?” published in Pravda, the chairman of the Soviet National Committee for UNESCO, Georgy Zhukov, expressed marked unease regarding existing UNESCO policy, which was in his opinion more a Cold War weapon than an instrument facilitating international cooperation. In his article, he refers to the significant anti-Soviet focus of UNESCO and how UNESCO funds had been used for an anti-Soviet campaign. He artfully combined his criticism of the existing situation with the position of so-called Third World countries, whose membership in UNESCO the Soviet Union was to a large extent responsible for. The text also contained an analysis of the roster of UNESCO member states, which supported Zhukov’s claim that UNESCO had a pro-American orientation. The fact that the gloves were off was hard to ignore.26 The Soviet protest and campaign questioning the adequate representation of the Soviet Union in UNESCO quickly bore fruit. In 1959, less than five years after the Soviet Union had become an official member of UNESCO, and less than a year after it became a member of all the scientific unions associated with the International Council of Scientific Unions, Viktor Abramovich Kovda, a Soviet professor of soil sciences, was elected head of UNESCO´s Natural Sciences Department.27 The 1970–79 issue of the Great Soviet Encyclopedia characterizes Kovda (1904–91) as a leading Soviet soil scientist, who had become a member of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) already in 1927: Kovda graduated from the Agricultural Institute in Krasnodar in 1927. In 1931 he organized a laboratory of saline soils in the V. V. Dokuchaev Soil Institute and directed it until 1959. He was a professor at Moscow State University from 1939 to 1941, and in 1941–42 he directed the Institute of Botany and Soil Science of the Uzbek branch of the Academy of Sciences of the USSR. He was professor and chairman of the subdepartment of soil science of the biology and soil department of Moscow State University (from 1953). From 1958 to 1965 he directed the Department of Exact and Natural Sciences of UNESCO (Paris), and since 1970 he has directed the Institute of Agricultural Chemistry

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and Soil Science of the Academy of Sciences of the USSR. His main studies deal with the soils of the USSR, China, and Egypt. Initiator and director (1960–65) of the Soil Map of the World, an international project of the FAO [Food and Agriculture Organization of the UN] and UNESCO, he became president of the International Society of Soil Science in 1968. Kovda’s works have practical implications for the development of new lands, including construction of irrigation systems and reclamation of solonetses and saline soils. He was awarded the State Prize of the USSR (1951, 1953), the V. V. Dokuchaev Gold Medal (1967), and the Silver Medal of the French Association of Soil Scientists (1971). He has received three orders.28

The Great Soviet Encyclopedia tactfully neglected to mention that Kovda was one of the leading scientists behind the Great Stalin Plan for the Transformation of Nature launched in October 1948. After the war, Kovda was a rising star; he became the head of the Department of “Special Works” in the academy, which carried out a number of special projects, more or less a part of the Stalin Plan, and served as a liaison officer for communication between the academy and the Central Committee (CC) of the CPSU and state departments (the Ministry of Defense, etc.).29 Kovda was also instrumental in removing Leon Abgarovich Orbeli from his leading positions in the Academy, thus rejecting Mendelian genetics in the Soviet Union, and later establishing Lysenkoism as the only possible method for studying heredity. As part of his work at the academy, he became a member of the committee that, in cooperation with the CC CPSU, carefully scripted an August meeting of the Academy of Agricultural Sciences of the Soviet Union, during which Orbeli was forced out of Soviet science and hard-line Lysenkoism was instated.30 Later, Kovda´s role was eminent during the implementation of the Stalin Plan, and in 1950–53, he organized and later chaired the Committee for Great Hydrotechnical Constructions, which was established by the Academy of Sciences of the Soviet Union.31 For this work, in 1951 and 1953, he was honored with the highest awards one could receive in the Soviet Union.32 During Stalinism he published works such as Great Plan for the Transformation of Nature and Great Construction Works of Communism and the Remaking of Nature.33 These works were then translated from Russian and mass published in Central and Eastern Europe, where they influenced an entire generation of leading biologists and natural scientists.34 Some of these works were even directly intended to promote the Great Stalin Plan for the Transformation of Nature to schoolchildren.35

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In this key period, this Kovda-led Natural Sciences Department played a very important role in the establishment of the IBP. According to Kovda, the IBP was a program very close to his heart, and his role in launching it is undoubted.36 After years of showing an uncritical inclination toward Stalinism and being influenced by the success of the IGY, Kovda attempted to follow in the footprints of earlier Russian and Soviet scientists, such as Vasily Vasilyevich Dokuchaev, Vladimir Ivanovich Vernadsky, and others and their concept of the biosphere.37 In his official function, Kovda also actively contributed to the largest UNESCO environmental science project: the Arid Zone Research project (1951–64), which involved seven countries when it was launched in 1950 (Egypt, France, India, Israel, Mexico, the United Kingdom, and the United States).38 The Stalin Plan and great works of socialism had been forgotten. In this regard, Kovda’s fate was nothing exceptional; instead it just confirmed the special trajectory along which scientific elites developed in the system of Stalinist science.39 The same process in which the shift occurred from favoring the Stalin Plan for the Transformation of Nature in the 1950s to a new concept of environmental protection occurred elsewhere in Eastern Europe: in Czechoslovakia, Ivan Málek, a leading biochemist and the vice head of the Czechoslovak Academy of Sciences; in Poland, Kazimierz Petrusewicz, a biologist and ecologist, who until 1956 headed the biological sciences section of the Polish Academy of Sciences and later led its Institute of Ecology.40 In 1963, the Planning Committee, whose members were nominated by the ICSU, agreed that the IBP would be subtitled “The Biological Basis of Productivity and Human Welfare.”41 When comparing the original discussions about the IBP’s scope with the issues that it actually ended up working on, it is clear that there was a significant shift from the originally proposed topics. Genetics was the focal point of the original concept of the IBP, as proposed mainly by the president of the International Union of Biological Sciences (IUBS), Giuseppe Montalenti,42 but the focus then shifted toward the environmental aspects of human actions and the development of civilization. Internal planning documents from the Eastern Bloc clearly attribute this successful shift toward broader, environmental topics to the countries of the bloc with the Soviet Union at its head.43 In truth, the Soviets officially had very little influence. At the time, Montalenti was the president of the IUBS and in 1961 would be replaced by the American Conway H. Waddington; the Soviet Union was only represented in the Executive Committee by Andrey Lvovich Kursanov. The

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only representative from the Soviet Union on the Planning Committee was the prominent microbiologist Vladimir A. Engelhardt. The Soviets’ official and institutional influence on the operations of the IBP was effectively very small. However, every negative description of the participation and involvement of the Soviet Union and other Communist countries in the planning of the IBP by American and Western European scientists just makes the careful planning of the Soviets for the IBP’s future agenda and focus more prominent. The Soviets left nothing to chance: their science diplomacy and that of the other Communist countries moved forward very cautiously, while every step was carefully considered. During the planning phase, Soviet representatives to a certain extent coordinated the agenda and selection of issues, which were later successfully pushed through thanks to support from the countries of the Eastern Bloc.44 This procedure was maintained during the entire lifetime of the IBP, and a meeting of representatives from the “countries of the socialist camp” was held regularly as necessary.45 At these meetings, which were regularly attended by representatives of the Soviet Union, Poland, Bulgaria, Hungary, Romania, East Germany, and Czechoslovakia, not only was research on individual topics coordinated, but, most important, a strategy for promoting their interests in both the IBP and the IUBS was established here. Thanks to a carefully crafted strategy for nominating and electing candidates, as well as strategic negotiations with non-Communist countries (which were led by the central committees of East European Communist parties), Petrusewicz was successfully elected one of the vice chairmen of the Scientific Committee of the IBP. All the countries of the Eastern Bloc approved his candidacy and supported him. At a meeting held in April 1964, Czechoslovak representative Málek’s candidacy for vice president of the IUBS was supported. The aim of the first phase was to ensure that the Eastern Bloc had two or three representatives in the top leadership of the IUBS and the IBP. Voting went as expected: Jean G. Baer from Switzerland became president of the Scientific Council of the IBP, and Stanley A. Cain (United States), Montalenti (Italy), Petrusewicz (Poland), and Waddington (United Kingdom) were elected as vice presidents. At the same time, Ivan Málek (Czechoslovakia) was elected secretary of the Executive Committee of the IUBS.46 This marked the rapid rise of the Communist countries in international scientific policy. That the establishment of an internal coordinating body for strategic decision making on affairs involving the IBP was trouble free can clearly be attributed to previous experience with the IGY on both sides:

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the Soviet Union was the main strategist and coordinator whereas the Communist countries were the players on the team. The IBP was unquestionably a successful program; however, it is startling to note the continuation in Communist countries of Stalinist science as formerly Stalinist scientists became involved in global institutions. Kovda’s position at the head of the UNESCO Department of Sciences and his role in launching the IBP marked a victory for Soviet science diplomacy and served to confirm the Soviets’ ambitious plans in the international arena. The man who was one of the main architects of the cult of Lysenko in the Soviet Union and responsible for making Lysenkoism the only possible and ideologically correct methodology in the natural sciences was also paradoxically involved in establishing one of the greatest global projects focusing on environmental sciences in 1964. Otherwise, in 1964 Lysenko was still officially the director of the Institute of Genetics at the Academy of Sciences. He was forced out only in 1965. We can also find other important players in the Stalin Plan for the Transformation of Nature in Central Europe with high positions in the International Biological Program: the Polish biologist Petrusewicz was elected vice chairman (1964–69) of the IBP at its first general meeting held in Paris in July 1964. In 1975, after the IBP concluded, he became a member of the Special Committee for the International Biological Program, which evaluated the results of the IBP.47 Czech microbiologist Málek served as vice president of the IBP in 1970–74. Málek had adequate experience in international politics; in 1962–67, he was secretary of the Executive Committee of the IUBS, and in 1967–73, he even served as vice chairman of this organization.48 These three figures were synonymous with the implementation of the Great Stalin Plan for the Transformation of Nature in the 1950s; ten years later they were representatives of the International Biological Program. Great respect for maintaining continuity on the personal level was at the heart of Stalinist science: knowledge was power to which only a privileged group of a chosen few had access.49 However, the fact cannot be ignored that Kovda would later use his position to support ecology and environmental sciences; thus, thanks to his work at UNESCO, this UN institution would significantly contribute to financing the IBP, and thanks to his efforts UNESCO’s contribution to the activities of the International Union for the Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources greatly increased in the second half of the 1960s.50 In September 1964, however, Kovda left his position, and this part of UNESCO underwent reform—the Department of Sciences was split into two

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different departments: the UNESCO Department of the Application of Science to Development and the UNESCO Department of the Advancement of Science . He was replaced by Alexey Matveyev as assistant director-general in charge of science, an office Matveyev held until March 1969. Failure as Motivation for Global Engagement? The international scientific agenda outlined by some international organizations was often a clever compromise among ideology, the practical needs of both blocs, and the priorities of scientific research. Defining the agenda of international science was, however, a dynamic process that was shaped by the dynamics of the Cold War. In the early stages of outlining an international science agenda, the Soviets suffered numerous setbacks: the Soviet Union refused to join UNESCO, and after the Communist putsches in Eastern Europe it forced the countries in its sphere of influence to follow their lead and withdraw from UNESCO as well. Withdrawing from UNESCO—and consequently also withdrawing from the ICSU—led to the isolation of all these countries and their full dependence on the Soviet Union. Stalin died in March 1953. In September 1953, Nikita Khrushchev became the general secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. Khrushchev also initiated collaboration with the West and wider international cooperation. His engagement in the Geneva Summit talks was crucial, and his willingness to open the floor to discussions between the scientific communities in the East and West underlined his confidence in Soviet science and Soviet achievements. The outcome of this endeavor probably surprised the Soviets as their entrance to the global scientific community was more than successful. From the Soviet perspective, large-scale programs such as the IGY, the IBP, and others opened the doors to Soviet efforts to influence the international scientific agenda. It is therefore important to stress that at the beginning of the 1960s, the Soviet Union assumed important positions at UNESCO and the ICSU, including various scientific unions, and was thus able to influence the development of the life sciences. This chapter gives only a brief description of how Soviet science opened up to international cooperation: from the Sovietization of its allies to global involvement directed by Moscow based on a strictly defined script and with support from the entire Eastern Bloc. Many unanswered questions remain. Nonetheless, it seems that the IBP was the first organization to truly synthesize the demands placed on science diplomacy from both sides of

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the Iron Curtain. After a period of hard-line Sovietization and after the international isolation of all the Eastern Bloc countries, the IGY became the first breakthrough in existing policy. The IGY was viewed by the Soviets in the international context as being open and global, but the involvement of the Eastern Bloc countries in it bore a strong mark of Stalinist dirigisme. Nevertheless, in many respects, the IGY taught the Soviets and the Eastern Bloc countries about the opportunities for and potential of international cooperation. Based on the success of the IGY, the Soviets and the other countries of the Eastern Bloc built a name for themselves, which in the atmosphere of Khrushchev’s thaw, they were able to take advantage of. Paradoxically, however, this did not result in greater, more open and democratic cooperation in individual scientific communities and in the Eastern Bloc itself. It did just the opposite: elite Stalinist scientists gained important positions in international organizations. How should we sum up the sometimes contradictory effect of the Cold War on the international science agenda? In the global perspective, the launch of large-scale international programs stimulated the production of knowledge in life sciences and its circulation across the Iron Curtain. It helped to identify new problems in environmental policy and to a large extent influenced the idea and the agenda of the United Nations Conference on the Human Environment organized in Stockholm, June 5–16, 1972, which aimed “to inspire and guide the peoples of the world in the preservation and enhancement of the human environment.” On the international level, it resulted in growing competition among states for influence, especially in international organizations such as UNESCO and the ICSU. And on the national and local levels, the culture of Big Science fundamentally shaped the life sciences community and redefined its priorities from a new perspective.

Chapter 7 Sexological Spring? The 1968 International Gathering of Sexologists in Prague as a Turning Point Katerˇina Lišková

How is science shaped by the time and place it originates from? Did Cold War science, and particularly that formulated in the totalitarian East, conform to the demands of an omnipotent state? Is it possible to think about knowledge without the interference of its social surroundings? What better situation to seek answers to these questions than a gathering of scientists from both sides of the Iron Curtain? This chapter analyzes exactly such a meeting as a case study. Doctors studying human sexuality in both the East and West met in Prague at the first international conference—the Symposium sexuologicum pragense—in spring of the watershed year of 1968. Over three hundred experts from nineteen countries on four continents attended. They convened to discuss sexuality and its shortcomings, to analyze desire and its aberrations both in terms of activity and object, to understand sexual function and the ways that it fails. While Western scholars generally highlighted the biological roots of sexuality and its disorders, experts from the East typically asserted an understanding of sex that was formed by and intertwined with social arrangements. How can we make sense of this discord in the perception of sex? And was it really such a vast difference? Conventional wisdom affirms a (culturally driven) notion that some things are biological in nature and others are cultural in character. Sex and 114

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sexuality are understood to be biologically founded while gender traits are viewed by many as shaped by culture. The nature–culture binary that organizes so much thinking in our societies comes with notions of malleability or lack thereof. What is natural appears to be given and unchangeable, whereas the cultural or social is viewed as relatively flimsier and thus potentially alterable. This chapter investigates this equation of nature = fixity / culture = changeability as it plays out in the papers presented by sexologists at the Symposium sexuologicum pragense, and attempts to make sense of the conflicting Eastern and Western explanations found therein. The Life Science of Sexology in the State-Socialist East While medical advances to prolong life inspired hope for the future in the postwar era (as addressed in the Introduction to this volume by Patrick Manning), the medical doctors who are the subjects of this chapter strove to improve these (prolonged) lives in one of the most intimate areas: sex. Sexology, the branch of medicine diagnosing and curing ailments of desire, has been an important life science since its inception in the late nineteenth century. Yet it has received relatively little attention from historians of science.1 Most scholars writing on sexology have focused primarily on the great extent to which sexuality is a product of sexological discourse.2 Sociologists and historians of sexuality tend to agree that sexology reasserted the modernist notion of difference defining women as inherently different from men in their anatomy, physiology, and intellect,3 and linking this difference—as well as sexuality—to biological imperatives.4 Cultural historians have demonstrated that sexology did not form in social isolation, but arose in connection with forensic medicine,5 as well as liberatory social movements such as feminism.6 Recent studies have explored the development of sexology within larger historic fields of sexual knowledge production, outlining the gendered links between theorizations of the sexual body and conceptualizations of the larger social body.7 This stream of studies underscores the point that sexological theorization and practice went beyond questions of sexual identity and were tied to a politics of gender, knowledge, and authority. This chapter is a contribution to this research tradition, which aims to trace the sexological usage of the social and biological in the context of broader societal arrangements, looking—unlike most of the studies cited—at developments in the Cold War East as well as collaborations that took place across the Iron Curtain. Sexology could arguably be understood as part of what Nikolas Rose

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coined “psy-ences”: disciplines—such as psychology, psychiatry, or psychotherapy—that wield modern technologies of self and thus structure contemporary societies.8 Psy-ences play a constitutive role in how we understand ourselves, and at the same time provide an ethical edge to power. Governing is then not merely a technical exercise of power but an ethical demonstration of truth, “one essential to each individual person over whom [power] is exercised.”9 Rose, however, connected psy-ences exclusively with the liberal West.10 By contrast, this chapter argues that the psy-ence of sexology was present and indispensable for the Czechoslovak regime—as well as other state-socialist regimes—to navigate people’s selves according to its changing priorities. Moreover, it shows that “Eastern” sexologists did not work in isolation, but rather spun extensive networks that crossed the Iron Curtain. While sexual science has been widely studied in the West, we know fairly little about its developments in state-socialist countries. Soviet Russia had its sexological heyday in the years following the Bolshevik Revolution. Medical doctors took up a biosocial perspective on sexuality wherein society was the predominant factor. Following Vladimir Bekhterev’s environmental theory of perversion, experts argued that hormonal flows in the human body were second to social mediations of sexuality.11 Social hygienists in the Health Commissariat embraced progressive views on homosexuality, which was legalized in 1922 (until Stalin returned it to the penal code in 1934). They presented themselves as “physician-sociologists” who diagnosed and treated society while remaining cautious not to medicalize all forms of sexual variability.12 By the 1930s, scientists accused of “biologizing” were criticized because they sought “the roots of social ills in individual biology,” thus eschewing the order of the day, which identified anomalies as learned behavior to be treated by labor.13 On coming to power, Stalin did away with sexual science, among other things, which made it difficult to legitimize such scholarly endeavors in Soviet satellites after the Second World War ended. In East Germany, for example, sexology did not take off until the late 1960s when sexually explicit marriage manuals became an instant hit.14 Doctors became crucial in the process of highlighting the importance of female orgasm, advocating sex for pleasure and not just procreation, and teaching the populace about varied noncoital practices.15 However, sexology in socialist Germany did not have an institutional home, and scientists researching sexuality were scattered across disciplines and research institutes. It was similar in Poland, where sexology did not take off until the late 1960s.16

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The situation was different in Czechoslovakia, however, where sexology had existed on an institutional level since 1921 when the Sexological Institute was founded in Prague. Its activities were suspended during the Second World War, but resumed immediately after liberation, when former chief Josef Hynie gathered a group of five medical doctors to begin working with him. Remarkably, they all stayed with the institute and worked there for decades to come. The Sexological Institute was unique in that, unlike many other institutes and disciplines studying people in their social interactions, it functioned without interruption throughout the whole communist period. Sexologists typically devised fertility treatments, recommended contraception, provided sexual education, treated disorders in sexual function or desire, and advised on marital life. They were prolific researchers and writers. Even before the Symposium sexuologicum pragense that is the focus of this chapter, Czechoslovak sexologists published four scholarly monographs and over two hundred papers, a third of them internationally.17 They sold more than a million copies of popular books in Czechoslovakia and other Eastern Bloc countries and gave hundreds of talks, including many that were broadcast via radio and television.18 Despite such scholarly production, full inclusion of sexology among other medical disciplines remained a pipe dream. The institute’s chief sexologist Hynie had been calling for the institutionalization of his discipline since immediately after the war. He had written a sexological textbook for medical students in 1940 and organized courses at Charles University’s Medical School after liberation.19 But as these courses were only elective, sexologists demanded they become a core part of the curriculum. Hynie and his colleagues strove to have their own professional association within the Purkyně Medical Society. They argued for the importance of sexological expertise and that it should have a presence outside of the capital so that everybody could consult a sexologist in case troubles arose in intimate life. All these efforts had been falling flat. The Symposium sexuologicum pragense conference took place on the eve of these changes. Prague’s Sexological Spring In Prague in 1968, several hundred sexologists from all over the world met to discuss various issues regarding sexuality such as sex and society, sex deviations, sexual disorders in men and women and their treatment, contraception, and somatosexual problems. In analyzing the papers they

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presented there, I examine the ways in which sexologists from this era explained sexuality and its disorders. I focus not on the manifestation but the (supposed) causation of sexual deviance, disorder, and sexuality in general presented by various doctors. In some instances, these doctors simply explained the manifestation of sexual disorder without attempting to account for its causes. Since my focus is on etiology as understood by sexologists, I exclude from my analysis those papers that did not indicate how the sexual phenomenon they studied came into being. Although these sexologists did not explicitly employ the nature–nurture or biology–culture lens to present their case studies and lab findings, their inclination toward one or the other explanation becomes striking when reading their papers. Western experts typically identified biological reasons for sexual deviation (and sexuality as such), while sexologists from the East tended to look rather at societal factors when attributing causes to normal and aberrant sexualities. Doctors from West Germany argued explicitly against social metaphors for sex and saw sexuality as determined hormonally or by sex chromosomes. For example, a doctor from Hamburg named Schorsch was irritated by efforts to explain sex addiction as a bundle of psychopathological symptoms. Such an explanation was only a metaphor, which in his view amounted to a loss of precision: “Such a view is in danger of obscuring all psychopathologic phenomena through anthropologic categories . . . and drowning them in metaphoric uniformity.”20 He favored viewing sex addiction’s violent and uncontrollable bursts as driven by instinctive biological processes that correspond to the “intrinsic and autonomous periodicity” of addictive episodes.21 The genetic and hormonal makeup of humans was a frequent topic for Western experts. Doctor Hahn and his colleagues from West Berlin’s Schering Lab studied transsexuality in rats and concluded that “the sexuality of the animals does not appear to be determined according to their genetic sex; rather, they may behave in the female or male manner, i.e. transsexually, according to the hormonal situation.”22 In a similar vein, Doctor Mergen from West Germany’s Mainz University identified male chromosomes with antisocial and aggressive behavior.23 The extra chromosome, found in men with Klinefelter syndrome, triggered aggressiveness in such men, a condition he claimed was not found in women. However, Klinefelter’s means a man possesses an extra X chromosome. Following the logic that Y codes masculine characteristics while X engenders the feminine ones, this medical condition should feminize men and not bring out hypermasculine, aggressive behavior. Unaware of this inconsistency, Mergen continued

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to stress that female sexual passivity is determined by the X chromosome, and male sexual aggressiveness is determined by the Y chromosome. On the other hand, neurologists from East Berlin argued that strong social influences shaped a person’s sexuality. Doctor Burian of the Neurological Clinic at Humboldt University underscored the importance of childhood “impregnation” (Praegung) for the future development of pedophilia. According to Burian, impregnation, defined as a “process of a short duration which leads to an almost irreversible state of being tied to an object,” put a definite and lasting stamp on one’s personality.24 He presented case studies of two men who were “impregnated” as young boys by girls’ naked bodies. Heinz N.’s first ejaculation was triggered by the sight of a prepubescent girl’s thighs. His sexuality was structured by this experience thereafter and Heinz was forever drawn to young girls. Rudolf V. experienced his first orgasm while looking at the vagina of an eleven-year-old. As an adult, Rudolf could only satisfy his urges by visiting playgrounds where he talked girls into showing him their genitals and masturbated to these glimpses. These first instances of strong sexual excitement thus predisposed future sexuality; if the archetype is a prepubescent girl, the boy will grow up to be a pedophile. Another East German psychologist, Doctor Grassel of Rostock University, disagreed with his compatriot on the concept of Praegung. He explicitly criticized its “patent misconceptions, e.g. the mystification of the effects of the first sexual act.”25 However, his approach was even more focused on the individual in his social settings. He stressed time and again the importance of what he called a “dialectical method in research.” For Grassel, a dialectical approach simply meant taking a person’s experiences into account, not just their apparent behavior. When researchers fail to listen to their patients and their understanding of situations, experts are in danger of misconstruing similar-looking behaviors as identical, even though the motives might be different. Moreover, Grassel warned against “the transfer of results to conditions existing in different social structures.”26 In other words, things are different in the East, therefore one cannot and should not transplant capitalist interpretations onto a socialist reality. When discussing male impotence, two psychiatrists from the Soviet Ministry of Health—Vasilchenko and Livshitz—identified psychological causes as the most prominent. Even when physical factors prevented men from achieving solid erections, these doctors saw the psychological causation as primary.27 In terms of treatment, they hailed hypnosis as the most successful method, even in cases where behavioral training failed.

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Their colleague and compatriot Lezhnenko also identified predominantly psychogenic grounds for impotence. Even if the etiology might not be clearly social in each and every case, the treatment was to be specifically collective. Lezhnenko prescribed therapeutic groups, arguing for “the positive influence every patient is likely to have upon the collective as a whole.”28 What he called collective elucidative therapy was “based on I. P. Pavlov’s materialistic teachings on the influence of environment on [the] human organism.”29 Social surroundings were summoned to recondition a malfunctioning individual. Czechoslovak sexologists stood in the middle. They would invoke both the biological properties of human bodies and social characteristics of their patients. The ethnologist Režný of Prague’s Charles University opened his paper by stating: “Human sexual behavior, in contrast to animal behavior, is not determined only by biological, practically unalterable limits, but is the result of social and cultural channelization.”30 The formulation “not only” points to some natural basis that is, nonetheless, socially structured. The psychiatrist Vladimír Vondráček stressed the importance of environmental factors in psychiatric sexology and explained sexual deviation as “an error in infantile imprinting.”31 His understanding of imprinting in fact closely resembles that of “Praegung” invoked by East German sexual scientists. At the same time Vondráček underscored the significance of parental roles, which he saw as divided along the lines of nature–culture. “The part of the human father is chiefly social whereas the maternal part is prevalently biological.”32 Thus his account of human sexuality constituted a mix between biological and social factors. Moreover, he awarded the place within humanity, the area that is social, to the man only. Women-mothers who were in his view tied to nature thus could not achieve full humanity. Nature-culture mix as presented by Vondráček betrayed some deeply held traditional views of gender roles that two decades of socialism building in Czechoslovakia had not eradicated. The sexologists Jaroslava Pondělíčková, Jiří Mellan, and Karel Nedoma from Prague’s Sexological Institute presented a paper addressing pedophilia, in which they only presented correlations and not strict causation. They identified somatic variations that were then compared to the population of “normal” heterosexual men. The pedophiles were shorter and weighed less, had narrower shoulders and longer penises. They also exhibited an “increased affinity to anomalies and sociopathy including extrasexual offences.”33 The sexologists found a significant amount of behavioral anomalies and failures in social relationships within their group

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of one hundred pedophilic delinquents. The sexologist Mellan accounted for sexual disorders in men by identifying both inadequate androgen activity and the “influence of the family milieu on the development of individual self-consciousness and self-formation.”34 Men lacking androgens (eunuchoids) behaved in submissive ways and showed kindness together with a “lack of virility.”35 Gender atypical traits were identified as the causes of failed sexuality, and were attributed to both hormonal and familial structures. The 1968 conference in Prague expressed a basic sexological divergence; where Western psy-ence was already heading down the road toward biological definitions of psychiatric diagnoses, including sexual inadequacies, it contrasted sharply with an “Eastern” view that favored social explanations for the formation of human sexuality. After 1968, Czechoslovak sexology increasingly began to lean toward the social definition of sexual and other pathologies. Czechoslovak Sexology’s Turn toward Social Etiology While on the fence between nature and culture at the 1968 conference, Czechoslovak expert views on (deviant) sexuality became distinctively social in the 1970s. Yet something was also different. When the sexologist Karel Nedoma described recidivist sexual aggressors in 1972, he divided them into two categories. The first was composed of “psychopaths who are aggressive in general, unrestrained, alcoholic, often with widespread non-sexual criminal activity. They tend to be very sexually active with rich coital experiences.”36 The other category of sex aggressors was its mirror image; these men were “withdrawn and reclusive, with poor or lacking interpersonal relationships and rare or no heterosexual experiences whatsoever.”37 Yet where the first category was rarely deemed sexually deviant, the sexologist readily made this diagnosis for the other group, arguing that a man was sexually deviant due to his “complete lack of effort to enter into normal relationships.”38 Although all pathological sexual behavior was now seen as connected to social characteristics, the deviant was characterized by his suspicious lack of ability to talk to and have sex with women. These men were not homosexual, since they apparently exhibited a drive toward sexual encounters with women. The reason they came under the purview of sexologists was that the act they had committed brought them under legal scrutiny; they had attacked a woman and therefore the legal qualification of rape was on the table. Courts would

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ask for sexological expert opinion in order to decide whether to send the man in question to prison or for medical treatment. And these sexologists based their decisions chiefly on etiology. If the doctors concluded that the anamnesis was social—that is, the man lacked proper heterosexual experience—they diagnosed him as sexually deviant and placed him in protective custody. Previously nonexistent in Czechoslovakia, the first units specializing in sexology opened in psychiatric hospitals in the mid-1970s. Here is one doctor’s description of the patients: “The attitude of [our] patients toward their treatment cannot be evaluated as positive. When assessing their initial level of criticism toward treatment, we found out that only 25 percent of the patients recognized the legitimacy [of protective custody] and were willing to be cured. Another 25 percent admitted sexual deviance but they blamed their environment (okolí) and did not recognize the need for treatment. Fully 50 percent of the patients were completely uncritical, denying deviance and the crime.”39 So how did these doctors treat patients who did not see themselves as ill? They devised a three-month-long program that consisted of a “firmly structured schedule” including individual and group therapy, diary keeping, a “scoring system with a set system of rewards and penalties,” and pharmacological treatment (hormone inhibition and tranquilizers).40 The doctors also delivered lectures to patients, organized collective TV watching and every two weeks there was “an evening entertainment to which female patients from other parts of the psychiatric clinic were invited.”41 The doctors themselves noted that “no specialized techniques were used,”42 and that instead they tried to socialize patients into the orderly workings of society. Watching TV and dancing with women was intended to teach the inmates about normal modes of social conduct. At the end of the patients’ stay, the doctors were mostly satisfied with the results: “For most patients, their social-cultural consciousness was positively influenced, their ethical norms strengthened, and their general knowledge widened. Information about normal sexual acts and partnership surprisingly brought to many patients, mostly the younger ones, rather new knowledge of this kind.”43 The picture that comes into focus is that Czechoslovak sexologists during the 1970s were correcting individuals who, often unaware of their failings, did not live a life that conformed to social expectations. Given the East/West divide between sexuality as cultural and sexuality as natural, how might we make sense of the Czechoslovak case?

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Discussion Sexual disorders are considered a psychiatric condition. In 1968, the American Psychiatric Association published the new edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, DSM-II, in which it ceased attributing deviance to the pathogenic power of social values and norms.44 The first edition of the DSM had put sexual deviants under a rubric of “sociopathic personality disturbances” that read: “Individuals to be placed in this category are ill primarily in terms of society and of conformity with the prevailing cultural milieu, and not only in terms of personal discomfort and relations with other individuals.”45 The Western medical community that had argued for the role of social norms in diagnosing sexual deviance in the first edition of the DSM published in 1952, swerved away from social genesis with the DSM-II. It seems the biological understanding had been brewing in the West for a while since the majority of Western doctors attending the Prague conference were typically in line with this emerging explanation for sexual disorders. The roots of sexuality and its failings were now identified with the biological properties of human bodies. Eastern doctors, on the other hand, remained wedded to social explanations. The postwar revolutionary changes that set these countries on the path to socialism included a strong faith that science would do away with obsolete moral restrictions and radically change humanity’s way of life. As this new society was being born in the wake of the Second World War, there was a widespread belief in utopia. People held dear the idea that the world around them could be rethought and remade. They supposed that when others did bad things, it was only because rotten circumstances made them. If you change society, people will change too—for the better. Yet even as this belief in a better tomorrow informed policies and various social interventions, including sexual ones, the old-fashioned common sense that behavior other than married heterosexuality was somehow flawed, even diseased, remained. I would argue that this view reflected the intersection of antiquated scruples and the modern veneration of science, leading to a need to explain and cure disorders of desire as the outdated remnants of earlier eras and their poor social arrangements that caused all and sundry ailments. Thus from its beginning, state socialist psy-ence was invested in explanations of sexual behavior that stressed the influence of societal factors over congenital, and thus unchangeable ones. As a result, sexual disorders in the East were largely attributed to social causation and treated as such.

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But Czechoslovak sexologists did not fully subscribe to social explanation in the first postwar decades. Only in the 1970s did they start to propagate the view that sexual deviants were socially aberrant. But it came with a new twist; society was not to blame because these individuals did not fit in—it was their own fault. It was individuals, not society, that were seen as needing intervention. What had changed so that the previously “middle way” of Czechoslovak sexology shifted its attention so exclusively to social causation? The Prague Spring, and particularly its aftermath. The first half of 1968 culminated in massive demands for structural change in both the political system and civic life. The conference Symposium sexuologicum pragense itself took place in June, at the tail end of the Prague Spring. In August, the Soviet-led invasion quashed hopes for “socialism with a human face” as Communist Party hard-liners regained power and steered the country in a rigid pro-Soviet direction.46 The period following the defeat of the Prague Spring is called Normalization. It was marked by the reestablishment of communist power when a reconstructed political cadre came to power with a new slogan—“the normalization of conditions.”47 Its aim was to eradicate any opposition and extinguish any spark of revolt. The regime required conformity and political obedience from its citizens. The Normalization period produced an ideological manifesto. “Poučení z krizového vývoje” (A lesson from crisis development) was a document drawn up by the Central Committee of the Communist Party that interpreted the Prague Spring as a crisis and called intervention by the Warsaw Pact armies an act of “brotherly help.” This document, accepted by the Communist Party in December 1970, remained the sole official position on the events of 1968 for the entire period of Normalization, that is, until the end of the socialist order in 1989. The document strives for objective language with the obvious aim of achieving universality. It established this “objectivity” in part by deploying clinical and medical terminology. As Kamil Činátl shows, “Poučení” relies heavily on the language of clinical psychology, using terms such as hysteria, mass psychosis, illusion, myth, panic, fever, spasm, organism, invigorating injection, hysteria, paralysis, anesthesia, infection, and putrefaction.48 The metaphors of illness and recovery, I would argue, were not limited to the pages of formal documents but spread throughout the society and—to come full circle—in turn also inspired medical intervention. It was the social ailments manifested in individual pathology that needed to be cured. Compared to previous decades structured by utopi-

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an thinking, Normalization was a time of great complacency toward the state of things—people abandoned hope that society could be changed. The writer Patrik Ouředník would later describe life under Normalization in the 1970s as “the Eastern iceberg, because life in those countries was ossified and motionless and as if frozen.”49 Therefore, if society was not to change, people needed to adjust. This widespread social sentiment came to inform science as well. Czechoslovak sexologists shifted their view toward the social underpinnings of sex when it began to connote rigidity and meant individualized pathology. At a time when the regime strove to contain “subversive elements” (podvratný živel) and discipline the misfits, doctors were finally granted the long-demanded institutional facilities in which to deal with sex deviants. Moreover, a sexological association was established as part of Purkyně’s Medical Society, sexology courses for medical students became more widespread, sexological out-patient facilities opened in every regional center, and the chief doctor Hynie was nominated as chair of the “Advisory Committee for the Promotion of Marriage and Responsible Parenting” at the Ministry of Social Affairs. Sexology became the right hand of the state. In this light, the social might mean changeable only in societies wherein people view this as a possibility. Where change seems possible, they can and do strive not only for personal adjustment but also for social transformation. But when the social freezes over, people are forced to accommodate because the rigid society will not. Social (and sexual) pathology spreads as the social norm tightens and narrows. In Normalization-era Czechoslovakia social settings were seen to be almost as unchangeable as biology is typically perceived to be. Thus in the 1970s, the social in Czechoslovakia was rigid. Although they had vastly different etiologies, the individualization of pathology and a fixed view of the social order became common denominators in both Czechoslovak and Western sexual science after 1968. It is certainly true that the post-1968 situation provided ideal conditions for Czechoslovak sexologists to do clinical work, but it also tied them closer to the state and its priorities. In turn, the state propelled the spreading of sexology into the regions beyond the capital (from the mid-1970s onward, people could seek expert advice in new counseling centers focused on marriage and sexuality), called on sexologists to join expert bodies on the ministerial level (Hynie took up chairmanship of a committee at the Ministry of Social Affairs, sexologists attended meetings of the Governmental

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Population Commission and advised the prime minister), sanctioned sexological jurisdiction through ministerial guidelines (first for general sexology in 1974 when the Ministry of Health issued the “Guidelines of Sexology, Methodical Measures,” and later that year the ministry mandated instructions tailored specifically for “Systematic Care for Sexual Deviants, Methodical Procedures”), and eventually formally recognized sexology as a part of health services (on the 1981 recommendation of the World Health Organization). At the turn of the decades 1970s/1980s, sexological certification itself began to be sanctioned by the state. Candidates in sexology as a medical discipline could obtain their credentials “by means of specialist and political interviews in front of a committee from the Ministry of Health,”50 presided over by both the head of the Sexological Institute and a representative of the Psychiatry Clinic of the Medical School. Sexology and the state forged a mutually beneficial relationship. While the Normalization era, that is, the last two decades of state socialism in Czechoslovakia, clearly made the sexologist into “more of a public official,” as one complacently observed,51 it would at the same time be inaccurate to imagine an untainted past (or future) in which sexological thinking would roam freely, unencumbered by social arrangements. It would be naive to presuppose, as many still do, a clear-cut divide between science and politics where the former epitomizes value neutrality whereas the latter is laden with values. In reality the two are blurred, which is why historians of science studying Western scholarly production have called for an acknowledgment of this fact.52 Science does not emerge from a social vacuum; while it is entangled with the norms and values of the broader society, it rarely collapses into the state. Czechoslovak sexology provides a case in point. On the one hand, it spoke to the state and, in a back-and-forth process, reflected the state’s relatively narrow demands—in response proposing more or less liberatory policies. Yet on the other, it never relinquished the calling put forward by any science: speaking truth to power. A close reading of policy (re)formulations and the transcripts of meeting minutes reveals the adroit and decisive ways in which sexologists put forward their ideas vis-à-vis the state.53 Although they are not mere puppets mastered by the state, sexologists and their reasoning exposes the broader political climate that informed their scholarly endeavor.54 Indeed, all thought is to some extent organized—and inadvertently flavored—by the objective structures of the social world.55 Material realities together with symbolic relations configure the minds of social actors, both on the everyday and expert levels. As Pierre Bourdieu puts it:

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Different classes and class fractions are engaged in a specifically symbolic struggle to impose the definition of the social world most in conformity with their interests. The field of ideological positions reproduces in transfigured form the field of social positions. They may carry on this struggle either directly in the symbolic conflicts of everyday life or indirectly through the struggle waged by the specialists in symbolic production (full time producers) in which the object at stake is the monopoly of legitimate symbolic violence— that is to say, the power to impose (and even indeed to inculcate) instruments of knowledge and expression of social reality (taxonomies), which are arbitrary (but unrecognized as such).56

In other words, whatever is real and rational is always also relational. Yet social actors are typically blind to the social rootedness of their thinking, they misrecognize the social (changeable) for the natural (given). Thus political regimes (and broader social conditions) shape but do not overdetermine the science that is produced in them. Science during the Cold War East was not any more afflicted with the regime’s “ideology” than its Western counterpart. It would be untenable to think that while Western scholarship represented the Truth, science in the East did not amount to more than ideological babbling; they were both products of their respective conditions of possibility. The lesson we can draw from the meeting of two sexologies, the Eastern and Western, is that while the life sciences of the Cold War East were not “Westernized,” understood as conforming to Western concepts and modes of knowing, they were definitely globalized— meaning a science discussed across national borders, various cultural traditions and political emphases.

Chapter 8 The “Brain Gain Thesis” Revisited German-Speaking Émigré Neuroscientists and Psychiatrists in North America Frank W. Stahnisch

As historiographical studies over the past decades have pointed out, the loss of nearly 30 percent of academic psychiatrists and neurologists in Germany between 1933 and 1945 also destroyed the basis of Germanspeaking neuroscientific traditions at large.1 Altogether, the forcedmigration process of Jewish and politically oppositional scientists from Nazi-occupied Europe has thereby often been interpreted as a process of mere “brain gain” for the American research landscape as well as for the United Kingdom.2 It is precisely because of these scientific conflicts that the case of forced migration begs a focus on the involvement of science in society, the interaction of professional networks, along with the establishment of international relations. Thus, studying migration from a global perspective adds this fuller perspective to the study of life sciences’ history during the first half of the twentieth century as well. The available institutional histories in this research field, the historiographical analysis of individual experiences, as well as the countries of origin of the German-speaking émigré neuroscientists gives important insights into the structures of the knowledge transfer across the Atlantic. Scholarship on the receiving countries has often tended to take into account primarily the intellectual, academic, and institutional dimensions of the forced-migration process, while the individual fate and destiny of many 128

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émigré psychiatrists and neurologists are still very much underresearched.3 This observation ties in well with quite recent discussions in the field of the history of science, originating from an influential article by Californian historian of science Mary Terrall, titled “Biography as Cultural History of Science.” In this publication, she drew the attention of historians of the life sciences to using the richness of biographies as a historiographical tool: “If a biography is also to be a work of history of science, it must analyze ideas, intellectual sources, training, controversies, calculations, experiments, and so on and put these elements into the life. This is [to figure] out how books, ideas, and metaphysical or theoretical commitments—all the multifarious strands of scientific work—were used by this individual to make his way in science and in the world.”4 Reaching this lofty goal is, of course, a laborious and delicate undertaking. Yet exploring some of “the multifarious strands of scientific work” can nevertheless be an inspirational exercise. This chapter takes into account the collective biography of German-speaking émigré psychiatrists and neurologists in North America, by analyzing the representative biographies of psychiatric geneticist Franz Joseph Kallmann (1897–1965), the experimental neuroscientist Eric R. Kandel (b. 1929), and the holist neurologist Kurt Goldstein (1878–1965).5 Each one of these refugee individuals, in his own right, became crucial for the development of neuroscientific research in the North American context, while conversely, each also encountered manifold problems and needed to pursue his career under completely altered auspices with different twists and adjustments. While the often-referenced brain gain thesis is frequently taken as an unquestioned truism in studies on the forced migration of physicians and medical scientists following the Nazis’ rise to power in Germany after 1933,6 scholarly research literature on the receiving countries has primarily tended to take the intellectual, academic, and institutional dimensions of the forced-migration wave into account.7 The individual fate and adaptation problems of many émigré psychiatrists and neurologists are still mostly overlooked.8 Thus, this chapter analyzes the fate and development of a group of physicians and researchers, each one of them representing a particular time for a refugee neuroscientist. Kallmann was an up-and-coming young researcher, Kandel a second-generation scientist, who arrived in North America after his college graduation, and Goldstein a fully established Prussian professor and academic mandarin at the height of his career. All could be classified as émigré psychiatrists and neurologists who immigrated to the United States and Canada either transitionally or for good.

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The argument put forward here is that the process of forced migration most often constituted an end, or at least a drastic change, to the career patterns of this group of medical professionals, including Jewish and oppositional doctors and scientists.9 Based on historical evidence, the brain gain thesis needs to be significantly readjusted as a methodological tool in the field of global immigration historiography in the modern life sciences.10 I primarily analyze the cultural aspects of scientific and professional practice as they pertain to interdisciplinary advances in biological psychiatry and neuroscience throughout the process of forced migration. From this perspective, two things stand out with respect to the historiography of the immediate postwar period: first, research into mental illness and neurological clinical care in North America, and second, the changes in twentieth-century biomedicine in the German-speaking countries, after the expulsion of so many émigré psychiatrists and neuroscientists.11 A look at the early psychiatric and neuroscientific researchers—especially those supported through the National Institutes of Health (NIH) founded during the early postwar period—Kallmann, Kandel, Goldstein, and others, can tell us much about the actual production of life science knowledge. Yet, other than seeing this development merely in terms of an escape of large numbers of émigrés to the United States and Canada, it can also be seen as the unfolding of interactions between many knowledge groups. Refugee physicians and researchers introduced useful scientific directions apart from the traditional disciplinary methodologies, while establishing new and encompassing educational programs. Many of the émigrés, however, had to wait prolonged periods for relicensing and were often excluded from regular positions as physicians during the war, while the policy regulations of the Colleges of Physicians and Surgeons in Canada and of the Medical Boards in the United States often excluded “new competitors” from the health-care market. They were seen as alien physicians with an allegedly minor level of medical knowledge. Quite typical in this respect is the case of Viennese psychiatrist Grete Lehner Bibring (1899–1977), who became chief of psychiatry at the Boston Beth Israel Hospital in 1946, only one year after the war, after relicensing processes had been considerably loosened.12 The case of the Harvard professor Bibring is nevertheless atypical with regard to the soaring career she achieved in the postwar period. Not only was she successful in continuing her research and clinical work explicitly in her former field, psychoanalytic psychiatry, but she also rose through the ranks to become a full professor, the department head at Harvard, and even president of the American Psychoanalytic Association. Instead, most of the

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women émigré psychiatrists and neurologists had to give up their practice, such as the Berlin psychiatrist Hertha Nathorff, neé Einstein (1895–1993) who transitioned her professional career into nursing and chose to support her husband in his preparation for the medical examinations.13 Intriguingly situated between the brain gain hypothesis and seeing the process of forced migration merely in terms of the “escape” of large numbers of psychiatrists and neurologists to North America, we can interpret these occurrences as the unfolding of an important interaction of heterogeneous knowledge groups in their often specific local milieus. Understandably, the Central European émigrés’ experiences and socialization in brain research—before they actually left Germany, Austria, Czechoslovakia, and Poland—is quite important to understanding the developments in neurology and psychiatry before 1933. The exodus of vast numbers of medical doctors and scientists from Nazi Germany has already been the subject of considerable research that investigates the legal pressures, changes in public health policies, and the reprehensible actions of many Nazi physicians toward their own colleagues.14 As a consequence, we now have a more comprehensive picture of the influence of politics on academic societies and on medical practice. This established view could nevertheless serve as a good starting point to go one step further into the historiographical project of migration phenomena in the modern life sciences. In particular, the exodus of psychoanalysts will not be explored in this chapter, since this aspect of the forced-migration movement has already received substantial coverage in the historical scholarship. I only want to mention here Elizabeth Lunbeck’s The Psychiatric Persuasion (1995) and Jonathan Engel’s American Therapy (2008).15 This historical development and its influence on clinical psychiatry primarily in the United States has already been analyzed to a great extent. Historians of psychiatry and psychology have long demonstrated how psychiatric theorizing in clinical medicine became dominated by psychoanalytic theories for half a century and how psychoanalytic concepts provided major platforms for public discourse about modern American lifestyles.16 Not so much ink, however, has been spilled by scholars in exploring the overlapping spheres linking psychiatry and neurology (combined in the interdisciplinary German field of Nervenheilkunde) though this was the educational background typical of many of the Central European émigrés who arrived in the United States and Canada after 1933. These émigrés had been trained in the basic medical sciences, such as neuropathology, neuroanatomy, and neurophysiology,

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and had often likewise received professional training and gained substantial proficiency in psychiatry in preeminent centers such as Berlin, Breslau, Vienna, and Heidelberg. This development is mapped here by looking at the illustrative examples of neuroscientists, their networks, and institutions. The actions of doctors and researchers, along with the influence of health politicians on the field of neuroscience, become comprehensible only when the cultural picture of the global migration is taken into account. I use the example of émigré neurologists and psychiatrists in this area of the life sciences to conduct a prosopographical investigation,17 which provides the historical analysis with ample perspectives on culturally laden research styles. The Case of National Instutites of Health–Funded Émigré Psychiatrists and Neuroscientists Following the massive forced-migration wave in the neurosciences from the German-speaking countries to North America, during which approximately six hundred researchers and physicians with specific training in clinical psychiatry and neurology were driven into exile,18 the various relationships among neurology, psychiatry, pathology, and experimental psychology became steadily readjusted. This process also factored into the new and far-reaching transformation of these fields into one of the most prolific areas of biomedical knowledge production. The founding of the National Institutes of Health Clinical Center in 1948 and particularly the research conducted by the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), inaugurated in April 1949, and the National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Blindness (NINDB), established in November 1950, were landmark events. They helped shape the transformation phase of early neuroscience, when many émigré doctors became relicensed for clinical work, so that their privileged work in the laboratory sciences ended and clinical openings again became available to them in the early postwar period.19 The inauguration of the NIH shortly after the end of the Second World War was very helpful for many of the German-speaking émigrés. It marked an important step, when the postwar reorientation of the support initiatives of the American Rockefeller Foundation shifted away from biomedical research funding toward global population health programs, while many of the traditional funding streams were drying up.20 These transformations of the neuroscientific research field were also paralleled through the readjustments of the connections between clinical neurology, psychiatry, and basic

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research in neuropathology, as well as experimental psychology.21 The case of NIH-funded brain research as a big scientific institution is particularly well suited, because its research center in Bethesda, Maryland, developed into one of the best hospitals in America during the 1950s and 1960s. Furthermore, its extramural research-funding program provided considerable sources of new funding for clinical training and medical science.22 I use the subdevelopment of the émigré psychiatrists and neurologists here as a most instructive example because it provides historians of medicine and science with ample perspectives to gain in-depth knowledge about the effect of culturally laden and culturally shaped research styles. The narrative will thus help develop a better understanding of the broad transformation processes in the general field of neuroscience, especially from a world history perspective. It had been most obvious to researchers in twentieth-century neuroscience that the cognitive understanding of scientific subject matter and the use of professional practices varied markedly with the influence of time and culture. Émigré neuroscientists were fairly aware of this cultural dimension of science, due to their own experiences of leaving their home countries, research communities, and accustomed environments. For example, this is manifested in the recollections of Austro-American neurophysiologist Kandel: “Vienna’s culture was one of extraordinary power, and it had been created and nourished in good part by Jews. My life has been profoundly shaped by the collapse of Viennese culture in 1938—both by the events I experienced that year and by what I have learned since about the city and its history. This understanding has deepened my appreciation of Vienna’s greatness and sharpened my sense of loss at its demise. The sense of loss is heightened by the fact that Vienna was my birthplace, my home.”23 Most émigrés in the United States and Canada would probably have agreed with Kandel’s emphasis on the considerable influence that the culture of their home countries exerted on their personal and scientific lives. Regardless of whether the psychiatric and neurological refugees were forced to emigrate from Berlin, Breslau, Frankfurt am Main, Leipzig, or Munich, they were quite aware of the cultural differences influencing their neuroscientific approaches in their new host countries. Nevertheless, these reflections, of course, needed some time to emerge and ripen.24 All sorts of practical, health-care, and clinical work became necessary for their bare survival—during a period in which employment in the postsecondary sector was scarce following the Great Depression.25 Although a low number of émigrés had already managed to enter American and Canadian universi-

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ties between the years 1933 and 1935, most of them were successful in gaining entry to universities after the conclusion of the Second World War. Yet, even when they managed in some ways to continue their professional and research careers, they had to realize that the scientific conduct, the organization of research projects, and the local application of scientific methods were often very different from what they had been accustomed to.26 In this framework, the respective narratives about the exodus of psychiatrists and neurologists from German-speaking Europe consist of much more than just the events that occurred in specific arenas of contemporary biomedical research. Influential people at the NIH, such as Kallmann (who worked at Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center) or Goldstein (who led a neurophysiological laboratory at Montefiore Hospital in New York) proved to have a considerable influence on the future development of the neurosciences during the second half of the twentieth century. They were in many respects really representative of Jewish émigrés more generally, while their experiences in fact provide a strong counterargument to the widely prevailing “brain gain” thesis mentioned above. Concomitantly, there were several long-term consequences from the massive exodus of Central European émigré researchers and physicians since the 1930s. Some were of a more groundbreaking sort (e.g., the spread of psychoanalysis, the introduction of shock therapies in psychiatry, and the promotion of the first synthetic psychoactive drugs in clinical settings), while others were of a comparably “contributing type” (e.g., the introduction of the neuroscientific research center idea, the promotion of more encompassing and augmented educational programs, and the contingent interchanges between individual researchers who would never have collaborated if the process of forced-migration had not happened).27 Both the clinical neuroscientist Horace Magoun (1907–91) and his wife, the neurophysiologist Louise Hanson Marshall (1908–2003) at the University of California, Los Angeles, have drawn attention to the respective changes following the Second World War in their recent book American Neuroscience in the Twentieth Century.28 In mapping the influences that émigrés exerted on the scientific and clinical cultures in their receiving countries, it is noteworthy to see the remarkable scientific growth and technological advancement that resulted from émigré efforts. The underlying changes in the postwar field of neuroscience have been described by Francis O. Schmitt (1903–95) at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, who was the prominent founder of the nationwide Neuroscience Research Program.29 Between 1973 and 1980, he served on the Advisory Board for the National Institute of Neurological

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Disorders and Stroke (NINDS), which had evolved from NINDB after a series of organizational changes in 1968: During the rapid evolution of the NIH funding was quite liberal. For some years the level of funding was increased by 15 percent annually. This made possible not only the granting of funds for a substantial fraction of grant applications, but also for the development of research along particular lines initiated by the central authority, e.g. the secretary of Health and Human Services (HHS) by the director of the NIH or by particular institutes that were prepared to devote substantial efforts to a particular innovative project. Because of the eminence in basic and clinical research that had been developed by MGH [Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston] in the previous decade, it was frequently the MGH that was asked to spearhead work in an innovative field.30

This quote from Schmitt points to the groundbreaking transformations that had taken place in the North American scientific landscape, which later gave rise to the truly interdisciplinary research field of neuroscience in the 1960s. The related process is likewise reflected in the consecutive editorial and introductory sections, written by the various institute directors, for the annual reports of the NIMH and NINDB during the respective time period.31 Altogether, twenty-two émigré neuroscientists can be identified as having worked in the intramural program of the NIH in Bethesda, Maryland, between its foundation in 1948 and 1962, when Schmitt laid the conceptual groundwork for the Neuroscience Research Program at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge.32 Through the NIH’s extramural program, an additional approximately one hundred émigré researchers and clinicians received funding support during the same time period. Several of the professional biographies discussed in this chapter display patterns similar to those of émigrés in the emerging interdisciplinary research field of neuroscience. The Berlin geneticist and psychiatrist Kallmann, who was a founding member and associate of the American Society of Human Genetics (1948), is discussed first as an important representative of the mental health service. Second, when looking at how émigrés mobilized innovative methodological factors, the case of Kandel is useful to examine, since the course of his fruitful career meandered between psychiatry and laboratory neuroscience. Third, I shall characterize the emigration process of the Frankfurt and Berlin neurologist Goldstein as an example of an established neuropathologist and clinical neurologist, who lost everything during the early

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1930s. He later struggled, more or less successfully, to continue his career as a clinical neurologist, experimental psychologist, and principal investigator of an interdisciplinary research program in the American medical community. This was also the pattern for some less well-known émigré psychiatrists or neurologists such as the Czech physician Robert Weil (1909–2002), who contributed substantially to the Canadian psychiatric community and mental health service.33 Kallmann and Genetic Psychiatry The continuing changes in the organizational frameworks of the German-speaking health-care system from the Weimar Republic period to the Nazi takeover had a palpable influence on the psychiatric geneticist Kallmann. He was born in Silesia, the son of a Jewish physician who in the latter half of the nineteenth century had converted to the Christian faith. Kallmann received his MD degree from the University of Breslau in 1919 and continued his training with the psychiatrist Karl Bonhoeffer (1868–1948) in Berlin and the neuropathologist Hans Gerhard Creutzfeld (1885–1964) in Munich. In 1928, Kallmann began to work as a neuropathologist at the pathology division in the large psychiatric asylum of Berlin-Herzberge.34 Beginning at that time, Kallmann actively collaborated with the director of the German Research Institute for Psychiatry, the Munich psychiatric epidemiologist Ernst Ruedin (1874–1952), on questions of the inheritance of schizophrenia in siblings, and became a well-known early protagonist of genetic psychiatry.35 Ruedin, however, had acted as quite an ambivalent mentor to Kallmann, particularly when it became known that Kallmann was “half-Jewish” according to the Nuremberg Race Laws, which were enacted by the Nazis in 1935. In 1936, Ruedin was so worried that he might lose him that he suggested Kallmann should flee and find a new position in America. Exile was not at all an easy decision for Kallmann, however, since he wholeheartedly approved of eugenics and most of the restrictive programs in the Nazi public health service.36 His own risk finally led him to immigrate to the United States. In New York City he published his hallmark study, The Genetics of Schizophrenia, which became the major reference work for psychiatric twin studies and a textbook for the foundation of modern psychiatric epidemiology.37 Kallmann’s research results showed that siblings of schizophrenics have a tenfold increased risk of also being diagnosed with the disease.

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During the same time period that Ruedin was pursuing epidemiological research at the German Research Institute in Munich, Ottmar Freiherr von Verschuer (1896–1969) at the Berlin Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for Anthropology, Human Heredity and Eugenics, and SS physician Josef Mengele (1911–79) at the Institute for Hereditary Biology and Racial Hygiene in Frankfurt began their twin studies in psychiatric asylums. These were then continued in several Nazi concentration camps.38 Kallmann later embarked on a renewed program of twin studies of schizophrenia and manic-depressive illness in America on the data of seven hundred siblings in various New York State hospitals with the support of the Department of Mental Hygiene. These findings in conjunction with his former Berlin psychiatric data provided the major evidence for the influence of genetic factors in schizophrenic illness, findings later confirmed by American and Scandinavian adoption studies.39 Kallmann’s own position was further solidified when he became a cofounding member and later president (1950–51) of the American Society of Human Genetics and assumed the directorship of the New York State Psychiatric Institute after 1955.40 Kallmann’s work was well received among North American geneticists, but the idea of biologically inherited differences did not receive much support from clinical psychiatry. In pursuing their research aims, medical scientists were among the protagonists and inventors of racial hygiene and broadened medical genetics, even if the idea of genetic differences in human behavior found only little support among psychiatrists. It was exactly at this point that the contributions of the NIH become so important for the advancement of interdisciplinary thought in the growing field of biological psychiatry.41 These dynamics are also reflected in the NIMH director’s introduction to the Annual Report of 1954: As a result of the concern expressed by the National Advisory Mental Health Study Section over the failure of past research efforts to produce more definite results in relating the biological sciences to the field of mental health, a committee was established. . . . The Committee also found that the most productive studies to date have been carried out on mental subjects, in which the imposed biological and psychological variables can be more adequately controlled. A continuing concern of the Committee has been the biophobic and psychophobic attitudes of representatives of the behavioral and biological disciplines, respectively, and the problem of communication that exist between one field and another.42

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Surprisingly, as the American historian of psychiatry Gerald Grob has shown,43 such a biophobic attitude was to a large extent a result of the immense influence of another group of émigrés from Nazi Germany: the psychoanalysts probably wielded a greater influence on the fields of psychiatry than any other aspect of forced migration. As the latter two were strongly supported through the extramural program of the NIH and held strong ties with the clinical research branch, frictions between the various disciplines were pertinent to the research orientation and support of NIMH. Kandel and Neurophysiology With respect to the biographical resources and cultural backgrounds of émigré neuroscientists, the case of the millennium Nobel Prize laureate in Physiology or Medicine Kandel shows some of the important factors that helped émigré neuroscientists land on their academic feet. Kandel, the son of a shopkeeper in Vienna, was born into the intellectual culture that the Austro-Hungarian Empire had bequeathed.44 He was prevented from beginning medical training at the University of Vienna, which would have quite naturally followed his graduation from the gymnasium, by the triumphal march of Adolf Hitler (1889–1945) into Vienna on the morning of March 12, 1938, which brought to annexed Austria the same race laws that had already been in existence in Germany. Kandel’s parents eventually decided that the situation in occupied Austria had become too dangerous and that more persecutions of Jews would arise. So, in 1939, they left on an affidavit to New York, only months before the outbreak of the Second World War. In his autobiography In Search of Memory (2006), Kandel has emphasized how much he felt that the experiences of these last years in the vibrant city of Vienna had helped him to determine his later interests in memory research. Quite intriguing in this regard is that as a laboratory neuroscientist Kandel traced his own interest in the biochemical aspects of memory to his exposure to the theoretical ideas of psychoanalysis in its historical and social contours. In fact, Sigmund Freud (1856–1939) had developed his own neuroscientific considerations while staying with Jean-Martin Charcot in Paris.45 Kandel’s description in his autobiography is echoed in similar accounts by many émigrés who relate their own research orientation in neurology, psychiatry, and public health to former experiences in their home countries, before they were eventually driven out of Germany, Austria, and neighboring countries. After his graduation from Erasmus Hall high school in Brooklyn, New

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York, Kandel entered Harvard College in 1944. Eventually, he befriended a fellow student, Anna Kris (b. ca. 1928), from a Viennese émigré circle. Both her parents, Ernst Kris (1900–1957) and Marianne Kris-Rie (1900–1980) were psychoanalysts and well acquainted with the work of Freud, which influenced Kandel to change his mind and pursue medicine at the New York University Medical School with the aim of becoming a clinical psychiatrist.46 In the summer of 1955, Kandel began an elective period at Columbia University with another German-speaking émigré from Minsk in Belarus, Harry Grundfest (1904–83), who was then a neurology professor at Columbia. Kandel approached the somatic neurologist Grundfest with the initial idea of learning more about the “biological underpinnings of psychoanalytical memory theory,” which for Grundfest appeared to be an awkward undertaking to pursue. Very likely, their different upbringings influenced their contrasting research approaches to neuroscience. The subsequent arguments between the Columbia mentor and his Vienna-educated mentee are indicative of the intellectual clashes among émigré psychiatrists and neurologists themselves after they had landed in North America. Accordingly, this elective period turned out to be quite decisive for Kandel. On the one hand, his time with Grundfest proved to be a cathartic experience during which he realized that it was rather hopeless to reduce psychoanalytic theory to physiology. On the other hand, new political circumstances began to change his career path in quite substantial ways. While the Nazi seizure of power had forced him to leave his home country and to pursue his career in the United States, another major political event—the outbreak of the Korean War (1950 to 1953)—brought him to work at the NIH in Bethesda, Maryland. Since Kandel had interned in Grundfest’s laboratory during two extended time periods, Grundfest nominated Kandel for a position at the NIMH, a position that counted as a form of alternative national service to the conscription of medical doctors.47 Based on Grundfest’s letters of recommendation, Kandel was accepted by the neurophysiologist Wade Marshall (1907–72) to work with him between 1957 and 1960. In the early 1950s, the NIH had already begun its steep rise to becoming one of the liveliest places for biomedical research in the United States. This attracted many young and advanced visiting scientists to work and reside in Bethesda for a term and often for several years.48 This milieu brought Kandel into contact with many leading neuroscientists of his time, such as the émigré neurophysiologist Karl Frank (1916–2009), who was pioneering the examination of intracellular recordings, W. Alden Spencer (1931–77), who began to work on hippocampus physiology and

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neurogenetics, and the Japanese American biophysicist Ichiji Tasaki (1910– 2009). Tasaki had come from Keio University after his postgraduate training at the University of Uppsala in Sweden, in order to experiment on sense organ neurophysiology. Similar to Kallmann’s case,49 the prevailing trend of reductionism in psychiatry and neurology at the NIMH proved to be highly influential for young Kandel when he began his research on learning processes. It materialized later in his work on the sea snail Aplysia while visiting the Mediterranean biological marine laboratories in France.50 Since the narrative of my chapter is concerned with the emerging interdisciplinary field of neuroscience and the immediate postwar fate of émigré psychiatrists and neurologists, it is not possible to go further into the meandering but highly interesting later development of Kandel’s biography.51 Nevertheless, what becomes clear from his case is the influence that major historical developments had on his career in the neurosciences, from his entering the field through the backdoor of psychoanalysis to finding his biological model through pursuing an alternative military service in an NIH laboratory. What could be perceived as a logical succession of research steps, from Aplysia to studying the role of attention in mice, would not have turned out as successfully if the NIMH had not been such an integral catalyzer of biomedical research at this time. Culturally socialized in the Vienna of the late Austro-Hungarian Empire, his experiences in his former home country had given rise to “a fascination that focused first on history and psychoanalysis, then on the biology of the brain.”52 After he had emigrated to New York City with his parents, Kandel embarked on a remarkably prolific career, which to a large degree reflected the opportunities and the advanced state of the American research institutions.53 As Kandel’s case shows, émigré neuroscientists fortunately did not succumb to a new social order or to different cultural codes in their receiving countries—rather, they very creatively adjusted the direction of their research. Often enough, the forced-migration process of Central European neuroscientists resulted in profound changes of orientation as well as innovative forms of the rearrangement of preceding research traditions, as Kandel’s example reveals, so that we recognize crossover research programs between psychoanalysis and neurophysiology; clinical brain psychiatry and public mental health; and holist neurology and experimental psychology, to name only a few. These new research directions were instigated by a great many creative academics, such as the former collaborators of the neurologist Goldstein (who emigrated to Boston and New York), including the neuropathologist Walther Riese (1890–1976) in Richmond, Virginia,

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and the psychiatrist Karl Stern (1906–75) in Montreal and Ottawa.54 By adapting to the preexisting North American research styles, the arriving émigré neuroscientists began to substantially enrich them. Goldstein and Neurological Holism Of course, the holistic neurology of Kurt Goldstein is another case particularly suited to explore and appreciate the influences of émigré neurologists in their American exile. When Goldstein left the Institute for Research into the Effects of Brain Injuries and the University of Frankfurt in late 1930, he began to build the Department of Neurology at the Charité teaching hospital in Moabit, Berlin, into a fully fledged interdisciplinary research center under his chairmanship.55 His research program and clinical service were supported by an illustrious group of accomplished and innovative experts who joined him from all parts of Germany. Between 1932 and 1933, the Bavarian-Jewish neurohistologist Karl Stern, who had served previously as a young house officer in the Frankfurt Edinger Institute with Goldstein, had already agreed to join him from the German Research Institute for Psychiatry in Munich, where he had further refined his neurohistological expertise.56 Its research facilities soon proved Moabit Hospital to be one of the most renowned municipal hospitals in the country with the new chief of the neurosurgery division, Moritz Borchardt (1868–1948), Adhémar Gelb (1887–1936) as head of the experimental psychology laboratory, and Ludwig Pick (1868–1944) as head of the neuropathology division. The rise of the Nazi Party to power in Germany, however, annihilated all these plans and Goldstein had to flee to Switzerland. He eventually found refuge at the Institute of Pharmacology at the University of Amsterdam, where he finished his seminal book The Organism (Der Aufbau des Organismus).57 In 1935, Goldstein reached New York City, after two years as a research fellow in the Netherlands, where he had not been allowed to practice medicine because his German clinical license was not acknowledged in the neighboring country. Having lost the organizational basis for his research program with its dependence on the specific group of highly intellectually oriented neuroscientists and aptly skilled experimental and clinical coworkers, the continuation of Goldstein’s research program was thoroughly undermined by the harassment and damage of Nazism. It was also a major disadvantage that Goldstein was already fifty-seven years old when he and his wife, the clinical psychologist Eva Rothman-Goldstein

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(1897–1960), arrived in the United States. In comparison to many other German-speaking émigré neuroscientists, his advanced age markedly impeded him from fuller integration into American academic faculty ranks or at least a sufficiently diversified working group in New York City. This is not to say, however, that Goldstein did not try and did not achieve some successes. Instead, his achievements took place despite the massive external constraints and personal impediments with which he had to cope. Being forced to practice medicine for his living, he also started to lecture in New York, Boston, Cambridge (Massachusetts), and other places on the East Coast, which proved to be fairly time consuming due to the necessary travel. Furthermore, after his arrival in the United States, Goldstein stretched his research interests noticeably into areas of psychology and empirical sociology, which redirected much energy that had formerly gone into the neurological research he had pursued in Germany.58 With regard to this intricate process of reigniting his scientific aspirations and research program, his biographer Marianne L. Simmel (1923– 2010) states that Goldstein did not find the adequate social context and the matching scientific culture he was looking for in exile.59 According to Simmel, Goldstein had never really felt at home in exile, mainly because his rootedness in the German-speaking academic culture had been so categorically disrupted. Younger émigrés likewise felt this intellectual challenge but more easily overcame it through adapting to the heavily applied research styles they encountered in North America. This is pertinent, for example, in the cases of Kallmann or Kandel described above, who definitely counted among the younger neuroscientists to arrive, and who pursued the longer part of their career overseas. This is not to say that Goldstein himself was not well aware of the difficulties that transatlantic exile entailed. In letters to his secretary Bella Sack (b. ca. 1922) and his teaching and research assistant Dr. Martin Scheerer (1900–1961), he explicitly thanked them for rendering his English “more readable” and for their “assistance in the elaboration of lectures.”60 With a view to the cultural perspective on scientific and clinical practice, it is certainly possible to view Goldstein’s example as typifying other cases of émigré neuroscientists who landed in North America during the last decade of their active academic careers. His is similarly a good test case to highlight clashing assumptions about neurological theory and forms of effective research organization versus the disciplinary formation of clinical neurology departments of the traditional sort. Goldstein later established a neurophysiological working space at Montefiore Hospital as a “laboratory

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for experimental psychology.”61 With hindsight then, it follows from Goldstein’s example that the individual biographies of émigrés can tell us much more about the actual making of neuroscience even from a methodological point of view. Goldstein’s case, among the vast group of émigré neuroscientists, exemplifies the experiences of many other medical scientists who stood in opposition to Nazism and the destructive programs enacted to marginalize the mentally ill and neurologically handicapped. This horrific process could be called Germany’s “War against the Weak,” when over forty thousand patients were killed in asylums and psychiatric clinics.62 Through the expulsion of these clinical neuroscientists the tradition of holistic neurology was almost impeded from continuing in Germany. It is plausible to consider that nearly all institutions of higher learning provided positions, wherever they were vacant, for these professional and scientific exiles. Yet it is one of the tragic facts of the emigration process that while individual researchers did find new homes and working places, their coherent and functioning interdisciplinary research groups were usually dissolved. This was the case for the emigration of the former Goldstein group who were scattered all over North America from the University of Idaho to the Virginia Medical School. Others passed away before they could emigrate, as is the case of Gelb who succumbed to a chronic tuberculosis infection,63 or were interned before they could leave Germany, Austria, and neighboring countries, as in the case of the psychiatrist and psychoanalyst Karl Landauer (1887–1945). The émigré psychiatrists and neurologists were not only connected to the preceding networks in the German-speaking communities, but also made the acquaintance of many leaders of the emerging field of neuroscience. Among Goldstein’s newly befriended colleagues were, for example, the Harvard psychologist Gordon W. Allport (1897–1967), the psychologist Gardner Murphy (1895–1979) at City College New York, the psychologist Abraham Maslow (1908–70) at Brandeis University, and the psychologist Carl Rogers (1902–87), who was working at Rochester University in New York. These acquaintances and work relationships helped to restore at least some of Goldstein’s former scientific program and were also instrumental in fostering the reception of his holistic neurological work in the American landscape of experimental and clinical psychology.64 The uneven reception and afterlife of Goldstein’s ideas, however, was paralleled by the breakdown of the holistic and interdisciplinary program of neurology, while Goldstein had to retract his broad interests back into various disciplinarily organized areas, such as rehabilitation psychology,

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social psychology, laboratory experimentation, clinical neurology, and even sociology. Although he and his collaborators continued to work on aspects of several of these areas, the programs had to be distributed at different institutions, with various groups and often without financial support. Of course, it appears as an example of esprit de l’escalier in twentieth-century history that for many psychiatrists and neuroscientists, the human catastrophe brought about by National Socialism also created unanticipated opportunities in new settings—areas that Nazi officials had sought to destroy forever. The changes following the forced migration after 1933 were processes with results that few could have predicted at the outset and that would transform North American medicine and neuroscience.65 Discussion The historical value of examining émigré experiences from contemporary neuroscientists and psychiatrists on an individual level also lies in the development of a better understanding of the circulations of scientific knowledge and the creation of innovative institutional research settings during and after the Second World War. As the case examples of émigré psychiatrists and neurologists in North America illustrate, the refugee physicians and researchers did not resign themselves to a new social order or cultural codes. The processes of acculturation of the émigré neuroscientists in fact took place in an environment that many exiled medical researchers and physicians perceived in a way similar to that of the Swiss American medical historian Henry E. Sigerist (1891–1957), who had noted in 1934 that “splendidly equipped technically, American medicine is still backward socially.”66 Viewing the forced-migration process in its cultural dimension can thus lead to a more comprehensive account of the role of émigré neuroscientists in the research cultures of the United States and Canada, since research methods traveled together with the émigré doctors and medical scientists. In this sense, “America” influenced their psychiatric and neurological work, while they concurrently left an imprint on American neuroscience.67 In this process the neuroscientific émigrés also had to reconfigure themselves as they set out to find new jobs, continue their former interests, and settle into the somewhat alien research surroundings.68 The example of early twentieth-century neuroscience provides us with ample perspectives to learn more about the influence of culturally laden and culturally shaped research styles in the development of modern neuroscience and psychiatry. As the case studies in this chapter suggest, the complex processes of

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acculturation of the émigré psychiatrists and neurologists cannot be discussed simply in terms of a “brain gain” for the receiving countries and their scientific host cultures, such as the United States and Canada. Rather, the historical examples lay bare how traditional categories of adaptation used in scholarly investigations of forced migration have, up to the present, somewhat marginalized, if not neglected, the cultural contextualization of refugees’ working conditions in North American life sciences.

Chapter 9 What’s in a Zone? Biological Order versus National Identity in the Biological Sciences Curriculum Study Audra J. Wolfe

The American herpetologist and educator Arnold Grobman frequently repeated a cautionary tale about biology instruction in 1950s Hong Kong. There he witnessed high school students performing a dissection of local earthworms. Unfortunately, the specimens did not agree with the depictions in the students’ British textbooks. Since the students would be taking British exams, however, they dutifully labeled their specimens according to the anatomic elements identified in the text. As Grobman interpreted the incident, the students were being forced to choose between empirical reality and received authority, thereby missing out on one of the central benefits of laboratory instruction.1 Even before the Biological Sciences Curriculum Study (BSCS) textbooks came on the market in the United States in 1963, educators in Asia and Latin America had expressed interest in the books’ innovative, inquiry-based pedagogical technique. The American foreign policy establishment, too, thought the books held potential for spreading American values abroad. But because biology textbooks by definition include discussions of flora and fauna, “straight translations” of the U.S. editions would not suffice. Instead, the BSCS’s leaders—especially Grobman—required that foreign educators “adapt” the texts to local conditions. Over time, as the number

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of adaptations and translations multiplied, both the BSCS’s leadership and its international partners began to question the need for so much customization. Might it be possible, they wondered, to divide the world (and the textbooks) into distinct biodiversity zones, create a textbook for each, and then merely translate the appropriate version for each country? In short: no. The logic of the biodiversity scheme ran up against the nationalist ambitions of biologist educators in more than three dozen developing nations. The BSCS’s overseas partners inevitably preferred to develop their own, “indigenous” versions rather than work with materials designed for a given transnational zone. The fact that the conversation was even taking place, however, is revealing of the contradictory impulses that drove 1960s-era modernization projects. Although large-scale infrastructure and health projects have received more attention from historians, education reform played a central—if low-key—part in attempts to develop the economies of so-called emerging nations.2 Ultimately, however, the BSCS’s overseas textbook program flourished in the nationalist rather than the internationalist mode. In this somewhat unlikely example of cultural diplomacy, American biologists and their overseas partners attempted to balance postcolonial nationalism with American hegemony, and conceptual grids with biological reality. The BSCS developed the most ambitious international programs of the various curriculum reforms that developed in the United States after Sputnik. They found a receptive audience among an unlikely assortment of development officials and propaganda professionals. But as the textbook adaption program grew, it also became more cumbersome. Attempts to rationalize—to flatten—the process ran hard smack against both biological reality and postcolonial ambitions.3 As we shall see, there were limits to internationalization in postwar biology. Textbook Diplomacy In the United States, the shock of Sputnik fueled a growing sense of crisis about the state of American education and American scientific manpower. This was the case despite a distinct lack of evidence on the actual numbers of Soviet scientists, how those numbers compared to the situation in the United States, or how educating the next generation of scientists would solve the immediate crisis. One result was the passage of the National Defense Education Act of 1958, which provided funds for merit scholarships,

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graduate fellowships, programs to improve science and math teaching in high schools (including funds to purchase laboratory equipment and supplies), and science curriculum reforms.4 By the early 1960s, high school science curriculum reform programs were well under way in physics (the Physical Sciences Study Committee [PSSC]), biology (the Biological Sciences Curriculum Study), chemistry (the Chemical Bond Approach and CHEMStudy), the earth sciences (the Earth Sciences Curriculum Project), and mathematics (the Mathematics Study Group). While each of these programs had its own particular pedagogical slant, their leaders—almost all university scientists—shared two key assumptions: first, that scientific education was too important to be left to the educators; and second, that the pace of scientific change required an emphasis on science as a way of knowing rather than scientific fact. All the “new” curricular programs therefore emphasized the concept of science as inquiry and stressed lab work, student-driven experiments, and open-ended questions rather than rote memorization of fact.5 Most of the existing historical work on these curricular programs has focused on their development and reception in the United States. From the beginning, however, the constellation of agencies that directed U.S. efforts in cultural diplomacy expressed interest in the programs’ potential use abroad. As early as March 1958, for example, Harold Goodwin, the scientific planning officer at the U.S. Information Agency’s (USIA) Office of Policy and Plans, wrote to the director of the PSSC requesting more information on the project. He welcomed suggestions as to how the “USIA could utilize the public aspects of your work in explaining American science and education to overseas audiences.”6 Goodwin similarly included “textbooks” in a list of twenty-five possible focus areas for U.S. government efforts to use science to strengthen ties throughout the so-called Free World.7 Although few of Goodwin’s proposals were implemented, the USIA does seem to have pursued the textbook line: by 1962, the BSCS had donated 176 sets of draft textbooks to the agency for distribution to its network of international libraries.8 By the mid-1960s, the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) and the Peace Corps were also experimenting with the textbooks, particularly in India, Pakistan, and Afghanistan.9 Attempts to internationalize science curriculum reform efforts were not limited to overt support from the U.S. government. Both the private Ford and Rockefeller Foundations generously supported efforts to introduce translated versions of PSSC, CHEMStudy, and BSCS textbooks abroad, as did The Asia Foundation (TAF), a nominally private foundation that

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operated with funding from the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) until 1967.10 Some readers may by shocked by the claim that an institution affiliated with a U.S. intelligence agency was supporting the publication of American biology textbooks abroad. From the mid-1950s through the late 1960s, however, this sort of “gray area” propaganda was typical for U.S. foreign policy. A number of diplomatic historians—most notably Kenneth Osgood and Hugh Wilford—have clearly documented the extent to which American Cold War psychological warfare practices attempted to blur the lines between public and private actions, frequently obscuring their government connections even when involved in relatively innocuous activities.11 Together, these varied kinds of organizations—official government agencies, private philanthropic foundations, and nominally private organizations operating with support from the U.S. government—formed the institutional net for U.S.–led development efforts, including in education. All of them provided financial support for curriculum reform efforts in chemistry, physics, mathematics, and biology throughout the developing world, particularly in Asia and Latin America. The Asia Foundation’s efforts are of particular interest in that the organization’s charter explicitly focused on development through capacity building: educational reform programs meshed nicely with the mandate to cultivate the growth of democratic institutions, foster economic growth, and strengthen relationships between Asian and American elites. TAF funded study groups, textbook translation and printing, teacher training, and, eventually, regional conferences of educators.12 But in no case did TAF attempt to create or even encourage the development of indigenous curriculum reform programs; instead, it provided various kinds of financial and material support to assist in the translation and adaptation of the newly revised American science textbooks. It was the spirit of inquiry, much more than any actual scientific content, that appealed to TAF officials. From their perspective, it did not really matter which scientific discipline came first: adoption of any of the post-Sputnik curricular programs would inject a new spirit of reform into the supposed backwater of Asian secondary education. On the one hand, as one official pointed out, the programs in physics and chemistry related “more closely to TAF interests in the development of science.”13 On the other hand, as Marty Fleischmann in the Program Services Division replied, biology had some bearing on agriculture, an essential sector for economic growth. Really, Fleischmann noted, the more important thing was whether “the study of any one of these sciences would contribute more to the devel-

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opment of a scientific attitude” than the others, since “the primary goal” was the development of a “spirit of inquiry.”14 At least at first, TAF split the difference by supporting the international work of PSSC, the Chemical Bond Approach, and the BSCS at more or less equal (and equally low) levels. Over time, however, the TAF’s investments in curricular reform focused more and more on biology.15 In part, this was because local program officers reported more enthusiasm for this topic from local educators. But at least as important were persistent nudges from Arnold Grobman. Grobman was ecumenical in his search for partners to underwrite his dreams of overseas expansion. In 1961—two years before the textbooks appeared on the commercial market—the BSCS claimed in grant applications that it had received inquiries for translation or adaption from more than forty nations.16 When no foundation seemed interested in sponsoring this work, James Dickson, the committee’s chair, pointed out that the “CIA has funds in abundance for international support of projects of interest to AIBS [American Institute of Biological Sciences].”17 Four days later, Dickson pushed the cultural diplomacy angle with a grants officer at the National Science Foundation, claiming that the Soviet Union and China had placed “course outlines and supplementary materials” in classrooms all over the developing world.18 Eventually, the BSCS could count The Asia Foundation, the Rockefeller and Ford Foundations, USAID, and the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) among its backers for their work abroad, in addition to the millions it received from the National Science Foundation (NSF) for its domestic work.19 Over time, the sheer scale of the BSCS’s work became a reason to continue to fund it, with the argument being made (repeatedly and apparently persuasively) that, since the NSF had spent more than $8,000,000 supporting the organization’s work, it was in the public interest to share it with educators across the globe.20 But Grobman was more than just persistent. His commitment to “adaptation” made the BSCS’s approach to internationalization more attractive for development work than, say, PSSC’s. These textbooks were not “straight translations,” but instead cultural adaptations, with local flora, fauna, and cultural examples substituted for those in the original texts. References to baseball might be changed to cricket; genetics examples involving hair or eye color might be changed to the ability to taste phenylthiocarbamide (PTC). The BSCS’s leaders repeatedly stressed the need to avoid even the appearance of cultural imperialism, to the point that they refused to allow

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foreign Ministries of Education to license their texts unless they promised to undertake a full “adaption,” not just a “translation.”21 This feature of the BSCS approach offered multiple benefits for its American patrons, from familiarizing international students with the natural resources in their own backyards to building national identity through scientific achievement. It also, of course, held more appeal for local teachers, students, and technocrats. The combination of Grobman’s enthusiasm, patrons’ motives, and local interest proved powerful. By November 1963, the BSCS reported adaptation programs under way in ten countries: Thailand, the Philippines, Taiwan, Indonesia, Japan, Colombia, Brazil, Argentina, Israel, and Turkey.22 In some cases, as in the Philippines and Thailand, the American offices of the BSCS provided significant technical assistance; in others, its involvement was limited to an exchange of correspondence. Just six months later, Grobman claimed to have fielded correspondence from educators in almost ninety nations. The countries represented on this list spanned the full gamut of educational infrastructure and overall development, from Laos and Liberia to Great Britain and West Germany.23 Even the entrepreneurial Grobman recognized that the global scale of creating a unique adaptation for each potential national partner might prove beyond the BSCS’s means—let alone the education budget of newly independent nations. Adaptations, Translations, and Control Starting in 1963, the BSCS maintained a strict policy toward its adaptations. As repeatedly outlined in policy documents, newsletters, and correspondence with individuals, educators interested in incorporating BSCS materials into their classrooms should follow three steps. First, they should form a study committee to identify precisely which materials they might wish to adapt. The BSCS differed from the other post-Sputnik curricular reforms in that the organization had produced not one, but three separate textbooks: Green, Yellow, and Blue, with an emphasis on ecology, physiology, and molecular biology, respectively. In addition, the BSCS produced teachers’ preparation manuals, laboratory blocks, and student research guides. Foreign educators needed to decide which, if any, of these materials best fit the needs of their students and their national goals. Second, having identified the materials, the committee should then arrange some sort of summer institute or conference that included the participation of “a person fully familiar with the BSCS program”—most likely a representative from

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the BSCS’s Boulder, Colorado, office. Funding for such a conference might be available, Grobman typically advised, from the usual suspects: The Asia Foundation, the Organization of American States, the Ford or Rockefeller Foundations, USAID, or the U.S. Department of State. Then, and only then, should the committee move on to the third step: a writing team of local biologists and educators, paired with an “experienced BSCS writer,” should produce an adaptation of the selected text for local conditions. This process might or might not require a full translation of a reference copy of the original materials, depending on the local committee’s facility with English.24 This was more than a statement of policy. The BSCS attempted to enforce its one-size-fits-all approach to adaptation through licensing agreements and export controls. Grobman’s correspondence from the 1960s is filled with letters attempting to discern the intent of overseas educators who requested information on the books. If he detected any hint that the educators were planning to pursue what he referred to as a “straight translation,” he might attempt to block their access to the books, or refuse to sign a licensing agreement. When, for example, a professor of education at Tokyo’s International Christian University requested permission to distribute photocopies of a “straight translation” as a pilot project to see how the books fared in Japanese classrooms, Grobman objected, arguing that doing so would undermine the entire program. (He eventually authorized the distribution of “not more than 500 mimeographed copies” for that purpose.)25 But try as he might, Grobman could not exercise complete control over the books’ circulation. Nor was it entirely clear that such strict controls made pedagogical or ideological sense, if the goal was to spread the BSCS’s approach—the American approach—as far and wide as possible. By the mid-1960s, Grobman’s insistence that all international use must take the form of adaptations, ideally adaptations written with American supervision, was encountering increasing resistance both at home and abroad. The case of Taiwan is instructive. Taiwanese educators had been exploring BSCS books on their own as early as 1962.26 Grobman made his first visit to Taipei (but not his first trip to Asia) in early 1964 at the request of two Taiwanese educators, Dr. Kuo-Ao Feng and Ting Pong Koh. Feng and Koh had formed a committee to explore an adaptation of the BSCS Yellow edition on their own, but they were encountering opposition from a Miss Yah-Chuan Wang, the director of secondary education at the Ministry of Education, who preferred a straight translation in the interest of time. Koh and Feng, having determined that adaptation was the way to go, asked

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Grobman and TAF to intervene.27 But by the time that TAF agreed to fund the printing of Koh’s Adapted Yellow Version in 1966, a pirated “straight translation” was already on the market. In this case, TAF’s support gave the officially sanctioned version enough of a push for it to overtake the pirated version in the crowded Taiwanese textbook market.28 The Taiwanese case highlights the peculiar politics of textbook adaptation as cultural diplomacy: the TAF, an agency covertly supported by U.S. government funds, backed the version that looked less American, on the theory that a book that appeared to be more indigenous would attract more supporters for what was, at heart, an American approach to science pedagogy. It is not coincidental that the officially sanctioned versions granted authorship to local adaptation committees, while pirated versions tended to credit publication to the BSCS itself. Similarly, Keith Kelson, a program officer at the NSF, strongly advised Grobman against pursuing international outreach without the NSF’s permission, warning of the dangers of “educational imperialism.”29 Grobman, for his part, certainly believed the adaptation policy to be in his local partners’ best interests, but refused to listen when local educators objected to his cumbersome process, as had happened in Japan. By the mid-1960s, these tensions were playing out within the BSCS’s own committees. At a meeting of the Steering Committee in early 1964, two new members expressed shock at Grobman’s adaptation policies, finding them overly restrictive and “paternalistic.”30 The BSCS’s International Cooperation Committee took up the issue in March. There, Ralph Gerard, a neurophysiologist who had traveled extensively abroad with the support of TAF and the Rockefeller Foundation, pointed out that an insistence on adaptation, rather than translation, might create ill will toward the United States.31 As he put it, “Many countries may feel that we are deliberately withholding from them materials which they could use but which are denied them and this may have unfortunate and unpleasant repercussions.”32 Other members of the committee agreed, pointing out that the BSCS’s materials were in the public domain in any case. At the same time, however, they all thought it essential that the BSCS somehow remain involved, if for no other reason than to retain the “flavor” of inquiry that so distinguished the BSCS’s textbooks. Following the International Cooperation Committee’s recommendations, the BSCS officially loosened its policy toward adaptation in the spring of 1964.33 Tensions, however, remained, and the BSCS’s leadership continued to debate ways to exercise control—but not too much control—

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over international editions. The following year, an internal memo reiterated, with underlining for emphasis, that “the BSCS is not interested in exporting its own courses. Rather, it is interested in assisting other biologists in developing their own courses indigenously for their own localities.”34 With “assistance” limited to supplying an American consultant, however, the BSCS’s leadership remained unable or unwilling to recognize the financial burden a “full adaptation” plan placed on overseas educators. A possible solution came from William Mayer, the BSCS’s new director (Grobman had resigned in June 1965). Mayer’s “12 Area Plan” divided the world into twelve zones based on both biological (wet/dry, tropical/temperate, etc.) and cultural (language, educational system) considerations. North Africa, for instance, might plausibly by divided into three regions consisting of “Mediterranean Africa,” “French-Equatorial Africa,” and “British East Africa.” Biologists in a given region would prepare a flexible course that could be used throughout the area, with the understanding that local educators could “make such nationalistic adaptations as they felt necessary.” And just as important, from an administrative perspective, such an arrangement “might end BSCS responsibilities.”35 Mayer’s proposal seemed to offer the perfect way out for the BSCS. The plan acknowledged the limits of the BSCS’s own resources, yet suggested a manageable way for the BSCS to influence the initial textbook adaptation process. Moreover, it avoided “educational imperialism” by respecting the existence of cultural differences. And yet, with the exception of a Spanish-language “Version Tropicale” popular in Central America, it never worked. African leaders, in particular, preferred to develop their own textbooks. Asian educators, in contrast, embraced the U.S. textbooks but resisted regional cooperation.36 Like many 1960s-era approaches to development, the proposal flattened real-world differences to a set of schema more convenient to administrators than participants and ignored the nation-building aspirations of the United States’ intended partners in the developing world.37 Understanding where this process went wrong requires a closer look at what both donors and recipients hoped to accomplish by reforming high school biology education. Biological Nationalism Secondary science education is not and cannot be politically neutral. Science instruction teaches students not only facts but also what sorts of facts are worth knowing. The stakes are even higher for biology—the science of

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life—whose textbooks inevitably advise students about their origins and reproductive choices.38 From the beginning, the BSCS’s leaders positioned classroom empiricism as civic instruction, as Grobman’s story of the Hong Kong worms makes clear. Their funding agencies shared the BSCS’s faith in democracy, but prioritized educators’ civic education over that of students. To a man, the American supporters of the BSCS refused to acknowledge the legitimacy of another obvious use of biology instruction that appealed to Third World leaders: vocational training. These mismatched goals doomed the BSCS’s attempts to divide the world into “bioethnic zones.” The BSCS’s approach to curriculum reform was, at best, an indirect path to technical training. All three editions (Green, Blue, and Yellow) excluded “applications,” leaving those to the discretion of individual classroom teachers, as perhaps something that could be taught in a laboratory. In Israel, for example, Hebrew University’s experimental edition of the Yellow Version encountered resistance from the Ministry of Education because of its lack of agricultural content.39 Similarly, Dr. Valentine Basnayake, the director of the School Biology Project in what was then known as Ceylon, commented in a report to TAF, “It is an open question whether the balance chosen in the BSCS materials . . . is the best one for everybody. And applied biology might well loom large . . . in a country . . . striving to achieve technological development.”40 A country dedicated to development via agriculture, forestry, or fisheries might well avoid the BSCS altogether. The Green Version, with its focus on ecology, offered the most plausible rebuttal to the claim that the BSCS’s textbooks prioritized theory over practice. The ecological focus also lent itself well to the notion of bioethnic regions, particularly in areas where neighboring countries shared a common language (and colonial history). A group of educators working in Argentina had developed a version of the Green Edition for temperate Latin America, while another in Colombia had had reasonable success with popularizing a Green “Version Tropicale” among Central American educators. And yet, the versions proliferated: departments of education in both Peru and Puerto Rico planned to use the Version Tropicale in their schools, but only after further adaptation. Nor, apparently, were the Brazilians interested in translating one of these Spanish-language versions, having already created their own, Portuguese-language tropical Green Version. Educators in Mexico and Uruguay, meanwhile, were busy preparing competing Spanish-language, temperate Yellow Versions, while the Venezuelans had set their sights on a tropical Blue Version.41 In Latin America, at least, no one wanted a textbook written by someone else.

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If the initial Taiwanese preference for a “straight translation” is any indication, Asian bureaucrats were more willing to forgo national identity in exchange for speed. In this context, one might suppose that regional editions would flourish. This process would still require translations, but not necessarily full-fledged textbook development initiatives. In practice, however, the main sponsor of BSCS adaptation efforts in Asia—The Asia Foundation—encouraged countries to develop their own, specialized editions (via Grobman’s elaborate adaptation structure) as a means to kickstart broader administrative reform. For TAF, curriculum reform served as a rung on the development ladder; the content of the books was not nearly as important as the process of their development. Its program officers, representatives, and senior administrators thought that investing in science curriculum reforms might be a way to break through what they saw as the overly deferential aspects of Asian cultures. To return to the Taiwanese example: TAF’s program officer in Taipei, writing in support of a grant for $10,000 to underwrite publication of the “official” BSCS version, explained that the problem in modernizing Taiwanese science education was not the universities, which were doing an admirable job in training teachers in modern scientific methods, but with the administrators in charge of local high schools. “The old guard of teachers, jealous of their prestige,” he wrote, stifled the young teachers’ attempts at innovation. But supplying these teachers with a textbook system that stressed critical inquiry, and a teachers’ association where young, modern teachers could share insights about new methods of science teaching, might be just the thing to “break the bottleneck” of reform.42 For TAF, with its emphasis on capacity building, the complicated nature of Grobman’s adaptation process was precisely the point. In keeping with U.S.–led modernization efforts that stressed the transformation of young leaders’ attitudes and habits, the $10,000 that TAF spent on Taiwanese BSCS textbooks represented only about 5 percent of that organization’s total investment in Taiwan’s scientific and research infrastructure between 1960 and 1968. These funds, whether directed toward underwriting visiting professorships, sponsoring research prizes, or establishing faculty training programs, were overwhelmingly focused on human capital, and were usually introduced at the request of local elites.43 A telegram from Taipei urging TAF’s San Francisco offices to fund the textbooks made the point more starkly: “EMPHASIS ON REVOLUTIONARY EDUCATIONAL BREAKTHROUGH NOT SCIENCE ITSELF.”44 TAF’s representatives saw themselves as engaged in a generation-long

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effort to bring the Republic of China (and other countries on the periphery of the People’s Republic of China) into a Western modernity, with science as an agent for changing the spirit as well as the economy. But they could only do so with the support and enthusiasm of local leaders, and preferably through mechanisms that gave the appearance of being local, not imported. This was a sort of grassroots approach to educational reform; a regional approach, with its assumption of high-level (most likely governmental) partnerships between nations, would defeat the purpose of the entire operation. More so than other U.S.–based aid organizations, The Asia Foundation saw its primary mission as the development of “indigenous voluntary organizations.” Indeed, its representatives and administrators objected to working in partnership with the lead U.S. aid organization, USAID, on the theory that that agency’s programs were generally not “Asian-determined” and were not designed to show “Asian pay-offs.” Whether or not TAF’s local representatives realized that they, too, were pursuing U.S. foreign policy goals via covert support from the CIA, it is exceedingly clear that they believed themselves to be assisting low- and mid-level Asian technocrats in achieving their own, self-identified goals.45 The TAF’s representatives were onto something: many leaders in the developing world hoped to use international aid programs to pursue their own goals of national advancement—goals inevitably wrapped up with their own reputations as leaders. In the same way that Julius Nyerere tied Tanzania’s future to hydroelectric power, and that Gamal Adbel Nasser hooked Egypt’s geopolitical status on a canal and a dam, a number of Asian leaders tied their political fortunes to economic growth through investing in science and technology, including investments in secondary school education.46 For these ambitious leaders, securing foreign assistance from an obviously richer state or entity, be it the United States, the Soviet Union, or the United Nations, posed little threat to national sovereignty: indeed, it might demonstrate enlightened self-interest, or even cunning, to potential allies. Cooperating with a neighbor was something else entirely: Pakistan and Northern India might share a climate, biodiversity, and even disputed territory, but under no circumstances would they share the same version of a U.S.–backed biology textbook. Biology education reform, as a path to technological modernity, ultimately flourished in the nationalist, rather than the internationalist, mode. By some measure, the BSCS’s attempts to internationalize its curriculum program must be considered a tremendous success. By 1971, more

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than thirty-five countries had adaptation projects under way, some for multiple versions.47 Adapted, translated versions of the BSCS textbooks found their way into classrooms in Asia and Latin America as early as 1963; in some countries, such as Taiwan, they dominated classrooms by the late 1960s.48 The ready availability of these modern, accessible, locally specific textbooks undoubtedly changed the way that high school biology was taught around the globe. And yet, in another sense, the BSCS’s textbooks failed as an “international” project. In their pedagogical approach, the BSCS’s textbooks displayed a deep attachment to American views of laboratory empiricism and scientific values. The interest of the USIA, USAID, The Asia Foundation, and the Rockefeller and Ford Foundations suggests that the American foreign policy establishment saw the textbooks as an unobjectionable tool to advance American hegemony, primarily through building ties with friendly international elites. In exporting an American approach to science, outfits like The Asia Foundation (and their sponsors at the CIA) were hoping to plant little patches of Americanness abroad, in hopes that they would take root, thrive, and crowd out any Communist seeds that might have also landed on the soil—hence, I would argue, the fixation on using science programming to identify idealistic young people, to give them tools to fight centralized authority, and on using scientific training as a revolutionary tool to change habits of mind.49 When convenient for them, the BSCS’s international partners willingly accepted U.S. dollars for secondary education reform—but only when it was convenient.50 Grobman’s elaborate plans for country-specific adaptation programs were patronizing and expensive, but they provided more room for building national autonomy and educational infrastructure than did Mayer’s cost-cutting “bioethnic zones.” Bilateral agreements with the BSCS, with the support of a funding intermediary (whether UNESCO, The Asia Foundation, or the Rockefeller Foundation), may have required each individual nation to reinvent the wheel, but they also provided welcome funds for country-specific teacher training, professional networking, and textbook printing. Multilateral regional partnerships lacked this appeal. A set of BSCS textbooks based on “biological zones” might have been more successful at crossing national borders, but it would not necessarily have been more “international.” The failure of the zoned approach had little to do with the biological objections that opponents might reasonably have raised against such a scheme, and everything to do with the collision of U.S. foreign policy goals with postcolonial aspirations. A set of zoned

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books would have been even more recognizably American—an outcome that appealed to no one. Instead, the flora and fauna in the BSCS’s international editions changed at each national border, obscuring the American pedagogical approach at the books’ core. Acknowledging that hegemony expands by obscuring its methods does not necessarily reduce international actors’ agency, but simply recognizes that active agents have more than one choice, and one of those choices may be to consent to constraint—especially in an extraordinarily unbalanced global political and economic system skewed toward American power.51

Chapter 10 For the Benefit of Humankind Urgent Anthropology at the Smithsonian Institution, 1965–1968 Adrianna Link

In September 1965, hundreds of scientists and scholars gathered on the National Mall to celebrate the two-hundredth birthday of James Smithson, founder of the Smithsonian Institution. Conceived by newly elected Smithsonian secretary, S. Dillon Ripley, the three-day affair featured a mixture of academic pageantry and public lectures highlighting the Smithsonian’s historic contributions to science and culture.1 Included among the speakers was famed French anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss, who spoke to the crowd about the achievements of Smithsonian anthropology and its opportunities for the future.2 In his speech, he expressed his admiration for the Smithsonian’s Bureau of American Ethnology (BAE) and its past efforts in documenting the languages and traditions of Native American cultures.3 He further commented that the task of ethnographic salvage that had once preoccupied turn-of-the-century anthropologists now needed to be undertaken on a global scale—especially as economic, social, and political transformations brought about by the end of the Second World War threatened the livelihoods and even the physical existence of the world’s so-called “primitive” peoples.4 Yet Lévi-Strauss noted that just as anthropology’s traditional unit of study seemed destined to disappear as a result of these developments, so too did traditional approaches to the study of anthropology. Alluding to 160

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the discipline’s complicity in establishing and reinforcing colonial systems of governance, he reflected that anthropology would also need to adjust its ways in order to adapt to a rapidly changing world. He suggested doing this in two ways. First, he called for anthropologists to invite members of communities who had once served as the discipline’s subjects of study to observe their cultures “from the inside” and to establish their own modes of anthropological expertise.5 Second, he encouraged anthropologists to draw on research methods and innovations made in related humanistic and scientific fields (including demography, sociology, psychology, and biology).6 In conclusion, he criticized the imbalance of funding priority given to the physical sciences, and compared the necessity for global research in anthropology to the hypothetical discovery of an unknown planet: Let us suppose for a moment that astronomers should warn us that an unknown planet was nearing the Earth and would remain for 20 or 30 years at close range, afterwards to disappear forever. In order to avail ourselves of this unique opportunity, neither efforts nor money would be spared to build telescopes and satellites especially designed for the purpose. Should not the same be done at a time when half of mankind, only recently acknowledged as such, is still so near to the other half that except for men and money, its study raises no problem, although it will soon become impossible forever? If the future of anthropology could be seen in this light, no study would appear more urgent or more important.7

With this explicit critique of the seemingly limitless resources allocated to physicists and astronomers, Lévi-Strauss issued a rallying cry for the world’s anthropologists to take action to mobilize their fieldwork and funding efforts before it was too late. In response to this call to arms, a group of scientists and administrators at the Smithsonian Institution set to work on an international anthropological research program they called “urgent anthropology.”8 Though founded in the spirit of turn-of-the-century salvage ethnography, under the guidance of Dillon Ripley and his adviser on anthropology, Sol Tax, the program expanded into a collaborative, multidisciplinary initiative that sought to apply anthropological knowledge to a wide range of social and scientific problems. In particular, they aimed to integrate perspectives from anthropology with work on environmental conservation and ecology. This goal echoed contemporaneous objectives of the International Biological Program (IBP), which sought to take stock of the Earth’s biosphere

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in order to account for the destructive influence of human beings on the natural environment.9 The IBP likewise included a “Human Adaptability” component devoted to multidisciplinary studies on human population biology and human ecology—many of which involved anthropologists.10 Yet unlike the IBP, Smithsonian urgent anthropology highlighted the significance of collecting and preserving linguistic and ethnographic data as well as biological materials. This emphasis was supported by the Smithsonian’s museum structure and reinforced by Ripley’s and Tax’s intentions to use the outcomes of urgent anthropological research to construct crossdisciplinary exhibits and interdepartmental task forces focused on behavioral aspects of human-environment interactions. At the same moment, the program’s dedication to supporting global research in anthropology became a point of debate within an internationalizing community of anthropologists. While many embraced the program’s commitment to increasing the geographic reach of anthropological fieldwork, others questioned its underlying salvage implications and offered alternative assessments of which tasks should be considered most urgent. For example, anthropologists and sociologists working in India saw urgent anthropology as an opportunity to respond to the larger social and political transformations taking place in their own nation, especially through comparative studies measuring the effects of regional modernization and development projects. These views in turn became mixed with growing unease among anthropologists over the discipline’s past involvement with colonial administration and government projects, resulting in conversations about how urgent anthropology reflected the changing ethical and methodological responsibilities of anthropological practice overall. While the inclusion of these perspectives helped broaden the proposed aims of urgent anthropology, they ultimately challenged the extent to which the Smithsonian could solely define and manage its operations. This chapter uses the early planning stages of the Smithsonian’s urgent anthropology program to assess some of the practical and epistemological stakes of organizing global research in sociocultural anthropology.11 Specifically, it shows how the collection of anthropological data came to be seen as beneficial for confronting a multitude of social and scientific quandaries arising during the late 1960s and into the 1970s. In doing so, it addresses two themes presented elsewhere in this volume. First, by concentrating on the central roles and programmatic visions of Dillon Ripley and Sol Tax, I characterize urgent anthropology as a large-scale, collaborative initiative that bridged approaches from the human and life sciences for the task of

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environmental and cultural conservation. Moreover, I argue that this places the importance of urgent anthropology (and anthropology in general) alongside other globally oriented research projects of the postwar period— namely, the International Geophysical Year (IGY) and the International Biological Program. By positioning urgent anthropology as a successor to these initiatives, this case contributes to recent scholarship investigating the expansion of the human and social sciences during the Cold War, particularly as compared with simultaneous developments in the natural and physical sciences.12 In addition, by highlighting the underlying ecological justifications behind urgent anthropological research, it suggests a need to reconsider the place of sociocultural anthropology within larger histories of environmental conservation and the life sciences more broadly. Second, my focus on the planning conferences held to define the scope of urgent anthropological research also speaks to the influence of decolonization and modernization efforts on the organization of global scientific work. Despite Ripley and Tax’s intention to create a multifaceted research program aligning the study of cultural and social change with environmental conservation, in many ways their initial vision was not socially minded enough—a point evidenced by the strong reaction against the program’s salvage foundations from members of the international community of anthropologists. At the same time, the multiple interpretations of urgent anthropology and especially those that stressed its perceived benefits for national development projects (as exemplified by the case of social scientists in India) complicate existing critiques about the relationship of Cold War anthropology to government projects.13 I conclude by showing how Smithsonian urgent anthropology gradually turned away from the documentation of changing societies for the purpose of preserving records of cultural diversity and instead became increasingly concerned with developing new strategies for making anthropological knowledge universally beneficial to humankind. S. Dillon Ripley, Sol Tax, and the Bridging of Ecology and Anthropology The intellectual foundations of the Smithsonian’s urgent anthropology program can best be understood through a brief overview of the backgrounds and personal investments of its main organizers, Dillon Ripley and Sol Tax. Elected by the Smithsonian Board of Regents in 1964 to serve as the Smithsonian’s eighth secretary, Ripley arrived as a man at the height

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of his career. An ornithologist by trade, he had secured a joint appointment at Yale University as a professor in the biology department and as the director of the Peabody Museum of Natural History.14 He had also made a name for himself as a leading figure in the environmental movement by serving as president of the International Council for Bird Preservation (ICBP) beginning in 1958 and by maintaining a small avicultural preserve for rare waterfowl on his home estate in Litchfield, Connecticut.15 Like many of his colleagues, he recognized the destructive influence of human beings on the environment and especially the threat of the world’s rapidly growing population to the sustainability of its natural resources. Yet Ripley also acknowledged that in order to confront environmental degradation, scientists needed to embrace a more holistic understanding of human-environment interactions that accounted for both biological and cultural forms of human evolution and adaptation.16 He stressed that in order to fully comprehend the nuances of human behavior, ecologists needed to work together with social scientists, and especially anthropologists. In his view, this required the establishment of collaborative, international centers where “the best minds in science, technology, and the arts could interact in a unified effort to create ideas and to provide guidance in research and education in the achievement of harmonious environmental relationships and the evolution of societies with ever-expanding fulfillment.”17 According to Ripley, the Smithsonian possessed the right combination of resources, staff, and disciplinary flexibility to fulfill these aims. Prior visits to the Smithsonian made during his graduate studies, however, had left him with the impression that it was in a semi-stagnant state. “I felt the Smithsonian itself was a sleeping beauty,” he later recalled. “It had all of the necessary ingredients to make it great, but seemed to me to be sort of resting.”18 Determined to wake up the Smithsonian following his election, Ripley authorized the formation of several new offices to support the kind of creative work he envisioned.19 One of the first offices he created was the Smithsonian Office of Anthropological Research (SOAR), which merged the previously separate activities of the Bureau of American Ethnology (BAE) with the Department of Anthropology in 1964.20 In addition to removing the redundancy of having two separate budgets dedicated to anthropological research, he hoped that the increased size of SOAR would promote cooperation among the Smithsonian’s anthropologists and scientists working on complementary topics in other departments, especially the recently formed Office of Ecology.21 By linking the activities of the Office of Ecology to those of the Office of Anthropology, Ripley sought to establish a synthet-

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ic, ecologically rooted agenda for the Smithsonian life sciences that would champion “a more complete history of man as a basis for understanding his current behavior in various regional ecosystems of the world” and in turn reframe ecosystems as consisting of “human-society-plus-environment.”22 Despite Ripley’s optimism over the merger’s potential for bridging Smithsonian anthropology and ecology, his decision to consolidate the BAE with the Department of Anthropology caused more anxiety than enthusiasm among its staff. In particular, former members of the Bureau of American Ethnology worried that their primary focus on conducting anthropological research would be compromised by pressures to contribute to the production and management of museum exhibits. Instead of overcoming the fundamental research differences between the members of the former bureau and department, the merger reinforced a spirit of factionalism among the Smithsonian’s anthropologists that ultimately impeded its productivity. To overcome these tensions, Ripley turned to the University of Chicago anthropologist Sol Tax. Like Ripley, Tax had emerged as one of the leading organizers of his discipline in the years after the war—a role supported by his work with the Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research and through his position as founding editor of its journal, Current Anthropology.23 A vocal advocate of the need to maintain communication among anthropologists working across the discipline’s four fields (archaeology, physical anthropology, ethnology, and linguistics) as well as those trained in different national contexts, Tax appeared an ideal figure to unify the Smithsonian’s anthropologists.24 It is also probable that his participation in the 1955 Wenner-Gren conference, “Man’s Role in Changing the Face of the Earth,” and his subsequent organization of the 1959 Darwin Centennial celebrating the publication of On the Origin of Species proved him a kindred spirit in Ripley’s efforts to bridge anthropology and ecology.25 With these justifications in mind, Ripley approached Tax to serve as his special adviser on anthropology and expressed confidence that together they could develop new programs that would ultimately “affect the whole discipline, both nationally and internationally.”26 For Tax, the opportunity to work at the Smithsonian promised a new forum through which to expand his method and philosophy of “action anthropology.” First developed in 1948 during a summer fieldwork training program designed for University of Chicago graduate students, action anthropology grew out of Tax’s time studying and working with a Meskwaki community living in Tama, Iowa.27 This approach relied on a strategy of

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open communication and collaboration between an anthropologist and the community under study to identify and to develop solutions to the group’s particular social, economic, and political needs.28 In addition to informing Tax’s anthropological work, this method also became the primary model behind his organizational activities—including his editorial management of the diverse interests represented in the pages of Current Anthropology.29 Within the Smithsonian, action anthropology had the potential to benefit an even wider community through the creation of exhibits and task forces geared toward raising public awareness of current social and scientific issues. The ability to experiment with action anthropology’s reach through the Smithsonian’s museum structure in turn offered the chance to demonstrate the potential value of the social sciences at a time when innovations in the physical sciences continued to receive top priority.30 Nontrivially, Ripley’s offer to bring Tax on board as his adviser on anthropology coincided with the 1965 Smithson bicentennial celebration. As a guest of honor at the event, Tax heard Lévi-Strauss’s plea for increased anthropological fieldwork firsthand and agreed with many of the points outlined in his speech—particularly the notion that anthropology needed to become more inclusive in both its disciplinary and geographic scope. This argument mirrored his assertions about the collaborative spirit of action anthropology and the idea that people could only make sense of the transformations happening in their communities by understanding them on their own terms. He concurred that the Smithsonian could help make significant strides in assembling ethnographic data of cultures undergoing change and that the preservation of such data would prove beneficial to both anthropologists and the cultures themselves.31 He accepted Ripley’s offer to serve as his anthropological adviser—with the caveat that he would retain his position and teaching responsibilities at the University of Chicago. Planning a Program for Urgent Anthropology Inspired by Lévi-Strauss’s speech and its resonance with his plans for Smithsonian anthropology, in November 1965 Ripley attended the American Anthropological Association (AAA) Council Meeting in Denver to pitch the Smithsonian as the site for organizing a program in what he called “emergency or urgent ethnography.”32 Citing the biological foundations of human behavior, he argued that anthropologists concerned with disappearing cultures and conservationists seeking to protect deteriorat-

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ing habitats ultimately had the same goals and should work together to achieve them. “Should not teams of anthropologists and biologists,” he implored the council, “accompany the large economic aid projects that eliminate natural environments and disrupt cultural patterns, at least to record them and perhaps to influence these massive projects in more auspicious directions? It is in the interest of the developing world to push back the horizons of self-understanding if we are to preserve cultural diversity in a world where it is on the wane.”33 In keeping with Lévi-Strauss’s suggestions, Ripley also urged the AAA to work with the Smithsonian to (1) increase the participation of anthropologists native to areas identified as having urgent projects and (2) to provide training opportunities for members of communities under study who sought to become ethnographers themselves. With the support of the American Anthropological Association, in early 1966 the Smithsonian began work on what became known as urgent anthropology. Although Lévi-Strauss’s speech had made apparent the need for such a program, its exact structure and which cultural groups would receive initial study was less obvious. The extent to which the Smithsonian would retain leadership over the long-term management of these activities also remained unclear. To help resolve these questions and to clarify the program’s scope, in April 1966 the Smithsonian hosted a workshop cosponsored by the Wenner-Gren Foundation and organized by Sol Tax. According to him, two things were essential for the program’s success: First, it needed to focus generally on questions of culture change and to address anthropological problems using a firm theoretical basis. In other words, Smithsonian urgent anthropology could not simply support the collection of ethnographic data for its own sake, as had characterized the turn-of-the-century salvage efforts of the former BAE.34 Second, for the program to achieve its global scope, it needed to include participants from as many regions as possible—especially during its initial planning stages. To achieve this goal, Tax sent invitations to the international network of constituents subscribed to Current Anthropology, resulting in the attendance of forty-eight anthropologists representing twenty-two countries.35 His organization of urgent anthropology thus can be read as part of what the historian of anthropology George Stocking has identified as his larger project to cultivate a “world anthropology.”36 Related to this goal, Tax also framed the Smithsonian workshop in terms similar to those used to develop other global research initiatives organized during the postwar period—specifically the International Geophysical Year (IGY) and the International Biological Program (IBP).37 In

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fact, in his introductory remarks at the conference, Tax described the proposed urgent anthropology program as an “international anthropological year” that would occur over the course of a decade and would devise cooperative strategies for the study of cultural change.38 He likewise pointed to the 1964 establishment of the Human Adaptability (HA) arm of the IBP (which concentrated on studies of human biology and adaptation) to show both the feasibility and necessity of conducting large-scale research on human beings.39 Yet he criticized Human Adaptability’s limited focus on recording the physical characteristics and adaptive responses of human beings and emphasized the need for complementary global research pursued in anthropology’s other fields. This observation echoed an objection voiced two years earlier by the cultural anthropologist Margaret Mead, who had been present during HA’s planning. Disregarding the near-unanimous support of the program expressed by an interdisciplinary voting assembly, Mead called for a complete rejection of the proposed project in favor of a new initiative more firmly based in the social sciences.40 While historical accounts covering the early development of Human Adaptability credit her reaction to the “uncertainty which the scientific establishment in the USA felt at the time over the aims of the IBP,” Tax’s rearticulation of her critique and his deliberate comparison of HA to the aims of urgent anthropology suggest another interpretation.41 Namely, it reveals a desire among an older generation of anthropologists to promote the application of anthropological perspectives—and particularly those based in sociocultural anthropology—at a moment when funding favored research in the natural and physical sciences.42 By highlighting the similarities between urgent anthropology and Human Adaptability (while also stressing the latter’s shortcomings), Tax sought to extend the same logic that had justified the creation of a program stimulating the growth of human biology to one that would help elevate the status of anthropological research overall. Ultimately, Tax’s demonstration of the conference’s import proved unnecessary, as no one in attendance challenged the presumed benefits of having more opportunities for anthropological fieldwork. A greater source of debate instead arose when Tax, in keeping with the model of open discussion called for by action anthropology, asked those present to brainstorm strategies for determining the program’s logistics. Although he instructed the participants to avoid ranking potential projects in terms of their perceived urgency, conversations about how to organize research priorities forced assessment of what, exactly, made something a topic of

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urgent investigation, and whether certain groups of people were, in fact, more urgently in need of study than others. While some of the scholars present suggested following the model set by Human Adaptability by concentrating on cultures with few living members, others argued for a more expansive understanding of what made something worthy of urgent study. For example, the Indian anthropologist Irawati Karve referenced the complicated case for anthropologists and sociologists working in India, noting the methodological tensions between recording the disappearing languages and customs of so-called primitive societies and the more sociologically based study of tribal communities in India’s rural areas whose livelihoods were equally transformed by the pressures of postwar modernization.43 She reminded the participants that each group of people—“primitive, tribal, or otherwise”—offered important insights on the extent of human potential.44 “That is why I feel,” she concluded, “that when we and our governments want to reform, want to do good, shall we pause a little? Shall we say to ourselves, is the good we are offering better than what they have already? Haven’t we time to wait and make them tell us what good they want? That for me is the urgency of preserving all that is dying out today because there are alternative forms of life which may be useful to us, perhaps today, perhaps later.”45 Though expressed in universalist terms, Karve’s statement matches what sociologists Patricia Uberoi, Nandini Sundar, and Satish Deshpande have identified as a nationalist motivation underlying anthropological and sociological work in India during the postwar period. As they suggest, the scholarly study of supposedly “primitive” and tribal cultures among Indian anthropologists and sociologists was a crucial part of larger efforts to formalize a postcolonial understanding of Indian society—one that equally represented Indian social scientists and the communities they observed.46 The authors likewise note the shared feeling of responsibility among India’s social scientists to protect tribal communities from external exploitation, and the idea that insights obtained through their observations and fieldwork should be applied toward guiding the Indian government’s execution of development and modernization projects. Based on these conclusions, it would appear that from Karve’s perspective, urgent anthropology offered more than simply the salvage of anthropological data for its own sake; it provided a vehicle for helping to achieve an inclusive and modern understanding of Indian nationhood. Yet her remarks about the responsibilities and possible implications of conducting anthropological research for the sake of national reform also

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reflected a growing self-consciousness within anthropology over the discipline’s past participation in supporting colonial modes of governance. Furthermore, the recent revelation of the involvement of anthropologists in Project Camelot (an American military-supported counterinsurgency project that supported the use of social scientific knowledge to predict possible revolutions in countries with Communist sympathies) caused some participants at the Smithsonian conference to worry that urgent anthropology might be misinterpreted as a front for enforcing Western hegemony abroad.47 This fear was confirmed the day after the planning conference, when American Anthropological Association president Stephen Boggs notified Tax that an anonymous participant had circulated a charge against the program, calling it a “screen to cover the collection of information which would be useful to the American Government in those parts of the world to which American Anthropologists could no longer go.”48 Another source of concern for Boggs was the proposed use of excess currency grants to fund urgent projects. These grants were a byproduct of Public Law 480, enacted in 1954 by the Eisenhower administration to provide surplus agricultural commodities to food-poor nations paid for using credits based in that nation’s currency instead of American dollars. By the mid-1960s, a surplus of these credits prompted Congress to make them available to federal institutions—including the Smithsonian—conducting research in those countries. The availability of these currencies thus created important reservoirs of research and travel money that would not have existed otherwise.49 Boggs warned Tax that regardless of urgent anthropology’s noble intentions, the use of PL-480 funds might lead to power imbalances in the program’s infrastructure and create resentment among international participants leery of supporting studies of their populations with money provided by their own governments, but ultimately controlled by the United States. Tax, however, dismissed these fears, and instead emphasized the active role of the international constituency of Current Anthropology in overseeing urgent anthropology’s development. He maintained that the program would honor the individual sensitivities and interests of the journal’s diverse readership—as called for by his method of action anthropology.50 Despite Tax’s confidence in the success of his method, others who had attended the conference expressed deep dissatisfaction with his capacity to set concrete plans for urgent anthropology in motion. George Peter Murdock—who had overseen the organization of global anthropological fieldwork as part of Yale University’s Human Relations Area Files—criti-

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cized Tax’s relative inaction at the conference and wrote to Wenner-Gren head Lita Osmundsen asking her to not again “waste large sums of money which might have been devoted to urgent anthropological research to more talk about the desirability of urgent anthropological research.”51 Within the Smithsonian, members of the Office of Anthropology similarly commented on the conference’s failure to produce any substantive measures for undertaking global anthropological work, and, in turn, questioned Tax’s ability to successfully guide their department. Specifically, they worried that his preoccupation with developing the Smithsonian into a site for collaborative international anthropology would leave many of the institution’s other museum-based activities short staffed and underfunded. 52 Regardless of the apparent unease over urgent anthropology’s possible ties to U.S. government interests and the numerous criticisms voiced against Tax’s organizational methods, in 1967 the Smithsonian officially launched a program in urgent anthropology, funded through a combination of department money, PL-480 funds, and small research grants provided by Wenner-Gren.53 These small grants in particular helped shape the direction of urgent anthropology in three important ways. First and foremost, it made the logistics of conducting international anthropological research a reality and not simply a topic of discussion. Second, because of the relatively small amount of money awarded, it encouraged researchers to seek additional funding from regional institutions in the countries of study, forcing them to work collaboratively with local investigators. Lastly, the grants provided training opportunities in anthropology to areas without access to academic departments. In Tax and Ripley’s estimation, this would make it possible to increase both the quality and quantity of global anthropological fieldwork while maintaining the autonomy of the nation whose populations were being studied. Defining Urgency With relative funding security in place, Tax’s attention returned to questions about the different definitions of urgency that had arisen during the conference. To address these, in fall 1966 he hired a University of Chicago graduate student, Priscilla Reining, to survey the readers of Current Anthropology.54 In a report derived from responses collected from more than nine hundred anthropologists worldwide, she confirmed the disparity of opinions on appropriate areas for urgent research first articulated at the Smithsonian. The survey demonstrated once again the perception that all

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cultures—be they small, isolated populations or larger, rapidly developing societies—were changing and that the majority of the world’s anthropologists recognized the need for increasingly global anthropological fieldwork. Yet a number of the respondents also questioned how the aims of urgent anthropology differed from those of anthropology overall. Reining commented on this recurrent observation and noted that it was ultimately up to the journal’s readers to determine “whether the urgent anthropology contained there is readily to be distinguished from anthropology in general.”55 Along similar lines, another reader asked if perhaps a program in urgent anthropology could be used as an opportunity to test the boundaries of what constituted anthropological research: “This current emphasis on ethnographic salvage may crystallize the problem of anthropology’s identity; i.e. what is anthropology if the subjects of traditional investigation disappear. Such a direct and full scale discussion of anthropology’s role is necessary and over-due.”56 These questions about urgent anthropology’s purpose, its methodological basis in ethnographic salvage, and its reflection on the changing state of anthropology as a field became central points of discussion during two subsequent planning conferences held in 1968. The first of these, organized by the Indian Institute of Advanced Study in Shimla, India, concentrated on what urgent anthropological research meant in an Indian context and called into question the Smithsonian’s focus on “vanishing” cultures. Although the participants expressed a degree of sympathy toward the institution’s historic ties to ethnographic salvage, they ultimately doubted the theoretical benefit of such an exercise and its value for Indian anthropologists and sociologists more invested in studying the multilayered processes of social and economic change taking place in their country.57 Moreover, they commented on how salvage-oriented projects often misrepresented and decontextualized the lifeways of tribal societies, leading to a distorted view of such groups as “less developed” and susceptible to “secondary primitivization.”58 Echoing points previously made by Karve, those in attendance drew a distinction between what they saw as the basic scientific pursuits of anthropologists trained in the United States and Europe eager to collect ethnographic data for its own sake and those of anthropologists and sociologists working in India who sought to apply their expertise toward guiding the country’s postwar development.59 To this end, they stipulated that both India’s tribal groups and its caste systems needed to be studied in the wake of the nation’s social, political, and technological transformation

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and called for the Indian government to pay more attention to the possible contributions anthropologists and sociologists could make in drafting national policies.60 By urging for the increased involvement of government institutions in supporting anthropological and sociological research in India, the participants at Shimla further defined urgent anthropology as a nationalist project, and one markedly different from the interdisciplinary and ecologically oriented initiative first conceived by Ripley and Tax. Conversations about the different types of urgent anthropology identified at Shimla continued several months later, this time as part of a working group held at the Eighth International Congress of Anthropological and Ethnological Sciences (ICAES) in Tokyo. It quickly became clear that little progress had been made in refining urgent anthropology’s objectives since 1966. The fundamental issue, it seemed, continued to be a division between those anthropologists who sought to develop urgent anthropology as a salvage project and those who viewed it as an opportunity to engage with the political and social challenges affecting their particular nations. In an effort to accommodate both positions, Tax identified two distinct “types” of urgent anthropology. He defined Type I urgent research as fundamentally salvage-based and described it as primarily concerned with recording the livelihoods of “those societies which are characterized by a very close relationship with nature.”61 He elaborated that this category covered research projects specifically focused on instances of human adaptation and the documentation of languages and behaviors from smaller, isolated communities in danger of physical extinction. Type II urgent anthropology, on the other hand, reflected the definitions of urgent work discussed at Shimla and highlighted the need to study societies undergoing rapid transformations, but whose members did not necessarily face physical disappearance.62 According to Tax, both types demanded equal attention from the international community and could be studied congruently by employing common strategies (for example, the use of cinema cameras and the creation of accessible archives) for recording and storing ethnographic data. Those present at Tokyo agreed that the focus of urgent anthropology should be on regions possessing the greatest variety of both Type I and Type II tasks. Incidentally, these also tended to be in areas with the greatest deficit of academically trained anthropologists. One participant therefore suggested pairing graduate students native to a region targeted for urgent study with established scholars interested in pursuing Type I projects. This participant argued that in addition to facilitating the assemblage of

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ethnographic data, the collaboration would give local students “proper” ethnographic training that would in turn make them “more valuable to their own country in studying Type II problems.”63 Other members of the group, however, stressed that all anthropologists coming from outside a region (and particularly those coming from Western countries) needed to be mindful of the “national relevance” of urgent anthropological problems, and that even in the case of Type I projects, the scientific and theoretical value of the study “must be apparent to those who make decisions about the allocation of resources.”64 While not explicitly stated, this comment reflected continued anxieties about the neocolonialist implications of funding urgent anthropology projects using PL-480 grants, particularly in India, which had been identified in Reining’s 1967 report as offering the richest and most diverse opportunities for urgent anthropology.65 The Norwegian anthropologist Fredrik Barth—an early supporter of the program—suggested that the burden of developing urgent anthropology ought to be shifted away from a single organizational body like the Smithsonian and redistributed to regional centers in specific countries where access to funding and personnel could be more easily attained.66 Yet perhaps the greatest obstacle facing urgent anthropology’s organization had less to do with defining specific projects and more to do with the ideological challenges confronting the discipline as a whole. In her reactions to the Tokyo workshop, Irawati Karve noted a third “type” of urgent anthropology that had emerged during the planning conferences and had become mixed into debates about the program’s different theoretical objectives. According to her, the urgency of documenting vanishing ways of life had been superseded by an overwhelming desire to reorient or redefine anthropology in response to the heightened social and political tensions of the late 1960s (which she termed “the era of human conflicts”).67 These years have been described as the discipline’s “period of crisis,” a time characterized by the field’s strong opposition to the Vietnam War as well as the attribution of its infamous moniker—the “handmaiden of colonialism.”68 Reflected in works such as Dell Hymes’s Reinventing Anthropology and Talal Asad’s Anthropology and the Colonial Encounter, this moment also marked a turning point in anthropology away from the positivist pursuit of ethnographic data toward more critically engaged and self-reflective modes of fieldwork and practice.69 The difficulty in establishing a unified program for urgent anthropology therefore makes more sense when situated in this context; whether aimed at salvaging records of disappearing societies or documenting the changing

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lifeways of developing nations, at its core urgent anthropology remained an endeavor fundamentally concerned with the collection of ethnographic data. It is unsurprising, then, that when Reining again surveyed the associate members of Current Anthropology on their understanding of urgency following the Tokyo conference, she received replies calling the program a form of “neo-colonialism” and claiming that it was time for anthropology to become a “science of man for men, not a science for science.”70 One associate even went so far as to declare that the program was “dangerous” to the “New Anthropology” beginning to take form, commenting that what was really urgent was to “get rid of those who are interested in Urgent Anthropology—and quickly.”71 Other associates, however, maintained their faith in urgent anthropology’s broad potential for addressing a variety of social and scientific problems. In a remark reflecting Ripley’s ideas about the utility of anthropology for conservation research, another associate wrote Reining that the most urgent task at hand was “bringing anthropological knowledge and resources to bear on the problems of pollution, extinction, etc. If man himself does not survive, there will be no need for anthropology, urgent or otherwise.”72 Even as definitions of urgency continued to morph and expand within the discipline at large, there remained optimism that a program in urgent anthropology, whatever its form, could somehow uniquely contribute to the future of humankind. Making Anthropology Urgent In light of the conversations about the different “types” of anthropology identified at Shimla and Tokyo, Tax similarly found the original concept for Smithsonian urgent anthropology to be too narrow. Frustrated with his inability to overcome the continued factionalism in the Office of Anthropology (though nonetheless invested in maintaining urgent anthropology’s global reach), he proposed a new center that could more effectively carry out the joint anthropological and ecological projects he and Ripley had first envisioned. On this suggestion, in 1968 Ripley again reorganized Smithsonian anthropology, dividing it into the Department of Anthropology and the Center for the Study of Man. Whereas the department returned its focus to general museum tasks, the center reflected Tax’s and Ripley’s individual interests and sought to develop the “interdisciplinary scientific bridges that are essential to improving our understanding of man and his relationships with all aspects of his social, cultural, and physical environments.”73

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Figure 10.1. Organizational diagram of the Smithsonian Institution Center for the Study of Man and Museum of Man. Source: T. Dale Stewart to Dillon Ripley, “Progress Report on the National Museum of Man,” October 20, 1969, Gordon D. Gibson Papers, box 129, folder: Museum of Man, National Anthropological Archives, Smithsonian Institution, Suitland, MD.

In many ways, the Center for the Study of Man also represented an expanded version of urgent anthropology. In fact, its official press announcement opened with an excerpt from the same speech given by Lévi-Strauss at the 1965 Smithson bicentennial that had catalyzed the organization of urgent anthropology in the first place. This time, Tax linked Lévi-Strauss’s comments about the need for increased anthropological fieldwork to more general concerns about human survival. “The very future of the world,” he wrote, “depends upon getting a better understanding of man—the problems of man are universal.”74 The new center concentrated on applying

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anthropological knowledge to what Tax referred to as “crisis problems,” which included globally relevant issues such as overpopulation, warfare, and environmental pollution.75 By emphasizing the use of anthropology for addressing problems that pertained not just to a single culture or nation, but to all of humanity, Tax in effect sought to extend his method of action anthropology to an even broader spectrum of topics. For Ripley, the creation of the Center for the Study of Man also promised a way to reconnect anthropology to his ecological agenda for the Smithsonian Institution. Specifically, he sought to use the data gathered by the center’s task forces to construct a brand new Museum of Man (figure 10.1). Unlike the Smithsonian’s Museum of Natural History or other anthropological museums of the period, the Museum of Man would feature exhibits that contextualized humans within their environmental setting. While it was ultimately never built, this facility would have allowed Ripley to develop a museum-based approach to human ecology that simultaneously preserved a record of cultural and biological diversity while educating visitors about pressing social and scientific issues.76 Together, the Center for the Study of Man and the proposed Museum of Man illustrate the ultimate merger of Ripley’s and Tax’s investments in urgent anthropology and the final manifestation of its development within the Smithsonian Institution. Imagined by Lévi-Strauss as a project dedicated to global anthropological research on changing cultures, to what extent did Smithsonian urgent anthropology actually fulfill this task? The results are decidedly mixed. Although it never achieved the size or status of other large-scale postwar initiatives like the International Geophysical Year or the International Biological Program, the program did successfully fund about eighty research projects in thirty countries. These included a linguistic survey of Liberia, ethnomusicological recordings of communities in the Philippines, kinship studies among the Yvapai Indians in Arizona, an ethnography of a Tibetan monastery in Switzerland, collections of handloom weavings in Ghana, a human ecological analysis of Tokara Island, Japan, and an investigation of the relationship between economic development and caste dynamics in Orissa, India, among others.77 Urgent anthropology also generated numerous research reports published in the pages of Current Anthropology and provided financial support for the collection of museum artifacts, documents, and films now stored in the Smithsonian’s National Anthropological Archives.

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Perhaps more critically, the range of “urgent” projects supported by the Smithsonian reflects the broader possibilities of anthropology during the postwar period. As the events relayed in this chapter show, “urgency” implied different things to different people. By expanding beyond the strict documentation of vanishing ways of life, Ripley and Tax envisioned urgent anthropology as a project with seemingly limitless social and scientific potential. For Ripley, data collected from changing cultures promised the reintegration of human beings as active components of their environment and a means for applying anthropological explanations of human behavior to issues of environmental sustainability and conservation. For Tax, urgent anthropology offered a chance to extend the application of anthropological knowledge (as derived through his method of action anthropology) to tackling human problems of global scope. The combination of these interests eventually inspired the creation of an interdisciplinary Center for the Study of Man and the proposed construction of an ecologically oriented Museum of Man dedicated to the display of human and biological diversity. Beyond the Smithsonian, conversations about the parameters of “urgent” research opened room for questions about anthropology’s use in different national and epistemological contexts. For anthropologists and sociologists working in postcolonial India, urgent anthropology spoke to larger efforts to establish a unifying and representative national identity. Moreover, it gave shape to justifications about the importance of anthropological and sociological expertise obtained by India’s social scientific community for guiding the country’s development. At the same time, the multiple attempts to define urgent anthropology at the Smithsonian, Shimla, Tokyo, and in Current Anthropology reveal the extent to which the discipline as a whole had fallen into a state of intellectual and ethical crisis. Considerations about urgent anthropology’s scope, its relationship to decolonization, and its methodological origins in ethnographic salvage forced many in the field to articulate an urgent need for disciplinary reorientation—marking the beginnings of the discipline’s “reflexive turn.”78 Perhaps Lévi-Strauss had anticipated this outcome when he remarked at the 1965 Smithson bicentennial that anthropology would only “survive in a changing world by allowing itself to perish and be born again in a new guise.”79 The fluidity of meanings and intentions behind urgent anthropology suggests the important role crisis rhetoric has played in defining and legitimizing scientific inquiry in both the human and life sciences. In her discussions of the “latent potential” of blood and tissue samples collected

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from indigenous communities through the Human Adaptability arm of the IBP, the historian of science Joanna Radin has stressed how ideas of urgency offered added justifications to “take stock” of the world’s biological reserves and influenced the program’s concentration on the salvage of biological data from so-called vanishing populations.80 More recently, these sentiments have been articulated as part of a larger “endangerment sensibility” that has characterized the past and present efforts of anthropologists, conservationists, and others seeking to capture, catalog, and preserve knowledge needed to ensure biocultural diversity.81 Yet in the case of urgent anthropology, urgency came to imply more than the need to collect and salvage cultural data. A far more urgent task, it seems, lay in untangling the many ways anthropology could be applied to making sense of the postwar world.

Chapter 11 What Counts as Threatened? Science and the Sixth Extinction Jon Agar

An outstanding issue for global historians is to understand how science, with its heritage of universalism and aspirations of transcending national borders, relates to problems conceived as being global in extent and consequence. This chapter traces how quantitative science was mobilized in response to one of the greatest environmental crises of the modern world: the global, human-caused mass extinction of animals and plants. Specifically, in conservation programs, as well as in the regulation of trade, it was essential to know what organisms were extinct, threatened, merely rare, or relatively safe from threat. In the second half of the twentieth century, this knowledge was codified in the form of lists written by organizations. While national (and other) lists were also generated, it is the lists of international organizations that concern us here. In particular, in the 1960s the International Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN) began compiling and publishing its Red Data Books of threatened species, and from the 1970s the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES), a treaty, began listing endangered species for which trade in products would be regulated. This chapter argues that, first, in the teeth of opposition, the criteria for deciding the IUCN’s categories of threat were reformulated in the early 1990s on the basis of quantitative population biology. This reformulation was justified as being a 180

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more “objective” approach. But critics disputed whether the approach was practical, necessary, or indeed objective. Second, a historically contingent combination of the IUCN’s championing of the quantitative approach and Southern African countries’ desire to renegotiate categorization, led to a redefinition of CITES criteria in a similar fashion. Considered as a whole, these episodes present rich case studies in the advantages and disadvantages of appealing to quantitative science to aid international governance. While there is an immense literature on the topic from conservation biology, geography, and social and political science, historians, including historians of science, are only beginning to explore the subject of the sixth extinction,1 the Anthropocene-era mass extinction of animals and plants.2 Furthermore, the historiography of relevant expertises and disciplines, such as ecology and population biology, has yet to address in detail the period after the 1970s.3 “Conservation biology,” which was condensed as a new specialty in the mid-1980s, has yet to receive attention from professional historians of science.4 Only as archives have been opened can historians bring their methods to bear. Another relevant set of secondary literature concerns categories. Much inkhas been spilled, by biologists and philosophers, debating the question of what a “species” is or what “biodiversity” is.5 Far less attention has been given to the question of how a “rare” or “endangered” species might be defined.6 There is a parallel, fascinating sociological literature on standardization, although one not focused on biological categories of threat.7 As a historian, my interest here involves why, among a range of possible definitions, certain people in specific places at specific times were able to define and defend specific kinds of standard criteria. More broadly, conservation has often focused on geographical areas (the nature preservation movement leading to the first nature reserves in the late nineteenth century) or specific charismatic organisms (bison, sea turtles, tigers, elephants, rhinos) that have a popular familiarity. A distinctive and important trend in the twentieth century was the attempt to estimate and even list the level of endangerment of all species. In the mid-1930s the American Committee for International Wild Life Protection “began an ambitious project to create an authoritative inventory of the world’s vanishing species . . . an important model for later official lists of endangered species.”8 In the United States, this trend, reflected in legislation such as the Endangered Species Acts (1966 and 1973), set the scene for intense controversies as relatively obscure species and subspecies (the snail darter, the northern spotted owl) conflicted with economic interests (hydroelectric power and logging, respectively). Note two consequences of this combi-

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nation of general listing and legislation: first, more data were produced as authorities (such as the Fish and Wildlife Service) were obliged to keep lists and scientists investigated individual cases; second, the results could be political dynamite. Both of these features can be seen as we move to the international scene.9 Old Criteria Red Data Books, “a register of threatened wildlife that includes definitions of degrees of threat,” were proposed by Sir Peter Scott, the wildfowl conservationist, in 1963. The IUCN published the first two (on mammals and birds) in 1966, followed by one on reptiles and amphibians (1968).10 These extraordinarily important books are now, ironically, very rare to find in their original form. Published as “looseleaf, ring-bound volumes: the idea was to keep them in a permanently modern condition by adding texts (‘sheets’) on newly evaluated taxa at regular intervals, and by replacing older ones with updated accounts,” only revised editions exist.11 Nevertheless, the Red Data concept spread, as lists were successively revised and national analogues produced. Furthermore, backed by the IUCN’s status, they have become regarded as authoritative statements of species at risk. As they became more embedded in conservation practice and politics, more was at stake on the robustness of the knowledge they contained. The criteria used in the original Red Data Books were qualitative, requiring the judgment of conservationists on the evidence (often incomplete) about the threat of extinction. The compiler (or a contact more directly familiar with the knowledge about a species or subspecies in question) would have to make two calls: first, about the immediacy of the danger of extinction, and second, about survival under implementation of protection. Both are qualitative, and offer no guidance about, for example, how immediate is immediate enough to qualify. How unlikely does survival have to be to count? Likewise in Category 2 there is no rule about how small a population or how restricted or specialized a habitat had to be for a creature to be included. For a time these vagaries did not seem to matter. The trust in the expert’s call was sufficient for the inclusion of species and subspecies to pass unchallenged, in almost all cases. The Red Data Books became, in the hands of readers, many things: useful checklists, pointers to further bibliography, symbols of catastrophic environmental damage, and sober but also inspirational reading for conservationists.12

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However by the 1980s, resolve had grown among conservation biologists to reform the Red Data Book (RDB) categories. In discussions among reformers a new ideal for criteria began to take shape: they would be few in number, clear, useful to regulation, capable of identifying priorities to conservation practitioners, and affordable to produce and use. But should they contain numbers? Quantification, it was feared, might give a false impression of precision, but nevertheless would be open to the application of new methods, and might be more robust in international and national disputes over conservation priorities. The IUCN’s attention in the 1980s mostly focused on the consequences of the World Conservation Strategy, the international commitment to a target of sustainable trade, aligned to development, that had been agreed in 1980.13 Only by the late 1980s could energy be devoted to reforming the measurement of threatened species. New Criteria The project started in April 1989, when George Rabb’s Species Survival Commission (SSC) of the International Union for the Conservation of Nature, following a meeting at Kew, invited Georgina Mace to “undertake the important task of preparing a concept discussion document on the Red Data Book categories with a view to their reformulation.” In the view of Ulie Seal, chair of the Captive Breeding Specialist Group and SSC member, “the status categories of species is of fundamental importance since they provide the basis for inclusion in the [Red Data Books] and serve as a globally accepted signal for action to protect the listed species. . . . [Yet the] formulation of these concepts took place before the current developments in small population biology and population viability analysis and are in need of careful examination and reformulation.”14 Martin Holdgate, director-general of IUCN, “warmly supported this initiative,” describing it as tackling an “issue of . . . fundamental importance,” and urged that the plan be reported to the council meeting of IUCN in June. He also insisted that “when the RDB categories have been revised, it will be necessary for IUCN to publish the result . . . as a formal policy or position statement of the organization, which will mean Council approval of the document in question”’15 Mace had studied the evolutionary ecology of small mammals under John Maynard Smith at Sussex as well as zoo inbreeding with John Eisenberg at the Smithsonian Institution in the 1970s.16 In the 1980s she devel-

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oped theories and models of population viability. In 1988, Mace published a paper in Science that critically surveyed the use of viable population analyses to incorporate a full range of extinction factors.17 It was perhaps this intervention that marked her as an independent and informed candidate for undertaking the review. From 1991 she was a Pew scholar in conservation and environment at the Institute of Zoology, London, where she continued to work until moving to Imperial College in 2006. When she was invited to lead the reformulation of the IUCN’s categories by applying the concepts of population biology in 1989 she was already at the Institute of Zoology at the Zoological Society of London, working at the interface of theory and practice. “As one of the first generation of conservation biologists,” noted Nature in 2006, “Mace has not only contributed to the scientific development of the field, but actively translated science into effective policy.” The SSC, after “lively discussion,” gave a clear steer to what Mace’s discussion paper should include: a summary of current categories, views about the purpose of a new IUCN category system, a review of alternatives, both in terms of systems and procedures, and a summary of preferences “that takes into account those factors that cannot be controlled by the IUCN, such as the political or financial implications of any system.”18 Mace sent a very early draft to Ulie Seal and Nate Flesness (executive director of ISIS—International Species Information System, based in Apple Valley, Minnesota), and responses to comments from this pair were included in the draft of “Assessing Extinction Threats” of June 1989, the first to be circulated and to survive in the archives.19 It is best seen as a combination of two literatures: it takes the criticisms of criteria expressed in Richard Fitter and Maisie Fitter’s The Road to Extinction and offers a solution based on the quantitative, probabilistic biology of viable populations. The statement of the purpose of criteria is taken from whale expert Sidney Holt in Road: to raise public awareness, to use in legislation, and to assist specialists in conservation planning; Paul Munton’s point—that systems for assessing threat and systems designed for setting priorities have been confused and should be separated—is endorsed.20 Therefore, the Red Data Books should “simply provide an assessment of the likelihood that if current circumstances prevail the species will go extinct within a given period of time. This should be completely objective.” An ideal system, wrote Mace, would also be essentially simple, flexible in terms of the data required (there was very little data on most species and highly detailed data on only a few), applicable to populations of different sizes, have clearly defined terms, have quantifiable error estimates, and incorporate a time scale. The June

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1989 draft called for a two-tier approach. Level I would look like the old Red Data Book categories, but, crucially, would be “explicitly defined in population terms.” A Level II “would aim to specify for each species an estimate of mean persistence time (with error margins) or a probability of survival for some specified time interval. In the June 1989 draft the criteria had three categories—“Extinct,” “Endangered” and “Vulnerable”—in line with CITES and the U.S. Endangered Species legislation. “Endangered” species were defined, probabilistically, as “those that are estimated to have at least a 10% chance of going extinct in the next 100 years if current conditions prevail.” But how would “10% chance of going extinct in 100 years” be calculated? Here appeal was made to five different, measurable factors.21 A “Vulnerable” species was defined similarly but with a range of 1–10 percent. At some point in the summer of 1989, the paper gained a second author. Russell Lande, a member of the Department of Ecology and Evolution at the University of Chicago, “improved . . . the theoretical basis.”22 Lande, in 1988, had published a “highly influential” population viability analysis of the northern spotted owl, an application of quantification to perhaps the deepest U.S. controversy of the moment.23 The third draft, a joint paper with the same subtitle, was ready in November.24 The three categories were no longer “Extinct,” “Endangered,” and “Vulnerable,” but instead “CRITICAL,” “ENDANGERED,” and “VULNERABLE.” Nevertheless, Mace’s quantitative approach survived. “CRITICAL,” for example, was defined as “50% probability of extinction within 5 years or 2 generations, whichever is longer,” while “ENDANGERED” meant “20% probability of extinction within 20 years or 10 generations,” and “VULNERABLE” was “10% probability of extinction within 100 years.” Each of these definitions was supplemented with measurable population biology indicators, which collectively formed “criteria.”25 Mace and Lande’s paper was submitted to the journal Conservation Biology in February 1990, accepted for publication in October, and published in June 1991. It not only made specific technical proposals but also stated the authors’ reason for reformulating the criteria in more detail. The prime justification, in addition to clarity for planning purposes and the availability of new population biology, was that objective science could help avoid and resolve conflict by constraining interpretation: The existing system is somewhat circular in nature and excessively subjective. When practiced by a few people who are experienced with its use in a variety of contexts it can be a robust and workable system, but increasingly, different

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groups with particular regional and taxonomic interests are using the Red Data Book format to develop local or specific publications. Although this is generally of great benefit, the interpretation and use of the present threatened species categories are now diverging widely. This leads to disputes and uncertainties over particular species that are not easily resolved and that ultimately may negatively affect species conservation.26

Embedding the Criteria in International Conservation Governance Nevertheless, at this stage the criteria were merely lines in a peer-reviewed journal. There was considerable distance to travel before they would shape conservation practice worldwide. This journey followed two crisscrossing tracks. In the first, between 1991 and 1994 there was a process of discussion, including close examination in specialist workshops, testing across taxa, redrafting of criteria, and eventually international agreement and an IUCN–endorsed publication. These rounds of negotiation enrolled conservation scientists, including critics, familiarizing them with the criteria and reassuring them that the quantitative approach was practicable. The second track generated more controversy. In 1992, the IUCN was invited to submit a report to the CITES Secretariat, the body responsible for governance of the treaty on trade in endangered species. The IUCN report, submitted in January 1993, drew on the criteria offered by Mace and Lande, as they were being revised in the first track. The CITES Standing Committee agreed that the report met the terms of reference it had issued, essentially endorsing the quantitative approach embodied in the criteria. Widely leaked, the document was immediately criticized by wildlife nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) that, as Simon Stuart noted, “reacted very strongly and negatively.”27 The NGOs quickly formed a new coalition, called the Species Survival Network, to oppose the approach. I will now trace these two tracks in more detail, discussing CITES first, then the IUCN Red List. CITES Criteria CITES—the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora—was agreed in 1973 and came into force in 1975. It was designed to protect species endangered by commercial exploitation. Appendices are the business end of the CITES treaty; listed in Appendix I should be “all species threatened with extinction which are or may be affect-

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ed by trade,” while Appendix II listed those species that may be threatened with extinction if trade were not regulated, and an Appendix III addressed national populations. CITES has proved problematic, being accused of not succeeding in stopping unsustainable trade in rare creatures. In particular, three specific problems had been clearly identified by the late 1980s. First, the original “Berne” criteria (1976) for deciding which species should receive what protection were attacked as vague. Second, the granting and monitoring of export permits were the responsibility of a state’s “Scientific Authority,” and many of these were weak, underresourced, or ineffective. Third, many species had been placed in the most-at-risk category—listed under “Appendix I”—without adequate evidence. Even though a species might receive more protection under the second rank, the “Appendix II” category, for both technical and political reasons it was almost impossible to move a species from category I to II. The campaign for reform crystallized around Southern African countries’ wish to remove the African elephant from Appendix I to Appendix II. South Africa, Zimbabwe, Botswana, Malawi, Namibia, and Zambia claimed that their effective management of elephant populations meant that elephant products—possibly, and most controversially, including ivory—could be traded and the profits put into wildlife conservation.28 Zimbabwe took the lead, calling for two specific CITES reforms: a recognition that carefully managed trade could benefit conservation (so long as agreed means of moving organisms between appendices were introduced), and replacement of the Berne criteria. The Mace–Lande criteria contained a model of what the new criteria might look like. Population biology, therefore, perhaps contingently, was a strategically useful tool and ally for the campaigners. The CITES Conference of the Parties was due to be held in Kyoto in March 1992. In the IUCN’s view, the Kyoto meeting had to endorse a move to a more flexible system, allowing easier transfer of species, but done on the basis of “new, more objective and more soundly based” Kyoto criteria that would replace the failed Berne criteria.29 The CITES Standing Committee, at its meeting in June 1992, requested IUCN assistance in developing new criteria for listing species, specifically asking the IUCN “to provide simple, pragmatic, scientific and objective criteria to determine in which appendix, if any, it would be appropriate to list species.”30 In fact, Simon Stuart had already prepared the ground and had a plan in place. In 1991, Southern African countries drafted Kyoto criteria based on the Mace–Lande approach. However, caution was needed. The CITES criteria operated in a system

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fraught with inevitable political and economic tensions because controversial trade was the object of regulation, and the criteria had to satisfy more parties and interests even than what was required in the IUCN’s Red Book criteria. In December, Stuart sounded out senior population biologists, such as Robert May and Robert Lacy, and asked them three questions: first, were the proposed Kyoto criteria, based on Mace–Lande, “scientifically accurate and robust” as they stood? Second, would the criteria need further development first? Third, was it “realistic to expect governments to be able to use the more technical criteria outlined in this draft resolution?” As John G. Robinson, director of the New York–based Wildlife Conservation International, noted, “Mace-Lande is increasingly being linked to a number of issues (Species endangerment, CITES, captive breeding, sustainable use, etc), and increasingly are serving as a lightning rod for the argument [as to] . . . whether objective criteria are desirable in making management/ conservation decisions.”31 In the summer of 1992, Stuart refined and redefined the questions and allocated them as tasks to consultants.32 Workshops on “Categories of Threat,” to consider in tandem the IUCN criteria and the recommendations to CITES, were held in London in November 1992.33 As expected, the IUCN document was leaked as soon as it was circulated. The response from NGOs and other organizations was immediate and often fierce. I have seen documents of seventy-nine organizations (or groups of organizations) that sent comments to the CITES Management Authority. While these were nationally diverse in origin—from the Nepal Natural History Museum to the Namibian Cheetah Conservation Fund— nearly half were U.S.–based. However, the most organized counterstrike came from the Species Survival Network (SSN) (not to be confused with the IUCN’s Species Survival Commission34), a coalition of animal welfare, environmental, and conservation NGOs that was formed ad hoc specifically to challenge the IUCN’s proposals. Originally called the NGO Working Group on New Listing Criteria, the Species Survival Network was coordinated by the International Wildlife Coalition, based in Toronto, and members included Greenpeace, both the American and Royal Societies for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, specialist lobby groups for tigers, whales, and elephants, among thirty-five members. SSN sent a punchy critique to the CITES Standing Committee in March 1993 calling for the IUCN proposals to be rejected. Many reasons were given, but three were central. First, the SSN interpreted the IUCN proposals as an abandonment of the precautionary principle, the rule of thumb that in conditions of uncertainty an action should not be taken if it

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might lead to more harm than good. The SSN argued that the principle was “central to the operation of CITES and should be retained.”35 In support of this line, the SSN even quoted Mace and Lande, picking a line from the Conservation Biology paper that seemed to endorse the principle (it does not—it is consistent with the principle but does not endorse its general application).36 Second, the SSN urged caution about “removing protection from a species on the basis of a claim that it is being used sustainably.” Against the IUCN’s description of its criteria as “simple, pragmatic, objective and non-discriminatory,” SSN said, they were “unnecessarily complex, almost impossible to fulfil in practice, arbitrary, biased against the listing of species, and highly discriminatory against any Party—particularly one with limited resources—that seeks CITES protection for its wildlife.”37 What is more, the criteria, in SSN’s view, were technically in violation of the CITES treaty, being more “stringent than the language of the treaty allows,” and, in the case of Appendix II, “requiring species . . . to meet rigid biological criteria when none are required” under the treaty. Echoing a response found among the comments to the draft of the Mace– Lande paper, SSN also made a point that connected the issue of resources to the question of who should have an authoritative voice on extinction: by “setting quantitative requirements for the preparation of listing proposals that only the wealthiest Parties can meet, while eliminating from consideration the qualitative judgements of wildlife officers in the field,” the IUCN infringed the “sovereign rights of the Parties.”38 The SSN’s specific complaints reveal a concern that the expense of the new science would restrict the range, diversity, and ability to operate of conservation advocates: “Restricting quantitative analysis to a single method, the Population Viability Assessment (PVA), is not acceptable. PVAs cost thousands of dollars to produce, placing them beyond the reach of all but the richest states. Requiring a PVA takes power away from less wealthy countries and, in effect, gives it to bodies like the IUCN with the ability to make such assessments. Countries should be able to provide proposals based on their reasonable abilities to collect data.”39 I think it is fair to see here not only a concern that less wealthy countries might be disadvantaged, but also, more self-interestedly, a fear that less wealthy NGOs might be unable to speak with authority in an international conservation system founded on expensive science. The IUCN’s proposed criteria moved through CITES standing committee in March 1994, with minor modifications.40 The crucial event was the ninth meeting of the CITES Conference of the Parties, to be held in Fort

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Lauderdale, Florida, in November 1994. The IUCN prepared a strong set of position papers, outlining and defending its case. In Fort Lauderdale, much of the first week was spent discussing species-specific proposals made by different countries. On November 15, at the end of the tenth session, the “new criteria for amendment of Appendices I and II” were introduced. The eleventh session proceeded speedily: the delegation from Switzerland (home of IUCN headquarters) “agreed with the suggested changes and, recognizing that the criteria would never be perfect but that they should be tested, called for a vote to adopt the draft resolution.”41 Zimbabwe (as we have seen, an originator of the process) seconded. The vote was 81 in favor, and none against (119 parties were present, so some abstained). The approved document, Com 9.17, was a compromise: the main text of the criteria had no numbers but had to be read in the context of an annex, which did. However, each of the numbers was described as a “guideline (not a threshold).”42 This was a partial success for the population biologists on the bruising battlefield of international trade and conservation. IUCN Criteria Fewer interests were at play in negotiating the IUCN’s own criteria. The Categories of Threat workshops of November 1992 led to the eventual publication of successive versions of criteria for the listing of species in the IUCN Red List.43 At the workshops, thirty-three participants agreed on using the categories “Critical,” “Endangered,” “Vulnerable,” and “Susceptible,” and divided into working groups exploring the consequences of specific criteria for the major taxonomic groupings: plants, invertebrates, and lower and higher vertebrates. In discussion, the lower vertebrate and invertebrate criteria converged to such an extent that the workshop was able to propose aiming for three sets of criteria, one for higher vertebrates, one for plants, and one for lower vertebrates and invertebrates combined.44 There followed a phase of drafting, complete by January 1993. In the process, the three criteria were again consolidated into a single set: even though there were “inconsistencies in the criteria applied across the major taxonomic groups,” these were “hard to minimise,” and it was “felt that the system would be simpler, with fewer potential contradictions, if the criteria could be consolidated into a single list, even if this did make the list longer and more complex.”45 Attention was also paid to making the criteria workable in conditions of poor data. Quantitative definitions were given to “Critical,” “Endangered,” and “Vulnerable,” while nonquantitative descriptions were

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given of “Extinct,” “Extinct in the Wild,” “Susceptible,” “Safe/Low Risk,” “Insufficiently known,” and “Not evaluated.” It is essential to note that the system was to be universal: every taxon had a place, and for those allocated to the key criteria, quantified. The draft criteria (later dubbed “Version 2.0”) were published in the IUCN’s Species Survival Commission’s own journal Species in May 1993,46 and comments invited by June 30, 1993. The comments received fill a thick, ring-bound file, perhaps two hundred pages in total.47 They are another extraordinary international sampling of informed and interested views about the pros and cons of placing quantitative science at the heart of global wildlife conservation. The largely contingent hitching of IUCN and CITES categories had “stirred up a hornet’s nest.”48 The call for comments took place alongside a concerted effort to test the criteria. Fifty-nine SSC members, specialists on their mammals, birds, reptiles, plants, fish, and invertebrates, compared the results of applying the new IUCN criteria against old Red Data Book (1990) classifications.49 Over five hundred species were reviewed. Specialists struggled to interpret the general criteria in relation to their specific knowledge. What, for example, was counted as a range, what was a river, what was an individual? This issue of rules and cases is a typical problem of standards that is shown in sharp relief when the criteria are new and unfamiliar. Another concern was that the criteria would crumble in the adversarial conditions of the legal court. For Elaine Hoagland, executive director of the Association of Systematics Collections, based in Washington, DC, the conflict between the scientist and the lawyer would be brutal and brief: An even greater difficulty in the IUCN draft is that the burden of proof is borne entirely by the scientist. In the US if not elsewhere, there would be a field day for lawyers wanting to attack the listing of a species, because, using traditional Popperian hypothesis testing, scientists can only prove what ISN’T TRUE. . . . We can NEVER say that there are fewer than 5 populations [say], because we haven’t looked everywhere. There can always be another population lurking around the next corner. . . . “How hard did you look? Couldn’t there have been one you missed?” The lawyer would say, “Well, if you missed one, how many more could you have missed?”50

“We did not prepare this document for advocacy or litigation,” replied Mace; “clearly it would have been very different if we had done so, or more likely it would have been drafted by an entirely different set of people!”51 A fair point, but authors cannot control the uses texts are put to.

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One of the trickiest details of the criteria involved deciding the quantitative levels of transition between categories. For all the talk of objectivity, there was, as critics maintained, an irreducible arbitrariness, for example, if “Endangered” referenced likely extinction over 50 (or 25, or 75, or 100, say) years, or populations of 1,000 (or 500, or 10,000, say). The group was well aware of a widespread “wish” among concerned specialists “to intervene earlier.”52 But longer periods also made projection based on quantitative population modeling harder, so there was a tradeoff between these desired aims of objective quantification and effective conservation. In December 1993 a new draft (“version 2.1”) was written based on the review group’s work. These were presented at the IUCN General Assembly in Buenos Aires in January 1994. After a further round of comments, “version 2.2” was published in Species in August 1994. Again the categories were put to the test. Finally, on November 30, 1994, the fortieth meeting of the IUCN Council approved “version 2.3,” the document having passed the IUCN’s Policy Committee the day before.53 The final criteria have eight categories, three of which (“Critically Endangered,” “Endangered,” and “Vulnerable”) are given detailed, quantifiable definitions.54 Significantly, the final criteria allowed room for both “hard” PVA–style evidence and expert judgment. To a degree that is surprising to an outsider who might be more inspired by what E. O. Wilson labeled “biophilia,” conservation work is paperwork. Bureaucracies require categories. A conservationist writing an action plan for a species, whether it be on a global, national, or local government scale, has had to appeal to a category of threat to justify measures to be taken. In this chapter I have examined how categories of threat were rewritten in the late twentieth century, so that they incorporated measures drawn from quantitative population biology, at a time of a perceived global crisis: Robert May and colleagues, in 1995, estimated that extinction rates were between 1,000 and 10,000 times higher than background levels.55 This has been the story of how a specific science created tools for getting to grips with the sixth mass extinction. The IUCN’s new categories were indeed used. The 1996 Red List of Threatened Animals has been described as a “major turning point. . . . For the first time in a single global list, the conservation status of all species of birds and mammals (rather than just the better-known or more charismatic species) was evaluated, and all the assessments were based on the . . . new quantitative criteria.’56 The list has been further extended (the 2000

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Red List included plants and required a CD to hold the data), embedded in all the hierarchies of scale of conservationist practice, and even informs the public through Wikipedia.57 The CITES criteria likewise, through the listings of the appendices, constrains global sustainable trade in threatened creatures, and its categories in turn shape conservation biology.58 The turn from appeal to trust to appeal to numbers at times of crisis is precisely the pattern we might expect from reading Theodore Porter’s account of the historical causes of quantification.59 However, the process was not smooth. I have shown that while the quantitative biology was written into conservation criteria, it did so through negotiation (redrafting), drawing in some critics while perhaps sidelining others. Nevertheless, the final criteria, in both the Red List and CITES cases, were political compromises that certainly embedded quantitative biology but did so as a result of negotiation within the range of choices available.

NOTES

Foreword

1. René Dubos, Man Adapting (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1966), 7.

Preface

1. From the call for proposals: “The scope of life sciences, for our purposes, includes disciplines ranging from medicine and biology to psychology and public health, and we hope to explore the ramifications of these disciplines in other fields. . . . We seek interventions in interpretation of these fields from scholars based in history, history of science and medicine, social sciences and natural sciences. In particular, we are seeking papers that address any aspect of the life sciences from a global/world history perspective. We see the postwar history of science as a period marked by dramatic advances in knowledge of the life sciences during a time of increasing international collaboration. At the same time, new research occurred within a climate fraught with Cold War enmities and the suspicions brought on by decolonization.”

Introduction

1. In a key volume, population geneticist Ronald A. Fisher argued that the specifics of inheritance, as seen through the genetics of Mendel, were consistent with the broad process of natural selection identified by Darwin; Theodosius Dobzhansky further hypothesized this neo-Darwinian synthesis. Details were filled in through decades of research. Ronald Aylmer Fisher, The Genetical Theory of Natural Selection (Oxford:

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Clarendon Press, 1930); Theodosius Dobzhansky, Genetics and the Origin of Species (New York: Columbia University Press, 1937). 2. Nicholas Rasmussen, Picture Control: The Electron Microscope and the Transformation of Biology in America, 1940–1960 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1997). 3. The 1937 Japanese assault on China expanded previous military confrontations, the 1941 attack on Pearl Harbor brought almost all powers into the war, and war ended only with Japan’s 1945 surrender, following the explosion of two American atomic bombs. 4. The United Nations Declaration of Human Rights was adopted in 1948; it was reconfirmed and expanded in subsequent decisions. 5. For a somewhat more detailed review of transformations in the life sciences during the twentieth century, see Patrick Manning, “The Life Sciences, 1900–2000: Analysis and Social Welfare from Mendel and Koch to Biotech and Conservation,” Asian Review of World Histories 6 (2018), 185–207. 6. Especially those governed primarily by national members (UN General Assembly, UNESCO, World Health Organization, International Labor Organization). Of lesser influence on the life sciences were international organizations governed primarily by big powers (UN Security Council, International Monetary Fund, World Bank). Nongovernmental organizations gained great significance, but grew at a slower rate. 7. In addition, conflicts among contending socioeconomic interests, while long in existence, took specific social forms in the postwar era and influenced the factors above. For instance, trade union membership reached a peak and then declined in this era. The conflict between socialism and capitalism as economic systems and political parties also reached a peak in this era. Relations among wage working classes, private employers, and the state took quite different forms in Eastern and Western Europe, and the United States. In the many regions with large peasant populations, peasants were influential though never dominant. 8. For examples of Cold War interactions of various sorts in this volume, see the chapters by Reinhardt, Asen, Jiang, Olšáková, Lišková, Wolfe, and Link. 9. Vannevar Bush, Endless Horizons (Washington, DC: Public Affairs Press, 1946). For a substantial and updated critique of the dichotomy between basic and applied science, see Venkatesh Narayanamurti and Toluwalogo Odumosu, Cycles of Invention and Discovery: Rethinking the Endless Frontier (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2016). For a debate on whether an internal–external dichotomy remains valid in understanding science, see Dudley Shapere, “External and Internal Factors in the Development of Science,” Science and Technology Studies 4 (1986), 1–9; P. Thomas Carroll, “Incorrectness and Specific Doubts: Comments on Schapere,” Science and Technology Studies 4 (1986), 10–14; Stephen Turner, “The Sociology of Science in Its Place: Comment on Shapere,” Science and Technology Studies 4 (1986), 15–18; Shapere, “Replies to Carroll and Turner,” Science and Technology Studies 4 (1986), 19–23. 10. Sarah Hodges, “The Global Menace,” Social History of Medicine 25 (2012), 719– 28; Kapil Raj, Relocating Modern Science: Circulation and the Construction of Knowledge in South Asia and Europe, 1650–1900 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), 2–24. 11. Fa-ti Fan, “The Global Turn in the History of Science,” East Asian Science, Technology and Society 6 (2012), 249–58; Peter Galison, “Trading with the Enemy,” in

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Trading Zones and Interactional Expertise: Creating New Kinds of Collaboration, ed. Michael E. Gorman, 25–52 (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2010); Mary Louise Pratt, “Arts of the Contact Zone,” Profession (1991), 33–40. In another variation, the term “exchange of knowledge” was developed for exploring exchanges including hierarchical relations (colonizer and indigenous, free and slave) and the contrast of state and civil society in exchanging knowledge across the lines of social encounters. Patrick Manning, “Building Global Perspectives in History of Science: The Era from 1750 to 1850,” in Global Scientific Practice in an Age of Revolutions, 1750–1850, ed. Patrick Manning and Daniel Rood, 8–16 (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2016). 12. Sujit Sivasundaram, “Sciences and the Global: On Methods, Questions, and Theory,” Isis 101 (2010), 146–58. 13. David Wade Chambers and Richard Gillespie, “Locality in the History of Science: Colonial Science, Technoscience, and Indigenous Knowledge,” Osiris 15 (2000), 221–40; Carla Nappi, “The Global and Beyond: Adventures in the Local Historiographies of Science,” Isis 104 (2013), 103. 14. For instance, the notion of circulation might be applied to the spread of social insurance programs to many countries, while international organizations may be seen as constituting a contact zone for various contributors to research and clinical work. 15. Patrick Manning, “Locating Africans on the World Stage: A Problem in World History,” Journal of World History 26 (2015), 605–37; Sebastian Conrad, What Is Global History? (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2016), 68–69. On the many local variations within global technology, see Kenneth Pomeranz, The Great Divergence: China, Europe, and the Making of the Modern World Economy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 43–68. 16. The focus of this volume is thus somewhat distinct from that of the existing historiography on twentieth-century history of science. For instance, the numerous books tracing the emergence of molecular biology address few of the specifics addressed here, while the major collection on Cold War science, published only slightly before this volume and addressing the same span of years, center on physical sciences and great-power contention. Naomi Oreskes and John Krige, eds., Science and Technology in the Global Cold War (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2014). 17. See the concise but excellent overview of these axes and scales in Peter J. Bowler and John V. Pickstone, “Introduction,” in Cambridge History of Science, vol. 6, The Modern Biological and Earth Sciences, edited by Peter Bowler and John Pickstone, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 8–12. 18. From the original 51 charter members of the UN, membership grew to 60 in 1950, 99 in 1960, 127 in 1970, and 154 in 1980. The voting power of new nations in the General Assembly of the United Nations and of UNESCO ensured that the perspectives of these nations would be respected in one way or another. 19. John Merson, “Bio-prospecting or Bio-piracy: Intellectual Property Rights and Biodiversity in a Colonial and Postcolonial Context,” Osiris (2000), 282–96. 20. For a discussion on the historiography of colonial and postcolonial science, see Suman Seth, “Putting Knowledge in Its Place: Science, Colonialism, and the Postcolonial,” Postcolonial Studies 12, no. 4 (2009), 373–88. See also Kapil Raj, “Beyond Post-

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colonialism . . . and Postpositivism: Circulation and the Global History of Science,” Isis 104 (2013), 337–47; Christophe Bonneuil, “Development as Experiment: Science and State Building in Late Colonial and Postcolonial Africa, 1930–1970,” Osiris 15 (2000), 258–81; David Arnold, “Nehruvian Science and Postcolonial India,” Isis 104 (2013), 360–70. 21. James C. Riley, “Estimates of Regional and Global Life Expectancy, 1800–2001,” Population and Development Review 31, no. 3 (September 2005), 537–43. 22. Aiqun Hu, China’s Social Insurance in the Twentieth Century: A Global Historical Perspective (Leiden: Brill, 2015). 23. For global studies, see Thomas Piketty, Capital in the Twenty-First Century (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2014); Branko Milanovic, Global Inequality: A New Approach for the Age of Globalization (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2016). For a global commentary that includes national and continental specifics for all world regions, see Pat Hudson and Keith Tribe, eds., The Contradictions of Capital in the Twenty-First Century: The Piketty Opportunity (Newcastle upon Tyne: Agenda, 2016). 24. J. P. MacKenbach, “The Persistence of Health Inequalities in Modern Welfare States: The Explanation of a Paradox,” Social Science and Medicine 74 (2012), 761–69; Johan P. MacKenbach and Martin McKee, “Social-Democratic Government and Health Policy in Europe: A Quantitative Analysis,” International Journal of Health Services 43 (2013), 389–413. 25. Huxley’s rapidly produced manifesto is an outstanding statement of the universalist view that prevailed briefly in the postwar atmosphere. Julian Huxley, UNESCO: Its Purpose and Its Philosophy (Paris: Preparatory Committee for the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization, 1946). 26. For an excellent history of the ICSU, originally founded in 1931, see Frank Greenaway, Science International: A History of the International Council of Scientific Unions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992). It notes, for instance (p. 72), that Huxley became director-general of UNESCO in 1946 only after brief service by Sir Alfred Zimmern. 27. Sanjoy Bhattacharya, Expunging Variola: The Control and Eradication of Smallpox in India (Delhi: Orient Blackswan, 2006). 28. Other internationalist forces, such as the World Federation of Scientific Workers, were themselves co-opted by forces favorable to the Soviet Union. Michelle Brattain, “Race, Racism, and Antiracism: UNESCO and the Politics of Presenting Science to the Postwar Public,” American Historical Review 112, no. 5 (2007), 1386–413; Glenda Sluga, “UNESCO and the (One) World of Julian Huxley,” Journal of World History 21, no. 3 (2010), 393–418. 29. Patrick Petitjean, “The Joint Establishment of the World Federation of Scientific Workers and of UNESCO after World War II,” Minerva 46, no. 2 (2008), 247–70. 30. Bruno Strasser, “The Coproduction of Neutral Science and Neutral State in Cold War Europe: Switzerland and International Scientific Cooperation, 1951–1969,” Osiris 24, no. 1 (2009), 165–87. 31. Oreskes and Krige, Science and Technology. For further analysis of this issue,

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see Audra Wolfe, Competing with the Soviets: Science, Technology, and the State in Cold War America (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2013). 32. For more on the Cold War debate, see Paul R. Josephson, New Atlantis Revisited: Akademgorodok, the Siberian City of Science (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997); Paul R. Josephson, “War on Nature as Part of the Cold War: The Strategic and Ideological Roots of Environmental Degradation in the USSR,” in Environmental Histories of the Cold War, ed. J. R. McNeill and Corinna R. Unger, 21–49 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010); Mark Solovey, “Science and the State during the Cold War: Blurred Boundaries and a Contested Legacy,” Social Studies of Science 31, no. 2 (2001), 165–90; Mark Solovey, “Cold War Social Science: Spectre, Reality, or Useful Concept?” in Cold War Social Science: Knowledge Production, Liberal Democracy, and Human Nature, ed. Mark Solovey and Hamilton Cravens, 1–24 (New York: Palgrave, 2012); Oreskes and Krige, Science and Technology; Allen Hunter, Rethinking the Cold War (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1998). For examples drawn from the life sciences, see Dora Vargha, “Between East and West: Polio Vaccination across the Iron Curtain in Cold War Hungary,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 88, no. 2 (2014), 319–42; S. Marks and M. Savelli, “Communist Europe and Transnational Psychiatry,” in Psychiatry in Communist Europe, ed. Mat Savelli and Sarah Marks (New York: Palgrave, 2015), 1–26. 33. Frederick Cooper and Randall M. Packard, eds., International Development and the Social Sciences: Essays on the History and Politics of Knowledge (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998). 34. Rachel Carson, Silent Spring (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1962). 35. Of the many fine works on molecular biology, the work of Michel Morange is excellent in describing the logic and steps in research. Michel Morange, History of Molecular Biology, trans. Matthew Cobb (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998). Other key works include Rasmussen, Picture Control; Lily E. Kay, The Molecular Vision of Life (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993); Pnina Abir-am, “The Molecular Transformation of Twentieth-Century Biology,” in Science in the Twentieth Century, 495–524; Soraya de Chadarevian and Harmke Kamminga, Molecularizing Biology and Medicine: New Practices and Alliances (Amsteldijk, Netherlands: Harwood Academic, 1998); Chadarevian, Designs for Life: Molecular Biology after World War II (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). 36. In addition to the growing general sense of unity within biology, Vassiliki Betty Smocovitis has documented two specific campaigns for theoretical unification in biology: that for an evolutionary synthesis, led in the 1930s by Theodosius Dobzhansky (and followed in 1946 by the formation of the Society for the Study of Evolution), and the emergence of evolutionary biology, articulated in the 1960s by Edmund O. Wilson and Herbert J. Ross. Vassiliki Betty Smocovitis, Unifying Biology: The Evolutionary Synthesis and Evolutionary Biology (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1996), 20–21, 170. 37. “As a consequence of the rapid rate of increase in the numbers and needs of the human populations of the world and their demands on the natural environment, there is an urgent need for greatly increased biological research.” “International Biological Programme: Report of the Planning Committee, November 15th, 1963,” Bioscience 14, no. 4 (1964), 43. See also Greenaway, Science International; and IBP—Report of the

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Planning Committee, November 15, 1963. Archives of the Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic, ČSAV—secretariat, arch. file 10, IBP Planning Committee, 1963, 1. 38. Chunglin Kwa, “Representations of Nature Mediating between Ecology and Science Policy: The Case of the International Biological Programme,” Social Studies of Science 17, no. 3 (1987), 413–42. 39. N. W. Pirie, “Introduction: The Purpose and Function of the International Biological Programme,” Proceedings of the Nutrition Society 26, no. 1 (1967), 125. 40. See, for instance, Iris Borowy, Defining Sustainable Development for our Common Future: A History of the World Commission on Environment and Development (Brundtland Commission) (London: Routledge, 2013).

Chapter 1. India Abroad

1. For example, see R. N. Bannerjee, “Immigration of Doctors,” Indian Medical Journal 59, no. 8 (1965), 194. As of 1965, the ratio was 1 doctor for every 5,800 citizens; the fifth plan hoped to reduce this to 1 doctor for every 3,500, and, ultimately, to 1 per 1,000. 2. Margret Frenz, “Transnational Trajectories of South Asian Doctors in East Africa, c. 1870–1970,” in Doctors beyond Borders: The Transnational Migration of Physicians in the Twentieth Century, ed. Laurence Monnais and David Wright (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2016), 143, 148, 154–57. 3. Frenz, “Transnational Trajectories,” 145, 147, 152–53. 4. See E. L. Jones and S. J. Snow, Against the Odds: Black and Minority Ethnic Clinicians and Manchester, 1948 to 2009 (Manchester: Manchester NHS Primacy Care Trust, 2010). 5. Joanna Bornat, Parvati Raghuram, and Leroi Henry, “South Asian Overseas-Trained Doctors and the Development of Geriatric Medicine in the UK, 1950– 2000,” in Monnais and Wright, Doctors beyond Borders, 185–207. 6. Parvati Raghuram, Joanna Bornat, and Leroi Henry, “Ethnic Clustering among South Asian Geriatricians in the UK: An Oral History Study,” Diversity in Health and Care 6, no. 4 (2009), 287–96. See also Julian M. Simpson, Stephanie J. Snow, and Aneez Esmail, “Providing ‘Special’ Types of Labour; Exerting Agency: Migrant Doctors and the Making of the UK’s National Health Service (NHS),” in Monnais and Wright, Doctors beyond Borders, 208–29. 7. David Wright, Sasha Mullally, and Colleen Cordukes, “‘Worse Than Being Married’: The Exodus of British Doctors from the National Health Service to Canada, c. 1955–1975,” Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences 65, no. 4 (2010), 546–75; Sasha Mullally and David Wright, “Connecting to Canada: Experiences of the South Asian Medical Diaspora in the 1960s and 70s,” in Monnais and Wright, Doctors beyond Borders, 230–56. 8. M. V. K., “From the Journals,” Times of India, March 17, 1968, 8; “Running Drain,” Times of India, October 13, 1971, 6. 9. For contemporary data that ranked recipient and donor countries, see, inter alia, F. J. Van Hoek, The Migration of High Level Manpower from Developing to Developed Countries (The Hague: Mouton, 1970), 54. 10. “Cross-community migration” is a migratory pattern whereby “individuals and

NOTES TO PAGES 17–19

201

groups move to join an existing community, learning its language and customs. The function of such migration is to share the experience and the labor of various communities.” Patrick Manning, “Cross-Community Migration: A Distinctive Human Pattern,” Social Evolution and History 5, no. 2 (2006), 28. This point about the fundamental place of migration in human history is made by Dirk Hoerder, Cultures in Contact: World Migrations in the Second Millennium (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002). The concept of cross-community migration emerged from discussions in the mid-1990s about how cross-cultural interactions could help define major periods in world history, even if the term “culture” was difficult to define. See several contributions to a 1996 forum on world history in the American Historical Review, especially, Jerry H. Bentley, “Cross-cultural Interaction and Periodization in World History,” American Historical Review 101, no. 3 (1996), 749–70; and Patrick Manning, “The Problem of Interactions in World History,” American Historical Review 101, no. 3 (1996), 771–82. 11. Patrick Manning, Migrations in World History (London: Routledge, 2013), 2. 12. Jan Lucassen, Leo Lucassen, and Patrick Manning, “Migration History: Multidisciplinary Approaches,” in Migration History in World History: Multidisciplinary Perspectives, ed. Jan Lucassen, Leo Lucassen, and Patrick Manning (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 5. 13. David Wright, Nathan Flis, and Mona Gupta, “The ‘Brain Drain’ of Physicians: Historical Antecedents to an Ethical Debate, c. 1960–79,” Philosophy, Ethics and Humanities in Medicine 24, no. 3 (November 10, 2008), doi:10.1186/1747-5341-3-24. 14. Shompa Lahiri, Indians in Britain: Anglo-Indian Encounters, Race and Identity, 1880–1930 (London: Frank Cass, 2000). 15. James Hampshire, Citizenship and Belonging: Immigration and the Politics of Demographic Governance in Postwar Britain (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), 19. 16. Randall Hansen, Citizenship and Immigration in Postwar Britain: The Institutional Origins of a Multicultural Nation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 180. 17. For an examination of the interplay of race, employment, and immigration in postwar Britain, see Kathleen Paul, Whitewashing Britain: Race and Citizenship in the Postwar Era (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1997). 18. As cited in Julian M. Simpson et al., “Writing Migrants Back into NHS History: Addressing a ‘Collective Amnesia’ and Its Policy Implications,” Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine 103, no. 10 (2010), 392. For an examination of refugee European doctors and scientists in Britain during and immediately after the Second World War, see Paul Weindling, “Medical Refugees and the Modernisation of British Medicine, 1930–1960,” Social History of Medicine 22, no. 3 (2009), 499, 489–511. 19. Parliamentary Sessional Papers (GB), Report of the Committee to Consider the Future Numbers of Medical Practitioners and the Appropriate Intake of Medical Students (London: HMSO, 1957). 20. Brian Abel-Smith and Kathleen Gales, British Doctors at Home and Abroad (Welwyn: Codicote Press Social Administration Research Trust, 1964), 9. 21. See, inter alia, “Editorial: A Pretty Ghastly, Awful Picture,” British Medical Journal 2, no. 5266 (December 9, 1961), 1548–49. 22. Wright, Mullally, and Cordukes, “‘Worse Than Being Married.’”

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23. “Doctors: 1600 in UK,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 39, no. 9 (November 1, 1962), 487. 24. Roberta Bivins, Contagious Communities: Medicine, Migration, and the NHS in Post War Britain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 175, 200. 25. Hampshire, Citizenship and Belonging, 29. 26. Hampshire, Citizenship and Belonging, 30. 27. Ian R. G. Spencer, British Immigration Policy since 1939: The Making of Multi-Racial Britain (New York: Routledge, 2002), 139. 28. Paul, Whitewashing Britain, 171–72. 29. Wright, Mullally, and Cordukes, “‘Worse Than Being Married.’” 30. Rosemary Stevens and Joan Vermeulan, Foreign Trained Physicians and American Medicine (Washington, DC: United States National Institutes of Health, 1972), 53–54. 31. Vibha Bhalla, “‘We Wanted to End Disparities at Work’: Physician Migration, Racialization, and a Struggle for Equality,” Journal of American Ethnic History 29, no. 3 (2010), 40–78. 32. Commonwealth Consultative Committee on South and South-East Asia, “The Colombo Plan for Co-Operative Economic Development in South and South-East Asia,” Thirteenth Annual Report of the Consultative Committee (London, 1964). 33. United States House of Representatives, 89th Congress, Immigration and Naturalization Act aka “The Hart–Celler Act” (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1965), 89–236. The INA also facilitated the immigration of those with family connections in America. It is possible that South Asian physicians migrated to the United States as family members and not directly as skilled workers. 34. Thomas D. Dublin, “Migration of Physicians to the United States,” New England Journal of Medicine 286, no. 16 (1972), 870. 35. Ian R. H. Rockett and S. L. Putnam, “Physician-Nurse Migration to the United States: Regional and Health Status Origins in Relation to Legislation and Policy,” International Migration 27, no. 3 (1989), 389–409. 36. “1,877 Indian Doctors in USA,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 53, no. 4 (1969), 211. Only 21.6 percent were not in training. See “Indian Physicians in the United States: A Stock Study,” IAMR Report no. 2 (New Delhi, 1969), 33. 37. “Over 3,000 Indian Doctors in U.S.,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 62, no. 5 (1974), 176. 38. Rabindra Nath Kanungo, ed., South Asians in the Canadian Mosaic (Montreal: Kala Bharati, 1984), 35. 39. Within this eight-year period, over 100,000 migrants from South Asia came to Canada. Canada Department of Manpower and Innovation, Canadian Immigration Division, Immigration Statistics (Ottawa, 1967–1975). 40. Freda Hawkins, Canada and Immigration: Public Policy and Public Concern (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2003), 17–18. 41. Government of Canada, Royal Commission on Health Services (Ottawa: Queen’s Printer, 1964), ch. 7, 242. See also Stanislaw Judek, Medical Manpower in Canada (Ottawa: Queen’s Printer, 1964). This study by Judek was prepared for the Royal Commission on Health Services and is a very detailed report on physician manpower through-

NOTES TO PAGES 21–25

203

out Canada, as well as the movement of physicians across the Canadian/American border. 42. Mullally and Wright, “Connecting to Canada.” 43. Donald C. Ferguson, “The Indian Medical Graduate in America, 1965: A Survey of Selected Characteristics,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 48, no. 6 (1967), 291–98. 44. “Current Topics,” Times of India, October 20, 1967, 8. 45. The IAMR was one of several research institutes funded by the Ford Foundation during the postwar era. Nicole Sackley, “Foundation in the Field: The Ford Foundation’s New Delhi Office and the Construction of Development Knowledge, 1951–1970,” in American Foundations and the Coproduction of World Order in the Twentieth Century,  ed. John Krige and Helke Rausch (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 2012), 247–48. 46. “Activities of the Institute of Applied Manpower Research,” International Labour Review 90 (1964), 184–85. 47. See Preface, IAMR, “Indian Scientists in the United States: A Stock Study,” Report no. 1 (New Delhi, 1969). 48. IAMR, “Manpower 1968” (New Delhi, 1968), 186. The study is based on the data compiled by the American Medical Association. See IAMR, “Indian Physicians in the United States: A Stock Study,” Report no. 2 (New Delhi, 1969), 33. 49. IAMR, “The ‘Brain Drain’ Study, Phase I: Analysis of Ordinary Passports Issued During 1960–1967 (Prepared for the Inter Ministerial Group on the Brain Drain),” Report no. 4 (New Delhi, September 1970), 41. 50. IAMR, The “‘Brain Drain’ Study”: Table 1, “Index of Annual Increase in Passports Issued,” 6; Table 2, “Distribution of Passport-holders by Educational Category and Year of Passport Issue,” 8; Chart 1, “Distribution of Passport-holders by Educational Category and Year of Passport Issue,” 9; Table 3, “Distribution of Passport-holders by Educational Category and Regional Passport Office,” 10; Table 17, “Percentage Distribution of Passport-holders to Annual Outturn by Educational Category and Year of Passport Issue,” 42–43. 51. See also IAMR, “‘Brain Drain’ Study,” Table 18, “Gross Addition to the Total Stock of Indian Personnel Abroad by Educational Categories (1960–67),” 46. 52. IAMR, “‘Brain Drain’ Study,” 48. 53. Bannerjee, “Immigration of Doctors,” 194. 54. Bannerjee, “Immigration of Doctors,” 194. 55. Interview with A. K. Viswan conducted by Parvati Raghuram, Stratford upon Avon, 2:16, November 18, 2008. British Library, C1356/13. 56. Indian Ministry of External Affairs, Annual Report (1965–66), quoted in “The ‘Brain Drain’ Study,” 22. 57. “Indian Doctors Bid to Beat ‘Brain Drain’ Laws,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 55, no. 12 (1970), 427. 58. “Indian Doctors Take ECFMG Examination at Kuala Lumpur,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 57, no. 10 (1971), 393. 59. P. M. Abraham, “Stopping the Brain Drain: No Easy Solution,” Times of India, December 10, 1968, 10.

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60. “Doctors Serving Abroad Offered Jobs in India,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 56, no. 2 (1971), 57. 61. Of the 2,370 individuals in this scheme, 32.7 percent were designated as doctors. Abraham, “Stopping the Brain Drain,” 10. 62. Several JIMA articles reported ongoing attention to shortages. See, for instance, “Shortage of Doctors in Madhya Pradesh,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 35, no. 10 (1960), 477; “Dearth of Doctors in Orissa,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 35, no. 11 (1960), 531; Dr. H. N. Shivapuri, “Shortage of Doctors,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 36, no. 1 (1961), 28; S. C. Sen, Letter to the Editor, “Maldistribution and Not Shortage of Doctors,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 38, no. 1 (January 1, 1962), 46–47; “[West Bengal] State Needs More Doctors,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 43, no. 11 (1964), 564. 63. B. Ray Chaudhuri, “Unemployment among Doctors,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 69, no. 3 (1977), 64–66; D. P. Nayar, “Undergraduate Medical Education in India,” British Journal of Medical Education 5, no. 3 (1971), 172–80. 64. IAMR, “‘Brain Drain’ Study,” 47–48. 65. “Indian Doctors in Burma,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 39, no. 1 (1962), 46; “Indian Doctors to Be Welcome in Nigeria,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 39, no. 4 (1962), 216; “Burma Modifies Order on Foreign Doctors,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 41, no. 6 (1963), 324; “Foreign Doctors in Burma, Asked to Stop Practice,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 41, no. 3 (1963), 138; “Assignment of Indian Doctors for Afro-Asian Countries,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 43, no. 7 (1964), 351; “Indian Doctors in Laos,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 45, no. 4 (1965), 341. 66. Sen, “Maldistribution”; “Incentives to Doctors for Work in Rural Areas,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 47, no. 1 (1966), 42. 67. Chaudhuri, “Unemployment among Doctors,” 64–66. 68. “Indian Doctors Abroad: 70 p.c. in U.K.,” Times of India News Service, September 29, 1967, 6. 69. “Half of UK Doctors Come From Abroad,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 52, no. 7 (1969), 348; “UK Worries Over Influx of Indian Doctors Too,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 54, no. 8 (1970), 384. 70. J. D. Singh, “Clarifications to Be Sought on UK Curbs,” Times of India, May 26, 1975, 1. 71. “Singapore to Derecognize Indian Medical Degrees,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 58, no. 2 (1972), 63. 72. Editorial, “2nd-Class Status,” Times of India, May 24, 1975, 8. Similarly, see J. D. Singh, “Overseas Doctors in UK Have 2nd Class Status,” Times of India, June 11, 1976, 15. 73. K. N. Malik, “US Curb Will Hit 30,000 Indian Migrant Doctors,” Times of India, December 19, 1976, 9. 74. “Going to Canada? Think Again,” Times of India, October 1, 1967, 7. 75. Satra Prakash Kaushal, “The Exiles: Indian Doctors Abroad,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 64, no. 3 (1975), 75–77. 76. Kaushal, “The Exiles,” 75–77.

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77. Aprajita Sikri, “Latent Prejudice, Envy Now Surface to Confront Indians,” India Abroad, December 25, 1987, 12. 78. Bharat S. Shah, quoted in Bhalla, “‘We Wanted to End Disparities,’” 60. Originally published in Bharat S. Shah, “Problems of Foreign Medical Graduates,” India Abroad, June 6, 1975, 5. 79. Alfonso Mejía, Multinational Study of the International Migration of Physicians and Nurses (Geneva: World Health Organization, 1973); Rosemary Stevens, Louis Wolf Goodman, and Stephen S. Mick, The Alien Doctors: Foreign Medical Graduates in American Hospitals (New York: Wiley, 1978); D. J. Smith, Overseas Doctors in the National Health Service (London: Policy Studies Institute, 1980). 80. Roberta Bivins, “Picturing Race in the British National Health Service, 1948– 1988,” 20th Century British History 28, no. 1 (2017), 83–109. 81. “Education of a Doctor Costs Rs. 80,000,” Journal of the Indian Medical Association 55, no. 4 (1970), 146. 82. “Brain Drain Costs India 5.5 m. Dollars,” Times of India, November 28, 1968, 11. 83. Prakash Chandra, “Balancing the Brain Drain,” Times of India, March 7, 1976, 8. 84. Van Hoek, Migration of High Level Manpower, 54. 85. Coordinating Council on Medical Education, Physician Manpower and Distribution: The Role of the Foreign Medical Graduate (Chicago: Coordinating Council on Medical Education, American Medical Association, 1976), 17–19. 86. Bhalla, “‘We Wanted to End Disparities,’” 40, 62. 87. “Brain Drain Costs India 5.5 m. Dollars.” 88. See H. M. Grant, “From the Transvaal to the Prairies: The Migration of South African Physicians to Canada,” Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 32, no. 4 (2006), 681–95.

Chapter 2. The Postcolonial Context of Daniel Bovet’s Research on Curare

1. On the figure of Daniel Bovet, see Daniel Bovet, Une chimie qui guérit [A healing chemistry] (Paris: Payot, 1988); Alberto Oliverio, “Daniel Bovet: 23 March 1907–8 April 1992,” Biographical Memoirs of Fellows of the Royal Society 39 (1992), 60–70; Alberto Oliverio, “Daniel Bovet and His Role in the Development of Psychobiology,” Medicina nei Secoli 20, no. 3 (2008), 891–905; Daniele Cozzoli, Ho avuto solo molta fortuna: Biografia intellettuale di Daniel Bovet (1907–1992) [I was just very lucky: An intellectual biography of Daniel Bovet (1907–1992)] (Rome: Carocci, 2016). 2. On UNESCO, see Jake Lamar, ed., Sixty Years of Science at UNESCO (Paris: UNESCO, 2006). 3. On Italian postwar science policy, see Giovanni Berlinguer, Politica della scienza [Science policy] (Rome: Editori Riuniti, 1970); Antonio Ruberti, “Riflessioni sul sistema della ricerca dopo il 1945” [Reflections on the research system after 1945], in Ricerca e istituzioni scientifiche in Italia [Research and scientific institutions in Italy], ed. Raffaella Simili, 213–30 (Rome: Laterza, 1998); Giuliana Gemelli, “Epsilon Effects: Biomedical Research in Italy between Institutional Backwardness and Islands of

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Innovation (1920s–1960s),” in Managing Medical Research in Europe: The Role of the Rockefeller Foundation (1920s–1950s), ed. Giuliana Gemelli et al., 173–97 (Bologna: CLUEB, 1999); Mauro Capocci, “Politiche e istituzioni della scienza: dalla ricostruzione alla crisi” [Science policies and institutions: From the reconstruction to the crisis], in Storia d’Italia: Annali 26. Scienza e cultura dell’italia Unita [History of Italy. Annals 26: science and culture of Italy], ed. Claudio Pogliano and Francesco Cassata, 265–94 (Turin: Einaudi, 2011). On the participation of Italy in CERN (the European Organization for Nuclear Research) and EURATOM (European Atomic Energy Community), see John Krige and Dominique Pestre, eds., History of the CERN (Amsterdam: North Holland, 1987–96); John Krige, American Hegemony and the Postwar Reconstruction of Science in Europe (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006). 4. On Italian culture and society in the 1950s and 1960s, see Paul Ginsborg, A History of Contemporary Italy (London: Penguin Books, 1990); Alberto Asor Rosa, Storia d’Italia Einaudi. Vol. IV: Dall’Unità a oggi, t. 2, “La cultura” [Einaudi history of Italy, vol. 4: From unification to today, part 2, “Culture”] (Turin: Einaudi, 1975). On Gramsci’s influence in Italy, see Alberto Asor Rosa, “Gramscianesimo, nazional-popolare, Populismo” [Gramscism, national-popular, populism], in Letteratura Italiana: Il letterato e le istituzioni [Italian literature: The literary man and the institutions], ed. Alberto Asor Rosa, 1:598–614 (Turin: Einaudi, 1982). 5. For a discussion of literature on postcolonial studies and the history of science, see Suman Seth, “Putting Knowledge in Its Place: Science, Colonialism, and the Postcolonial,” Postcolonial Studies 12, no. 4 (2009), 373–88. See also Sandra Harding, ed., The Postcolonial Science and Technology Studies Reader (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011). 6. See Seth, “Putting Knowledge in Its Place.” See also Kapil Raj, “Beyond Postcolonialism . . . and Postpositivism: Circulation and the Global History of Science,” Isis 104, no. 2 (2013), 337–47; John Merson, “Bio-prospecting or Bio-piracy: Intellectual Property Rights and Biodiversity in a Colonial and Postcolonial Context,” Osiris 15 (2000), 282–96. 7. See the introduction to this volume. See also Roy McLeod, “Introduction: Nature and Empire: Science and the Colonial Enterprise,” Osiris 15 (2000), 1–13; Neil Safier, “Global Knowledge on the Move: Itineraries, Amerindian Narratives, and Deep Histories of Science,” Isis 101 (2010), 133–45. On the debate on compensation for the exploitation of scientific resources of colonies, see Stephen B. Brush, “Whose Knowledge, Whose Genes, Whose Rights?” in The Postcolonial Science and Technology Studies Reader, ed. Sandra Harding, 225–46 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011); Abena Dove Osseo-Asare, Bitter Roots: The Search for Healing Plants in Africa (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2014). 8. See, for instance, Lissa Roberts, “Situating Science in Global History: Local Exchanges and Networks of Circulation,” Itinerario 33, no. 1 (2009), 9–30; Francesca Bray, “Only Connect: Comparative, National and Global History as Frameworks for the History of Science and Technology,” Asia, East Asian Science, Technology and Society 6 (2012), 233–41. 9. See Christopher A. Bayly, The Birth of the Modern World (London: Blackwell,

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207

2004). For a discussion of world history historiography, see Patrick Manning, Navigating World History (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003). 10. See Bovet, Une chimie; Robert Delaunay, L’Institut Pasteur des origines à aujourd’hui [The Pasteur Institute from its inception to today] (Paris: Editions France-Empires, 1962); Ilana Löwy, “On Hybridizations, Networks and New Disciplines: The Pasteur Institute and the Development of Microbiology in France,” Studies in History and Philosophy of Science 25 (1994), 655–88; Viviane Quirke, Collaboration in the Pharmaceutical Industry: Changing Relationships in Britain and France, 1935–1965 (London: Routledge, 2008); M. Blondel-Mégrelis, “La pharmacie en France 1900–1950, points de repères” [Pharmacy in France 1900–1950, reference points], in Les Sciences biologiques et médicales en France 1920–1950 [Biological and medical sciences in France 1920–1950], ed. Claude Debru, Jean Gayon, and Jean-François Picard, 283–96 (Paris: CNRS Editions, 1994); Pierre Cayez, Rhône-Poulenc 1895–1975: contribution à l’étude d’un group industriel [Rhône-Poulenc 1895–1975: Contributions to the study of an industrial group] (Paris: Colin/Masson, 1988). 11. See Bovet, Une chimie; Quirke, Collaboration. 12. See A. Gouenel, “The Creation of the First Pasteur Institute Overseas or the Beginning of Albert Calmette’s Pastorian Career,” Medical History (1999), 1–25, and C. M. Thompson, “French Colonial Medicine in Indochina,” in Science across the European Empires, ed. Benedikt Stuchtey, 329–45 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005); JeanPierre Dedet, Les Instituts Pasteur d’outremer [The overseas Pasteur Institutes] (Paris: l’Harmattan, 2001); Kim Pelis, Charles Nicolle, Pasteur’s Imperial Missionary: Typhus and Tunisia (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2006). 13. On the mission to Egypt, see Émile Lagrange, Monsieur Roux [Mister Roux] (Brussels: A. Goemaere, 1955), 55–60, and Mary Cressac, Le Dr. Roux Mon Oncle [Dr. Roux, my uncle] (Paris: l’Arche, 1951), 71–78; Cristoph Gradmann, Laboratory Disease: Robert Koch’s Medical Bacteriology (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2009), 183–94. On the mission to Brazil, see Ilana Löwy, “Yellow Fever in Rio de Janeiro and the Pasteur Institute Mission: A Case Study of Transfer of Science to the Periphery,” Medical History 34 (1990), 144–64, and Ilana Löwy, Virus, moustiques et modernité: la fièvre jaune au Brésil, entre science et politique [Viruses, mosquitoes, and modernity: Yellow fever in Brazil between science and politics] (Paris: Éditions des archives contemporaines, 2001). 14. On the creation of the Pasteur Institute, see Delaunay, L’Institut Pasteur; Löwy, “On Hybridizations”; Michel Morange, ed., L’Institut Pasteur: contribution à son histoire [The Pasteur Institute: Contributions to its history] (Paris: Éditions la Découverte, 1991); A.-M. Moulin, “Death and Resurrection at the Pasteur Institute 1917–41,” in Pasteur’s Heritage: Immunology, ed. P. A. Cazenave and G. P. Talwar, 53–73 (New Delhi: Wiley Eastern, 1991); Anne-Marie Moulin, “Patriarchal Science: The Network of the Overseas Pasteur Institutes,” in Science and Empires: Historical Studies about Scientific Development and European Expansion, ed. P. Petitjean et al., 307–23 (Dordrecht: Springer, 1992); Anne-Marie Moulin, “The Pasteur Institute International Network: Scientific Innovation and French Tropism,” in Transnational Intellectual Networks, ed. C. Charle et al., 135–65 (Frankfurt: Campus, 2004); Gerald Geison, The Private Science of Louis Pasteur (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995).

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15. Séance du Conseil du 9 Novembre 1910 in AIP/CA/REG 2. On Fourneau’s laboratory, see J. Liebenau and M. Robson, “L’Institut Pasteur et l’industrie pharmaceutique” [The Pasteur Institute and the pharmaceutical industry], in Morange, L’Institut Pasteur, 52–61; Löwy, “On Hybridization.” On Fourneau, see Marcel Délepine, Ernest Fourneau: Sa vie et son œuvre (1872–1949) [Ernest Fourneau: His life and work (1872– 1949)] (Paris: Société Chimique de France); Jean-Pierre Fourneau, “Ernest Fourneau, fondateur de la chimie française” [Ernest Fourneau, founder of French chemistry], Revue d’Histoire de la Pharmacie 34, no. 275 (1987), 341–45; Christine Debue-Barazer, “Les implications scientifiques et industrielles du succès de la Stovaïne®: Ernest Fourneau (1872–1949) et la chimie des médicaments en France” [The scientific and industrial implications of the success of Stovaïne®: Ernest Fourneau (1872–1949) and drug chemistry in France], Gesnerus 64 (2007), 24–53; Jacques Tréfouël, “Ernest Fourneau (1872–1949),” Bullettin de l’Académie Nationale de Médicine 31–32, no. 133 (1949), 589–95. See Cayez, Rhône-Poulenc; Bovet, Une chimie; Quirke, Collaboration. 16. Löwy, “On Hybridization”; Quirke, Collaboration. 17. Thomas S. Kuhn, The Copernican Revolution (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981), 175. 18. On this sense of innovation, see Antony C. Sutton, Western Technology and Soviet Economic Development, 1930 to 1945, 3 vols. (Stanford, CA: Hoover Institution, 1971), 3:xxv–xxvi. 19. See Jonathan Liebenau, “Ethical Business: The Formation of the Pharmaceutical Industry in Britain, Germany, and the United States before 1914,” Business History 30 (1988), 115–30; Alfred D. Chandler, Shaping the Industrial Century (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2005). 20. Typescript by Ernest Fourneau, 1944, box 1, Institut Pasteur Archives, Laboratoire de Chimie Thérapéutique (hereafter AIP/LCT). The typescript is undated, but it is a memorandum written during Fourneau’s imprisonment after the liberation of Paris in September 1944. Translations are the author’s, unless otherwise specified. 21. Fourneau worked in Heidelberg with Theodor Curtius, in Berlin with Ludwig Gatterman, and in Munich with Richard Willstätter. See Fourneau, Ernest Fourneau; and typescript by Ernest Fourneau, box 1, AIP/LCT. 22. Typescript by Ernest Fourneau, box 1, AIP/LCT. 23. Typescript by Ernest Fourneau, box 1, AIP/LCT. 24. See Debue-Barazer, “Les implications.” 25. Sur l’industrie de produits pharmacéutiques et sur les moyens d’en assurer le developement en France: Extraite de la Conférence de E. Fourneau in Institut Pasteur Archives, Fourneau [On the pharmaceutical products industry and on means of ensuring its development in France: Extract from the E. Fourneau Conference in Institut Pasteur Archives, Fourneau] (hereafter AIP/FUR); Ernest Fourneau, “Conférence de E. Fourneau 17 Avril 1915” [Conference of E. Fourneau, April 17, 1915), Bullettin Science Pharmacie, 22 (1915), 129–59. 26. Cameroon became a French protectorate; this formula left some room for the Germans to regain control of the region. See J. Thobie et al., Histoire de la France coloniale [History of colonial France], 3 vols. (Paris: Colin, 1990), 2:87. On the struggle to

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combat sleeping sickness and Franco-German relations in Africa, see Debora J. Neill, Networks in Tropical Medicine. Internationalism, Colonialism, and the Rise of a Medical Specialty (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2012). 27. At that time French legislation did not allow the patenting of a chemical compound, only procedures for the preparation of substances that were part of a drug compound. See Sophie Cheveau, “Le statut legal du económica en France” [The legal status of drugs in France], in Histoire et médicaments aux XIXe et XXe siècles [History and drugs in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries], ed. Cristian Bonah and Anne Rasmussen (Paris: Éditions Glyphe, 2005), 96. Maurice Cassier, “Patents in Public Health in France: Pharmaceutical Patent Law-in-the-Making at the Patent Office between the Two World Wars,” History and Technology 24, no. 2 (2008), 135–51. 28. Typescript by Ernest Fourneau, box 1, AIP/LCT; letter from Louis Pasteur Vallery Radot to the French Minister of Internal Affairs, September 29, 1944, box 1, AIP/LCT. 29. See Union Internationale de la Chimie Pure et Appliquée, Comptes rendus de la sixième conférence internationale de la chimie. Bucarest 22–25 Juin 1925 [Proceedings of the sixth international conference on chemistry. Bucharest, June 22–25, 1925] (Paris: Sécretariat Général Jean Gérard, 1925), 163–83. 30. See Delaunay, L’Institut Pasteur; typescript by Ernest Fourneau in AIP/LCT, box 1; letter from Louis Pasteur Vallery Radot to the French Minister of Internal Affairs dated September 29, 1944, in AIP/LCT, box 1. Obviously, Bayer’s management did not appreciate the trick and in 1940 exerted pressure on Hitler’s cabinet to take control of Rhône-Poulenc. See Peter Hayes, Industry and Ideology: IG Farben in the Nazi Era (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 286. 31. Bovet, Une chimie, 21. 32. Bovet, Une chimie. 33. Prontosil Rubrum was active in vivo, but inactive in vitro. See Bovet, Une chimie; E. Grundmann, Gerhard Domagk: The First Man to Triumph over Infectious Diseases (Münster: Lit Verlag, 2004); Jonathan Lesch, The First Miracle Drug (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007); Quirke, Collaboration. 34. See Quirke, Collaboration; and Bovet, Une chimie. Such compounds turned out to be very important in postwar years because after the war Rhône-Poulenc traded patents for its antihistamines with patents for penicillin. See Bovet, Collaboration; and the antihistaminic agreement in the Merck Archives. 35. On the introduction of curare in anesthesia, see Philip Smith, Arrows of Mercy (Toronto: Doubleday, 1969), 188; Richard Bodman and Deirdre Gillies, Harold Griffith: The Evolution of Modern Anaesthesia (Toronto: Dundurn Press, 1992). 36. A. R. Mcintyre, Curare: Its History, Natural and Clinical Use (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1947); K. B. Thomas, Curare: Its History and Usage (London: Pitman, 1964); Jean Vellard, Histoire du curare: Les poisons de chasse en Amérique du Sud [History of curare: Hunting poisons in South America] (Paris: Gallimard, 1965); Mrko Grmek, Raisonnement experimental et recherches toxicologiques chez Claude Bernard [Experimental reasoning and toxicological research of Claude Bernard] (Geneva: Droz, 1973); Stanley Feldman, From Poison Arrows to Prozac: How Deadly Toxins Changed Our Lives Forever (London: Metro, 2009).

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37. Claude Bernard, Leçons sur les effets des substances toxiques et médicamenteuses [Lectures on the effects of toxic and healing substances] (Paris : J. B. Baillière et fils., 1857), 468–69. 38. See Grmek, Raisonnement experimental. 39. Daniel Bovet, État du problème du curare [The state of the curare problem] (Bern : Verlag Hans Huber, 1959). 40. See McIntyre, Curare, 58–85; and Grmek, Raisonnement experimental. 41. See Smith, Arrows of Mercy. 42. Cholinesterase inhibition. See Daniel Bovet et al., “Studies on Synthetic Curare-like Poisons,” Archives internationales de pharmacodynamie et de thérapie 80 (1949), 137. 43. Bovet, État du problème du curare. 44. On Marotta and the Higher Institute of Health, see Giuseppe Penso, L’Istituto Superiore di Sanità dalle sue origini ad oggi [The Higher Institute of Health from its inception to today] (Rome: Tipografia Regionale, 1964); Bernardino Fantini, “Unum facere et alterum non omittere: Antimalarial Strategies in Italy,” Parassitologia 40 (1998), 91–101; Darwin H. Stapleton, “Internationalism and Nationalism: The Rockefeller Foundation, Public Health and Malaria in Italy,” Parassitologia 42 (2000), 127–34; Giovanni Paoloni, “Il Caso Marotta” [The Marotta case], Rendiconti dell’accademia Nazionale delle Scienze detta dei XL: Memorie di scienze fisiche e naturali, 5 series 23, part 2, vol. 1 (1999), 215–22; Giuseppe Donelli and Elena Serinaldi, Dalla lotta alla malaria alla nascita dell’istituto di Sanità Pubblica [From the campaign against malaria to the birth of the Higher Institute of Health] (Rome: Laterza, 2003); Giovanni Paoloni, “Il caso Marotta: la scienza in tribunale” [The Marotta case: Science on trial] Le Scienze 431 (2004), 88–93; Giovanni Paoloni, “Il laboratorio chimico della sanità: dall’Istituto d’Igiene dell’università di Roma all’istituto Superiore di Sanità” [The Chemical Laboratory of Health: From the Hygiene Institute of the University of Rome to the Higher Institute of Health], in Microanalisi elementare organica: collezione di strumenti [Elementary organic microanalysis: Collection of instruments], ed. Anna Farina and Cecilia Bedetti, 9–63 (Rome: Istituto Superiore di Sanità, 2007); Robert Bud, Penicillin (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007); Mauro Capocci, “A Chain Is Gonna Come,” Dynamis 31, no. 2 (2011), 343–62; Daniele Cozzoli and Mauro Capocci, “Making Biomedicine in Twentieth Century Italy: Domenico Marotta (1886–1974) and the Italian Higher Institute of Health,” British Journal for the History of Science 44, no. 4 (2011), 549–74. 45. See Nicolas Chevassus-au-Louis, Savants sous l’occupation [Scholars under the Occupation] (Paris: Seuil, 2004), 61. 46. Quirke, Collaboration, 61. 47. See Donelli and Serinaldi, Dalla lotta; and John Farley, To Cast Out Disease: A History of the International Health Division of the Rockefeller Foundation (1913–1951) (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). 48. Cozzoli and Capocci, “Making Biomedicine.” 49. As stressed by Giorgio Israel and Pietro Nastasi, Mussolini’s anti-Semitism was strictly related to the colonial expansionist policy of the regime. See Giorgio Israel and

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Pietro Nastasi, Scienza e razza nell’Italia Fascista [Science and race in Fascist Italy] (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1998); see also Roberto Maiocchi, Scienza italiana e razzismo fascista [Italian science and Fascist racism] (Florence: La Nuova Italia, 1999); Aaron Gillette, Racial Theories in Fascist Italy (London: Routledge, 2002); Francesco Cassata, Molti sani e forti: l’eugenetica in Italia [Many healthy and strong: Eugenics in Italy] (Turin: Bollati Boringhieri, 2006). On the institute during Fascism, see also Cozzoli and Capocci, “Making Biomedicine.” The institute was not involved in the racial policy of the regime. Archival sources show that Marotta tried twice to invite George de Hevesy, the Jewish scientist who pioneered the use of radioactive tracers for the investigation of biological processes. A first conference was canceled in 1938, while a second invitation for the “Hungarian citizen of Jewish race” was refused in 1942 by the Internal Affairs Cabinet. See Box 1, Central State Archive, Higher Institute, Didactical Secretary and Museum (hereafter ACS/ISS/SDM). Marotta did not answer the request by Edoardo Zavattari, one of the subscribers of the “Manifesto della razza,” in relation to the creation of a National Institute of Colonial Biology. See State Central Archive, Particular Secretary of il Duce (hereafter ACS/ SPD/CO 500.014/2–3). In 1942 the chief engineer of the institute, Salvatore Salomone, sketched a project for a colonial hospital. The project was destined for the Italian colonies in Eastern Africa and comprised separate buildings for Italians and Africans due to “racial prestige, and health and hygiene reasons.” However, racial separation was not fully implemented outside the hospital, as Salomone expressed strong concern in designing the ward for venereal diseases, providing it with the largest number of beds, both for indigenous prostitutes and for Italian civilians. Moreover, Salomone paid attention to divisions to be made between Copts and Muslims. See S. Salomone, “Ospedali Coloniali italiani e progetto di un ospedale coloniale per indigeni, civili e militari” [Colonial Italian hospitals and the project for a colonial hospital for indigenous, civilians, and military], Rendiconti dell’istituto Superiore di Sanità 5 (1942), 5–54. 50. See Paoloni, “Il laboratorio”; Bud, Penicillin; Capocci, “A Chain”; Cozzoli and Capocci, “Making Biomedicine.” 51. See Bud, Penicillin; Capocci, “A Chain”; Cozzoli and Capocci, “Making Biomedicine.” 52. On the history of the WHO, see World Health Organization, The First Ten Years of the World Health Organization (Geneva, 1958); J. Charles, “Origins: History and Achievements of the World Health Organization,” British Medical Journal 2 (1968), 293–96; Y. Beigbeder, L’organisation mondiale de la Santé [The World Health Organization] (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1997); L. Kelley, The World Health Organization (London: Routledge, 2009). 53. See World Health Organization Expert Committee on Antibiotics, Report on the First Session, Geneva, 11–15 April: WHO Technical Report Series, vol. 26 (Geneva: World Health Organization, 1950), 1–12. 54. In 1960 technicians from the institute designed a penicillin pilot plant at the University of Caracas. See ISS, Riassunto di attività varie dell’anno 1960, Rome, 1961, on p. 63. In 1964 Pakistani technicians were trained at the pilot plant of the institute. “Considerazioni che Carilli Desidera Esporre nella Riunione di Laboratorio del 13

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Novembre prossimo, in seguito a quella in cui Gualandi ha esposto una sua relazione sull’impianto pilota” [Remarks that Carilli wishes to present in the laboratory meeting of next November 13, following that in which Gualandi presented a report of his on the pilot plant], box 86, State Central Archive, Directorship of the ISS (subsequently ACS/ ISTISAN/direzione). 55. As stated, the institute had not played a crucial role in racial and colonial discourse. Nevertheless, the Italians tended to erase their colonial past (including racial policy and the crimes perpetrated in the colonies) quickly in the postwar years. On the history of Italian colonialism, see Angelo Del Boca, Gli Italiani in Africa Orientale [The Italians in Eastern Africa], 4 vols. (Milano: Mondadori, 2001); Angelo Del Boca, Gli Italiani in Libia, [The Italians in Libya], 2 vols. (Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1997). 56. Postwar governments constructed around Christian Democracy are called centrist. On postwar Italian government policy, see Pietro Scoppola, La proposta politica di De Gasperi [De Gasperi’s political proposal] (Bologna: il Mulino, 1988); Ginsborg, A History of Contemporary Italy; Roberto Gualtieri, L’Italia dal 1943 al 1992 [Italy from 1943 to 1992] (Rome: Carocci, 2006). On the European Integration Programme, see Alan Milward, The Reconstruction of Western Europe 1945–51 (London: Routledge, 1984); Michael J. Hogan, The Marshall Plan: America, Britain and the Reconstruction of Western Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987); Barry Eichengreen, The European Economy since 1945: Coordinated Capitalism and Beyond (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2006); Rolf Petri, Von der Autarkie zum Wirtschaftswunder: Wirtschaftspolitik und industrieller Wandel in Italien 1935–1963 [From autarchy to the Economic Miracle: Political economy and industrial change in Italy 1935–1963] (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 2001); Rolf Petri, Storia económica d’Italia: dalla Grande Guerra al miracolo económica (1918–1963) [Economic history of Italy: From the Great War to the Economic Miracle (1918–1963)] (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2002). 57. The institute gave fellowships to South American scholars to come to work in Rome on natural substances. See A. Ballio, “G. B. Marini Bettolo la figura e l’opera” [G. B. Marini Bettolo the person and the work], in Il Curaro degli Indios dell’Amazzonia da veleno a farmaco: il ruolo di G. B. Marini Bettolo e dell’Istituto Superiore di Sanità [The Amazon Indians’ curare from poison to drug: The role of G. B. Marini Bettolo and the Italian Higher Institute of Health], eds. Paolo De Castro and David Marsili (Rome: Istituto Superiore di Sanità, 2013), 229–37. In 1963 a formal agreement was signed between the Istituto Superiore di Sanità (ISS) and the Instituto de Antibióticos de Recife, Fundação de Ensino Superior de Pernambuco (now Universidade de Pernambuco). Since 1963 some twenty Brazilian researchers have worked at the ISS (and later on at the CNR, National Research Council) to study Brazilian plants. See F. Delle Monache, “G. B. Marini Bettolo e il Brasile” [G. B. Marini Bettolo and Brazil], in Anon., G. B. Marini Bettolo (1915–1996): la figura e l’opera [G. B. Marini Bettolo (1915–1996): The person and the work] (Rome: Accademia nazionale delle scienze detta dei XL, 1999), 361–64. 58. See Ginsborg, A History of Contemporary Italy; Eichengreen, The European Economy; Petri, Storia económica d’Italia. 59. Alberto Oliverio, communication to the author. 60. Writing to Ernest Fourneau, Filomena Nitti described the work at the new lab-

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oratory: “It seems to me that the real progress we have accomplished here over Paris is a great method and great continuity in the work: we do not leave anything along the way. Meetings allow us to focus on each issue, a nice reading room lets us read reviews on a regular basis and with pleasure. Furthermore, the director has an iron fist under his very gentle manners, and people arrive on time, and people work, and there is no wastefulness, despite a richness of means we are not used to.” Letter from Filomena Nitti Bovet to Ernest Fourneau dated July 2, 1948, box 1, AIP/FUR. 61. Giorgio Bignami, communication to the author. 62. Bovet, l’État du problème du curare. 63. Letter from Daniel Bovet to Ernest Fourneau undated (January 1949), AIP/ FUR/B, box 1. 64. Accessed July 8, 2013, http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/medicine/ laureates/1957. 65. See 1957 Sekret Handling. Betänkande angående Daniel Bovet av Börje Uvnäs in Nobel Archives. 66. See C. Garbarino, “La presenza del Prof. Giovanni B. Marini Bettolo in Sudamerica (1948–1988)” [The presence of Prof. Giovanni B. Marini Bettolo in South America (1948–1988), in Anon., G. B. Marini Bettolo (1915–1996), 87–93; P. Moyna, “L’eredità chimica del Prof. G. B. Marini Bettolo in Uruguay” [The chemical heritage of Prof. G. B. Marini Bettolo in Uruguay], in Anon., G. B. Marini Bettolo (1915–1996), 105–15; R. Pellicciari, “Il Prof. Marini Bettolo e l’Universidad de Carabobo (Valencia, Venezuela): Creazione di un laboratorio per lo studio delle piante della medicina popolare venezuelana” [Prof. Marini Bettolo and Universidad de Carabobo (Valencia, Venezuela): Creation of a laboratory for the study of the plants of Venezuelan popular medicine], in Anon., G. B. Marini Bettolo (1915–1996), 95–102; De Castro and Marsili, Il curaro degli indios. 67. Up to 1949, Bovet’s team collaborated with a group of chemists in Milan. See Ballio, “G. B. Marini.” 68. G. Galeffi, “G. B. Marini Bettolo e il curaro” [G. B. Marini Bettolo and curare], in De Castro and Marsili, Il curaro degli indios, 15–33. 69. See letter from Daniel Bovet to Paulo Carneiro dated November 29, 1952, Casa de Oswaldo Cruz Archives, Paulo Carneiro Papers (hereafter AF/PC/DP/RE/01). On the figure of Paulo Carneiro, see Marcos C. Maio, ed., Ciência, política e relações internacionales: Ensaios sobre Paulo Carneiro [Science, policy, and international relations: Essays on Paulo Carneiro] (Rio de Janeiro: Fiocruz–UNESCO, 2004). 70. See Magali Romero Sà, “Paulo Carneiro e o curare: em busca do principio ativo” [Paulo Carneiro and curare: In search of an active principle], in Maio, Ciência, política e relações, 44–45. 71. See Romero Sà, “Paulo Carneiro.” 72. Paulo B. Carneiro, “Curarisation et chronaxia” [Curarization and chronaxia], Annales de l’Institut Pasteur 63, no. 93 (1939), 93–117; see Romero Sà, “Paulo Carneiro,” 54–55. 73. See Löwy, Yellow Fever. 74. See West, An Excursion; see also II “Hellish woorali” Tennyson in Contempo-

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rary Medical Archives, Ranyard West Papers (hereafter CMA/PP/RW/D 26). See also the correspondence between West and T. Davis in the Archives of the Wellcome Trust. 75. See Joanna Radin, “Latent Life: Concepts and Practices of Human Tissue Preservation in the International Biological Program,” Social Studies of Science 43 (2013), 484–508; Jenny Bangham, “Blood Groups and Human Groups: Collecting and Calibrating Genetic Data after World War Two,” Studies in History and Philosophy of Biological and Biomedical Sciences 47 (2014), 74–86; Joanna Radin, “Unfolding Epidemiological Stories: How the WHO Made Frozen Blood into a Flexible Resource for the Future,” Studies in History and Philosophy of Biological and Biomedical Sciences 47 (2014), 62–73; Veronika Lipphardt, “Geographical Distribution Patterns of Various Genes: Genetic Studies of Human Variation after 1945,” Studies in History and Philosophy of Biological and Biomedical Sciences 47 (2014), 50–61; Alexandra Widmer, “Making Blood ‘Melanesian’: Fieldwork and Isolating Techniques in Genetic Epidemiology (1963–1976),” Studies in History and Philosophy of Biological and Biomedical Sciences 47 (2014), 118–29. 76. Heloisa Maria Bertol Domingues and Patrick Petitjean, “Paulo Carneiro: um cientista brasileiro na diplomacia da UNESCO (1946–1950)” [Paulo Carneiro: A Brazilian scientist in UNESCO diplomacy (1946–1950)], in Maio, Ciência, política e relações, 199; Paulo Góes Filho and Francisco Barreto Araújo, “Noções de ciência nacional e internacional: as trajectórias de Paulo Carneiro e Carlos Chagas Filho” [Notions of national and international sciences: The trajectories of Paulo Carneiro and Carlos Chagas Filho], in Maio, Ciência, política e relações, 183. 77. Daniel Pierre Bovet, Daniel Bovet’s son, communication to the author. On the work of Chagas Filho, see C. Chagas Filho, Um aprendiz de ciência [An apprentice of science] (Rio de Janeiro: Fiocruz, 2000); D. Fontoura de Almeida and W. De Souza, eds., Recordações de Carlos Chagas Filho [Memories of Carlos Chagas Filho] (Rio de Janeiro: Fiocruz, 2010). 78. Daniel Bovet, Filomena Nitti Bovet, and Giovanni Battista Marini Bettolo, eds., Curare and Curare-like Agents (Amsterdam: Elsevier, 1959). 79. Letter from Daniel Bovet to Paulo Carneiro dated November 29, 1952, and letter from Paulo Carneiro to Daniel Bovet dated September 28, 1955, in AF PC/DP/RE/01. On Chagas’s research on Electrophorus electricus, see Chagas, Um aprendiz, 109. 80. Letter from Paulo Carneiro to Daniel Bovet dated September 28, 1955; letter from Paulo Carneiro to Daniel Bovet, February 15, 1956; letter from Daniel Bovet to Paulo Carneiro, February 28, 1956, in AF PC/DP/RE/01. 81. See Bovet, Bovet, and Marini Bettolo, Curare and Curare-like Agents. 82. Letter from O. Wintersteiner to R. West dated December 29, 1955, in CMA/PP/ RW/D. 83. See Moyna, L’eredità; Pellicciari, “Il Prof. Marini”; Garbarino, “La presenza,” 46. 84. Silvia Biocca, Ettore Biocca’s daughter, communication to the author. 85. See Ettore Biocca, Viaggi tra gli Indi [Travels among the Indians], 3 vols. (Rome: CNR Edizioni, 1965). See also “Spedizione scientifica del Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche nella foresta equatoriale americana” [Scientific expeditions of the National Research Council in the American equatorial forest], in Biocca Papers, Archives of

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the History of Medicine Section and Museum, University of Rome La Sapienza; Ezio Ponzo, L’acculturazione dei popoli primitivi [The acculturation of primitive peoples] (Rome: Bulzoni, 1967). On the figure of Ettore Biocca, see the special issue of Parassitologia 44 (2002). On the Italian National Research Council, see Raffaella Simili and Giovanni Paoloni, eds., Per una storia del Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche [For a history of the National Research Council], 2 vols. (Rome: Laterza, 2001). 86. Biocca, Viaggi, 2:40. 87. Biocca, Viaggi, 2:40. 88. See P. Karrer, “Alkaloids of Calabash Curare and Strychnos Bark,” in Bovet, Bovet, and Marini Bettolo, Curare and Curare-like Agents, 125–36. 89. Ettore Biocca, “Pesquisas sobre o método de preparaão do curare pelos índios” [Research on the Indian method of curare preparation], Revista do Museo Paulista, new series 8, no. 1 (1954), 164–226. 90. See G. B. Marini Bettolo et al., “Osservazioni sulla preparazione dei curari indigeni” (Remarks on indigenous preparation of curare), Annali Ist. Sup. di Sanità 3 (1967), 378–85. 91. See Patrick Petitjean, “Blazing the Trail,” in Sixty Years of Science at UNESCO, ed. J. Lamar (Paris: UNESCO Publishing, 2006), 31; Bertol Domingues and Petitjean, “Paulo Carneiro,” 199; Góes Filho and Barreto Araújo, “Noções,” 183. 92. On the “Marotta case,” see Bud, Penicillin; Paoloni, “Il caso Marotta”; Paoloni, Il caso Marotta: la scienza; Capocci, “A Chain”; Cozzoli and Capocci, “Making Biomedicine.” 93. See Galeffi, “G. B. Marini,” and Ballio, “G. B. Marini.” 94. Marini Bettolo was a prominent Catholic scientist. In the 1980s he was appointed president of the Pontifical Academy of Science. See Anon., G. B. Marini Bettolo (1915–1996). 95. See Garbarino, “La presenza,” 49. 96. Silvia Biocca, personal communication to the author. See Ettore Biocca, Strategia del terrore: il modello brasiliano [Strategy of terror: The Brazilian model] (Bari: De Donato, 1974). 97. See Tanya Harmer, Allende’s Chile and the Inter-American Cold War (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2011). 98. See Galeffi, “G. B. Marini.” On Cocco, see L. Cocco, Parima dove la terra non accoglie i morti [Parima, where the earth does not receive the dead] (Rome: LAS, 1975). On Krukoff, see L. Landrum, The Life and Botanical Accomplishment of Boris Alexander Krukoff (1898–1983) (New York: New York Botanical Garden, 1986).

Chapter 3. The Disappointment of Smallpox Eradication and Economic Development

1. William White, interview by Kata Chillag, Atlanta, GA, July 14, 2006, Global Health Chronicles, Centers for Disease Control, Atlanta. 2. Michael Latham, Modernization as Ideology: American Social Science and “Nation Building” in the Kennedy Era (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press,

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2000). See also Kimber Charles Pearce, Rostow, Kennedy, and the Rhetoric of Foreign Aid (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 2001); Nils Gilman, Mandarins of the Future: Modernization Theory in Cold War America (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003); David Ekbladh, The Great American Mission: Modernization and the Construction of an American World Order (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2010); Michael Latham, The Right Kind of Revolution (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2011). 3. W. W. Rostow, The Stages of Economic Growth, a Non-Communist Manifesto (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1960); Mark Haefele, “Walt Rostow’s Stages of Economic Growth: Ideas and Action,” in Staging Growth: Modernization, Development, and the Global Cold War, ed. David Engerman, 81–103 (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2003). 4. Odd Arne Westad, The Global Cold War: Third World Interventions and the Making of Our Times (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007); Amy L. S. Staples, The Birth of Development: How the World Bank, Food and Agriculture Organization, and World Health Organization Changed the World, 1945–1965 (Kent, OH: Kent State University Press, 2006); David C. Engerman and Corinna R. Unger, “Introduction: Towards a Global History of Modernization,” Diplomatic History 33, no. 3 (2009), 375–85; Daniel Maul, “‘Help Them Move the ILO Way’: The International Labor Organization and the Modernization Discourse in the Era of Decolonization and the Cold War,” Diplomatic History 33, no. 3 (2009), 387–404. 5. Iris Borowy, “Global Health and Development: Conceptualizing Health between Economic Growth and Environmental Sustainability,” Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences 68, no. 3 (July 2013), 451–85; Marcos Cueto, “International Health, the Early Cold War and Latin America,” Canadian Bulletin of Medical History 25, no. 1 (2008), 17–41. 6. Borowy, “Global Health and Development,” 453, 456. 7. Randall Packard and Peter Brown, “Rethinking Health, Development, and Malaria: Historicizing a Cultural Model in International Health,” Medical Anthropology 17, no. 3 (May 1997), 181–94; Randall Packard, “‘No Other Logical Choice’: Global Malaria Eradication and the Politics of International Health in the Post-War Era,” Parassitologia 40, no. 1–2 (June 1998), 217–29; Randall Packard, “Malaria Dreams: Postwar Visions of Health and Development in the Third World,” Medical Anthropology 17, no. 3 (May 1997), 279–96. 8. Randall Packard, The Making of a Tropical Disease: A Short History of Malaria (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2007). 9. Randall Packard, “Visions of Postwar Health and Development and Their Impact on Public Health Interventions in the Developing World,” in International Development and the Social Sciences: Essays on the History and Politics of Knowledge, ed. Frederick Cooper and Randall Packard, 93–118 (Oakland: University of California Press, 1997). 10. “Knowledge regime” from Erez Manela, “A Pox on Your Narrative: Writing Disease Control into Cold War History,” Diplomatic History 34, no. 2 (April 2010), 315. See also Erez Manela, “Globalizing the Great Society: Lyndon Johnson and the Pur-

NOTES TO PAGES 51–54

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suit of Smallpox Eradication,” in Beyond the Cold War: Lyndon Johnson and the New Global Challenges of the 1960s, ed. Francis J. Gavin and Mark Atwood Lawrence, 165–81 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014); Erez Manela, “Smallpox Eradication and the Rise of Global Governance,” in The Shock of the Global: The 1970s in Perspective, ed. Niall Ferguson, Charles S. Maier, Erez Manela, and Daniel J. Sargent, 251–78 (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2010); Sanjoy Bhattacharya, Expunging Variola: The Control and Eradication of Smallpox in India, 1947–1977 (New Delhi: Orient Longman, 2006); Sanjoy Bhattacharya, Mark Harrison, and Michael Worboys, “A Very Peculiar Triumph: The Control and Eradication of Smallpox in India,” Wellcome Trust Review, 1998; Sanjoy Bhattacharya, “Struggle to a Monumental Triumph: Re-Assessing the Final Phases of the Smallpox Eradication Program in India, 1960–1980,” Historia, Ciencias, Saude Manguinhos 14, no. 4 (2007), 1113–29; Bob H. Reinhardt, The End of a Global Pox: America and the Eradication of Smallpox in the Cold War Era (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2015), ch. 2. 11. John Farley, Brock Chisholm, The World Health Organization, and The Cold War (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 2008). 12. World Health Organization Interim Commission, Official Records of the World Health Organization, No. 48: Proposals for World-Wide Campaigns: Smallpox (Geneva: World Health Organization, 1953), 211–21. 13. World Health Organization, Official Records of the World Health Organization, No. 87: Eleventh World Health Assembly, Minneapolis, 28 May–13 June 1958, Resolutions and Decisions, Plenary Meetings Verbatim Records, Committees Minutes and Reports, Annexes (Geneva, 1958), 41, 263–72. 14. F. Fenner et al., Smallpox and Its Eradication (Geneva: World Health Organization, 1988), 369–71. 15. Fenner et al., Smallpox and Its Eradication, ch. 8. 16. Sanjoy Bhattacharya has led the way in examining local efforts to shape smallpox eradication programs; see especially Bhattacharya, Expunging Variola. See also Reinhardt, The End of a Global Pox, ch. 4. 17. John Merson, “Bio-prospecting or Bio-piracy: Intellectual Property Rights and Biodiversity in a Colonial and Postcolonial Context,” Osiris 15 (2000), 282–96. 18. Bob H. Reinhardt, “The Global Great Society and the US Commitment to Smallpox Eradication,” Endeavour 34, no. 4 (2010), 164–72. 19. President’s Task Force on Foreign Economic Assistance, The Act for International Development: A Program for the Decade of Development (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office), 48; U.S. Agency for International Development, Statistics and Reports Division, FY 1962 Projects, by Country and Field of Activity (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, April 4, 1963). 20. Borowy, “Global Health and Development,” 456–60. 21. Edward Korry, “Review of African Development Policies and Program as Directed by the President,” 15, July 22, 1966, Box 77, Country File, Africa, National Security File, Lyndon B. Johnson Presidential Library, Austin, Texas (hereafter, LBJ Library). 22. Philip Lee, “Health and Sanitation Projects Supported by the Agency for International Development in Fiscal Year 1965,” July 27, 1964, RG 90, Records of the Public

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Health Service, Office of International Health, Correspondence 1949–1969, Education & Training—Foreign Relations, 1966–1967, Box 42, Folder “Foreign Relations, International Cooperation Year Reports, Int. Health Activities,” National Archives and Records Administration, College Park, MD. 23. Report on the health, population and nutrition activities of the Agency for International Development, FY 1967. 24. Philip Lee, “Memo for Douglass Cater Re: Proposals for Expansion in International Health Programs,” November 20, 1965, Ex HE, Box 1, WHCF, LBJ Library. 25. Communicable Disease Center, “West and Central African Smallpox Eradication/Measles Control Program Manual of Operations,” October 1, 1966, Global Health Chronicles, David J. Sencer CDC Museum at the  Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Atlanta, GA. 26. Communicable Disease Center, “Manual of Operations,” III–16. 27. World Health Organization, “Handbook for Smallpox Eradication Programmes in Endemic Areas,” July 1967, SE 67.5 Rev.1, WHO Library. 28. World Health Organization, “Handbook for Smallpox Eradication Programmes in Endemic Areas,” I–5. 29. World Health Organization, “Handbook for Smallpox Eradication Programmes in Endemic Areas,” VIII–7. 30. For example, see National Communicable Disease Center, Smallpox Eradication Program, “SEP  Report: Volume I, No. 1,” June 1967,  Global Health Chronicles, David J. Sencer CDC Museum at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Atlanta, GA. 31. See Reinhardt, The End of a Global Pox, 82–83, 112–13. 32. Tony Masso, interview by Kata Chillag, July 14, 2006, Global Health Chronicles, David J. Sencer CDC Museum at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Atlanta, GA. 33. Alfred Buck et al., “Consultants’ Report. Evaluation: Smallpox Eradication and Measles Control Program, Central and West Africa, (January–March 1971)” (U.S. Agency for International Development, May 19, 1971), http://pdf.usaid.gov/pdf_docs/ pdaaa548a1.pdf. 34. Fenner et al., Smallpox and Its Eradication, ch. 31. 35. “Smallpox Is Dead!” World Health: The Magazine of the World Health Organization, May 1980. 36. Fenner et al., Smallpox and Its Eradication, ch. 31. 37. See, for example, Donald G. McNeil Jr., “U.S. Stockpiles Smallpox Drug in Case of Bioterror Attack,” New York Times, March 12, 2013; Henry Fountain, “Six Vials of Smallpox Discovered in Laboratory Near Washington,” New York Times, July 8, 2014.

Chapter 4. “Dermatoglyphics” and Race after the Second World War

1. For the role of Sino-Japanese networks in the early history of this institution, see Daniel Asen and David Luesink, “Globalizing Biomedicine through Sino-Japanese

NOTES TO PAGES 61–63

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Networks: The Case of National Medical College, Beijing, 1912–1937,” in China and the Globalization of Biomedicine, ed. David Luesink, William H. Schneider, and Daqing Zhang (manuscript under review). 2. For school records that list Ueno and his assistants, see Beijing Municipal Archives (BMA) J29–3-206. 3. For the initial published results, see Ueno Shōkichi, Honma Kazuo, and Nakamura Yasaku, “Chūka minkokujin no minzoku seibutsugakuteki kenkyū. Dai 1 hōkoku. Chūka minkokujin no ketsuekigata, shimon oyobi shōmon ni tsuite” [Racial biological studies of the Chinese (first report): Studies on the blood groups, fingerprints, and palm prints of the Chinese], Guoli Beijing daxue yixue zazhi 5 (1943), 86–109. This research was mentioned in the profile of Ueno and the Beijing University Medical School Department of Legal Medicine that appeared in a publication commemorating the history of legal medicine at Tokyo Imperial University. See Tokyo teikoku daigaku hōigaku kyōshitsu gojūsannen shi [Fifty-three year history of the Tokyo Imperial University Department of Legal Medicine] (Tokyo: Tokyo Teikoku Daigaku Igakubu Hōigaku Kyōshitsu, 1943), 564–65. In a list of forensic testing services offered by the department from November 1939, Ueno described the school’s paternity-testing services as including the examination of fingerprints and palm prints. This indicates Ueno’s interest in the hereditary basis of fingerprint and palm patterns, a question intrinsically related to the use of these physical traits to study racial identity. See BMA J29–3-607, 23. 4. Zhang Haiguo, Zhongguo minzu fuwenxue [Nationality dermatoglyphics in China] (Fuzhou: Fujian kexue jishu chubanshe, 2002). For the early history of this ethnic classification system, see Thomas Mullaney, Coming to Terms with the Nation: Ethnic Classification in Modern China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011). 5. This was the case for the field of anthropologically oriented dermal ridge studies, in which Japanese researchers were prolific in research and publication. Since the early twentieth century, Chinese researchers themselves had been using the tools of physical anthropology to investigate the “racial” status of China’s population, thus developing knowledge that could, in their estimation, be used to strengthen the Chinese nation, state, and economy. See Jia-Chen Fu, “Measuring Up: Anthropometrics and the Chinese Body in Republican Period China,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 90, no. 4 (2016), 643–71; David Luesink, “Anatomy and the Reconfiguration of Life and Death in Republican China,” Journal of Asian Studies (forthcoming). 6. Harold Cummins and Charles Midlo, Finger Prints, Palms and Soles: An Introduction to Dermatoglyphics (Philadelphia: Blakiston Company, 1943). 7. For example, see Jamshed Mavalwala, Dermatoglyphics: An International Bibliography (The Hague: Mouton, 1977). 8. Fiona Miller, “The Importance of Being Marginal: Norma Ford Walker and a Canadian School of Medical Genetics,” American Journal of Medical Genetics 115, no. 2 (2002), 102–10. 9. For seroanthropology, see Projit Bihari Mukharji, “From Serosocial to Sanguinary Identities: Caste, Transnational Race Science and the Shifting Metonymies of Blood Group B, India c. 1918–1960,” Indian Economic and Social History Review 51, no. 2 (2014), 143–76. For the ways in which biological constructions of social identity have

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been transformed with the rise of genomics, see Nadia Abu El-Haj, The Genealogical Science: The Search for Jewish Origins and the Politics of Epistemology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012). 10. For a classic study of “race” as a concept of the nineteenth and early mid-twentieth-century sciences, see Nancy Stepan, The Idea of Race in Science (Hamden, CT: Archon Books, 1982). 11. Simon A. Cole, Suspect Identities: A History of Fingerprinting and Criminal Identification (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002), 105–15. 12. Of course, this area of research involves its own biological-determinist assumptions about the kinds of identities that are available to individuals and groups in particular historical moments, a question that is inseparable from consideration of the power relations under which scientific studies of human identity and difference are carried out. These studies have often assumed that a group defined a priori according to commonly accepted ethnic or political categories (i.e., “Manchurian” or “Japanese”) will demonstrate a stable and coherent set of physical or biological characteristics across its members, a tautology that reinforces both the claimed scientific validity of the original group classification and the idea that these particular classifications are better than others for understanding the range and extent of human genetic diversity. For a discussion of the uses and critiques of a priori classifications in blood group studies, see, for example, Lisa Gannett and James R. Griesemer, “The ABO Blood Groups: Mapping the History and Geography of Genes in Homo Sapiens,” in Classical Genetic Research and Its Legacy: The Mapping Cultures of Twentieth-Century Genetics, ed. Hans-Jörg Rheinberger and Jean-Paul Gaudillière, 119–72 (London: Routledge, 2004). 13. See Michelle Brattain, “Race, Racism, and Antiracism: UNESCO and the Politics of Presenting Science to the Postwar Public,” American Historical Review 112, no. 5 (2007), 1386–413; Jenny Reardon, Race to the Finish: Identity and Governance in an Age of Genomics (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2005). This complex shift in the politics of race in science coincided with powerful new criticisms, launched from within science itself, regarding the ability of “race” to even account for human genetic diversity, the culmination of an intellectual reaction to the scientific validity of the concept that began before the Second World War. See, for example, Richard Lewontin, “The Apportionment of Human Diversity,” Evolutionary Biology 6 (1972), 381–98; Stepan, The Idea of Race in Science, 140–69. 14. Keith Wailoo, Alondra Nelson, and Catherine Lee, eds., Genetics and the Unsettled Past: The Collision of DNA, Race, and History (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2012); Osagie Obasogie, Playing the Gene Card? A Report on Race and Human Biotechnology (Oakland, CA: Center for Genetics and Society, 2009). 15. This chapter draws inspiration from the multiscale approach to global history that is adopted in Keith Breckenridge’s study of fingerprint identification and registration, which traces the circulation of such techniques (and the particular forms of bureaucratic governance with which they were associated) from the British Empire through Apartheid South Africa to postcolonial states of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. See Keith Breckenridge, Biometric State: The Global Politics of

NOTES TO PAGES 64–66

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Identification and Surveillance in South Africa, 1850 to the Present (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014). 16. Cummins and Midlo, Finger Prints, Palms and Soles, 3–21. 17. For one collection of such data, discussed below, see Furuhata Tanemoto, “The Difference of the Index of Finger Prints according to Race,” Japan Medical World 7 (1927), 162–65. For the use of fingerprinting in the Japanese Empire, see Takano Asako, Shimon to kindai: Idōsuru shintai no kanri to tōchi no gihō [Fingerprints and the modern: The control of mobile bodies and techniques of governance] (Tokyo: Misuzu Shobō, 2016) as well as Lin Chengyu, “Zhimindi de zhiwen: Rizhi shiqi zhiwen jishu de xingcheng yu yingyong” [The empire’s touch: Fingerprinting technology in Taiwan under the Japanese], in Di jiu jie kexue shi yantaohui huikan [Proceedings of the 2011 Conference on the History of Science], ed. Chang Hao, Lih Kowei, Chang Chiafeng, Zhou Weiqiang, and Lin Tsungyi, 85–116 (Taipei: Zhongyang yanjiuyuan kexueshi weiyuanhui, 2012). 18. For example, research into the geographic and “racial” distribution of blood groups carried out by Furuhata and others were made accessible in English- and German-language abstracts and published in major journals. For an overview of the scale of these contributions, see William Schneider, “The History of Research on Blood Group Genetics: Initial Discovery and Diffusion,” History and Philosophy of the Life Sciences 18, no. 3 (1996), 298–99. 19. For the colonial context of physical anthropology in Japan, see Morris Low, “Physical Anthropology in Japan: The Ainu and the Search for the Origins of the Japanese,” Current Anthropology 53, Supplement 5, The Biological Anthropology of Living Human Populations: World Histories, National Styles, and International Networks (2012), S57–S68. 20. Oguma Eiji, A Genealogy of “Japanese” Self-Images, trans. David Askew (Melbourne: Trans Pacific Press, 2002); Tessa Morris-Suzuki, “Debating Racial Science in Wartime Japan,” Osiris 13 (1998), 354–75. 21. For more on Kubo, see Hoi-eun Kim, “Anatomically Speaking: The Kubo Incident and the Paradox of Race in Colonial Korea,” in Race and Racism in Modern East Asia: Western and Eastern Constructions, ed. Rotem Kowner and Walter Demel, 411–30 (Leiden: Brill, 2013). 22. Cummins and Midlo, Finger Prints, Palms and Soles, 260–61. 23. For the history of legal medicine in modern Japan, see Jia Jingtao, Shijie fayixue yu fakexue shi [The world history of forensic medicine and sciences] (Beijing: Kexue chubanshe, 2000), 296–305. 24. Furuhata, “The Difference of the Index of Finger Prints.” 25. For an overview of this research as of the late 1920s, see Furuhata Tanemoto, “Shimon kenkyū no genkyō” [The current state of fingerprint research], Hanzaigaku zasshi 2, no. 2 (1929), 14–19. 26. Harris Hawthorne Wilder, “Racial Differences in Palm and Sole Configuration,” American Journal of Physical Anthropology 5, no. 2 (1922), 143–206. 27. Cummins and Midlo, Finger Prints, Palms and Soles, 253. 28. Furuhata, “The Difference of the Index of Finger Prints.”

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29. Furuhata, “The Difference of the Index of Finger Prints,” 164. 30. Hirai Sumimaro, “Nihonjin shimon no kenkyū, dai ni hen: yichi, Shimon keisū no jinruigakuteki ōyō ni tsuite” [Research into the fingerprints of the Japanese, part 2: On anthropological applications of the fingerprint index], Kanazawa ika daigaku jūzenkai zasshi 33, no. 9 (1928), 1255–72. 31. Ueno, Honma, and Nakamura, “Chūka minkokujin no minzoku seibutsugakuteki kenkyū,” 96–104. 32. See, for example, the work of T. D. Gladkova and T. A. Tóth, who use comparable methods, including Furuhata’s index, to establish the largely “Caucasian” racial identity of Hungary’s population. T. D. Gladkova and T. A. Tóth, “Hungarian Dermatoglyphics and Their Relation to the Origin of the Hungarian People,” in Mavalwala, Dermatoglyphics, 170. 33. Wilder, “Racial Differences.” Hasebe, who became a major figure in postwar physical anthropology, was an early advocate of the theory of Japan’s continuous racial homogeneity from prehistoric times, a notion that, as Oguma and Nanta argue, only gained widespread acceptance after the collapse of Japan’s empire following the Pacific War. See Oguma, A Genealogy of “Japanese” Self-Images; Arnaud Nanta, “Physical Anthropology and the Reconstruction of Japanese Identity in Postcolonial Japan,” Social Science Japan Journal 11, no. 1 (2008), 29–47. 34. Harold Cummins, “Racial Differences in Finger-Prints,” Journal of Criminal Law and Criminology 25, no. 5 (1935), 829–35; J. Dankmeijer, “Some Anthropological Data on Finger Prints,” American Journal of Physical Anthropology 23, no. 4 (1938), 377–88. 35. In introducing his own eponymous index, Dankmeijer noted that “Furuhata [Tanemoto] (’27) first introduced such an index in comparing the numbers of whorls and loops.” Dankmeijer, “Some Anthropological Data on Finger Prints,” 380n2. Also see Harold Cummins and Morris Steggerda, “Finger Prints in a Dutch Family Series,” American Journal of Physical Anthropology 20, no. 1 (1935), 23. 36. Cummins and Midlo, Finger Prints, Palms and Soles, 250–68. 37. For the initial formulation of the “index of pattern intensity,” see Cummins and Steggerda, “Finger Prints in a Dutch Family Series.” 38. Cummins and Midlo, Finger Prints, Palms and Soles, 260–61. 39. For the establishment of the IDA, see “Membership List of the International Dermatoglyphics Association,” IDA materials, 2003–27 Accretion, American Dermatoglyphics Association (ADA) Records, National Anthropological Archives, Smithsonian Institution. By the time of this reorganization, there seems to have been significant dissatisfaction with the International Conferences on Dermatoglyphics, due in part to the fact that “there had been no meeting of International Conferences on Dermatoglyphics for 8 years.” See International Dermatoglyphics Association News Bulletin 1, no. 3 (1972), 1. Issues of International Dermatoglyphics Association News Bulletin and Newsletter of the American Dermatoglyphics Association are archived in ADA Records. 40. For example, at the time of its reorganization in 1971, the IDA membership was distributed in the following way: Argentina (2 members), Australia (3), Austria (1), Bel-

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gium (3), Bulgaria (1), Canada (12), Chile (1), Czechoslovakia (1), England (12), Finland (1), France (8), Germany (4), Hungary (1), India (3), Indonesia (1), Israel (2), Italy (3), Japan (1), Mexico (3), Netherlands (3), New Zealand (1), Romania (1), Scotland (1), Spain (2), Switzerland (1), Venezuela (2), United States of America (48). See “Membership List of the International Dermatoglyphics Association,” IDA materials, 2003–27 Accretion, ADA Records. The imperative of creating international representation beyond North America was reflected in the planned structure of the organization, which was to have an advisory council composed of twelve members “representing the various branches of dermatoglyphics and geographical regions.” These included (in the IDA’s categories) Western Europe, including Scandinavia (2 members), Central Europe (1 member), Eastern Europe and Middle East (1 member), USSR (1 member), United States (1 member), Canada (1 member), South America (1 member), India and Ceylon (1 member), Japan and East Asia (1 member), Africa (1 member), and Australia and New Zealand (1 member). See “Proposed Constitution,” International Dermatoglyphics Association News Bulletin 1, no. 3 (November 1972), 3. Over following years the regional positions were filled unevenly. See International Dermatoglyphics Association News Bulletin 3, no. 1 (March 1974), 3. 41. For the creation and early history of this organization, see ADA Records, Business Records 1974–1996, “Origins of ADA,” as well as Newsletter of the American Dermatoglyphics Association, Tenth Anniversary Issue 4, nos. 1 and 2 (1985). By the mid-1990s the IDA had become inactive. See “Minutes of 1995 Business Meeting,” Newsletter of the American Dermatoglyphics Association 14, no. 3 (1995), 10–11. 42. For more on ADA efforts to connect with researchers in Central America and South America, see letters contained in “Membership Correspondence & Articles,” Business Records 1974–1996, ADA Records. 43. For a sense of the national distribution of ADA’s members, see, for example, the membership list contained in Newsletter of the American Dermatoglyphics Association 10, no. 3 (1991). 44. See “Meetings and Symposia of the American Dermatoglyphics Association,” Newsletter of the American Dermatoglyphics Association, Tenth Anniversary Issue 4, nos. 1 and 2 (1985), 8. 45. Miller has shown that dermatoglyphics techniques were used into the 1960s in research on the chromosomal basis of Down syndrome and other chromosomal disorders as tests that could confirm the presence or absence of a disorder. Fiona Alice Miller, “Dermatoglyphics and the Persistence of ‘Mongolism’: Networks of Technology, Disease and Discipline,” Social Studies of Science 33, no. 1 (2003), 75–94. 46. Miller, “The Importance of Being Marginal.” 47. For example, see Blanka Schaumann and Milton Alter, Dermatoglyphics in Medical Disorders (New York: Springer, 1976). 48. Mavalwala, Dermatoglyphics; Wladimir Wertelecki and Chris C. Plato, eds., Dermatoglyphics: Fifty Years Later (New York: Alan R. Liss, 1979). It has also been common for books focusing on dermatoglyphics in clinical diagnosis and medical genetics to briefly discuss “racial” differences in dermal ridge patterns. See, for example, Sarah B. Holt, “Sex Differences and Racial Variation,” in The Genetics of Dermal Ridges

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(Springfield, IL: Charles C Thomas, 1968), ch. 3. The empirical finding that such patterning varies in systematic ways across groups that are categorized in “racial” terms constitutes, in these works, further evidence for the foundational assumption that dermal ridge patterns have a genetic basis. 49. For the rise and current uses of genomics in one such area of inquiry, research into the genetic basis of Jewish identity, see Abu El-Haj, The Genealogical Science. 50. For brief overviews of the history of dermatoglyphics in China written by proponents of this discipline, see Ma Weiguo, “Zhongguo de piwenxue jianshi” [A brief history of dermatoglyphics in China], Yousheng yu yichuan 1 (1985), 14–18; Zhang, Zhongguo minzu fuwenxue, 9–13. 51. For Zhang’s own account of his career and early interest in dermatoglyphics, see Zhang Haiguo, “Wo de renleixue yanjiu” [My research in anthropology], Wenhui bao, November 5, 2012, http://www.npopss-cn.gov.cn/n/2012/1105/c219551-19497307.html. 52. Zhang presented his early dermatoglyphics research at the First National Anthropology and Medical Genetics Academic Forum, held in Changsha in November 1979. See Zhao Shouyuan’s preface in Zhang, Zhongguo minzu fuwenxue. 53. Zhang, Zhongguo minzu fuwenxue, 9. 54. See “From the President’s Desk,” in Newsletter of the American Dermatoglyphics Association 5, no. 1 (1986), 1: “Recently, we made contacts with the Chinese Dermatoglyphics Association (CDA) through its elected secretary, Mr. Zhang Hai-Guo. . . . The ADA will be pursuing closer contacts with the CDA to facilitate active exchange of information between members of both organizations. We hope to be able to provide you with references and abstracts of Chinese dermatoglyphic papers that are not readily available in the Americas.” Also see Zhang’s article “Dermatoglyphic Studies in the People’s Republic of China,” which appeared in the IDA’s Dermatoglyphics: Bulletin of the International Dermatoglyphics Association 14, nos. 1 and 2 (January and July 1986). A similar piece was published in the ADA’s Newsletter of the American Dermatoglyphics Association 5, no. 3 (1986). 55. Mullaney, Coming to Terms with the Nation. See also Thomas Mullaney, James Patrick Leibold, Stéphane Gros, and Eric Armand Vanden Bussche, eds., Critical Han Studies: The History, Representation, and Identity of China’s Majority (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012) for important perspectives on the construction of “Han” as a category and the historical contexts of China’s current ethnic classification policies. 56. For an overview of the development of the CDA’s protocols, see Zhang Haiguo, “Fuwen yanjiu zhong de jishu biaozhun he xiangmu biaozhun” [Technical standards and item standards in dermatoglyphics research], Renleixue xuebao 31, no. 4 (2012), 424–32; Zhang et al., “Dermatoglyphics from All Chinese Ethnic Groups Reveal Geographic Patterning,” PLOS ONE 5, no. 1 (2010), 10. 57. See, for example, Zhang, Zhongguo minzu fuwenxue, and Zhang et al., “Dermatoglyphics from All Chinese,” which uses additional samples. 58. Zhang, Zhongguo minzu fuwenxue, 60–61; Zhang et al., “Dermatoglyphics from All Chinese.” 59. Zhang, Zhongguo minzu fuwenxue, 61. For surveys of research on the biological

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characteristics of China’s minzu, see Hu Qiwang, “Minzuxue yanjiu xin de fazhan” [New developments in ethnological research], Zhongyang minzu xueyuan xuebao 4 (1990), 43–48; Frank Dikötter, “Reading the Body: Genetic Knowledge and Social Marginalization in the People’s Republic of China,” China Information 13, no. 2/3 (1998), 3–5. 60. For a similar argument, see Zhang Zhenbiao, “Xiandai Zhongguoren tizhi tezheng ji qi leixing de fenxi” [An analysis of the physical characteristics of modern Chinese], Renleixue xuebao 7, no. 4 (1988), 314–23. 61. Zhang, Zhongguo minzu fuwenxue, 52–53. 62. “Woguo wancheng fuwen diaocha: Zhonghua minzu zigu jiu shi yi jia ren” [Our country has completed a study of skin patterns: The Chinese nation has been one family since ancient times] Xinhuanet, February 8, 2010. http://news.xinhuanet. com/tech/2010-02/08/content_12955221.htm. This article is cited in James Leibold, “Searching for Han: Early Twentieth-Century Narratives of Chinese Origins and Development,” in Mullaney et al., Critical Han Studies, 211. 63. “Woguo wancheng fuwen diaocha”; Zhang, Zhongguo minzu fuwenxue, 61. 64. Zhang, Zhongguo minzu fuwenxue, 62; Zhang et al., “Dermatoglyphics from All Chinese,” 8. See also Zhang Haiguo, “Hanzu renqun zhiwen zonghe fenxi” [Comprehensive analysis of finger pattern parameters in Han nationality of China], Renleixue xuebao 7, no. 2 (1988), 121–27 for an earlier analysis of Han fingerprints that finds a coherent “Southern” group (drawn predominantly from along or south of the Yangtze) and a heterogeneous “Northern mixed” grouping composed of largely unlike samples from along the Yellow River and northeast. 65. Zhang, Zhongguo minzu fuwenxue, 62; “Woguo wancheng fuwen diaocha.” As Leibold has shown, this currently popular discourse has been only one of the ways in which intellectuals in China have historically conceived of the status of the Han vis-àvis minority populations. Leibold, “Searching for Han.” 66. Zhang, Zhongguo minzu fuwenxue, 12. 67. For other dermatoglyphics studies of national populations, see, for example, Gladkova and Tóth “Hungarian Dermatoglyphics”; H. L. Heet, “Dermatoglyphic Differentiation of the Population of the U.S.S.R,” in Mavalwala, Dermatoglyphics, 177–93; Dashtseveg Tumen, “Dermatoglyphic Variation among Ethnic Groups of Mongolia,” in The State of Dermatoglyphics—The Science of Finger and Palm Prints, ed. Norris Durham et al., 303–25 (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press, 2000). For the use of serology and genomics (and other scientific fields) to study national populations, see Laura Jenkins, “Another ‘People of India’ Project: Colonial and National Anthropology,” Journal of Asian Studies 62, no. 4 (2003), 1143–70; Wen-Ching Sung, “Chinese DNA: Genomics and Bionation,” in Asian Biotech: Ethics and Communities of Fate, ed. Aihwa Ong and Nancy N. Chen, 263–92 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010). Abu El-Haj, The Genealogical Science, 85–108; Projit Bihari Mukharji, “Profiling the Profiloscope: Facialization of Race Technologies and the Rise of Biometric Nationalism in Inter-war British India,” History and Technology 31, no. 4 (2015), 376–96. 68. For more on this point, see Charles Keyes, “Presidential Address: ‘The Peoples of Asia’—Science and Politics in the Classification of Ethnic Groups in Thailand, China, and Vietnam,” Journal of Asian Studies 61, no. 4 (2002), 1163–203.

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69. For this connection, see, for example, David C. Rife, “Finger Prints as Criteria of Ethnic Relationship,” American Journal of Human Genetics, 5, no. 4 (1953), 389–99. 70. For this characterization of dermatoglyphics in medical genetics, see Miller, “Dermatoglyphics and the Persistence of ‘Mongolism,’” 88. 71. The phrase is from Abu El-Haj, The Genealogical Science, 3. 72. Nancy Stepan, The Hour of Eugenics: Race, Gender, and Nation in Latin America (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991); Frank Dikötter, “The Racialization of the Globe: An Interactive Interpretation,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 31, no. 8 (2008), 1478–96; Warwick Anderson, “Racial Conceptions in the Global South,” Isis 105, no. 4 (2014), 782–92. 73. This is implied, for example, in Zhang, “Fuwen yanjiu,” 424. 74. Zhang et al., “Dermatoglyphics from All Chinese,” 10. 75. Philip Cho, Nathan Bullock, and Dionna Ali, “The Bioinformatic Basis of Pan-Asianism,” East Asian Science, Technology and Society: An International Journal 7, no. 2 (2013), 283–309.

Chapter 5. Global Epidemiology, Local Message

The author would like to thank Angela Creager, Michael Gordin, the two editors, and two anonymous reviewers of this volume for valuable comments on drafts of this chapter. 1. Conquest of Cancer Act, 1971: Hearings Before the Ninety-Second Congress, United States Senate. For vivid depictions of patients’ suffering and endeavors to know and treat the disease in modern America, see Siddhartha Mukherjee, The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer (New York: Scribner, 2010). 2. The Chinese exchange on cancer followed two decades of U.S.–Soviet biomedical exchange that had offered a learning ground for American administrative and scientific personnel about sciences under a Communist regime and had led to discussions about how to carry out effective collaborations. Earlier experiences with the Soviets probably contributed to the relative success of the exchange with China as a scientific parallel to Nixon’s diplomacy after the official exchange with the Soviet Union ended in 1977. See Anna Geltzer, “In a Distorted Mirror: The Cold War and U.S.–Soviet Biomedical Cooperation and (Mis)understanding, 1956–1977,” Journal of Cold War Studies 14, no. 3 (2012), 39–63. Although this chapter does not deal with the “brain drain/gain” issue as presented by Wright et al. in chapter 1 of this volume, it reflects on the mutual positioning that took place in the cross-border travels of biomedical experts. See chapter 1 in this volume. 3. Zuoyue Wang, “U.S.–China Scientific Exchange: A Case Study of State-Sponsored Scientific Internationalism during the Cold War and Beyond,” Historical Studies in the Physical and Biological Sciences 30 (1999), 249–77; “The Cold War and the Reshaping of Transational Science in China,” in Science and Technology in the Global Cold War, ed. Naomi Oreskes and John Krige, 342–69 (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2014). 4. Sigrid Schmalzer, “Insect Control in Socialist China and the Corporate United States: The Act of Comparison, the Tendency to Forget, and the Construction of Difference in 1970s U.S.–Chinese Scientific Exchange,” Isis 104 (2013), 303–29.

NOTES TO PAGES 81–83

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5. Adriana Petryna, When Experiments Travel: Clinical Trials and the Global Search for Human Subjects (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2009); Kaushik Sunder Rajan, “The Experimental Machinery of Global Clinical Trials: Case Studies from India,” in Asian Biotech: Ethics and Communities of Fate, ed. Aihwa Ong and Nancy Chen, 55–80 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2008). 6. For a discussion of how the scheme of collecting, transporting, and regulating human blood samples from third world countries or indigenous populations became standardized, see Joanna Radin, “Unfolding Epidemiological Stories: How the WHO Made Frozen Blood into a Flexible Resource for the Future,” Studies in History and Philosophy of Biological and Biomedical Sciences 47 (2014), 62–73. 7. The use of the war metaphor in China, however, was largely dropped in recollections published after 1990. Compare the Lin County Research Comittee on Esophageal Cancer, “Linxian shiguan’ai fangzhi yanjiu gongzuo diwuci huiyi cailiao xuanbian” [Selections from the fifth meeting on the work of cancer prevention and treatment in Lin County] (1972); and Baorong Li, Zhongguo zhongliu shiliao yanjiu [Research on historical materials of cancer in China], vol. 1 (Beijing: Military Medical Science Press, 2000). 8. Exemplified by research agendas of the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis and the American Cancer Society, a new biomedical culture of a “war against diseases” formed with strong support from lay activists, and adapted the wartime scientific enterprise to target disease problems. For the lobbying efforts of Mary Lasker and the politics of the 1971 National Cancer Act, see Rena Elisheva Selya, “Salvador Luria’s Unfinished Experiment: The Public Life of a Biologist in a Cold War Democracy” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2002), 247–62; Richard A. Rettig, Cancer Crusade: The Story of the National Cancer Act of 1971 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1977). For the role of lay activism in mobilizing basic and clinical researchers for “wars against diseases,” see Angela N. H. Creager, “Mobilizing Biomedicine: Virus Research between Lay Health Organizations and the U.S. Federal Government, 1935–1955,” in Biomedicine in the Twentieth Century: Practices, Policies, and Politics, ed. Caroline Hannaway, 171–201 (Amsterdam: IOS Press, 2008). 9. Stephen P. Strickland, Politics, Science, and Dread Disease: A Short History of United States Medical Research Policy (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1972), 189. For opposition from Joshua Lederberg to the act, see R. J. Brazell, “Lederberg Opposes Cancer Authority,” Science 171 (1971), 1220. 10. Doogab Yi, “Cancer, Viruses, and Mass Migration: Paul Berg’s Venture into Eukaryotic Biology and the Advent of Recombinant DNA Research and Technology, 1967–1980,” Journal of the History of Biology 41 (2008), 589–636. 11. Michel Morange, “From the Regulatory Vision of Cancer to the Oncogene Paradigm, 1975–1985,” Journal of the History of Biology 30 (1997), 1–29; Jean-Paul Gaudillière, “The Molecularization of Cancer Etiology in the Postwar United States: Instruments, Politics and Management,” in Molecularizing Biology and Medicine: New Practices and Alliances, 1910s–1970s, ed. Soraya de Chadarevian and Harmke Kamminga, 139–70 (Amsterdam: Harwood Academic, 1998); Joan H. Fujimura, Crafting Science: A Sociohistory of the Quest for the Genetics of Cancer (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996).

228

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12. Regarding the life sciences in the Chinese Communist era, historians have usually emphasized the immense Lysenko influence on academic biology, especially in the 1950s. Although a “Michurinist monopoly” subsided after the 1960s, and all elite academics were criticized during the Cultural Revolution, the focus on environmental factors in explaining cancer etiology persisted. As “Michurinist biology” dealt more with the content of science, the ideology of the “mass science” dictated more regarding goals and participants of science, and how research activities should be organized. See Laurence Schneider, “Michurinist Biology in the People’s Republic of China, 1948–1956,” Journal of the History of Biology 45 (2012), 525–56. 13. Steven Shapin and Simon Schaffer, Leviathan and the Air-Pump: Hobbes, Boyle, and the Experimental Life (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985). 14. Xiaoping Fang, Barefoot Doctors and Western Medicine in China (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2012); Judith Banister, “Recent Data on the Population of China,” Population and Development Review 10, no. 2 (1984), 241–71; Miriam Gross and Kawai Fan, “Schistosomiasis,” in Medical Transitions in Twentieth-Century China, ed. Bridie Andrews and Mary Brown Bullock, 106–25 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2014). 15. For a sample of these topics, see the thirty-three papers prepared for the Eighth International Cancer Congress held in Moscow in 1962, in Chinese Academy of Medicine, ed., Zhongliu yanjiu lunwen ji [Anthology of research papers on cancer] (Shanghai: Shanghai Science and Technology Press, 1962). Note that the epidemiological research papers were published near the end of the volume. 16. Ruiming Chen, “Yizhu renti gan’ai xibao de jianli ji yixie chubu de guancha” [The establishment of a human liver cancer cell line and preliminary observations], in Chinese Academy of Medicine, Zhongliu yanjiu lunwen ji, 39–47. 17. Bing Li, “‘Liushui’ liushi nian” [Fleeting time of sixty years], in Zhongguo zhongliu shiliao yanjiu [Research on historical materials of cancer in China], ed. Baorong Li, 1:1–27 (Beijing: Military Medical Science Press, 2000), 18. 18. Li, “Liushui” liushi nian,” 16, 18. 19. Zhou Enlai is also well-known for his protection of aerospace science and high energy physics during the Cultural Revolution. See Stacey Solomone, “Space for the People: China’s Aerospace Industry and the Cultural Revolution,” in Mr. Science and Chairman Mao’s Cultural Revolution: Science and Technology in Modern China, ed. Chunjuan Nancy Wei and Darryl E. Brock, 233–50 (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2013). 20. Lauren V. Ackerman, I. Bernard Weinstein, and Henry S. Kaplan, “Cancer of the Esophagus,” in Cancer in China, ed. Henry S. Kaplan and Patricia Jones Tsuchitani (New York: Alan R. Liss, 1978), 111. 21. Jianzhang Wang, “Shiguan’ai fangzhi yanjiu xiaofengdui de fazhan jiqi chengji” [The development and achievements of the Research Squad for Prevention and Treatment of Esophageal Cancer], in Li, Zhongguo zhongliu shiliao yanjiu, 1:76; Chunjuan Nancy Wei, “Barefoot Doctors: The Legacy of Chairman Mao’s Healthcare,” in Wei and Brock, Mr. Science and Chairman Mao’s Cultural Revolution, 251–80. 22. For a dramatization of such a prevention campaign, see “Two Sisters Compete

NOTES TO PAGES 86–88

229

in Publicizing Cancer Prevention,” in Delegation Report of the American Cancer Society for the Trip to the People’s Republic of China (April 20 to May 12, 1977), 113–19, Collection of the Committee on Scholarly Communication with the People’s Republic of China (Global Resources Center, Gelman Library: George Washington University), referred to hereafter as the CSCPRC Collection. 23. Wang, “Shiguan’ai fangzhi,” 76–78. On the barefoot doctors, see Fang, Barefoot Doctors. 24. Annual Report (1978) of the Cancer Institute (Hospital), Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences, CSCPRC Collection, 41. 25. Chung S. Yang, discussion with the author, May 4, 2014. 26. For a collection of essays on cancer that represented explicit ideological elements of the Cultural Revolution with a strong emphasis on a combination of Western and Chinese medicine, see Hebei Revolutionary Committee Medical Science Institute of the Public Health Bureau, Zhongliu fangzhi yanjiu zhiliao xuanji (neibu ziliao) [Selected materials on the prevention and treatment of cancer (circulated internally)] (Hebei: Medical Science Institute of the Public Health Bureau, Hebei Revolutionary Committee, 1971). 27. “Aizheng kezhi, aizheng kezhi” [Cancer is knowable, cancer is curable], Natural Dialectics, (June 1974), 132. 28. The term “paper tiger” was also used to describe supposed American and Western imperialism at the time. “Aizheng kezhi, aizheng kezhi,” 134; “Aizheng huazhe yu aizheng zuo douzheng de tihui” [Reflections on fighting cancer from cancer patients], Natural Dialectics (June 1974), 142–52, esp. 143–45. 29. John Fan to Chairman of the CSCPRC and to Arthur Hollebs of the American Cancer Society, October 18, 1974, Box 44, CSCPRC Collection. 30. George R. Pettit, “A View of Cancer Treatment in the People’s Republic of China,” China Quarterly 68 (1976), 789–96. 31. Delegation Report of the American Cancer Society for the Trip to the People’s Republic of China, April 20 to May 12, 1977, box 44, CSCPRC Collection; Henry S. Kaplan and Patricia Jones Tsuchitani, eds., Cancer in China (New York: Alan R. Liss, 1978). 32. Editorial Committee for the Atlas of Cancer Mortality in the People’s Republic of China, ed. Atlas of Cancer Mortality in the People’s Republic of China (Beijing: China Map Press, 1979), iii–vii. 33. Wenqian Gao, Zhou Enlai: The Last Perfect Revolutionary, trans. Peter Rand and Laurence R. Sullivan (New York: PublicAffairs, 2007), 235–36. 34. Brian Henderson, Mimi C. Yu, and Anna H. Wu, “University of Southern California Cancer Epidemiology Programs with China,” China Exchange News 13 (1985), 6. 35. Yan Jiaqi and Gao Gao, Turbulent Decade: A History of the Cultural Revolution (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1996). 36. Ping Li and Jun Yao Li, “National Survey of Cancer Mortality in China,” in Cancer Research in the People’s Republic of China and the United States of America: Epidemiology, Causation and New Approaches to Therapy, ed. Paul A. Marks, 43–64 (New York: Grune and Stratton, 1981).

230

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37. David Cantor, “Between Prevention and Therapy: Gio Batta Gori and the National Cancer Institute’s Diet, Nutrition and Cancer Programme, 1974–1978,” Medical History 56, no. 4 (2012), 531–61. 38. These arguments would later be noticed by Senator George McGovern and contributed to his 1977 stated goal to the Committee on Nutrition and Human Needs of reducing fat consumption and increasing dietary fruit, vegetable, whole grains, poultry, and fish. 39. Cantor, “Between Prevention and Therapy.” 40. Nutrition Committee on Diet, Nutrition, and Cancer, National Research Council, Diet, Nutrition, and Cancer (Washington, DC, 1982), 15. For the inner workings of the report committee, their staging of a questionable consensus and its critiques, see Stephen Hilgartner, Science on Stage: Expert Advice as Public Drama (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2000), 38–112. 41. David M. Lampton, Joyce A. Madancy, and Kristen M. Williams, A Relationship Restored: Trends in U.S.–China Educational Exchanges, 1978–1984 (Washington, DC: National Academy Press, 1986), 175. 42. Philip Handler, “Opportunities and Challenges for Cooperation between the United States and China in Cancer Research,” in Marks, Cancer Research in the People’s Republic of China, 3. 43. The three conferences included a 1980 bilateral conference on cancer research held at Columbia University, a 1983 symposium, “Clues to the Etiology of Human Cancer from Studies in China,” and another held in 1984 in Hawaii as part of the Conference on Cancer in the Pacific Basin. See Frederick P. Li, “US–Chinese Cooperation in Cancer Research,” China Exchange News 13, no. 1 (1985), 1–3. 44. Li, Zhongguo zhongliu shiliao yanjiu, 1:100, 102, 141. For the role of the Ames Test regarding the detection and disputation of chemical carcinogens in American science and politics, see Angela N. H. Creager, “The Political Life of Mutagens: A History of the Ames Test,” in Powerless Science? Science and Politics in a Toxic World, ed. Soraya Boudia and Nathalie Jas, 46–64 (New York: Berghahn Books, 2014). The controversy in the United States about the nature of carcinogens that the Ames Test detected seems to have affected Chinese discussions only minimally. By the early 2000s, Chinese researchers still used the test primarily to examine pollutants and contaminants and to adjust their regulations; less often it was used to test common foodstuffs. See, for example, Chaohui Lin, “The Application of Ames Test in the Examination of Water,” Weishengwu tongbao 29 (2002), 66–70. 45. Zheng Yue, “Aijiyin yanjiu de xingqi” [The start of oncogene research], in Li, Zhongguo zhongliu shiliao yanjiu, 1:34–38. 46. Wang, “U.S.–China Scientific Exchange”; Wang, Zuoyue, “Chinese American Scientists and U.S.–China Scientific Relations: From Richard Nixon to Wen Ho Lee,” in The Expanding Roles of Chinese Americans in U.S.–China Relations, ed. Peter H. Koehn and Xiao-huang Yin, 207–34 (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 2002). 47. Li, “US–Chinese Cooperation in Cancer Research.” 48. Chung S. Yang, “Research in Esophageal Cancer in China: A Review,” Cancer Research 40 (1980), 2633–44; Chung S. Yang, J. Miao, W. Yang, et al., “Diet and Vitamin

NOTES TO PAGES 91–96

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Nutrition of the High Esophageal Cancer Risk Population in Linxian, China,” Nutrition and Cancer 4 (1982), 154–64. 49. J. Wesley Simmons, “US–PRC Health Protocol: Cooperation in Cancer,” China Exchange News 13 (1985), 3–5. 50. Baruch S. Blumberg, “Hepatitis B Virus and Liver Cancer in the PRC: Sino-US Collaboration,” China Exchange News 13 (1985), 12–16; George M. Singer, “Carcinogens in Linxian Foods,” China Exchange News 13 (1985), 9–12; Robert S. Chapman, “Studying Indoor Pollution and Lung Cancer in Xuanwei County, Yunnan,” China Exchange News 13 (1985), 7–9. 51. Lampton, Madancy, and Williams, A Relationship Restored, 155. 52. Hyung Wook Park, “Longevity, Aging, and Caloric Restriction: Clive Maine McCay and the Construction of a Multidisciplinary Research Program,” Historical Studies in the Natural Sciences 40, no. 1 (2010), 70–124. 53. T. Colin Campbell and Thomas M. Campbell II, The China Study: The Most Comprehensive Study of Nutrition Ever Conducted and the Startling Implications for Diet, Weight Loss and Long-Term Health (Dallas, TX: BenBella Books, 2006), 36. 54. Campbell and Campbell, The China Study, 47. 55. T. Colin Campbell, discussion with the author, December 4, 2013. 56. Campbell and Campbell, The China Study, 69–72. 57. Jilin Medical College, ed., Keshan bing [Keshan disease] (Beijing: People’s Hygiene Press, 1973), 1–9. 58. Junshi Chen, Colin Campbell, Junyao Li, et al., Diet, Life-style, and Mortality in China: A Study of the Characteristics of 65 Chinese Counties (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 6–7. This persuasion involved the work of local cadres at the village and county levels who had developed experience in convincing peasants to participate in various campaigns in earlier decades. 59. Chen, Campbell, Li, et al., Diet, Life-style, and Mortality, 9. 60. Jane E. Brody, “Huge Study of Diet Indicts Fat and Meat,” New York Times, May 8, 1990. 61. Campbell and Campbell, The China Study, 359. 62. Chen, Campbell, Li, et al., Diet, Life-style, and Mortality, 19–36. 63. Chen, Campbell, Li, et al., Diet, Life-style, and Mortality, 54–69. 64. T. Colin Campbell, “The Dietary Causes of Degenerative Diseases: Nutrients vs Foods,” in Western Diseases: Their Dietary Prevention and Reversibility, ed. Norman J. Temple and Denis P. Burkitt, 119–52 (Totowa, NJ: Humana Press, 1994); T. Colin Campbell, Junshi Chen, Thierry Brun, et al., “China: From Diseases of Poverty to Diseases of Affluence. Policy Implications of the Epidemiological Transition,” Ecology of Food and Nutrition 27, no. 2 (1992), 133–44. 65. Campbell et al., “China: From Diseases of Poverty to Diseases of Affluence.” 66. Compare Dean T. Jamison, Teresa J. Ho, and F. L. Trowbridge, “Food Availability and the Nutritional Status of Children in China,” World Bank report, October 1981, Box 46, CSCPRC Collection, with Joel Haggard, “Making Room in the Rice Bowl,” China Business Review, November–December 1988, 20–25. 67. Campbell and Campbell, The China Study.

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68. Zixian Deng and Xiang Wu, “Niunai zhi’ailun shuyu wudao” [The argument that milk causes cancer is nonsense], Shengming shibao, December 19, 2006. 69. Junshi Chen and Yunbo Luo, Cong nongtian dao canzhuo: shipin anquan de zhenxiang yu wuqu [From agricultural fields to the dinner table: the truths and traps about food security] (Beijing: Beijing Science and Technology Press, 2012). 70. See, for example, a post on baidu, accessed June 1, 2014, http://zhidao.baidu .com/link?Url=dtja_6rlter9bbqtcgkm_dixvcwdzo-vr4hiv_uxcn3ugnxp4bppg3urktp wfrwdv6zljcnxdit5jnrbdmqcdq. 71. Interviews with Chung S. Yang, May 4, 2014. For discussions within the U.S. scientific community about reactions to the event of June 4, see Wang, “U.S.–China Scientific Exchange,” 274–76. 72. The biggest drop in the total number of barefoot doctors was seen between 1985 and 1987, during which about 200,000 rural health workers, more than half of the professional group, gave up practice. Daqing Zhang and Paul U. Unschuld, “China’s Barefoot Doctor: Past, Present, and Future,” Lancet 372 (2008), 1865–67. 73. Hui Li and Jue Wang, “Backlash Disrupts China Exchanges,” Science 278 (1997), 376–77. 74. David Chen, discussion with author, May 2, 2014. 75. Liz P. Y. Chee and Gregory Clancey, “The Human Proteome and the Chinese Liver,” Science, Technology and Society 18, no. 3 (2013), 307–19. 76. Sigrid Schmalzer, “On the Appropriate Use of Rose-Colored Glasses: Reflections on Science in Socialist China,” Isis 98, no. 3 (2007), 571–83. 77. Li, foreword, Zhongguo zhongliu shiliao yanjiu, vol. 2.

Chapter 6. From Sovietization to Global Soviet Engagement?

This research was supported by a GA ČR research grant no. GA15–04902S to the Institute for Contemporary History of the Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic. 1. John Krige and Kai-Henrik Barth, eds., Global Power Knowledge: Science and Technology in International Affairs (Washington, DC: History of Science Society, 2006); John Krige, American Hegemony and the Postwar Reconstruction of Science in Europe (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006). 2. For more on infrastructural globalism, see Paul N. Edwards, “Meteorology as Infrastructural Globalism” Osiris 21 (2006), 229–50. 3. Edgar B. Worthington, ed., The Evolution of IBP (London: Cambridge University Press, 1975); Jonathan Oldfield and Denis J. B. Shaw, “I. Vernadskii and the Development of Biogeochemical Understandings of the Biosphere, c.1880s–1968,” British Journal for the History of Science 46, no. 2 (2013), 301. 4. Whereas for the IGY, there was a joint ICSU–UNESCO committee, this was not true for IBP; see Chronology of UNESCO, 1945–1987 (Paris, 1987), 119. UNESCO contributed more funding to the IBP than the ICSU did. UNESCO provided 16 percent, and the ICSU’s 15 percent of the total IBP budget. Worthington, The Evolution of IBP, 126. 5. Worthington, The Evolution of IBP, 5.

NOTES TO PAGES 100–103

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6. Paul R. Josephson, Totalitarian Science and Technology (Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books, 2005); Nikolai L. Krementsov, Stalinist Science (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997); Loren R. Graham, Science in Russia and the Soviet Union: A Short History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993); Alexei Kojevnikov, “The Phenomenon of Soviet Science,” Osiris 23 (2008), 115–35; Alexei Kojevnikov, “A New History of Russian Science,” Science in Context 15 (2002), 177–82; Alexei Kojevnikov, “Dialogues about Knowledge and Power in Totalitarian Political Culture,” Historical Studies in the Physical and Biological Science 30 (1999), 227–47; and others. 7. Cf. Thomas S. Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1965). 8. Czechoslovakia ratified the UNESCO constitution on November 4, 1946, Poland on November 6, and Hungary on September 14, 1948. Cf. Chronology of UNESCO, 48–49. 9. Chronology of UNESCO, 16–17; cf. J. P. Singh, United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO): Creating Norms for a Complex World (New York: Routledge, 2011), 16. Singh claims that Poland, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia withdrew from UNESCO in 1947! 10. Annex 1, List of Member states, in Chronology of UNESCO, 53. This includes references to archival sources. 11. Frank Greenaway, Science International: A History of the International Council of Scientific Unions (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 183–89. 12. ČSNRB Documents, Ministerstvo školství a vyučování ČSNRB 13.12.1950, file 16, sg. VIII.1.i.n. 74. Archives of the Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic. Quoted from Alena Míšková, “Czechoslovak Representation in the International Council of Scientific Unions,” Studia Historiae Academiae Scientiarum Bohemicae, Seria C/2 (1993), 25. Alena Míšková, “Vývoj mimouniverzitní vědy v Československu a ČSAV po roce 1945” [The development of science outside the universities in Czechoslovakia and the Czechoslovak Academy of Sciences after 1945], in Bohemia Docta: k historickým kořenům vědy v českých zemích [Bohemia Docta: Historical backgrounds of science in Czech countries], ed. Alena Míšková, Martin Franc, and Antonín Kostlán (Prague: Academia, 2010), 339. 13. Although in many respects the validity of the ideas of Alexei Kojevnikov and other historians of science must be recognized, from the perspective of contemporary scientific policy this goes against Kojevnikov’s conclusion that “science in Stalinist Russia, judged by its contributions, was a science of the first rank.” Alexei Kojevnikov, “Toward a Post-Cold War Historiography (A Reply to David Joravsky),” Russian Review 57 (1998), 458. Cf. Alexei Kojevnikov, “The Phenomenon of Soviet Science,” Osiris 23 (2008), 115–35. In the 1950s, however, having the Soviet Union, a world power, become a member of global institutions such as the UN and UNESCO was a clear priority. 14. Year Books of the International Council of Scientific Unions, 1956–1962. 15. Cf. Michal Reiman, “Chruščov a jeho zahraniční politika” [Khrushchev and his foreign policy] in Studená válka 1954–1964: sovětské dokumenty v českých archivech [Cold War 1954–1964: Soviet documents in Czech archives], ed. Michal Reiman and Petr Luňák, 19–25 (Brno: Doplněk, 2000).

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16. Cf. Václav Veber, Nikita na trůně: Chruščov v čele SSSR v letech 1953–1964 [Nikita Khrushchev on the throne: Khrushchev leading the USSR 1953–1964] (Prague: Triton, 2014). 17. 550th Plenary Meeting, December 3, 1955, 912 (X.) Peaceful Uses of Atomic Energy, I (2). 18. Archives of the Polish Academy of Sciences, A PAN, II/70, wyk 99/28. Notatka dla Sekretarza Naukowego PAN w Sprawie Organizacji Kontaktów z Zagranica, July 27, 1955. 19. Douglas R. Weiner, A Little Corner of Freedom: Russian Nature Protection from Stalin to Gorbachëv (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999); Stephen Brain, Song of the Forest: Russian Forestry and Stalinist Environmentalism, 1905–1953 (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2011); David Moon, The Plough that Broke the Steppes: Agriculture and Environment on Russia’s Grasslands, 1700–1914 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); Paul R. Josephson, Resources under Regimes: Technology, Environment, and the State (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006). 20. For a comprehensive overview, see International Geophysical Year and Cooperation in Czechoslovakia 1957–1959 (Prague: ČSAV, 1960). 21. “Zprávy ze sekcí ČSAV” [News from ČSAV], Věstník ČSAV 62, no. 5–6 (1953), 121. 22. Letter from Staatessekretar of the Ministry of the Interior Hegen to Vice Chairman Ertel of the DAW, June 11, 1955, Archives of the German Academy of Sciences, BBAW, AKL 504, Comité Spécial de l´Année Géophysique Internationale, Berlin. 23. Archives of the Polish Academy of Sciences, A PAN, Sekretariat Prezesa PAN, wyk. 99/91, Komisja roku geofizycznego, n.d. 24. Vojtěch Mastný, “Soviet Foreign Policy, 1953–1962,” in The Cambridge History of the Cold War: Volume 1, Origins, ed. Melvyn P. Leffler and Odd A. Westad, 312–33 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 333. 25. There were also exceptions, such as the Polish scientist Jerzy Konorski. See Bogusław Żernicki, “In Memory of Jerzy Konorski (1903–1973),” Acta Neurobiologiae Experimentalis 49 (1989), 208; among others. 26. G. Joukov, “Où va l’UNESCO?” [Whither UNESCO?], L´U.R.S.S.—Bulletin edité par le Bureau Soviétique d´Information, nouvelle série no. 1541, November 3, 1958. 27. Cf. http://www.unesco.org/science/adgs_sc.shtml. 28. The Great Soviet Encyclopedia, 3rd ed., 1970–1979, accessed July 20, 2014, http:// encyclopedia2.thefreedictionary.com/Viktor+Kovda. 29. Krementsov, Stalinist Science, 197. 30. Krementsov, Stalinist Science, 197. 31. Komitet sodeistviia stroitel’stvu gidroelektrostantsii, kanalov i orositel’nykh system Akademii Nauk SSSR. 32. Vera A. Dmitrieva and Nicholas Polunin, “Viktor Abramovich Kovda (1904– 1991),” Environmental Conservation 19, no. 4 (1992), 364–65. 33. Viktor A. Kovda, Velikii plan preobrazovaniia prirody [Great plan for the transformation of nature] (Moscow: Izdatel’stvo Akademii nauk SSSR, 1952). Viktor A. Kovda, Great Construction Works of Communism and the Remaking of Nature (Moscow: Foreign Languages Publishing House, 1953); Viktor A. Kovda, Velikie stroiki

NOTES TO PAGES 108–111

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kommunizma i ikh narodnokhoziaistvennoe znachenie: stenogramma publichnoi lektsii, prochitannoi v Tsentral´nom lektorii Obshchestva v Moskve [Great constructions of communism and their significance for the national economy: Transcripts of public lectures, read at the Central Lectures Society in Moscow] (Moscow: Pravda, 1951); Ivan S. Lupinovic, S. G. Skoropanov, and Z. N. Denisov, Preobrazovanie prirody polesskoi nizmennosti [The transformation of nature in the Polesian Lowland] (Moscow: Akademiia nauk SSSR, 1953). Together with A. A. Karavaev and T. D. Lysenko he published Stalin i rolnictwo [Stalin and the peasants] (Warsaw: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Rolnicze i Leśne, 1951). 34. Viktor A. Kovda, Velké Stavby komunismu a jejich národohospodářský význam [Great constructions of communism and their significance for the national economy] (Prague: Svoboda, 1952); Wiktor A. Kovda, Wielkie budowle komunizmu [Great constructions of communism] (Warsaw: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Rolnicze i Leśne, 1952). 35. Viktor A. Kovda and V. D. Yelagin, eds., Velikie stroiki kommunizma: sbornik materialov dlia uchitelia [Great constructions of communism: An edited volume of materials for teachers] (Moscow: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Pedagogicheskikh nauk RSFSR, 1951). 36. Dmitrieva and Polunin, “Viktor Abramovich Kovda (1904–1991),” 364. 37. Oldfield and Shaw, “I. Vernadskii and the development,” 287–310. 38. UNESCO Major Project on Scientific Project on Arid Lands, UNESCO/NS/ AZ/334, January 24, 1958, 2. 39. Krementsov, Stalinist Science. 40. Martin Franc, Ivan Málek a vědní politika 1952–1989, aneb, Jediný opravdový komunista? [Ivan Málek and science policy 1952–1989, or the only real communist?] (Prague: Masarykův ústav, 2010). Lech Ryszkowski, “Obituary: Kazimierz Petrusewicz (1906–1982),” Acta Theriologica 27 (1982), 161–65; cf. Karol Soczyński and Marian Sokołowski, eds., Polski Słownik Biograficzny [Polish biographical encyclopedia] (Warsaw: Instytut Historii PAN, 2000). 41. IBP—Report of the Planning Committee, November 15, 1963, secretariat, arch. File 10, IBP Planning Committee, 1963, 1, Archives of the Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic, ČSAV. 42. IBP—Report of the Planning Committee, November 15 ,1963, secretariat, arch. File 10, IBP Planning Committee, 1963, 5, Archives of the Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic, ČSAV. 43. Archives of the Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic, secretariat, arch. File 1, ČSAV. 44. Franc, Ivan Málek a vědní politika, 157. 45. Cf. regular reports from meetings, Secretariat of the vice president Ivan Málek, arch. File 10, sign, 6/2, Archives of the Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic, ČSAV. 46. Záznam a závěry z porady zástupců zemí socialistického tábora konané dne 17. 7. 1964, [Notes and conclusions from the meeting of representatives of countries of the socialist camp held on July 17, 1964], Secretariat of the vice president Ivan Málek, arch. File 10, sign. 6/2, Archives of the Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic, ČSAV. 47. Ryszkowski, “Obituary: Kazimierz Petrusewicz,” 162. 48. Franc, Ivan Málek a vědní politika, 148–49.

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49. See Alexei Kojevnikov,“Dialoge über Macht und Wissen” [Dialogues about power and knowledge], in Dschungel der Macht: Intellektuelle Professionen unter Stalin und Hitler [Jungle of power: Intellectual professions under Stalin and Hitler], ed. Dietrich Beyrau, 45–64 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 2000); for a shorter version in English, see “Dialogues about Knowledge and Power in Totalitarian Political Culture,” Historical Studies in the Physical and Biological Sciences 30 (1999), 227–47. 50. Martin W. Holdgate, The Green Web: A Union for World Conservation (London: Earthscan, 1999), 72.

Chapter 7. Sexological Spring?

The author is grateful for support from the Czech Science Foundation, grant number 16–10639Y. 1. Arnold Ira Davidson, The Emergence of Sexuality: Historical Epistemology and the Formation of Concepts (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004); P. R. Adriaens and A. De Block, “Pathologizing Sexual Deviance: A History,” Journal of Sex Research 50, no. 3–4 (2013), 276–98; Harry Oosterhuis, Stepchildren of Nature: KrafftEbing, Psychiatry, and the Making of Sexual Identity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000); Lesley A. Hall, The Facts of Life: The Creation of Sexual Knowledge in Britain, 1650–1950 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1995); Tom Waidzunas and Steven Epstein, “‘For Men Arousal Is Orientation’: Bodily Truthing, Technosexual Scripts, and the Materialization of Sexualities through the Phallometric Test,” Social Studies of Science 45, no. 2 (2015), 187–213, doi:10.1177/0306312714562103. 2. Jeffrey Weeks, Sexuality (London: Routledge, 2003); Jeffrey Weeks, Sexuality and Its Discontents: Meanings, Myths, and Modern Sexualities (London: Routledge and Keegan Paul, 1985); Lucy Bland and Laura Doan, eds., Sexology in Culture: Labelling Bodies and Desires (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998); Lisa Duggan, Sapphic Slashers: Sex, Violence, and American Modernity (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2000); Oosterhuis, Stepchildren of Nature; Janice M. Irvine, Disorders of Desire: Sexuality and Gender in Modern American Sexology (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2005); Heike Bauer, “Theorizing Female Inversion,” Sexology, Discipline, and Gender at the Fin de Siècle 18 (2009), 84; Heike Bauer, English Literary Sexology: Translations of Inversion, 1860–1930 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009). 3. Oosterhuis, Stepchildren of Nature. 4. Weeks, Sexuality. 5. Bland and Doan, Sexology in Culture. 6. Joseph Bristow, Sexuality (London: Routledge, 1997); Lucy Bland, “Heterosexuality, Feminism and The Freewoman Journal in Early Twentieth-Century England,” Women’s History Review 4 (1995), 5–23; Lucy Bland, Banishing the Beast: English Feminism and Sexual Morality, 1885–1914 (London: Penguin, 1995). 7. Bauer, “Theorizing Female Inversion”; Dagmar Herzog, Sex after Fascism: Memory and Morality in Twentieth-Century Germany (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2005). 8. Nikolas S. Rose, Inventing Our Selves: Psychology, Power, and Personhood (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996).

NOTES TO PAGES 116–120

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9. Edgar B. Worthington, ed., The Evolution of IBP (London: Cambridge University Press, 1975); Jonathan Oldfield and Denis J. B. Shaw, “I. Vernadskii and the Development of Biogeochemical Understandings of the Biosphere, c.1880s–1968,” British Journal for the History of Science 46, no. 2 (2013), 301. 10. Rose, Inventing Our Selves; Nikolas S. Rose, “Engineering the Human Soul: Analyzing Psychological Expertise,” Science in Context 5 (1992), 351–69. 11. Dan Healey, Homosexual Desire in Revolutionary Russia: The Regulation of Sexual and Gender Dissent (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001). 12. Healey, Homosexual Desire in Revolutionary Russia, 149. 13. Healey, Homosexual Desire in Revolutionary Russia, 173. 14. Josie McLellan, Love in the Time of Communism: Intimacy and Sexuality in the GDR (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 84–92. 15. Herzog, Sex after Fascism, 184–219. 16. Agnieszka Kościańska, “Beyond Viagra: Sex Therapy in Poland,” Czech Sociological Review 50, no. 6 (2014), 919, doi:10.13060/00380288.2014.50.6.148; Agnieszka Kościańska, Płeć, przyjemność i przemoc: ksztaltowanie wiedzy eksperckiej o seksualności w Polsce [Sex, pleasure, and violence: Shaping expert knowledge about sexuality in Poland] (Warsaw: Wydawnictwa Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego, 2014). 17. V. Barták, “Československá sexuologie a dvacet let vývoje Sexuologického ústavu” [Czechoslovak sexology and twenty years of development of the Sexology Institute], Časopis lékařů českých 104 (1965), 530. 18. Josef Hynie, “Historie čs. sexuologie” [The history of Czechoslovak sexology], Československá gynekologie 34, no. 1 (1969), 107. 19. Josef Hynie, Úvod do lékařské sexuologie [Introduction to medical sexology] (Prague: Svoboda, 1940). 20. E. Schorsch, “The Concept of Addiction in Sexuality,” in Symposium Sexuologicum Pragense, ed. Josef Hynie and Karel Nedoma, 151–54 (Prague: Universita Karlova, 1969), 151. 21. Schorsch, “Addiction in Sexuality,” 153. 22. J. D. Hahn, W. Elger, H. Steinbeck, and F. Neuman, “Experimentally Induced Transsexuality in Male Rats,” in Hynie and Nedoma, Symposium Sexuologicum Pragense, 76. 23. A. Mergen, “Sexuality and Crime,” in Hynie and Nedoma, Symposium Sexuologicum Pragense, 111–16. 24. R. Burian, “Impregnation to the Child as a Sexual Object,” in Hynie and Nedoma, Symposium Sexuologicum Pragense, 102. 25. H. Grassel, “Problems of Method in Sex Research,” in Hynie and Nedoma, Symposium Sexuologicum Pragense, 126. 26. Grassel, “Problems of Method,” 126. 27. G. S. Vasilčenko and O. Z. Livšic, “A Contribution to the Study of Male Impotency in Its Early Stage,” in Hynie and Nedoma, Symposium Sexuologicum Pragense, 141–44. 28. V. N. Leznenko, “Psychotherapy in the Differential Diagnosis of Psychogenetic Forms of Male Impotency,” in Hynie and Nedoma, Symposium Sexuologicum Pragense, 215.

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29. Leznenko, “Psychotherapy in the Differential Diagnosis,” 213. 30. P. Režný, “Some Ideas of the Participation of Sexuality in Interpersonal Communication,” in Hynie and Nedoma, Symposium Sexuologicum Pragense, 59. 31. V. Vondráček, “Psychological Psychiatry, Sexology and Psychiatric Sexology,” in Hynie and Nedoma, Symposium Sexuologicum Pragense, 33. 32. Vondráček, “Psychological Psychiatry,” 33. 33. J. Pondělíčková, J. Mellan, and K. Nedoma, “Personality and Somatosexual Findings in Pedophilic Delinquents,” in Hynie and Nedoma, Symposium Sexuologicum Pragense, 95. 34. J. Mellan, “Sexual Disorders of Men and Interpersonal Relations Estimated by the Leary Method,” in Hynie and Nedoma, Symposium Sexuologicum Pragense, 133–34. 35. Mellan, “Sexual Disorders,” 134. 36. K. Nedoma, “Recidivující sexuální agresor v posudku psychiatrickém a sexuologickém” [Recidivist sex aggressor in psychiatric and sexologic expert opinion], Československá psychiatrie 68, no. 5 (1972), 310. 37. Nedoma, “ Recidivující sexuální agresor,” 310. 38. Nedoma, “ Recidivující sexuální agresor,” 309. 39. J. Smolíková and V. Singer, “Režimové oddělení pro léčbu sexuálních delinkventů” [Regime ward for the treatment of sexual delinquents], Československá psychiatrie 73, no. 1 (1977), 42. 40. Smolíková, “Režimové,” 43. 41. Smolíková, “Režimové,” 44. 42. Smolíková, “Režimové,” 44. 43. Smolíková, “Režimové,” 43. 44. Adriaens and De Block, “Pathologizing Sexual Deviance.” 45. Adriaens and De Block, “Pathologizing Sexual Deviance,” 285, citing Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 2nd ed. (Washington, DC: American Psychiatric Association, 1952), 38. 46. Joseph Rothschild, Return to Diversity: A Political History of East Central Europe since World War II (New York: Oxford University Press, 1989); Jan Křen, Dvě století střední Evropy [Two centuries of Central Europe] (Prague: Argo, 2005). 47. Křen, Dvě století střední Evropy. 48. Kamil Činátl, “Jazyk normalizační moci” [The language of the normalization power], in Petr A. Bílek and Blanka Činátlová, Tesilová kavalérie: popkulturní obrazy normalizace [Terylene cavalry: Popcultural images on Normalization] (Příbram: Pistorius & Olšanská, 2009), 39. 49. Patrik Ouředník, Europeana: A Brief History of the Twentieth Century (Normal, IL: Dalkey Archive Press, 2005), 68. 50. A. Janík, “Koncepce sexuologie v ČSR a průprava kádrů” [The concept of sexology in the Czech Socialist Republic and training of cadres], Československá psychiatrie 78 (1982), 22–26. 51. L. Taus, “Sexuologická ambulantní péče v Liberci” [Sexological ambulatory care in Liberec], Časopis lékařů českých 116 (1977), 916. 52. Mark Solovey and Hamilton Cravens, Cold War Social Science Knowledge Production, Liberal Democracy, and Human Nature (New York: Palgrave Macmillan,

NOTES TO PAGES 126–129

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2012), http://public.eblib.com/choice/publicfullrecord.aspx?P=858927; Mark Solovey, “Introduction: Science and the State during the Cold War: Blurred Boundaries and a Contested Legacy,” Social Studies of Science 31, no. 2 (2001), 165. 53. These are part of my book, Kateřina Lišková, Sexual Liberation, Socialist Style: Communist Czechoslovakia and the Science of Desire, 1945–1989 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, forthcoming). 54. For more on this, see Kateřina Lišková, “‘Now You See Them, Now You Don’t’: Sexual Deviants and Sexological Expertise in Communist Czechoslovakia,” History of the Human Sciences 29 (2016), 49–74; and Kateřina Lišková, “Sex under Socialism: From Emancipation of Women to Normalized Families in Czechoslovakia,” Sexualities 19 (2016), 211–35. See also Kateřina Lišková, “Against the Dignity of Man’: Sexology Constructing Deviance during ‘Normalization,’” in Queer Presences and Absences, ed. Yvette Taylor and Michelle Addison, 13–30 (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). 55. Pierre Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977); Pierre Bourdieu and John B. Thompson, Language and Symbolic Power (Cambridge: Polity, 1991). 56. Bourdieu, quoted in Denis Gleeson, Identity and Structure: Issues in the Sociology of Education (Driffield: Studies in Education, 1977), 115.

Chapter 8. The “Brain Gain Thesis” Revisited

The author acknowledges the support of the Mackie Family Collection in the History of Neuroscience, the Hotchkiss Brain Institute, and the O’Brien Institute for Public Health (all at University of Calgary). He also wishes to thank the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada (SSHRC No. IDG 430–2013–001068), which made the research for this chapter possible. Finally, he is indebted to an external reviewer for his/her constructive comments on a previous manuscript version, to Thomas Schlich (McGill University, Montreal), for his suggestions during the planning process for the chapter, and Stephen Pow (Central European University, Budapest), for meticulous adjustment of the English language. 1. Uwe-Hendrik Peters, “Emigration Deutscher Psychiater nach England (Teil 1)” [Emigration of German psychiatrists to England (part 1)], Fortschritte der Neurologie und Psychiatrie 64, no. 5 (1996), 161–67; Paul Weindling, “The Impact of German Medical Scientists on British Medicine: A Case Study of Oxford, 1933–1945,” in Forced Migration and Scientific Change: Émigré German–speaking Scientists after 1933, ed. Mitchell Ash and Alfons Soellner, 86–114 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). 2. David Pyke, “Contributions by German Émigrés to British Medical Science,” Quarterly Journal of Medicine 93, no. 2 (2000), 2755–60. 3. Cf. Matthias M. Weber, “‘Ein Forschungsinstitut fuer Psychiatrie . . . .’ Die Entwicklung der Deutschen Forschungsanstalt fuer Psychiatrie in Muenchen zwischen 1917 und 1945” [“A research institute for psychiatry. . . .”: The development of the German Research Institute for Psychiatry in Munich between 1917 and 1945], Sudhoffs Archiv 75 (1991), 74–89. 4. Mary Terrall, “Biography as Cultural History of Science,” Isis 97 (2006), 306–13. 5. Florian Mildenberger, “Auf der Spur des ‘scientific pursuit’: Franz Josef Kallmann

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(1897–1965) und die rassenhygienische Forschung” [Tracing the “Scientific Pursuit”: Franz Josef Kallmann (1897–1965) and research in racial hygiene], Medizinhistorisches Journal 37 (2002), 183–200; Eric R. Kandel, In Search of Memory: The Emergence of a New Science of Mind (London: Norton, 2006); Frank W. Stahnisch and Thomas Hoffmann, “Kurt Goldstein and the Neurology of Movement during the Interwar Years: Physiological Experimentation, Clinical Psychology and Early Rehabilitation,” in Was bewegt uns? Menschen im Spannungsfeld zwischen Mobilitaet und Beschleunigung [What moves us? Human beings at the intersection of mobility and acceleration], ed. Christian Hoffstadt, Franz Peschke, and Andreas Schulz-Buchta, 283–311 (Bochum: Projektverlag, 2010). 6. David Baltimore, “A Global Perspective on Science and Technology,” Science 322, no. 10 (2008), 544–51. 7. Kathleen M. Pearle, “Aerzteemigration nach 1933 in die USA: Der Fall New York” [The forced migration of physicians to the United States after 1933: The case of New York], Medizinhistorisches Journal 19 (1984), 112–37; Hans-Peter Kroener, “Die Emigration deutschsprachiger Mediziner im Nationalsozialismus” [The emigration of German-speaking physicians during National Socialism], Berichte zur Wissenschaftsgeschichte 12 (1989), 1–35; Ash and Soellner, Forced Migration and Scientific Change, 1–19. 8. On new historiographical research perspectives in this area, including prosopographical analyses, see also Frank W. Stahnisch and Gül A. Russell, eds., Forced Migration in the History of 20th Century Neuroscience and Psychiatry: New Perspectives (London: Routledge, 2017). 9. Cf. Frank W. Stahnisch, “German-Speaking Émigré–Neuroscientists in North America after 1933: Critical Reflections on Emigration-Induced Scientific Change,” Oesterreichische Zeitschrift fuer Geschichtswissenschaften 21 (2010), 36–68. 10. Patrick Manning, Navigating World History (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), 215–28. 11. See Horace Winchell Magoun, American Neuroscience in the Twentieth Century: Confluence of the Neural, Behavioral, and Communicative Streams, ed. and annotated Louise H. Marshall (Lisse, Netherlands: Balkema, 2002), xv–xviii. 12. Helen H. Tartokoff, “Grete L. Bibring, M.D. 1899–1977,” Psychoanalytic Quarterly 47 (1978), 293–97. 13. Wolfgang Benz, ed., Das Tagebuch der Hertha Nathorff: Berlin—New York. Aufzeichnungen 1933 bis 1945 [The diary of Hertha Nathorff: Berlin–New York, entries from 1933 to 1945] (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 2010), 192–201. 14. Michael Kater, “Unresolved Questions of German Medicine and Medical History in the Past and Present,” Central European History 25 (1992), 407–23. 15. Elizabeth Lunbeck, The Psychiatric Persuasion: Knowledge, Gender, and Power in Modern America (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995); Jonathan Engel, American Therapy: The Rise of Psychotherapy in the United States (New York: Gotham Books, 2008). 16. Andrew Scull, Social Order/Mental Disorder: Anglo-American Psychiatry in Historical Perspective (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989). 17. Laurence Stone, “Prosopography,” Daedalus 100 (1971), 46–71. See this also ap-

NOTES TO PAGES 132–136

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plied in Frank W. Stahnisch, “Learning Soft Skills the Hard Way: Historiographical Considerations on the Cultural Adjustment Process of German-speaking Émigré Neuroscientists in Canada, 1933 to 1963,” Journal of the History of the Neurosciences 25 (2016), 299–319. 18. Cf. Peters, “Emigration Deutscher Psychiater,” 161–67. 19. Pearle, Aerzteemigration, 112–37. 20. J. Roger Hollingsworth, “Institutionalizing Excellence in Biomedical Research,” in Creating a Tradition of Biomedical Research, ed. Darwin H. Stapleton, 15–18 (New York: Rockefeller University Press, 2004). 21. Magoun, American Neuroscience in the Twentieth Century, 151–53. 22. Alan N. Schechter, senior NIH pathophysiologist, discussion with the author, April 27, 2007. 23. Kandel, In Search of Memory, 12. 24. Benz, Das Tagebuch der Hertha Nathorff, 52–67. 25. Roger L. Geiger, “The Dynamics of University Research in the United States 1945–1990,” in Research and Higher Education: The United Kingdom and the United States, ed. Thomas G. Whiston and Roger L. Geiger, 3–17 (Suffolk: The Society for Research into Higher Education, 1992). 26. Kandel, In Search of Memory, 106. 27. See also Stahnisch, “Learning Soft Skills the Hard Way,” 299–301. 28. Marshall in Magoun, American Neuroscience in the Twentieth Century, 1–19. These are editorial notes of Louise Marshall to the book of her husband, the neuroscientist Magoun. 29. George Adelman and Barry Smith, “Francis Otto Schmitt: November 23, 1903– October 3, 1995,” Biographical Memoirs of the National Academy of Science 75 (1998), 343–54. 30. Francis O. Schmitt, The Never-Ceasing Search (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1990), 183. 31. Ingrid G. Farreras, Caroline Hannaway, and Victoria A. Harden, eds., Mind, Brain, Body, and Behavior: Foundations of Neuroscience and Behavioral Research at the National Institutes of Health (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2004), 311–13. 32. George Adelman, “The Neurosciences Research Program at MIT and the Beginning of the Modern Field of Neuroscience,” Journal of the History of the Neurosciences 19 (2010), 15–23. 33. Tanya Baglole, “Nos disparus: Le Dr Robert Weil, un Fondateur de l’APC, est Décédé [Our losses: Dr. Robert Weil, a founder of the APC, has died],” Canadian Psychiatric Association Bulletin 34 (2002), 64. 34. Mildenberger, “Auf der Spur des ‘Scientific Pursuit.’” 35. Matthias M. Weber, Ernst Ruedin: Eine kritische Biographie [Ernst Ruedin: a critical biography] (Berlin: Springer, 1993), 191. 36. John D. Rainer, “Franz Kallmann’s Views on Eugenics,” American Journal of Psychiatry 146 (1989), 1361–62. 37. Franz Joseph Kallmann, The Genetics of Schizophrenia: A Study of Heredity and Reproduction in the Families of 1,087 Schizophrenics (New York: Augustin, 1938).

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38. Hans-Walther Schmuhl, Hirnforschung und Krankenmord: Das Kaiser-WilhelmInstitut fuer Hirnforschung 1937–1945 [Brain science and patient murder: The KaiserWilhelm-Institute for Brain Research, 1937–1945] (Berlin: Max-Planck-Gesellschaft, 2000), 210–44. 39. Eliot Slater, “A Review of Earlier Evidence on Genetic Factors in Schizophrenia,” in The Transmission of Schizophrenia, ed. David Rosenthal and Seymour Kety, 15–26 (New York: Pergamon Press, 1968); Erik Essen-Moeller, Psychiatrische Untersuchungen an einer Serie von Zwillingen [Psychiatric investigations in a series of twins], Suppl. vol. 23 (Munksgaard: Acta Psychiatrica et Neurologica, 1941), 3–19. 40. E. Fuller Torrey and Robert H. Yolken, “Obituary: Franz Joseph Kallmann, 1897–1965,” American Journal of Psychiatry 123, no. 7 (1966), 105–6. 41. Gerald N. Grob, Mental Illness and American Society: 1875–1940 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983), 243–65. 42. Annual Reports of the National Institutes of Mental Health (1954), 3; emphasis added. 43. Grob, Mental Illness and American Society, 124–26. 44. Brian Robertson, “An Interview with Eric Kandel,” Journal of Physiology 588 (2010), 743–45. 45. Kandel, In Search of Memory, 54–56. 46. Kandel, The Age of Insight, 47–59. 47. Kandel, In Search of Memory, 60–75. 48. Don Towers, late NIH neurochemist, discussion with the author, April 20, 2007. 49. Mildenberger, “Auf der Spur des ‘Scientific Pursuit.’” 50. Kandel, In Search of Memory, 75–85. 51. Interested readers are referred to Robertson, “An Interview with Eric Kandel,” 743–45, for the later work biography of Eric R. Kandel from the 1960s to the 2010s. 52. Kandel, In Search of Memory, xv. 53. Kandel, In Search of Memory, 230–55. 54. Frank W. Stahnisch and Stephen Pow, “Walther Riese (1890–1976): Pioneer in Neurology,” Journal of Neurology 261 (2014), 2466–68. Frank W. Stahnisch and Stephen Pow, “Karl Stern (1906–1975): Pioneer in Neurology,” Journal of Neurology 262 (2015), 245–47. 55. Christian Pross and Rolf Winau, eds., Das Krankenhaus Moabit 1920–1933: Ein Zentrum juedischer Aerzte in Berlin. 1933–1945. Verfolgung–Widerstand–Zerstoerung [Moabit Hospital, 1933–1945: A center of Jewish physicians in Berlin. 1933–1945. Persecution–resistance–destruction] (Berlin: Edition Hendrik, 1984), 109–79. 56. Stahnisch and Pow, “Karl Stern.” 57. Kurt Goldstein, Der Aufbau des Organismus: Einfuehrung in die Biologie unter besonderer Beruecksichtigung der Erfahrungen am Kranken Menschen [The organism: a holistic approach to biology derived from pathological data in man] (The Hague: Nijhoff, 1934). 58. Stahnisch and Hoffmann, “Kurt Goldstein and the Neurology of Movement,” 283–86. 59. Marianne L. Simmel, “Kurt Goldstein 1878–1965,” in The Reach of Mind: Essays

NOTES TO PAGES 142–147

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in the Memory of Kurt Goldstein, ed. Marianne L. Simmel, 2–11 (New York: Springer, 1968). 60. Kurt Goldstein, Human Nature in the Light of Psychopathology (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1940), i. 61. Wenda Focke, Begegnung. Herta Seidemann: Psychiatrin-Neurologin 1900–1984 [Encounters with Herta Seidemann: Psychiatrist and neurologist, 1900–1984] (Konstanz: Hartung-Gorre, 1986), 110–13. 62. See Edwin Black, War against the Weak: Eugenics and America’s Campaign to Create a Master Race (New York: Basic Books, 2003), 1–15. 63. Peters, “Emigration Deutscher Psychiater,” 165. 64. Simmel, “Kurt Goldstein.” 65. Adelman, “The Neurosciences Research Program,” 15–20. 66. Henry Sigerist, American Medicine, trans. Hildegard Nagel (New York: Norton, 1934), 15. 67. See related historiographical approaches in psychology, in Mitchell Ash, Gestalt Psychology in German Culture, 1890–1967: Holism and the Quest for Objectivity (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 263–83. 68. Recent historiography of medicine and science has made us aware of the important cultural grounding of scientific and professional practices in their situational, local, and even national contexts. See, for example, Mark Erickson, Science, Culture and Society: Understanding Science in the Twenty-First Century (Cambridge, MA: Polity, 2005).

Chapter 9. What’s in a Zone?

1. Grobman recounted this story, unprompted, in an interview with the author. Arnold B. Grobman, discussion with the author, October 3, 2011. For an earlier version, see memorandums attached to Arnold B. Grobman to Bentley Glass, April 18, 1963, box 158, Bentley Glass Papers, BSCS International Activites, American Philosophical Society (hereafter Glass Papers). Please note that the Glass Papers have been partially processed subsequent to my research in the collection; box numbers and folder names may have changed. 2. For introductions to U.S.–led development efforts, see Michael E. Latham, The Right Kind of Revolution: Modernization, Development, and U.S. Foreign Policy from the Cold War to the Present (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2011); Audra J. Wolfe, Competing with the Soviets: Science, Technology, and the State in Cold War America (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2013), 55–73. The literature on U.S.–led attempts to use science and technology to jump-start emerging nations’ economies is growing quickly. The following accounts provide particularly good entry points to the literature on infrastructure, human nutrition, and health projects, respectively: David Ekbladh, The Great American Mission: Modernization and the Construction of the American World Order (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2010); Nick Cullather, The Hungry World: America’s Cold War Battle against Poverty in Asia (Cambridge, MA.: Harvard University Press, 2010); Marcos Cueto, Cold War, Deadly Fevers: Malaria Eradication in Mexico, 1955–1975 (Washington, DC, and Baltimore: Woodrow Wilson Center Press and Johns Hopkins University Press, 2007).

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3. The idea that modernization projects “flattened” reality to make it more legible to administrators comes from James C. Scott’s notion of “high modernism.” James C. Scott, Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human Condition Have Failed (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998). 4. John L. Rudolph, Scientists in the Classroom: The Cold War Reconstruction of American Science Education (New York: Palgrave, 2002); Barbara Barksdale Clowse, Brainpower for the Cold War: The Sputnik Crisis and the National Education Defense Act of 1958 (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1981). 5. Rudolph, Scientists in the Classroom; Andrew Hartman, Education and the Cold War: The Battle for the American School (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008). 6. Harold Goodwin to Elbert P. Little, “On PSSC,” March 4, 1958, MIT box 5, Program Coordination Staff, Office of the Advisor for Science, Space, and the Environment, Office of Policy and Plans (P 243), Records of the United States Information Agency, Record Group 306, U.S. National Archives at College Park, MD (hereafter USIA). 7. Harold Goodwin to Mr. Harkness, “‘Project Proposals’ Included in the Paper on Development of a Science Program,” February 28, 1958, box 3, IOP/A Basic Paper 1958 [Folder 2/2], USIA. 8. Arnold B. Grobman, “Notes on the BSCS and a Trip to the Orient,” October 10, 1962, BSCS, box 135, Glass Papers. 9. BSCS International Cooperation Committee, “Condensed Proceedings of the Meeting of November 11 and 12, 1965, at the Mayflower Hotel,” January 13, 1966, Science BSCS (Grobman) VII, box P-246, Asia Foundation Records, Hoover Institution Archives, Stanford, CA (hereafter Asia Foundation Papers). 10. The “official” history of The Asia Foundation, as detailed in a report prepared for the U.S. Senate Foreign Relations Committee and described in a declassified e-mail on the CIA’s own website, describes it as a “private foundation—albeit with considerable financial support from the U.S. government.” The foundation was originally established as the “Committee for Free Asia” in 1951 with the sanction of the National Security Council, the knowledge of congressional oversight committees, and funding from the CIA. While the exact proportion of its CIA funding has never, to my knowledge, been disclosed, this particular document states that it received “the major part of its funding . . . from the CIA” until 1967. At that point, as part of a series of revelations about the CIA’s use of private foundations, TAF’s cover was blown. While some of these groups closed up shop, President Johnson and his advisers deemed TAF particularly useful and worth maintaining. After 1967, other government agencies, mostly USAID and the State Department’s Bureau of Cultural and Educational Affairs, picked up the tab. “FOIA Doc_0001088621,” Freedom of Information Act Electronic Reading Room, February 6, 1990, http://www.foia.cia.gov/sites/default/files/document_conversions/89801/DOC_0001088621.pdf. While budget information on The Asia Foundation’s individual country programs is available in its archival papers, information on the organization’s overall budget and its funding sources is not systematically available in this archive. As for the Ford and Rockefeller Foundations, the claim is not necessarily that Ford and Rockefeller were operating with covert government funds in this particular instance. Rather, the point is that the boards and policies of these two

NOTES TO PAGES 149–151

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foundations were so deeply intertwined with U.S. foreign policy that the exact funding streams are not of great importance. See especially Inderjeet Parmar, Foundations of the American Century: The Ford, Carnegie, and Rockefeller Foundations in the Rise of American Power (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012). 11. Kenneth Osgood, Total Cold War: Eisenhower’s Secret Propaganda Battle at Home and Abroad (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2006), 7; Hugh Wilford, The Mighty Wurlitzer: How the CIA Played America (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008). 12. “Summary of BSCS Participation in Asian Biology,” 1968, box P-478, BSCS Materials X, Asia Foundation Papers. 13. Marty Fleischmann to Robert S. Schwantes and William L. Eilers, September 25, 1963, box P-246, Science BSCS (Grobman) IV, Asia Foundation Papers. 14. Marty Fleischmann to the Representative, Japan, The Philippines, and the Republic of China, October 4, 1963, box P-246, Science BSCS (Grobman) IV, Asia Foundation Papers. 15. This assessment is based on in-depth browsing of TAF’s records on science programming, Asia Foundation Papers. 16. Arnold B. Grobman, “A Proposal Submitted by the American Institute of Biological Sciences on Behalf of the Biological Sciences Curriculum Study for Support of a Program to Adapt Recent Revisions in Biological Curricula for Potential Use in Several Foreign Countries,” March 15, 1961, 35:11, Archie Carr Papers, University of Florida Special Collections (hereafter Carr Papers). 17. James G. Dickson to Hiden T. Cox, May 15, 1961, box 171, BSCS Committee on Foreign Utilization, Glass Papers. 18. James G. Dickson to Philip W. Hemily, May 19, 1961, box 171, BSCS Committee on Foreign Utilization, Glass Papers. 19. Arnold B. Grobman, “Untitled Document Summarizing BSCS Funding Status,” 1963, box 154, BSCS 1963 (2), Glass Papers; Arnold B. Grobman to Dr. John M. Weir, February 22, 1963, box 168, Glass-3, Glass Papers; Glen E. Peterson, “Current Status of BSCS Program of International Cooperation,” June 30, 1966, box 177, BSCS 1966, Glass Papers; BSCS International Cooperation Committee, “BSCS International Cooperation,” September 17, 1968, box 135, International Cooperation Committee, Glass Papers; BSCS International Cooperation Committee, “Agenda: International Cooperation Committee Meeting, May 13–14, 1971,” May 3, 1971, BSCS Materials XI, box P-478, Asia Foundation Papers. 20. William Mayer, “Request for a General Services Grant for the International Cooperation Program of the Biological Sciences Curriculum Study,” 1965, box 177, BSCS 1964–1966, Glass Papers. 21. Arnold B. Grobman, “Summary of the Tenth BSCS Steering Committee Meeting, January 10–11, 1964,” February 24, 1964, box 155, BSCS 1963–1964, Glass Papers. 22. Arnold B. Grobman, “Status of Adaptations of BSCS Versions in Overseas Nations as of November, 1963,” November 26, 1963, box 154, BSCS 1963, Glass Papers. 23. Arnold B. Grobman, “Extent of BSCS International Activities,” April 16, 1964, 35:14, Carr Papers.

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24. Arnold B. Grobman, “BSCS International News Notes No. 2,” June 17, 1963, box 169, Glass-1, Glass Papers. 25. Arnold B. Grobman to Sherman A. Hoslett, March 26, 1963, box P-246, Science BSCS (Grobman) III, Asia Foundation Papers. 26. Kuo-Ao Feng to Arnold B. Grobman, April 22, 1963, box 157, BSCS, April–June 1963, Glass Papers. 27. Arnold B. Grobman, “Notes on Trip by Arnold Grobman, February 2–29, 1964,” March 12, 1964, box 155, 1963–1964, Glass Papers. 28. Lyman Hoover to The President of the Asia Foundation, March 2, 1966, box P-246, Science BSCS (Grobman) VII, Asia Foundation Papers. 29. Arnold Grobman to Keith Kelson, January 27, 1964, box 154, BSCS, 1964 (2), Glass Papers. 30. Grobman, “Summary of the Tenth BSCS Steering Committee Meeting, January 10–11, 1964.” 31. The Asia Foundation, “Request for Payment to the American Institute of Biological Sciences,” December 9, 1960; The Asia Foundation, “Bio Data for Ralph Waldo Gerard,” 1961, both Gerard, Dr. Ralph, box P-253, Asia Foundation Papers. 32. William Mayer to Archie Carr, “Minutes of the International Cooperation Committee Meeting of February 17, 1964, in Long Beach, California,” March 10, 1964, 35:14, Carr Papers. 33. Arnold B. Grobman, “Memo on Relaxed BSCS Adaptation Policies,” March 16, 1964, box 1955, BSCS 1963–1964, Glass Papers. 34. Glen E. Peterson, “Summary of International Cooperation Committee Meeting, June 4 and 5, 1965,” June 23, 1965, box 170, BSCS Executive Committee 1965, Glass Papers. 35. Peterson, “Summary of International Cooperation, June 4 and 5,” Glass Papers. 36. See, for instance, the discussion in Richard R. Tolman, “Minutes of the Meeting of the BSCS International Cooperation Committee, November 6–7, 1969,” November 19, 1969, box P-478, BSCS Materials 7/67, Asia Foundation Papers. 37. Scott, Seeing Like a State; Latham, The Right Kind of Revolution. 38. Scholarly essays on this topic abound; an excellent introduction is Philip J. Pauly, Biologists and the Promise of American Life: From Meriwether Lewis to Alfred Kinsey (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000), 171–93. 39. Tolman, “Minutes of the Meeting of the BSCS International Cooperation Committee, November 6–7, 1969.” 40. V. Basnayake, “Report on Study Tours by Dr. V. Basnayake: Parts II and III: BSCS Adaptations,” 1964, box P-246, Science BSCS (Grobman) IV, Asia Foundation Papers. See also Evelyn Wares to The Representative, Washington, September 26, 1968, box P-478, BSCS Materials X, Asia Foundation Papers. 41. Tolman, “Minutes of the Meeting of the BSCS International Cooperation Committee, November 6–7, 1969.” 42. Philip K. Page to Lin Sloan, March 31, 1966, box P-246, Science BSCS (Grobman) VII, Asia Foundation Papers. 43. The Asia Foundation, “TAF/Hornig Report Study,” July 1967, box P-478, General Information Occasional Papers 7/67, Asia Foundation Papers.

NOTES TO PAGES 156–158

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44. Taipei to San Francisco, “Telegram,” March 31, 1966, box P-246, Science BSCS (Grobman) VII, Asia Foundation Papers. 45. This essay cannot address the question of “wittingness,” that is, to what extent TAF’s employees knew of its relationship with the CIA. Correspondence in the organization’s archives show that few, if any, of the country representatives resigned their positions after the ties to the CIA were revealed on the front page of the New York Times (Wallace Turner, “Asia Foundation Got CIA Funds,” New York Times, March 22, 1967)—which suggests that the news was not exactly surprising. The country representatives did, however, seem to suffer a crisis of confidence in the immediate aftermath of the revelations when the home office indicated that TAF would have to work more closely with USAID and the State Department to ensure its continued existence. See, for example, the discussion in Louis Lazaroff, “Staff Memorandum No. 69/69: Research Proposal to AID,” May 28, 1969, box P-479, Staff Memorandum 51–100, 1969, Asia Foundation Papers. 46. For a concise discussion of how nonaligned leaders made use of international aid in advancing their own national goals, see Latham, The Right Kind of Revolution. India’s Nehru made particularly good use of scientific nationalism, although his most high-profile investment—the Indian atomic bomb—was achieved largely without foreign assistance. See Robert S. Anderson, Nucleus and Nation: Scientists, International Networks, and Power in India (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010); Itty Abraham, The Making of the Indian Atomic Bomb: Science, Secrecy, and the Postcolonial State (New York: Zed Books, 1998). For the situation in Taiwan, see J. Megan Greene, The Origins of the Developmental State in Taiwan: Science Policy and the Quest for Modernization (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009). 47. Biological Science Curriculum Study, “Status of BSCS Adaptation Program,” May 3, 1971, box P-478, BSCS Materials XI, Asia Foundation Papers. 48. For the claim that the BSCS’s books “dominated” Taiwanese biology classrooms, see The Representative, Republic of China to the President of the Asia Foundation, “Visit of Dr. William V. Mayer, Director BSCS,” November 9, 1970, box P-478, BSCS Materials XI, Asia Foundation Papers. 49. John Krige, American Hegemony and the Postwar Reconstruction of Science in Europe (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006), 1–14. For an extended theoretical discussion of hegemony in the context of American cultural diplomacy, see Giles ScottSmith, The Politics of Apolitical Culture: The Congress for Cultural Freedom, the CIA, and Post-War American Hegemony (New York: Routledge, 2002). This interpretation assumes that cultural diplomacy should be taken seriously as part of U.S. postwar foreign policy. Good introductions to what the foreign policy establishment hoped to accomplish with cultural diplomacy, and the range of activities that fell under its umbrella, are Osgood, Total Cold War; Nicholas Cull, The Cold War and the United States Information Agency: American Propaganda and Public Diplomacy, 1945–1989 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008); Wilford, The Mighty Wurlitzer. 50. For a useful entry into the literature on this thorny issue, see Suman Seth, “Putting Knowledge in Its Place: Science, Colonialism, and the Postcolonial,” Postcolonial Studies 12, no. 4 (December 2009), 373–88, doi:10.1080/13688790903350633.

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51. On the formation of elite networks and their relationship to American hegemony, see Parmar, Foundations of the American Century. Parmar’s version of hegemony is overly schematic, but the book nevertheless offers compelling examples of how international networks, once established, tend to perpetuate themselves. I find John Krige’s notion of “consensual hegemony” more appropriate and appealing for making sense of the role of science in cultural diplomacy. Krige, American Hegemony.

Chapter 10. For the Benefit of Humankind

1. These speeches were later compiled and published as a synthetic volume. See Paul H. Oehser, ed., Knowledge among Men: Eleven Essays on Science, Culture, and Society Commemorating the 200th Anniversary of the Birth of James Smithson (Washington, DC: Simon and Schuster, 1966). 2. In addition to its inclusion in the aforementioned volume, this speech was also published as Claude Lévi-Strauss, “Anthropology: Its Achievements and Future,” Current Anthropology 7, no. 2 (April 1966), 124–27. 3. Rebecca Lemov has also commented on Lévi-Strauss’s preoccupation with the BAE in her analysis of ethnographic salvage and the second-order endangerment of documented anthropological data. See Rebecca Lemov, “Anthropological Data in Danger, c. 1951–1965,” in Endangerment, Biodiversity and Culture, ed. Fernando Vidal and Nélia Dias, 87–111 (New York: Routledge, 2016). 4. Lévi-Strauss, “Anthropology,” 125. For a critique of anthropology’s historical preoccupation with identifying and studying “primitive” societies, see Adam Kuper, The Invention of Primitive Society: Transformation of an Illusion (New York: Routledge, 1988). 5. Lévi-Strauss, “Anthropology,” 126. 6. Lévi-Strauss, “Anthropology,” 126. 7. Lévi-Strauss, “Anthropology,” 127. 8. The term “urgent anthropology” is specific to the activities orchestrated by the Smithsonian Institution and the Wenner-Gren Foundation for anthropological research beginning in 1965. The collecting mentality behind the program, however, stems from a much older tradition in anthropology. For more on early salvage efforts, see Jacob W. Gruber, “Ethnographic Salvage and the Shaping of Anthropology,” American Anthropologist 72, no. 6 (December 1972), 1289–99. 9. See the discussion on the history of the IBP included in the introduction to this volume. 10. The HA arm of the IBP included projects comparable to the salvage objectives of urgent anthropology, particularly those that concentrated on collecting blood and biological tissue from indigenous populations. Joanna Radin discusses these efforts in Life on Ice: A History of New Uses for Cold Blood (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2017). 11. This chapter is based on a larger project on the history of urgent anthropology that treats these and other themes in greater detail. See Adrianna H. Link, “Salvaging a Record for Humankind: Urgent Anthropology at the Smithsonian Institution, 1964–1984” (PhD diss., Johns Hopkins University, 2016).

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12. For summaries of significant trends in scholarship on the history of the Cold War human and behavioral sciences, see David C. Engerman, “Social Science in the Cold War,” Isis 101, no. 2 (June 2010), 393–400, and Joel Isaac, “The Human Sciences in Cold War America,” Historical Journal 50, no. 3 (September 2007), 725–46. See also the essays included in Mark Solovey and Hamilton Cravens, eds., Cold War Social Science: Knowledge Production, Liberal Democracy, and Human Nature (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), and Roger E. Backhouse and Philippe Fontaine, eds., The History of the Social Sciences after 1945 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 13. For an overview of some of the political, ethical, and intellectual stakes facing Cold War anthropology, see David H. Price, Cold War Anthropology: The CIA, the Pentagon, and the Growth of Dual Use Anthropology (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2016); Dustin M. Wax, ed., Anthropology at the Dawn of the Cold War: The Influence of Foundations, McCarthyism, and the CIA (London: Pluto Press, 2008); Peter Mandler, “Deconstructing ‘Cold War Anthropology,’” in Uncertain Empire: American History and the Idea of the Cold War, ed. Joel Isaac and Duncan Bell, 245–66 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012); Howard Brick, “Neo-Evolutionist Anthropology, the Cold War, and the Beginnings of the World Turn in U.S. Scholarship,” in Solovey and Cravens, Cold War Social Science, 155–72; Alice Beck Kehoe and Paul L. Doughty, Expanding American Anthropology, 1945–1980: A Generation Reflects (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2012); and Laura Nader, “The Phantom Factor: The Impact of the Cold War on Anthropology,” in The Cold War and the University: Toward an Intellectual History of the Postwar Years, ed. Noam Chomsky, 107–45 (New York: New Press, 1997). 14. David Challinor, “S. Dillon Ripley, 20 September 1913–12 March 2001,” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 147, no. 3 (2003), 299. 15. Ripley addresses his avicultural efforts in a collection of biographical essays and reflections. See Dillon Ripley, A Paddling of Ducks (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1957). 16. Ripley later discussed this idea alongside René Dubos, Edmund Muskie, and John Middleton in a series of lectures sponsored and published by the U.S. Department of Agriculture shortly after his election as Smithsonian secretary. See Dillon Ripley, “The Future of Environmental Improvement,” in Environmental Improvement (Air, Water, and Soil), ed. Ralph Marquis, 85–98 (Washington, DC: U.S. Department of Agriculture, 1966), 87. 17. Ripley, “The Future of Environmental Improvement,” 92–93. 18. S. Dillon Ripley, interview by Pamela M. Henson, January 11, 1984, interview 22, transcript, Oral history interviews with S. Dillon Ripley 1977–1993, Smithsonian Institution Archives (SIA), Washington, DC. 19. These new offices included the Office of Anthropology, the Office of Ecology, the Office of Systematics, and the Office of Oceanography and Limnology. For a description of the new offices and a general scope of their activities, see Smithsonian Institution, Smithsonian Year 1965: Annual Report of the Smithsonian Institution for the Year Ended June 30, 1965 (Washington, DC, 1965). 20. Richard B. Woodbury and Nathalie F. S. Woodbury, “The Rise and Fall of the Bureau of American Ethnology,” Journal of the Southwest 41, no. 3 (1999), 292.

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21. Smithsonian Institution, Smithsonian Year 1965, 39. 22. S. Dillon Ripley, “A Perspective of the Smithsonian Program in Ecology,” National Parks Magazine 40, no. 229 (1966), 12. Ripley expanded his ecosystem ideal in an article cowritten with the head of the Office of Ecology, Helmut K. Buechner. In it, they elaborate on Ripley’s earlier assertions about the importance of integrating studies on human behavior with research on the environment. See S. Dillon Ripley and Helmut K. Buechner, “Ecosystem Science as a Point of Synthesis,” Daedalus 96, no. 4 (1967), 1192–99. 23. Originally established as the Viking Fund, the Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research was established in 1941 by the Swedish entrepreneur Axel Wenner-Gren to promote “research, educational, technical, and scientific work” for all the sciences. Under the leadership of Paul Fejos, the foundation turned its focus to supporting anthropology. For more on the history of Wenner-Gren, see Susan Lindee and Joanna Radin, “Patrons of the Human Experience: A History of the Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research, 1941–2016,” Current Anthropology 57, suppl. 14 (October 2016), S218–S301. For more on Tax’s work as a major organizer in anthropology in the postwar period, see Dustin M. Wax, “Organizing Anthropology: Sol Tax and the Professionalization of Anthropology,” in Wax, Anthropology at the Dawn of the Cold War, 133–42. See also George W. Stocking Jr., “‘Do Good, Young Man’: Sol Tax and the World Mission of Liberal Democratic Anthropology,” in Excluded Ancestors, Inventible Traditions, ed. Richard Handler, 171–264 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2000). 24. Tax frequently wrote about the importance of maintaining disciplinary unity in the postwar period. For a useful summary of his arguments, see Sol Tax, “The Integration of Anthropology,” Yearbook of Anthropology (1955), 313–28. 25. For an account of Tax’s involvement with the Darwin Centennial Celebration, see Vassiliki Betty Smocovitis, “The 1959 Darwin Centennial Celebration in America,” Osiris 14 (1999), 274–323. 26. S. Dillon Ripley to Sol Tax, November 10, 1965, Sol Tax Papers, box 196, folder 2, SCRC, University of Chicago. 27. For an extended analysis of the development of Tax’s method of action anthropology with the Meskwaki, see Judith M. Daubenmeir, The Meskwaki and Anthropologists: Action Anthropology Reconsidered (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2008). 28. Though he developed it during this time, Tax did not articulate his philosophy of action anthropology until several years later. See Sol Tax, “Action Anthropology,” America Indigena 12, no. 2 (1952), 103–9. 29. For more on the history of the journal and Tax’s involvement in its creation, see Sol Tax, “The History and Philosophy of Current Anthropology,” Current Anthropology 6, no. 3 (1965), 238, 242–69. 30. For a discussion on the relationship between the social and natural sciences regarding funding, see Mark Solovey, “Riding Natural Scientists’ Coattails onto the Endless Frontier: The SSRC and the Quest for Scientific Legitimacy,” Journal of the History of the Behavioral Sciences 40, no. 4 (2004), 393–422. 31. Sol Tax to Claude Lévi-Strauss, January 31, 1966, box 38, folder 7, Sol Tax Papers, SCRC, University of Chicago.

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32. “Official Reports: American Anthropological Association Council Meeting, Saturday, November 20, 1965, Denver, Colorado,” American Anthropologist 68 (1966), 759. 33. “Official Reports: American Anthropological Association Council Meeting,” 762. 34. Martha Henderson, “Conference with Sol Tax,” January 26, 1966, box 11, folder: Woodbury-Tax, Records of the Department of Anthropology, U.S. National Museum/ National Museum of Natural History, NAA. 35. “Smithsonian-Wenner-Gren Conference,” Current Anthropology 8, no. 4 (1967), 355. 36. Stocking, “‘Do Good, Young Man.’” 37. For a useful analysis of the connections between IGY and IBP, see Elena Aronova, Karen S. Baker, and Naomi Oreskes, “Big Science and Big Data in Biology: From the International Geophysical Year through the International Biological Program to the Long Term Ecological Research (LTER) Network, 1957–Present,” Historical Studies in the Natural Sciences 40, no. 2 (2010), 183–224. 38. Stenographic transcript, “Conference on Smithsonian Research Program on Changing Cultures,” April 10, 1966, box 1, folder 1, MS 7045, Smithsonian Conference on Smithsonian Research Program on Changing Cultures, NAA. 39. Developed between 1962 and 1964, the Human Adaptability section aimed to incorporate the biological study of human populations as an integral part of the IBP’s survey of the world’s ecosystems. Until then ecologists had primarily concentrated on the assessment of plant and animal communities with little attention paid to the biological study of human beings living within the same environment (echoing observations also made by Ripley). See K. J. Collins and J. S. Weiner, eds., Human Adaptability: A History and Compendium of Research in the International Biological Programme (London: Taylor and Francis, 1977). 40. This episode is briefly discussed in E. B. Worthington, ed., The Evolution of IBP (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975), and repeated in Collins and Weiner, Human Adaptability. 41. Collins and Weiner, Human Adaptability, 6. 42. For more on Mead’s efforts to promote anthropology’s applications in the postwar period, see Peter Mandler, Return from the Natives: How Margaret Mead Won the Second World War and Lost the Cold War (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2013). 43. Karve’s life and scholarly contributions are chronicled as part of an edited collection of biographical essays on leading figures in the history of Indian anthropology and sociology. See Patricia Uberoi, Nandini Sundar, and Satish Deshpande, eds., Anthropology in the East: Founders of Indian Sociology and Anthropology (New Delhi: Permanent Black, 2007). 44. Stenographic transcript, “Conference on Smithsonian Research Program on Changing Cultures,” April 10, 1966, box 1, folder 1, MS 7045, Smithsonian Conference on Smithsonian Research Program on Changing Cultures, NAA. 45. Stenographic transcript, “Conference on Smithsonian Research Program on Changing Cultures,” April 10, 1966, box 1, folder 1, MS 7045, Smithsonian Conference on Smithsonian Research Program on Changing Cultures, NAA. 46. Uberoi, Sundar, and Deshpande, Anthropology in the East, 22. 47. As Mark Solovey notes, at $6 million, Project Camelot would have been the

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largest social science initiative in U.S. history. It was canceled, however, after members of the international community expressed concerns about its imperialist implications. See Mark Solovey, “Project Camelot and the 1960s Epistemological Revolution: Rethinking the Politics–Patronage–Social Science Nexus,” Social Studies of Science 31 (2001), 171–206. See also discussions about Project Camelot in Joy Rohde, Armed with Expertise: The Militarization of American Social Research during the Cold War (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2013), and in David Price, Cold War Anthropology. 48. Stephen Boggs to Sol Tax, April 13, 1966, box 98, folder: Washington Conference, Follow-Up, CSM Records, NAA. 49. As Smithsonian secretary, Ripley took advantage of these funds to help with his research on birds in India and Pakistan. For a good analysis of these projects and Ripley’s use of PL-480 money, see Michael L. Lewis, Inventing Global Ecology: Tracking the Biodiversity Ideal in India, 1947–1997 (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2004). 50. Sol Tax to Stephen Boggs, April 25, 1966, box 98, folder: Washington Conference, Follow-Up, CSM Records, NAA. 51. George Peter Murdock to Lita Osmundsen, April 13, 1966, box 98, folder: Washington Conference, Follow-Up, CSM Records, NAA. 52. Richard Woodbury to Sidney Galler, “Available Internal Support of Anthropology Programs,” April 20, 1966, box 98, folder: Washington Conference, Follow-Up, CSM Records 1966–1982, NAA. 53. Lita Osmundsen to Sol Tax, February 1, 1967, Grant # 2077, folder: Smithsonian Institution, Urgent Research Project, Office of Anthropology (through Dr. Sol Tax), Washington, D.C.—to aid general program of cooperative field work in rapidly changing cultures, Wenner-Gren Foundation, Inc., New York, NY. 54. These were collected and published as a report in Current Anthropology, along with suggested back issues of Heine-Geldern’s Bulletin. Priscilla Reining, “Urgent Research Projects,” Current Anthropology 8 (1967), 362–416. 55. Reining, “Urgent Research Projects,” 362. 56. Reining, “Urgent Research Projects,” 363. 57. This is particularly well articulated in the opening address delivered by Indian historian Niharranjan Ray. See Niharranjan Ray, “Introductory Address,” in Urgent Research in Social Anthropology, ed. Behari L. Abbi and Satish Saberwal, 17–26 (Simla: Indian Institute of Advanced Study, 1968). 58. Behari L. Abbi and Satish Saberwal, “Introduction,” in Abbi and Saberwal, Urgent Research in Social Anthropology, 6. 59. This had been an important focus for the Anthropological Survey of India (ASI) beginning in the 1950s. See K. S. Singh, ed., The History of the Anthropological Survey of India: Proceedings of a Seminar (Calcutta: Anthropological Survey of India, 1991). See also related discussions in Uberoi, Sundar, and Deshpande, Anthropology in the East. 60. “Draft Resolutions of the Conference on Urgent Research in Social Anthropology in India held at the Indian Institute of Advanced Study, July 15–July 20, 1968,” box 128, folder: India (circa 1968), Priscilla Reining Papers, NAA. 61. Priscilla Reining, “Report of the Working Group at the Tokyo Congress,” Current Anthropology 10 (1969), 372.

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62. Reining, “Report of the Working Group,” 372. 63. Transcript, “Urgent Anthropological Session, VIIIth International Congress of Anthropological and Ethnological Sciences, September 5, 1968, Tokyo,” MS 7051, box 1, folder 1, Smithsonian Institution, Center for the Study of Man, NAA. 64. Reining, “Report of the Working Group,” 373. 65. The Smithsonian’s reliance on PL-480 funds for ecological and anthropological work in India would eventually be curtailed as a result of political conflicts surrounding the 1971 India–Pakistan War and President Richard Nixon’s decision to support Pakistan. See Lewis, Inventing Global Ecology, 102–3. 66. Fredrik Barth to Sol Tax, July 19, 1968, box 193, folder 9, Sol Tax Papers, SCRC, University of Chicago. 67. Irawati Karve, “What ‘Urgent Anthropology’ Means to Me,” Bulletin of the International Committee on Urgent Anthropological and Ethnological Research (1968), 15. 68. Though this term was popularized in Talal Asad’s Anthropology and the Colonial Encounter (London: Ithaca Press, 1973), Herbert S. Lewis, an anthropologist and historian of anthropology, traces the origins of this idea to a talk given by Kathleen Gough at the 1967 AAA meeting titled “Anthropology and Imperialism.” According to Lewis, while professional anthropologists actually played a rather trivial (though not exempt) role in the long history of colonial subjugation, the rhetorical power of linking anthropology’s wartime and counterinsurgency activities within this narrative perfectly matched the revolutionary tone of the period. See Herbert S. Lewis, “Was Anthropology the Child, the Tool, or the Handmaiden of Colonialism?” in In Defense of Anthropology: An Investigation of the Critique of Anthropology, ch. 4 (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction, 2014). For further discussion on anthropology’s period of crisis, see Matti Bunzl, “Anthropology beyond Crisis: Toward an Intellectual History of the Extended Present,” Anthropology and Humanism 30 (2005), 187–95, and Anna Grimshaw and Keith Hart, Anthropology and the Crisis of the Intellectuals (Cambridge: Prickly Pear Press, 1996). 69. See essays collected in Dell Hymes, ed., Reinventing Anthropology (New York: Pantheon Books, 1972) and in Asad, Anthropology and the Colonial Encounter. 70. “Current Anthropology: Associates’ Views on the Definition of ‘Urgency,’” Current Anthropology 12 (April 1971), 246–47. 71. “Current Anthropology: Associates’ Views,” 243. 72. “Current Anthropology: Associates’ Views,” 247. 73. “Center Formed for the Study of Man,” Smithsonian Torch, no. 9 (September 1968), 1. 74. “Center Formed for the Study of Man,” 1. 75. Sol Tax to Albert Storm, July 26, 1971, RU 108, box 8, folder: Man, Center for the Study of (folder 2), SIA. 76. For an extended discussion of Ripley’s museum-based approach to human ecology, see Link, “Salvaging a Record for Humankind.” For additional discussion on the failed attempts to build the Museum of Man, see the final chapter in William S. Walker, A Living Exhibition: The Smithsonian and the Transformation of the Universal Museum (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2013).

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77. For a complete list of projects funded by the urgent anthropology small grants program, see Samuel Stanley, “Urgent Anthropology: A Report, 1966–1978,” June 30, 1978, box: Urgent Anthro Alpha File Q-T, folder 1, Department of Anthropology Records, NAA. 78. Anthropology’s “reflexive turn” is typically associated with the 1986 publication of James Clifford and George E. Marcus, eds., Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography (Oakland: University of California Press, 1986). Yet as Matti Bunzl and others have noted, the beginnings of this transition can be traced to conversations held during the late 1960s and early 1970s about anthropology’s heightened sense of intellectual and ethical responsibility to its subjects of study. See Bunzl, “Anthropology beyond Crisis.” 79. Lévi-Strauss, “Anthropology,” 126. 80. Joanna Radin, “Latent Life: Concepts and Practices of Human Tissue Preservation in the International Biological Program,” Social Studies of Science 43, no. 4 (2013), 495–596. 81. Fernando Vidal and Nélia Dias, eds., Endangerment, Biodiversity and Culture (New York: Routledge, 2016).

Chapter 11. What Counts as Threatened?

1. Richard Leakey and Roger Lewin, The Sixth Extinction (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1996), popularized this term. The idea of a general extinction crisis gathered as broader data gathering in the mid-twentieth century made plain that what was known to have happened to individually infamous cases—the dodo, passenger pigeon, moa—were instances in a general pattern of human impact. In 1979 Norman Myers predicted that an extinction rate of one species per day would soon become one species per hour. Norman Myers, The Sinking Ark: A New Look at the Problem of Vanishing Species (Oxford: Pergamon, 1979). 2. Mark V. Barrow Jr., Nature’s Ghosts: Confronting Extinction from the Age of Jefferson to the Age of Ecology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009). 3. On ecology, see Stephen Bocking, Ecologists and Environmental Politics: A History of Contemporary Ecology (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1997). On population biology, see Sharon Kingsland, Modeling Nature: Episodes in the History of Population Ecology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), see also the second edition (1995). Paolo Palladino, “Defining Ecology: Ecological Theories, Mathematical Models, and Applied Biology in the 1960s and 1970s,” Journal of the History of Biology 24 (1991), 223–43. 4. For an insiders’ account of recent history, see Curt Meine, Michael Soulé, and Reed F. Noss, “‘A Mission-Driven Discipline’: The Growth of Conservation Biology,” Conservation Biology 20 (2006), 631–51. 5. James Maclaurin and Kim Sterelny, What Is Biodiversity? (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008). 6. Kevin J. Gaston, Rarity (London: Chapman and Hall, 1994). 7. Lawrence Busch, Standards: Recipes for Reality (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2011). Geoffrey C. Bowker and Susan Leigh Star, Sorting Things Out: Classification and Its Consequences (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999).

NOTES TO PAGES 181–184

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8. Barrow, Nature’s Ghosts, 140. 9. For the twentieth-century development of international environmental governance, see Lynton Keith Caldwell, International Environmental Policy: Emergence and Dimensions (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1984). 10. Peter Scott, John A. Burton, and Richard Fitter, “Red Data Books: The Historical Background,” in The Road to Extinction: Problems of Categorizing the Status of Taxa Threatened with Extinction, ed. Richard Fitter and Maisie Fitter, 1–5 (Gland: IUCN, 1987). N. J. Collar, “The Reasons for Red Data Books,” Oryx 30 (1996), 121–30, has different publication dates (1964 for mammals, 1968 for birds and reptiles and amphibians). 11. A good case could be made for the first Red Data Books (as unmodified first editions) being the rarest, most important twentieth-century book. Even the British Library’s “first editions” are updated. The cause is the instruction the book gives to readers to destroy its parts: “To avoid confusion it will generally be found advisable to destroy original sheets removed from the volume when replacements are received.” IUCN, Red Data Book. Volume 1: Mammalia, ed. Noel Simon (Morges: IUCN Species Survival Commission, 1966). 12. For example, here is primatologist Russell Mittermeier: “I still have fond memories of receiving in the mail my copy of the first Red Data Book. . . . I was about 20 when I first received this publication, and it had a profound impact on me. I pored over every page, reading each one dozens of times, feeling awful about those species that were severely endangered, and resolving to dedicate my career to doing something on their behalf.” IUCN, 2000 IUCN Red List of Threatened Species, comp. Craig Hilton-Taylor (Gland: IUCN Species Survival Commission, 2000), xi. 13. Martin Holdgate, The Green Web: A Union for World Conservation (London: Earthscan, 1999), an insider institutional history of the IUCN, makes the World Conservation Strategy the main focus of its work. 14. Georgiana M. Mace papers, University College London (hereafter GMM), box 7. Seal to Mace, April 13, 1989. 15. GMM, box 7. Holdgate to Lucas, copied to Rabb, Seal, Edwards, Stuart, May 5, 1989. 16. Virginia Gewin, “Movers: Georgina Mace, Director, Centre for Population Biology, Imperial College London, UK,” Nature 444, no. 240 (2006), http://www.nature .com/naturejobs/science/articles/10.1038/nj7116-240a. 17. Georgina Mace, “Genetics and Demography in Biological Conservation,” Science 241 (1988), 1455–60. 18. GMM, box 7. Fax, Stephen R. Edwards and Simon Stuart to Mace, copies to Lucas and Rabb, May 9, 1989. Three documents were suggested as starting points: the Species Action Plans as prepared by SSC specialist groups (especially the Antelope Plans, which were seen as being particularly sophisticated), Fitter and Fitter’s Road to Extinction, and Amie Brautigam, CITES: A Conservation Tool. A Guide to Amending the Appendices to the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Flora and Fauna (Gland: IUCN, 1991), which contained criteria of note. 19. GMM, box 7. Mace, “Assessing Extinction Threats: Towards a Re-evaluation of Red Data Book Codes,” June 1989.

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20. Sidney J. Holt, “Categorization of Threats to and Status of Wild Populations,” in Fitter and Fitter, The Road to Extinction, 19–30. For Holt in whale politics, see D. Graham Burnett, The Sounding of the Whale: Science and Cetaceans in the Twentieth Century (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012). Paul Munton, “Concepts of Threat to the Survival of Species Used in Red Data Books and Similar Compositions,” in Fitter and Fitter, The Road to Extinction, 77. 21. The five factors were: a “total effective population size” (Ne) of less than 500, declining population size (1 percent or greater decline over five to ten years on the basis of the three independent counts), fragmentation (e.g., more than half of the subunits have Ne ≤ 50, “where the entire species is in a single population of size ≤ 10,000, and where data suggests that the population is not self-sustaining.” 22. GMM, box 7. Mace to Stuart, December 20, 1989. 23. William F. Morris and Daniel F. Doak, Quantitative Conservation Biology: Theory and Practice of Population Viability Analysis (Sunderland, MA: Sinauer Associates, 2002), 3. 24. Georgina M. Mace and Russell Lande, “Assessing Extinction Threats: Toward a Reevaluation of IUCN Threatened Species Categories,” Conservation Biology 5, no. 2 (1989), 148–57. 25. The addition of a measure by generations was a response to the criticism of the first draft made by R. Sukumar of the Indian Institute of Science. Sukumar noted that Asian elephant populations of even very small size could survive for over one hundred years. GMM, box 7, Sukumar to Mace, August 1, 1989. 26. Mace and Lande, “Assessing Extinction Threats.” 27. GMM, box 5. Stuart, “CITES Appendix Listing Criteria,” April 20, 1993. 28. Peter Aldous, “Critics Urge Reform of CITES Endangered List,” Nature 355 (1992), 758–59. 29. GMM, box 5. “The CITES Conference of the Parties. Kyoto, Japan, 2–13 March 1992. A statement by IUCN—The World Conservation Union,” 1992. 30. GMM, box 5. “CITES. 28th meeting of the Standing Committee. New criteria for listing species in the CITES appendices,” June 1992. 31. GMM, box 8. Robinson to Mace, July 30, 1992. 32. GMM, box 8. Stuart to Lawton (Centre for Population Biology, Imperial College), August 24, 1992. Stuart to Leader-Williams (Department of Wildlife, Tanzania), August 24, 1992. Stuart to Given (New Zealand), August 24, 1992. Stuart to Cooke (Centre for Ecosystem Management Studies, Germany), August 24, 1992. Stuart to MacKinnon (Hong Kong), August 24, 1992. Stuart to Luxmore (World Conservation Monitoring Centre, Cambridge), August 24, 1992. Stuart to Mace, August 24, 1992. 33. GMM, box 5. “IUCN—The World Conservation Union. New criteria for listing species in the CITES appendices. A project proposal,” sets out the details of consultations, workshops, and plan for writing the report, as well as funding and who is involved. GMM, box 8 contains the papers for organizing the “Categories of Threat” workshop. GMM, box 2 contains papers of the “technical workshop” (November 9–11, 1992) and “applications workshop” (November 12–13, 1992)

NOTES TO PAGES 188–190

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34. It is a curious feature of late twentieth-century international politics that “networks” opposed centers (in this case a commission). 35. GMM, box 5. SSN, “CITES and the Revision of the Berne Criteria. A Report to the Standing Committee of CITES by the NGO Working Group on New Listing Criteria,” March 1, 1993. 36. “The status of a population or species should be up-listed . . . as soon as current information suggests that the criteria are met. The status of a population or species with respect to extinction should be down-listed . . . only when the criteria of the lower risk category have been satisfied for a time period equal to that spent in the original category, or if it is shown that the past data were inaccurate.” 37. SSN, “CITES and the Revision of the Berne Criteria,” 10. 38. SSN, “CITES and the Revision of the Berne Criteria,” 3. 39. SSN, “CITES and the Revision of the Berne Criteria,” 15. 40. An excerpt of the proposed changes can be found in GMM, box 6. “Biological Criteria for Appendix I,” probably authored by the CITES Secretariat, faxed April 18, 1994. 41. GMM, box 6. Helen Corrigan, e-mail summary of CITES Ninth Meeting of the Conference of the Parties, Fort Lauderdale, November 15, 1994. 42. GMM, box 6. ‘CITES. Ninth Meeting of the Conference of the Parties. Fort Lauderdale . . . Draft Resolution of the Conference of the Parties. Criteria for Amendment of Appendices I and II,” Com. 9.17, 1994. See also Com 9.24. 43. Georgina Mace et al., “The Development of New Criteria for Listing species on the IUCN Red List,” Species 19 (1993), 16–22. 44. Mace et al., “The Development of New Criteria,” 16. 45. Mace et al., “The Development of New Criteria,” 17. 46. Confusingly, this paper is often dated (including in IUCN publications) as 1992. The date of publication, according to Mace, was May 1, 1993. 47. GMM, box 2. “New Criteria for Listing Species in the IUCN Red List. Comments Received. 16 September 1993.” 48. GMM, box 2. Sullivan to Mace, June 29, 1993. 49. GMM, box 2. “Summary of Species Classifications Made by SSC Members Using the New Draft IUCN Criteria Compared to Red Data Book (1990) Classifications,” July 12, 1993. 50. GMM, box 2. Hoagland to Mace, March 31, 1993. 51. GMM, box 2. Mace to Hoagland, July 28, 1993. 52. GMM, box 2. “IUCN Threatened Species Categories. Review Meeting. October 7th 1993. Draft Minutes.” 53. GMM, box 2. “IUCN Red List Categories. Prepared by the IUCN Species Survival Commission. As Approved by the 40th Meeting of the IUCN Council,” November 30, 1994. See also the file marked “Original” in GMM, box 10. See also http://www. iucnredlist.org/technical-documents/categories-and-criteria/1994-categories-criteria. 54. The other categories were Extinct, Extinct in the Wild, Lower Risk, Data Deficient, and Not Evaluated. Lower Risk had three subcategories: “conservation dependent,” “near threatened,” and “least concern.”

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55. Robert M. May, J. H. Lawton, and Nigel E. Stork, “Assessing Extinction Threats,” in Extinction Rates, ed. J. H. Lawton and Robert M. May, 1–24 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995). 56. IUCN, 1996 Red List of Threatened Animals, ed. J. Baillie and B. Groombridge (Gland, 1996). IUCN, 2000 IUCN Red List of Threatened Species, ed. Craig Hilton-Taylor (Gland, 2000), 1. 57. If you look up a rare creature on Wikipedia you will see the “conservation status” under the picture. 58. Charis Thompson, “Co-producing CITES and the African elephant,” in States of Knowledge: The Co-Production of Science and Social Order, ed. Sheila Jasanoff, 67–86 (London: Routledge, 2004). 59. Theodore Porter, Trust in Numbers: The Pursuit of Objectivity in Science and Public Life (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995).

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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Jon Agar is professor of science and technology studies in the Department of Science and Technology Studies (STS), University College London. He is a historian of science and technology. Published works include Science and Spectacle: Jodrell Bank in Post-War British Culture (1998), the edited collection Making Space for Science: Territorial Themes in the History of Science (coedited with Crosbie Smith, 1998), The Government Machine (2003), Constant Touch: A Global History of the Mobile Phone (2003), and Science in the Twentieth Century and Beyond (2012). Daniel Asen received his PhD in modern Chinese history at Columbia University and is assistant professor in the Department of History of Rutgers University–Newark. His research examines the intersection of law, science, and medicine in modern China. His recent book Death in Beijing: Murder and Forensic Science in Republican China (Cambridge University Press, 2016) examines the history of homicide investigation and forensic science in Republican Beijing. His current research on the history of fingerprinting is part of a project, “Fingerprinting in Twentieth-Century China from Racial, Political and Scientific Perspectives,” funded by National Science Foundation (NSF) award #1654990.

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CONTRIBUTORS

Daniele Cozzoli, who completed his PhD at the University of Rome La Sapienza, is associate professor at Pompeu Fabra University, Barcelona. He has worked on the history of optics and the philosophy of science in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, on the history of biomedicine in postwar Italy, and on the history of penicillin in postwar Europe and Japan. His main publications include two monographs in Italian (Il Metodo di Descartes [Macerata: Quodlibet, 2008]; Ho avuto solo molta fortuna: Biografia scientifica di Daniel Bovet [Rome: Carocci, 2016] and a number of papers in international journals (History and Philosophy of Logic, Perspectives on Science, British Journal for the History of Science, History and Technology, and Centaurus). Lijing Jiang is a historian of modern life sciences working as a Haas Postdoctoral Fellow at the Beckman Center for the History of Chemistry, Chemical Heritage Foundation. She obtained her PhD in biology and society at the Center for Biology and Society, Arizona State University in 2013 and has worked as a postdoctoral fellow at Princeton University, Nanyang Technological University, and Yale University. Her current book project focuses on the evolving role of the goldfish and carp species in developing genetics, embryology, and aquaculture in China throughout the twentieth century. Adrianna Link is the head of Scholarly Programs at the American Philosophical Society. She received her PhD in the history of science and technology from Johns Hopkins University in 2016, where she specialized in the history of American anthropology. Her research focuses on the intersection of anthropology and environmentalism, and emphasizes the role of museums and archives for fostering collaborative work across the human and life sciences. She is currently preparing a book manuscript on the history of Smithsonian “urgent anthropology,” which expands on the chapter included in this volume. Kateřina Lišková is assistant professor in gender studies and sociology at Masaryk University, Czech Republic. Her research is focused on gender, sexuality, and the social organization of intimacy, particularly in Central and Eastern Europe. Currently she is a fellow at Technische Universität in Berlin. In the past, she was affiliated with Columbia University as a Marie Curie Fellow, New School for Social Research as a Fulbright Scholar, as a visiting scholar with New York University, and as a fellow with the

CONTRIBUTORS

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Imre Kertész Kolleg in Jena, Germany. Her book Sexual Liberation, Socialist Style:  Communist Czechoslovakia and the Science of Desire, 1945–89 is forthcoming from Cambridge University Press. Patrick Manning is Andrew W. Mellon Professor of World History, Emeritus, and founding director emeritus of the World History Center at the University of Pittsburgh. His research ranges from African historical demography and the African diaspora to a project for creating a world-historical archive. He is codirector of the project on the world history of science at the University of Pittsburgh. Sasha Mullally is associate professor in the Department of History at the University of New Brunswick and coeditor of Acadiensis: Journal of the History of the Atlantic Region. Her recent publications on physician immigration to Canada include articles in the Journal of Canadian Studies, Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences, and Ethnicity and Health. A contributor to several edited collections on Canadian social history, women’s history, and the history of health and social services, she and David Wright are collaborating on a book-length study of foreign-trained physicians’ experiences in Canada in the mid- to late twentieth century. Doubravka Olšáková is senior researcher at the Institute of Contemporary History, Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic in Prague, where she leads the working group for contemporary environmental history. She is interested in the history of science and environmental history. She is the author of Science Goes to the People! (Academia, 2014) on relations between the dissemination of sciences, ideology, and communist propaganda in Czechoslovakia in the twentieth century. She is the principal editor of In the Name of the Great Work: Stalin’s Plan for the Transformation of Nature and Its Impact in Eastern Europe (Berghahn Books, 2016), about the implementation of Stalinist plans for the transformation of nature in Eastern Europe. Bob H. Reinhardt is the author of The End of a Global Pox: America and the Eradication of Smallpox in the Cold War Era (University of North Carolina Press). He received his PhD in history from the University of California, Davis, and is currently assistant professor of history at Boise State University,  where he works in the fields of  public history, environmental history, and the history of public health.

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CONTRIBUTORS

Renée Saucier received her BA in history and women’s studies from McGill University, Montreal. For the past five years she has worked on various research projects, including the history of Toronto’s Hospital for Sick Children. She is currently pursuing a master of information degree at the University of Toronto and is a web archiving intern at the University of Toronto Libraries. Mat Savelli is an assistant professor (CLA) in the Department of Health, Aging, and Society at McMaster University. He obtained his DPhil from the University of Oxford, writing on the subject of psychiatric history in Communist Yugoslavia. He has held postdoctoral fellowships at the Chemical Heritage Foundation (Philadelphia) and the University of Pittsburgh’s World History Center. He works broadly on the global history of health and medicine and has published the coedited volumes Psychiatry in Communist Europe (Palgrave, 2015) and Health and Society: Critical Perspectives (Oxford University Press, 2016). He currently holds a Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada Insight Development grant to study the global advertising of psychiatric medications. Frank W. Stahnisch received his doctoral degree from the Institute for the History of Medicine at the Free University of Berlin (Germany). He works as a full professor in the Department of History and the Department of Community Health Sciences at the University of Calgary (Canada), where he also holds the endowed AMF/Hannah Professorship in the History of Medicine and Health Care. He is the author of Medicine, Life and Function and Ideas in Action; coeditor, with Dorothy Porter, of Trading Zones and Boundary Work in the History of Medicine and Medical Humanities; and coeditor, with Guel Russell, of Forced Migration in the History of 20th Century Neuroscience and Psychiatry. Audra J. Wolfe is a writer, editor, and historian based in Philadelphia. Her first book, Competing with the Soviets: Science, Technology, and the State in Cold War America (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2012) was awarded the Forum for the History of Science in America’s Philip J. Pauly Book Prize. Her articles have appeared in both scholarly and more popular venues, including Slate, the Guardian, and the Atlantic. Her next book, Freedom's Laboratory: The Cold War Struggle for the Soul of Science, is forthcoming from Johns Hopkins University Press.

CONTRIBUTORS

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David Wright is professor of history and Canada Research Chair in the History of Health Policy at McGill University. He is the author and coeditor of ten books and three dozen peer-reviewed articles and chapters, primarily on the history of disability, the history of children’s hospitals, and transnational themes in the history of medicine. His Downs: The History of a Disability won the 2013 Dingle Prize from the British Society for the History of Science.

INDEX

Academy of Sciences of the Soviet Union, 104, 106, 107–8, 111; Institute of Genetics, 100, 111 accreditation, 16, 17, 24 Africa, 3, 6–7, 9–10, 12, 16–17, 27, 44, 48, 52–54, 187, 223; Central, 47–48, 50, 53, 55, 57; East, 16, 39, 154; North, 154; South, 30, 181, 187; West, 55 Amazon, 9, 31–32, 37, 42–44, 46 American Anthropological Association (AAA), 166–67, 170, 253 American Cancer Society (ACS), 87, 93, 227 American Dermatoglyphics Association (ADA), 71–73, 76 American Society of Human Genetics, 71, 135, 137 anthropology, 44, 62–66, 71–73, 160–79; action, 165–66, 168, 170, 177–78; physical, 62, 65, 68, 73, 75, 165; sociocultural, 162–63, 168; urgent, 3–4, 10, 13, 160–63, 166–79, 248 Argentina, 151, 155, 222 Asia, 2–3, 6–7, 12, 16, 19, 48, 52–53, 146, 149, 152, 154, 156–58; East, 61, 64, 70, 76,

223; South, 16–18, 20–21, 26, 29, 202; Southeast, 20, 65; West, 27 Australia, 24, 222–23 Austria, 131, 138, 143, 222 Austro-Hungarian Empire, 138, 140 barefoot doctors, 78, 80, 83, 85, 96, 232 Beijing, 61, 64, 85–87, 90–91, 94; Beijing Ritan Hospital, 84–85 Berlin, 106, 118–19, 131–33, 135–37, 141, 208 Berne criteria, 187 Bethesda, 133, 135, 139 Bettolo, Marini, 41, 43–46, 215 Biocca, Ettore, 41, 44–46 biochemistry, 1, 3–4, 84, 91–92, 109, 138 biodiversity, 147, 157, 181 Biological Sciences Curriculum Study (BSCS), 146–48, 150–59 biology, 11–12, 69, 73, 97, 107, 116, 118, 125, 137, 140, 147–150, 154, 161, 164, 199; cancer, 84; conservation, 181, 183–84, 193; education, 48, 52, 146, 149, 154–55, 157–58; experimental, 80, 84; human, 81, 96, 168; microbiology, 39, 41, 63,

309

310

INDEX

110–11; molecular, 1, 3, 10, 83, 90, 151, 197, 199; population, 162, 180–81, 183–85, 187–88, 190, 192 biomedical research, 31, 33, 38–39, 41–42, 45, 81, 83, 90, 92, 132, 134, 139–40 birds, 10, 164, 182, 191–92, 252, 255 blood, groups, 61, 65–66, 72, 75, 221; samples, 42, 80–81, 93–94, 96, 178 Boggs, Stephen, 170 Borowy, Iris, 49, 53 Bovet, Daniel, 8–9, 31–33, 36–46 brain drain, 8, 16–18, 22, 24–29, 226 brain gain, 8, 128–31, 134, 145, 226 Brazil, 9, 32, 40–46, 151, 155, 212 Breslau, 132–33, 136 cadre, 9, 25, 83, 85, 124, 231 Campbell, T. Colin, 79, 81, 92–97 Canada, 8, 16, 18, 20–24, 26–30, 129–31, 133, 144–45, 223 cancer, 4, 9, 78–93, 95–98, 226, 228–29; research, 9, 79, 80–83, 85–93, 95, 97; researchers, American, 80–81, 84–86, 89; researchers, Chinese, 78, 87, 91, 93, 97 Carneiro, Paulo Berrêolo, 41–43 Centers for Disease Control (CDC), 47, 50, 53–55, 57–60 Center for the Study of Man, 175–78 Central Committee of the Communist Union, 100, 124 Charles University, 117, 120 Chemical Bond Approach, 148, 150 chemistry, 3, 7, 36–38, 41, 43–45, 92, 107, 148–49 Chen Junshi, 92–97 China, 4, 9, 12–13, 61–92, 64–65, 68–76, 78–82, 84, 87–98, 104, 150, 157, 196–97, 226–27, 230 China Study, 82, 95, 97 Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences (CAMS), 85, 89, 93 Chinese Dermatoglyphics Association (CDA), 72–73, 224 Chisholm, Brock, 51–53 Cold War, 1, 3, 8–9, 11, 13, 40, 42, 87,

99–102, 107, 112–14, 149, 163, 197; and decolonization, 31, 33, 44; East, 115, 127 Colombia, 151, 155 colony, 6, 8, 18, 32–33, 37, 42, 52, 211–12; colonialism, 7, 19, 31–33, 39, 42, 45, 155, 158, 161–62, 170, 74, 212; colonialism in Japan, 64–65; decolonization, 2–3, 5–6, 8, 12, 31–33, 39–41, 45–46, 163, 178; neo-colonialism, 81, 98, 174–75; postcolonialism, 6, 8, 12–13, 16, 32–33, 39, 48–49, 147, 158, 169, 188 Columbia University, 88–89, 134–39, 230 commercialization, 79, 82 Committee on Scholarly Communication with the People’s Republic of China (CSCPRC), 87, 91 Communicable Disease Center. See Centers for Disease Control (CDC) Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU), 100, 107, 112; Central Committee of the CPSU (CC CPSU), 100, 108, 124 conservation, environmental, 3–4, 7, 10, 12–13, 111, 161, 175, 178, 180–93; cultural, 163–64 Conservation Biology, 185, 189 Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES), 180–81, 185–89, 191, 193; CITES Conference of the Parties, 187, 189 critical species, 185, 190, 192 Cultural Revolution, 72, 78, 80, 82–83, 88, 228; cancer research during, 85–86, 90, 92–93, 97–98 Cummins, Harold, 62, 64–66, 68–71, 73–76 curare, 4, 9, 31–33, 37–38, 40–43, 44–56 Current Anthropology, 165–67, 170–71, 175, 177–78 Czechoslovakia, 11, 101–2, 105, 109–10, 117, 120, 125–26, 131, 223, 233; sexology, 117, 120–122, 124–26 Darwin, Charles, 1, 3, 165, 195 democracy, 48, 113, 149, 155 dermal ridge, 13, 63–64, 66–69, 71–72, 75–76, 219, 223–24

INDEX dermatoglyphics, 3, 13, 48, 62–76, 222–24; nationality dermatoglyphics, 62, 64, 72–75 Dickson, James, 150 DNA, 10, 13, 63, 72 Eastern Bloc, 100–101, 104–5, 107, 109–10, 112–13, 117 ecology, 1, 10–14, 109–11, 151, 155, 161–62, 177, 181, 183, 185; human, 164–65 economic development, 10, 20, 48–55, 58–60, 169, 177 economic reform, 80, 82, 88, 92, 98 elephant, 67, 181, 187–88, 256 Egypt, 33, 108–9, 157 epidemiology, 9, 47, 55, 79–85, 87–94, 96–98, 136–37 endangered species, 13, 180–81, 185–86, 190, 192, 255 ethnology, 43, 73, 120, 165 eugenics, 2–3, 7, 74, 136–37 Europe, 2, 4, 9, 12, 20, 32, 37, 42, 52–53; Central, 100–102, 104–6, 111, 223; Eastern, 3. 7, 11, 101, 103–6, 108–9, 112, 223 extinction, 4–5, 13, 173, 175, 180–82, 184–87, 189, 192, 254, 257; extinct species, 13, 180, 184–85, 191, 247 Filho, Chagas, 41, 43 Finger Prints, Palms and Soles, 64–65, 68–69 fingerprint, pattern, 61–62, 65–69, 70, 72–74, 219; index, 66, 68–70 Fleicshmann, Marty, 149 forced migration, 128–32, 134, 138, 140, 144–45 Ford Foundation, 22, 150, 158, 244 foreign medical graduate (FMG), 20–21, 24, 28 foreign-trained physicians, 16, 20, 26, 28, 29 Fourneau, Ernest, 34–36, 38, 40, 208 France, 8, 33, 35, 37, 42, 52, 109, 140 Frankfurt, 133, 135, 137, 141 Freud, Sigmund, 138–39 Furuhata Tanemoto, 65–66, 68–69, 75, 221–22

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genetics, 3, 42, 63, 71, 74–76, 80, 109, 118, 135, 150; diversity, 74–75, 220; human, 63–64, 74, 137; medical, 62, 71, 73, 76, 137, 223; Mendelian, 15, 108, 195; psychiatric, 129, 136–37; relationships, 68, 72–76; researchers, 11, 73 Geneva Summit, 103–4, 112 genomics, 63, 72, 76–77, 97, 224 Germany, 33, 35, 42, 116, 118, 128–29, 131, 138, 141–43, 151, 223; East Germany, 105–6, 110, 116, 119–20; West Germany, 118, 151 German Research Institute for Psychiatry, 136–37, 141 Goldstein, Kurt, 129–30, 134–35, 140–43 Goodwin, Harold, 148 Great Britain, 8, 15–21, 24, 26–27, 29–30, 81, 151 Great Stalin Plan for the Transformation of Nature, The, 100, 104–5, 108–9, 111 Grobman, Arnold, 146, 150–56, 158, 243 Grundfest, Harry, 139 Han, 62, 73–74 Harvard University, 130, 139, 143 Hong Kong, 146, 155 Hungary, 101, 110, 223, 233 Huxley, Julian, 7, 8, 198 Hynie, Josef, 117, 125 impregnation. See praegung India, 6, 12, 52, 109, 148, 157, 162–63, 169, 172–74, 177–78, 223; physicians trained in, 8, 15–30 Indonesia, 25, 52, 151, 223 Institute of Genetics, 100, 111 International Biological Program (IBP), 11–12, 42, 100, 109–12, 161–63, 167–68, 177–79, 232, 248, 251; Human Adaptability arm, 162, 168–69 International Council of Scientific Unions (ICSU), 7, 12, 99, 102–3, 105, 107, 109, 112–13, 232 International Dermatoglyphics Association (IDA), 70–73, 76, 223

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International Geophysical Year (IGY), 11–12, 100, 105–6, 109–10, 112–13, 115, 163, 167, 177, 232 International Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN), 180–84, 186–92; IUCN Red List, 186, 190, 192–93 International Union of Biological Sciences (IUBS), 11, 109–11 invertebrates, 190–91 Iron Curtain, 70, 113–16 Israel, 109, 151, 155, 223 Italy, 8, 11, 31–32, 39–42, 44, 91, 110, 211 Italian Higher Institute of Health, 9, 31, 38, 42, 44, 46 Japan, 5–7, 61–62, 64–66, 68–69, 151, 153, 177, 196–97, 219–20, 222–23 Jiaotong University School of Medicine. See Shanghai Second Medical School Johnson, Lyndon B., 53, 54, 244 Journal of the Indian Medical Association (JIMA), 17, 19, 21, 25–27, 29 Kallmann, Franz Joseph, 129–30, 137, 140, 142 Kanazawa Medical University, 65–66, 68 Karve, Irawati, 169, 172, 174 Kandel, Eric R., 129–30, 133, 135, 138–40, 142 Keshan disease, 93–94 Khrushchev, Nikita, 103, 106, 112; Khrushchev’s thaw, 100, 113 Korea, 65, 68–70; Korean War, 139 Kovda, Viktor, 11, 104–5, 107–9, 111 Kubo Takeshi, 65, 68 Kyoto, 187–88 Lande, Russell, 185–86, 189 Latin America, 3, 7–8, 12, 41, 144, 149, 155, 158 Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 160–61, 166–67, 176–78 Li Bing, 9, 84–85, 87–88, 96 Li Junyao, 87–88, 93 Liberia, 151, 177 Lin County, 79, 84–86, 89–91, 227 linguistics, 62, 65, 162, 165, 177

London, 18–19, 30, 184, 188 Lysenko, Trofim D., 100, 104–5, 111, 228; Lysenkoism, 100, 104, 108 Mace, Georgina, 183–89, 191 Mace-Land criteria, 187–89 malaria, 49 Málek, Ivan, 109–11 mammals, 182–83, 191–92, 255 Mao Zedong, 83–88 Marotta, Domenico, 38–40, 210 mathematics, 148–49 May, Robert, 188, 191–92 Mayer, William, 154, 158 Mead, Margaret, 168 measles, 47, 50, 53, 55, 57, 59 medicine, forensic, 62, 115; legal, 61–62, 64–66, 68, 219 Mexico, 109, 155, 223 Midlo, Charles, 62, 64–66, 68, 70, 73, 76 minzu, 62, 73–74 modernization, 9, 12, 48–49, 52, 57–58, 147, 156, 162–63, 169, 244; of China, 82, 88 Montalenti, Giuseppe, 11, 100, 109–10 Moscow, 84, 103, 105–6, 112 Munich, 133, 136–37, 141, 208 Museum of Man, 176–78 Namibia, 187–88 National Cancer Institute (NCI), 79, 89–91, 93–94 National Health Service (NHS), 16, 18–20, 23, 26, 29 National Institutes of Health (NIH), 130, 132–35, 137–40 National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), 132, 135, 137–40 National Science Foundation (NSF), 22, 150, 153, 158 natural sciences, 3, 7, 10, 111; Department of, 11, 107 Nazism, 63, 128–29, 131, 136–39, 141, 143–44 neurology, 119, 128–29, 131–36, 138–44 neuropathology, 131, 133, 135–37, 140–41 neurophysiology, 131, 133–34, 138–40, 142, 153

INDEX neuroscience, 4, 128–30, 132–44 Neuroscience Research Program, 134–35 New York City, 7, 30, 134, 136–43, 188 NGOs, 186, 188–89 Nixon, Richard, 78, 80, 87, 226 Nobel Prize, 9, 31, 39, 41, 91, 138 Normalization era, 124–126 oncogenes, 78, 80, 83, 87, 90 palm pattern, 61–62, 64, 66, 69–70, 74, 219 Paris, 33–34, 36, 38, 41, 43, 107, 111, 138, 213 Pasteur Institute, 31, 33–36, 41–43; Therapeutic Chemistry Lab of, 33–36 Pavlov, Ivan P., 104–5, 120 pedophilia, 119–21 Petrusewicz, Kazimierz, 109–11 pharmaceutical companies, 11, 33–35, 42–43, 46, 81 Philippines, 92, 151, 177 physical sciences, 7–8, 148, 161, 163–66, 168, 197 Physical Sciences Study Committee (PSSC), 148, 150 physics, 3, 5, 7–8, 43, 148–49, 228 plants, 37–38, 41, 43–46, 95, 97, 180–81, 190–91, 193, 251 Poland, 89, 101–3, 105–6, 109–11, 116, 131, 233 Polish Academy of Sciences (PAN), 103, 106, 109 population viability assessment (PVA), 189, 192 post-Sputnik period, 12, 147, 149, 151 praegung, 119, 120 Prague, 11, 114, 117, 120, 131, 133; Prague Spring, 134 psychiatry, 16, 116, 119–23, 126, 128–41, 143–45 psychoanalytic theory, 130–31, 139 psy-ence, 116, 121, 123 Public Law 480 (PL-480), 170–71, 174, 253 race, 7, 13, 20–21, 62–66, 68–71, 75–77, 136, 201, 220, 222, 224; difference, 63, 69, 223; groups, 6, 21–13; racial identity,

313

63–64, 219; policy, 211–12; segregation, 4, 16, 211; variance, 64–66, 69 Red Data Books (RDB), 180, 182–86, 191, 255 Reining, Priscilla, 171–72, 174–75 reptiles, 182, 191, 255 Rhône-Poulec, 33–34, 36–38, 40, 209 Ripley, S. Dillon, 160–67, 171, 173, 175–78, 239, 250, 252 Rockefeller Foundation, 38, 132, 148, 150, 152–53, 158, 244 Ruedin, Ernst, 136–37 salvage, 160–63, 167–69, 172–73, 178–79, 248 schizophrenia, 136–37 Schmitt, Francis O., 134–35 Seal, Ulie, 183–84 Second World War, 2, 6, 31, 44, 61, 144, 160 selenium, 93–94 Sexological Institute, 11, 117, 120, 126 sexology, 4, 11, 115–17, 120–22, 124–27 sexuality, 11, 114–23, 125 Shanghai, 84, 89–91; Shanghai Second Medical University, 62, 73 Shimla, 172–73, 175, 178 Sino-American exchange, scientific, 79–81, 87–89, 97 smallpox eradication, 1, 4, 9–11, 47–55, 57–60 Smallpox and its Eradication, 59–60 Smallpox Control and Measles Eradication Program (SMP), 47, 55, 57–59 Smithsonian Institution, 10, 160–67, 170–72, 174–78, 183, 222, 248, 253; Bureau of American Ethnology (BAE), 160, 164–65, 167, 248; Department of Anthropology, 164–65, 175; Office of Anthropology, 164, 171, 175, 249 sociology, 16, 115–16, 142, 144, 161–62, 169, 172–73, 178, 181 soil science, 107–8 South America, 9, 31, 39–42, 44, 46, 52, 71, 223 Soviet Union, 2, 7, 48, 52, 100–112, 150, 157, 233; Sovietization, 104, 112–13; Soviet science, 99, 104–5, 108–9, 111–12, 147

314

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Species Survival Commission (SSC), 183–84, 188, 191, 255 Species Survival Network (SSN), 186, 188–89 Sputnik. See post-Sputnik period Stalin, Joseph, 101, 103, 112, 116 Stuart, Simon, 186–88 susceptible species, 172, 190–91 Symposium sexuologicum pragense, 114–15, 117, 124 Taipei, 152, 156 Taiwan, 65, 91, 151–53, 156, 158 Tax, Sol, 161–63, 165–68, 170–71, 173, 175–78, 250 The Asia Foundation (TAF), 148–50, 152–53, 155–58, 244, 247 Third World, 81, 107, 155 Times of India, 22, 26–27, 29–30 tobacco, 41, 79 Tokyo, 173–75, 178 Toronto, 27, 71, 188 Traditional Chinese Medicine, 87, 97 triradius, 69–70 twin studies, 71, 136–37 Ueno Skōkichi, 61, 63–64, 68, 75, 219 University of Chicago, 165–66, 171, 185 United Kingdom, 8, 18–19, 24, 26–27, 109–10, 128 United Nations, 7, 16, 29, 39, 103, 108, 111, 113, 157, 196–97; United Nations Education, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO), 4, 7, 10–12, 32, 39, 42–43, 45–46, 99–103, 106–9, 111–13, 150, 158, 196–97, 232–33 United States of America, 2, 6–10, 226, 230, 243; cancer research in, 78–82, 87–92, 94, 96, 98, 109–10; émigré psychiatrists and neurologists in, 129–31, 133, 136–37, 139, 142, 144–45; environmental

conservation, 181, 185–88, 196; Indian physician migration, 16, 20–24, 26–30, 44; international biology education and, 146–49, 152–54, 156–58; international smallpox eradication, 47–48, 50–54, 68; urgent anthropology, 168, 170–72 United States Agency for International Development (USAID), 53–54, 59, 148, 150, 152, 157–58, 247 United States Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), 149–50, 157–58, 244–45, 247 Uruguay, 46, 155 USSR, 102, 104, 107–8, 223 vaccine, 39, 49, 51–52, 55 Version Tropicale, 154–55 vertebrates, 190 Vienna, 132–33, 138–40 virus, 60, 80–81, 83, 91 vulnerable species, 185, 190, 192 Waddington, Conway H., 100, 109–10 Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research, 165, 167, 171, 248–50 White, William, 47, 53, 58–60 whorl/loop index, 68–69 World Health Assembly (WHA), 48–49, 51–53, 59 World Health Organization (WHO), 9, 16, 29, 32, 39, 47, 50–55, 57, 59–60, 126; 196 Smallpox Eradication Program (SEP), 53, 58–59 Yale University, 164, 170 Zhang Haiguo, 13, 62, 73–76 Zhou Enlai, 84–85, 88, 228 Zimbabwe, 187, 190 zoology, 33, 68, 184