The Bio-Politics of the Danube Delta: Nature, History, Policies 9780739195154, 9780739195147

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The Biopolitics of the Danube Delta

The Biopolitics of the Danube Delta Nature, History, Policies

Edited by Constantin Iordachi and Kristof van Assche

LEXINGTON BOOKS

Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Lexington Books An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowman.com 16 Carlisle Street, London W1D 3BT, United Kingdom Copyright © 2015 by Lexington Books All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Library of Congress Control Number: 2014951488 ISBN: 978-0-7391-9514-7 (cloth) ISBN: 978-0-7391-9515-4 (electronic) ™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992. Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Acknowledgmentsix Introduction: Nature, Culture, and the Biopolitics of the Danube Delta Kristof Van Assche and Constantin Iordachi

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Part I: PHYSICAL LANDSCAPE

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1 Physical Landscape: Distribution of the Vegetation within the Danube Delta Jenică Hanganu, Mihai Doroftei, Ion Sârbu, and Nicolae Ştefan

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2 The Impact of the Hydrological Regime on the Diversity of Natural Habitats in the Danube Delta Erika Schneider

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3 The Importance of Danube Delta Reed Beds— for the Environment and for Use by Humans Jenică Hanganu and Mihai Doroftei

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4 The Danube Delta: Lessons Learned from Nature Restoration Projects Erika Schneider

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Part II: HISTORICAL LANDSCAPE

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5 Recent Development of the Danube Delta: Evaluation of Existing Cartographic Documents Nicolae Panin and Willem Overmars

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6 Various Approaches to the Danube Delta: From Maps to Reality Ştefan Constantinescu

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Part III: CULTURAL-POLITICAL LANDSCAPE

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7 Pirates, Fish and Tourists: The Life of Post-Communist Sulina Petruţa Teampău and Kristof Van Assche

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8 (In)Accessible Land: The Changing Practice and Regulation of Gardening in the Reed Beds of Ukraine’s Danube Delta Tanya Richardson

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9 Fishing Traditions among Old Believers in the Danube Delta: Survival Strategies During the 19th Century Alexander Prigarin

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10 Romanians and Lippovans in Sulina: Prismatic Identifications and Contexts for Generating Cultural Comparison Cosmina Timoce

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11 Traditional Medicine and its Evolution in Southern Bessarabia Natalia Serebriannikova

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12 Birds, Fish and the Traumatic Nature of the Swamp: Concepts of Nature in Regards to the Romanian Danube Delta Kristof Van Assche, Sandra Bell, and Petruţa Teampău

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Part IV: Policy/Planning Landscape

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13 Some Aspects of Water Management and Land Reclamation in the Danube Delta Bart Schultz

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14 Evolution of Policies and Institutions for Conservation of the Ukrainian Danube Delta Paul Goriup and Natasha Goriup

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15 Towards a Master Plan: Support for Sustainable Development in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Iulian Nicherşu

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16 Integrated Management of the Lower Danube River: Experiences with the Application of Dutch Policy Concepts and Interactive Planning Methods Joanne Vinke-de Kruijf, Hans Th. A. Bressers, and Denie C. M. Augustijn

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Contents

17 Circumscribing Locals: Transformations of Knowledge/Power and the Governance of the Danube Delta Kristof Van Assche, Martijn Duineveld, Raoul Beunen, and Petruţa Teampău

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Index431 About the Authors

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Acknowledgments

This volume is the result of a collaborative research project initiated and coordinated by Constantin Iordachi, Central European University (CEU) Budapest, and Kristof van Assche, University of Alberta, Canada, under the aegis of Pasts, Inc. Center for Historical Studies, CEU, Budapest, Hungary, and Silk Road Research, Arnhem, the Netherlands. We would like to thank Monika Nagy, Esther Holbrook and Jean Tee for their editorial assistance.

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Introduction

Nature, Culture, and the Biopolitics of the Danube Delta Kristof Van Assche and Constantin Iordachi Deltas have fascinated and challenged people for ages. More specifically, they have fascinated and challenged the powers that be. River mouths are naturally strategic places for both trade and politics; they are gateways to the hinterlands and the starting points of long-distance travel by sea.1 Yet, they are also often formidable obstacles to human settlement. Large river mouths are usually surrounded by vast marshy areas. They can’t all be successfully reclaimed as is, for instance, the case in Holland; nor can all be used as natural buffer for an island-empire, as was the case with Venice in centuries past. Deltas can be inaccessible, especially when rivers divide themselves across many meandering arms, and the marshes can offer a refuge to “unwanted” elements of society. No wonder an authoritarian leader such as Saddam Hussein decided to get rid of the ethnic complexity caused by the deltas of the Tigris and Euphrates by draining them, thus reclaiming these lands as fully accessible and controllable, yet shriveled territories. Only recently, starting in the early twentieth century, have travelers and scientists alike begun to notice the special role and unique beauty of the planet’s deltas, attributing an “ecological” value to them (Cameron, Matless 2011; Ayres 2012). Marietta Pallis, an English ecologist who traveled to the Danube Delta at the beginning of the twentieth century, marveled at its myriad of marshlands, especially the floating fens and the floating reed beds (Pallis 1916; see also Cameron, Matless 2003). Almost concurrently, the Romanian scientist Grigore Antipa was to point out the economic importance of fish stocks; in the interwar period, he authored a plethora of studies underlining the Danube Delta’s ecological complexity and the abundance of resources it held (Antipa 1915, 1933, 1941: for a synthetic view on his work, see Antipa 1938). Elsewhere in Europe, deltas began to be looked at xi

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through a similar lens: Spain’s Ebro Delta, used intensively for centuries, and France’s Camargue were gradually re-evaluated as precious wild natural landscapes (Pritchard 2004). Throughout the twentieth century, travel, art, and scientific accounts rooted in the Romantic tradition produced an exotic image of “natural” delta areas (McDermott 1976; O’Connor 2004; Ayres 2012). These discourses were linked to a more general fascination with the challenge to conceptual and spatial boundaries that wetlands represented (Hurd 2001; Howarth 1999). Although, to date, deltas have been heavily exploited for their resources and habitable areas, we contend here that the cultural complexity that invariably characterized them has remained in the shadows. The view of deltas as repositories of ecological diversity has been further substantiated in the last few decades as, in reaction to a growing global environmental crisis, humans crave the unspoiled. The growing dominance of green perspectives towards deltas has meant, in many cases, an unfortunate backlash of sentiment: human use of these areas is suddenly seen as an intrusion. Meanwhile, the cultural complexity of the communities within—which both mark and, often, shape these areas—has been largely neglected (Ayres 2012). Such a blind-sighted approach to the consideration of our planet’s deltas has, in fact, contributed to the present day difficulty in governing these areas. For instance, how might those local inhabitants—who are not supposed to live in certain regions—have a say in their environment’s management (Watts 2004; cf Wolf 2010)? Certainly, every delta is different and every case of human communion with nature offers a distinct combination of forces and counter-forces. In Western Europe by the twentieth century, due to long histories of ethnic and cultural homogenization and industrialization under the institutional structure of the modern nation-state, the cultural complexity that used to characterize deltas simply wasn’t a palpable reality. In that region, as in other places, the main perceived developmental tension was between largescale techno-scientific transformation and landscape preservation. When compared to Renaissance-era maps, the Rhine, Schelde, and Weser Deltas are barely recognizable today. Still, attempts to reduce massive pressure towards development are today framed as “conservation.” Certainly, saving a Flemish village near Antwerp from harbor expansion might be presented as conservation, however, it should be acknowledged that the type of economy such a village represents cannot be equated to primeval forms of land use by traditional groups. If one adopts an ecological point of view and regards people and animals as integral parts of socio-ecological systems, then deltas provide primary testing grounds for the study and formulation of policy proposals on the issue of sustainability. Deltas are nodes in larger ecological networks. Internally, they

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can be regarded as highly interconnected ecological networks (Paolo et al 2011). This dense interweaving effects human living conditions and sets limits on possible modes of action regarding these regions. The volume at hand focuses on one particular delta region: the Danube Delta, the mouth of the Danube River. We believe that this case study offers a privileged vantage point, highlighting the nature of, and the problems faced by, other deltas, too. The Danube River has crossed through or demarcated European empires throughout modern time. As a result, it has been disputed, razed, plundered, reclaimed, and used as refuge by a range of human communities of various ethnicities. Claudio Magris’ magisterial kaleidoscopic book entitled Danube captured the way in which the strings of places the river connects to have been affected by the Danube’s multifaceted role: as a border to the Roman Empire, as a central artery to the Habsburg Empire, as subject of literature and myth, as a site of complex identities, or as an area of experimenting with novel social and physical engineering campaigns (Magris 1989; original Italian edition: 1986). Small scales and large scales, microcosms and macrocosms all link up in intricate ways that can only be explained by the influence of the river and the people it connects or divides. Throughout its history, the Danube Delta served as a contested borderland between rival empires, an interstate border, a European border, a Soviet “border” region, an ecological reservation, a touristic paradise, and much more (Beattie 2010). As a delta, it has washed sediment from across Europe into the Black Sea since ancient times. Due to the magnitude of this process, a vast complex of marshes has originated. A mosaic of lakes, freshwater and brackish marshes, reed seas, riverbanks, old coastal ridges and dunes, and fossilized river arms, the Danube Delta’s potential in terms of habitation has always been present. Indeed, the Delta’s landscape has been used for centuries—probably millennia (Carrozza et al. 2012; Beattie 2010)—and its perennial flora fluctuations have always been compensated by an abundant supply of fish. The harshest authority of all, the nature of Danube Delta itself imposed its rough “laws” on those who dared to live there: traditionally, dwellings were bound to be temporary due to regular flooding and the lack of durable building materials; the diet was fish-based, as vegetables, fruits, and potatoes could only be cultivated on small pockets of land; livestock had to be adapted to the free ranges of the marsh zones; transportation was primarily by boat and the routes taken—through a maze of interconnected channels—memorized. In antiquity, the Delta was strategically important because of its role regarding trade and its proximity to Greek Black Sea costal region, which would later be absorbed by Romans, the Byzantine and the Ottomans. Due to the Delta’s geographical location, lying at a crossroads of both trade and military routes, a variety of diverse groups settled there, living

xiv Introduction

together side by side, often without conflict. At times, certain groups would dominate the local economy—in Antiquity was the Greeks, while during Ottoman times the region attracted merchants of various stocks such as Greeks, the Jews, the Armenians, and so on. The profile of the local people and their social organization has changed repeatedly, just like the environment itself: for example, since the eighteenth century, Russian Old Believers have settled along the Delta in several waves (currently referred to as the Lipovani) bringing with themselves a more egalitarian fishing society. The ethnic boundaries between this group and the various Cossack groups that arrived at various times, from different corners of the Black Sea, can now hardly be defined. In mid-nineteenth century, the Crimean War fought between Russia and a European coalition made up of France, Great Britain, Sardinia and the Ottoman Empire led to the establishment of the European Commission of the Danube/Commission Européen du Danube (CED), which placed the lower Danube and the Delta under international control (Iordachi 2010). This innovative experiment in international law set into motion important changes, as local and international politics became highly interrelated. For several decades, the advantages of this tightly knit policy coordination, planning, engineering and rule of law along the Danube Delta were distinct. This period was short-lived, however. In addition, the CED’s influence could not be felt to the same extent in every part of the Delta. In nascent Romania, the Dobrogea region and the Danube Delta were initially regarded as a “suspicious” or even an unwanted area due to its lack of development, its ethnic diversity, and its transnational, cosmopolitan ties (Iordachi 2002). Gradually, however, the Danube Delta began to be valued both for its natural resources and its human diversity (Popescu 1900; Antipa 1915, 1933, 1941). In the early communist period, the region’s isolation made it a preferred location for prison camps. In addition, nationalization of industry, the campaign of forcefully setting up agriculture collectives, and other large-scale forced industrialization and urbanization projects were to drastically impact the ethno-cultural character of the region. The Danube Delta, thus, began to be re-evaluated in terms of its natural resources and its economic and touristic potential. This prompted communist authorities to build a string of elite and proletariat sea-resorts along the Dobrogean seacoast.2 Late in the communist regime, under the framework of socialist agrorevolutionary propaganda campaigns, attempts at reclamation became more systematic and numerous economic projects were implemented with the aim of fully exploiting the Delta’s natural resources. Nature, as a target theme, did not play a great role in decision-making processes regarding the Danube Delta for most of its history. However, in the 1980s, when the Romanian communist regime was geared up for an intensive

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exploitation of the Delta’s resources, a surge of interest in its wild, unspoiled, untamed, natural spots flared across Europe’s cultural and political stages. The delta, with its long history and great resources, was one area where the rest of Europe felt it could still preserve something of its wilderness, and this sentiment was certainly additionally inspired by the sheer vastness associated with its pristine landscapes (Pringle 1991). After the collapse of the communist regime, green perspectives started to dominate developmental plans for the Danube Delta and its governance. Due in part to its perceived sense of “wilderness” and the ecological richness mentioned earlier, this was also part of an international reaction to the massive environmental damage inflicted on the region by communist economic policy. Environmental activists and scientists deplored the fact that the Delta had been heavily polluted, fragmented, reclaimed and changed almost beyond recognition—to the point that its ecological value was on the brink of disappearance. At the same time, the Danube Delta’s cultural complexity was still not often fully acknowledged and the “development” side of sustainable local planning was not an appropriately integrated part of any of the significant policies.3 As elsewhere, the failure of governance to envision means to local development and sustainable resource use meant that development would either take place completely uncontrolled or totally dependent on elite networks. Much has been written on the Danube Delta throughout the last two decades, focusing mainly on the fields of natural science, environment, history, and politics. Yet, this rich literature is fragmentary and unbalanced in its coverage. Most scientific literature on the Danube Delta has been subsumed by the green perspectives that defined it as “nature,” regarding the human presence along the Danube as a “nuisance.” Science is never a neutral exercise and, knowingly or unknowingly, it contributes to the perpetuation of certain perspectives on places and issues. During the communist period, for example, even the most mundane scientific studies had an air of secrecy, due to the particular repressive and autarchic nature of the Romanian communist regime. Soil and water analyses were not openly discussed and results were sometimes not even circulated because of the supposed “strategic value” of the Delta but also because espousing a concrete position could make one responsible for its implications and thus politically vulnerable even regarding small details. Postcommunist scientific literature is usually either “Western” or Western-inspired and funded. These studies focus mostly on nature restoration, protection, bird tracking, and rare plant documentation, without paying comprehensive attention to the established role of human habitation and the centuries of trauma and conflict that razed village after village through modern history. These traumatic histories turned the Danube Delta into a kind of blank slate that can be reinterpreted easily as “nature” inviting projection (Van Assche et al. 2009).

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The existing work on people of the delta, as much as it exists, consists of rather bleak and often condescending depictions in popular literature. Romanian mainstream media routinely represents the delta as a lost place, a margin within the margin, and artistic representations in movies and literature reiterate the image of a harsh place where dreams are broken, pasts forgotten, and the future does not exist. Take Sulina, for example: it is a city between the sea and the marsh, which has been presented over and over again as “the end of the world,” a place of small crooks, devoid of law and order. Despite the current rhetoric on sustainable development, man and nature have rarely been considered together—an ecosystem that, as a whole, requires suitable combinations of conservation and development. In this volume, we argue that a clearer vision of a potential balance between nature and culture in the Delta can only be formed by knowing more about the role human beings play there. Further, this volume seeks to contribute to a shift in prevailing perspectives on the Danube Delta, in the hope that this may lead to the re-framing of both future research on, and policies for, the region. Perhaps this might even inspire similar approaches for other delta areas. Unlike other works on the topic, this book attempts to provide a comprehensive perspective on the Danube Delta, bringing together insights from natural sciences, social sciences, and the humanities. To capture the interwoven relationships that exist between nature, culture, and politics on the Danube Delta, we have employed the related concepts of biopolitics and eco-governance. As is well known, biopolitics has been invested over time with a multitude of overlapping or even antithetical meanings. By and large, biopolitics could refer to: (1) the totality of public policies pertaining to the application of biotechnology; (2) the public debates surrounding the sociopolitical consequences of biotechnology; (3) political advocacy arguing for the welfare of all forms of life on the planet; or (4) the multiple connections between politics and the life sciences, as “the bridge between politics and social sciences” (Boari 2005). The relationship between the two has recently been under the interdisciplinary scrutiny of natural and social scientists, as reflected in the establishment of specialized journals (such as Politics and the Life Sciences) and the growing number of publications in the field. In this volume, the concept of biopolitics we use stems mainly from the work of Michel Foucault, and defines a style of governance that regulates the population through the exercise of various forms and dimensions of political power on all aspects of human life. This is referred to as biopower (Foucault 2004). Focusing on “the whole complex of disciplines and practices addressing issues of health, reproduction, and welfare,” it enables social scientists to examine “the modern understanding of the human condition” (Dickinson 2004: 1–2). Foucault’s work has inspired the emergence of “governmentality”

Introduction xvii

as a new field of studies that deals with the new technologies related to governance in modern societies. Regarding biopolitics, it is specifically concerned with the relationship between power, population, and the environment (Caputo, Yount 1993; Simons 1995; Barry, Osborne, Rose 1996; on governance, see Dean 1999; Bratich, Packer, McCarthy 2003; Burchell, Gordon, Miller 1991). For Foucault, biopolitics marks a radical transformation of the discipline mechanisms that emerge at the end of the eightieth century. The new technologies of power associated with biopolitics aim at taking “control of life and the biological processes of man-as-species and of ensuring that they are not disciplined, but regularized.” The biopolitical apparatus includes “forecasts, statistical estimates, and overall measures . . . In a word, security mechanisms have to be installed around the random element inherent in a population of living beings so as to optimize a state of life” (Foucault 2003: 246–247). Foucault, thus, sees biopower as a new set of technologies of rule employed by modern states in order to control entire populations. In his view, biopower means exercising power over other bodies. It relates to the government’s concern with the life of the population and centers on the roles of discipline (“an anatomo-politics of the human body”) and regulatory controls (“a biopolitics of the population”). Foucault developed a holistic account of power; his definition of biopower refers to the totality and unity of human population and environment in a given territory. His conception of biopower has an important environmental component, referring to eco-politics in totalitarian or democratic societies. Although Foucault bequeathed an important role to the environment in his interpretative scheme, the relationship between power and environment in general, and between eco-politics and biopower in particular, remained underdeveloped in his work. In order to fill this gap, numerous theorists in the last two decades have applied Foucault’s concepts of biopower and governmentality to the analysis of the patterns of social regulation and interactions with the natural world (Agrawal 2005; Darier, Rutherford, and Luke in Darier 1999: 1–34, 37–62 and 121–151; Lemke 2002). This growing field of studies has been labeled eco-governmentality (thus, crediting Foucault’s legacy). Eco-governmentality is an integral part of the larger field of political ecology concerned with the complex manner in which political, economic, and social factors affect environmental issues. It focuses on how government agencies, in close collaboration with various producers of expert knowledge, construct “the environment” both as an object of knowledge and as a sphere of interaction between the population and the environment that allows the ruling power to manage the lives of its citizens. In this volume, we apply this theoretical perspective to the case study of the Danube Delta. The Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Administration currently governs the region, often relying on scientific advice from the Danube

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Delta National Institute for Research and Development. These agencies, in cooperation with foreign partners, have managed to complete important projects in the Delta: a substantial area of wetlands has been restored, fishing has been regulated, development has—at least—been partly constrained, and many key bird species are on the comeback, as well. On the other hand, at this point, the fish fauna might have actually been so invariably altered by successive waves of human intervention that a return to the “original” state is impossible. In addition, many locals are dissatisfied with both fisheries’ management and with related developmental regulations, claiming that it is nowadays almost impossible to make a living in the Delta. Many are considering further migration. Who decides what is considered sustainable development for the Danube Delta? In other words, who will shape the future of the delta and how will they do it? What does an ideal vision for its future contain? Which evolution is desirable, and again, for whom? Local residents clearly have a different perspective on this issue than the regional decision makers located in Tulcea or Sulina; likewise, the political elite in Bucharest and green NGOs, such as the World Wildlife Fund and the International Union for the Conservation of Nature, have their own views and priorities. To incorporate this multitude of actors and perspectives on the Danube Delta, we deliberately opted for a kaleidoscopic approach, one that may be missing the literary charm of Magris’ book, but still makes use of the opportunity to present the Delta in all its complexity, with all its players, confounding histories, governance puzzles, ecological diversity, and developmental issues. We shall not claim that we present here a fully-unified perspective on the Danube Delta, implementing a single, unified method to study the place, the people, and their issues. Rather, in line with Mikhail Bakhtin, we embrace the concepts of dialogical imagination and polyvocality (Bakhtin 1981). We posit that the best way to break a monolithic discourse is not to replace it with another monolith, but to give way to a polyphony of discourses, with voices that can react to each other and form harmonies, so that the whole ensemble becomes a new piece of music and a new unity that can emerge out of contrasting and interacting parts. In the case of the Danube Delta, the voices are those of the inhabitants, local and central authorities in Romania and Ukraine, and various European scientific communities and agencies. How can the ecological variation hiding under the name “delta” or “wetland” be defined or understood? In methodological terms, the study of delta regions is an exercise in inter- and trans-disciplinarity, blending natural sciences, social sciences, and humanities. Natural sciences are important not only in order to reveal what is ecologically valuable in a delta and why, but also to make us aware of the complexity of its ecosystem. This insight, in

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turn, can help not only in restoration efforts, where it is appropriate and possible, but also enable us to think anew about the place of man in this dynamic landscape and about the impact of old and new activities. History is equally important, especially since forgetting is both characteristic and problematic in this area. Systematic forgetting creates the blank slate that then appears as “nature.” Social sciences can give due attention to people, their cultures and economies, their hopes and desires. Last but not least, policy studies and project planning are also necessary to study previous policies and plans and to explore the ways to produce new ones that might be more sensitive, inclusive to the identity of the Danube Delta. The definition of nature is always a political exercise, thus, new policies for the delta ought to consider people and nature together in new ways. The aim and organization of this volume Against this backdrop, the aim of the current volume is to provide a forum for critical debate about sustainable development in delta areas, in general, and about the Danube Delta, in particular. An interdisciplinary effort on the part of historians, anthropologists, planners and environmental scientists, the volume is organized in four parts, focusing on the Danube Delta’s physical landscape, historical landscape, cultural-political landscape, and policyplanning landscape. In the first chapter, Jenică Hanganu, Mihai Doroftei, Ion Sârbu, and Nicolae Ştefan provide a systematic exploration of the topography of the Danube Delta, focusing on the way it has been moulded by water, turning into an incredibly diverse series of landscapes. The interplay between river branches and sea created floodplains, marshes, river levees, wet forests, dunes, salt marshes, islands and lakes. Recurring floods and changing sediment and nutrient loads add to the diversity and dynamism of landscapes. This variety of wetlands offers one of the best European “laboratories” for the study of wetland, marsh and aquatic vegetation. The authors discuss vegetation in the context of landscape types, explained in turn by the continuing forces of sedimentation and erosion. Erika Schneider also paints a vivid picture of the ecological variation that still exists in the Delta and of the ways in which dynamic forces create a mosaic across the landscape that remains recognizable. Her perspective takes water as the starting point, water creating environments that can be analyzed as ecosystems where plants and animals coexist. She pays attention to the way flows and regimes have changed under human influence, and how this intervention redefined many of these natural environments. Her analysis shows how sources of resilience are coupled with sources of vulnerability.

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Nutrient and water flows are never going to revert to their original state, as some forms of intrusion and disruption are impossible to erase. Along the same lines, elsewhere in this volume, Paul Goriup points out that the Danube Delta is a place rich in birds and fish, but also a place that should inspire protection policies based on the existing structure and variety of ecosystems and species. To illustrate the importance of vegetation and the deep interweaving of nature and culture in the Danube Delta, Jenică Hanganu and Mihai Doroftei focus on the Danube Delta Reed, a plant that has not received much attention—even if it is, by far, the dominant local species. Indeed, this reed is native to the Delta and has been used for centuries and cultivated throughout the ages; under communism, reed monocultures were even established in parts of the Delta. The chapter describes the different types of reed beds found in the Danube Delta, their floristic composition and distribution in relation to the type of substrate and hydrology. Hanganu and Doroftei evaluate the role the reed plays as a habitat for fish and wildlife, in terms of nutrient composition, and sediment trapping. The reed is used for roof thatching, cattle fodder, fence material, fuel, cellulose, and for hardboard products with important economical value for the local inhabitants and small businesses. Aspects of management practices and their influence on reed succession and conservation of biodiversity is also discussed. The story of one plant species and its management already effectively subverts perspectives on the Delta as a primeval landscape, an untouched ecosystem. In the other direction, it shows how attempts to tame and manage the Delta are bound to produce innumerable side-effects and uncertainties, given the size and complexity of the region and the forces of nature one engages with. In Erika Schneider’s chapter on ecological restoration, the intricate man/ nature interdependence in the Delta becomes even more explicit. Schneider points out how certain restoration projects are elaborated and implemented. She offers a fair assessment of the pros and cons of the chosen approaches. Clear ecological benefits are shown, as well as compatibility with human use in other parts of the Delta, but at the same time, her account emphasizes the need to monitor, evaluate and modify policies on a regular basis. Restoration can never be a return to an old situation that requires no further intervention. The whole surrounding landscape, its form and dynamics, has been altered so much, that each and every restoration attempt, as beneficial as it might be, produces a new and unexpected environment, with risks and opportunities for man and nature that cannot be fully anticipated. The image of a highly dynamic environment, in physical, economic, and cultural terms, is reinforced by the historical contributions to this book, grouped in part two of the volume. Nicolae Panin and Willem Overmars, in their geological analysis, and Ştefan Constantinescu, in his historical study on

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cartography, depict a landscape so young and dynamic that, in many cases, it has not even been accurately mapped out. They point out that villages are young and ephemeral, in constant flux based on the changing landscape, violent intrusions, or, quite simply, frequent migrations. Part three focuses on the Danube Delta’s cultural-political landscape. The Delta has never been a cozy, easy place to call home. Rather, it is an area inhabited mainly by fishermen, a few farmers, some middle-class traders in Sulina and Tulcea, and shepherds during the summer season. Higher-level political echelons have rarely heard the voices of its inhabitants. Van Assche, Sandra Bell, and Petruţa Teampău describe legacies of disempowerment and processes of marginalization, which are the partly unintended consequences of games at higher levels. They show how the forms of scientific knowledge that have played a role in its policy games usually focus on conservation or risk, without examining the image of the Delta—something that is simply assumed. For many local actors, “the Delta” did not exist before the green policies associated with the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority (DDBRA) took effect. Their dissatisfaction with this management organization and its power, which has dominated many aspects of local life, translated into dissatisfaction with “the Delta,” too. They also discovered that participatory approaches to the region often precipitate their own downfall. Under specific conditions, such as in the traumatized communities of the Romanian Delta, the governance process itself can create new images of nature and of the Delta, images that cannot be simply compared to ecological or economic interpretations. This is the case because the local narratives that emerge through efforts to gain local participation are only loosely connected to pre-existing “local” or “authentic” narratives and values. They are rather a sign and a product of resistance, of empowerment to resist imposed consensus. Biopolitics, including new forms using participatory rhetoric, can create and reinvigorate its own opposition. Despite its seemingly inhospitable living conditions, people have found ways to inhabit the tumultuous Danube Delta, to use its resources, to transform it in a physical sense but also culturally, by assigning meaning, creating rituals, and making it a symbolic home. One way this delta has been used was by embedding it within larger networks, making it a place that could be used and inhabited in combination with other places, resources, homes, and opportunities. Alexander Prigarin describes a network of old Lipovan fishermen and traders who have been able to navigate the Delta, avoiding international conflicts but also connecting Russia, Romania, and the Ottoman Empire in their activities. Similarly, as other authors point out in this book, the Greeks, Jews, and Armenians of Sulina and Tulcea used the Danube and the Delta as nodes in a larger network. Tanya Richardson focuses on recent strategies for resource use that involves larger networks; she describes how islands in the Ukrainian Delta were used and even created to serve as gardens for the

xxii Introduction

markets of Odessa and Kiev during the Soviet period, with entrepreneurial locals taking advantage of the good soil, climate, and the strong branding of these “southern” products (such as strawberries) in the Soviet Union. The contributions by Petruţa Teampău, Cosmina Timoce and Natalia Serebriannikova describe processes of human adaptation that can be more aptly termed “rooting,” grounding and localizing behavior. Memories, narratives of self, place-based rituals, all contribute to the weaving of a semiotic web of meanings that creates the unity between person and place, man and nature, and this, arguably, makes these places a home for individuals and communities. In her study of folk medicine in the Ukrainian Delta and the neighboring steppe, Serebriannikova demonstrates convincingly how resource use and the ongoing reproduction of the symbolic home are intricately interwoven. She shows how healing plants and minerals transfer meaning and power to the places they are found and vice versa, noting that this transfer of meaning can include whole communities and ethnic groups. Overall, in the chapters by Serebriannikova, Teampău and Timoce, the landscape, the village, the ethnic groups, and the houses become interwoven aspects of local definitions of “home.” It is this interweaving, embodied in (ritualized) dwelling, narrating, and resource use that more deeply grounds the people of the Delta to it. The fourth and last part of the volume is devoted to the dense policyplanning landscape of the Danube Delta. In the first chapter of this section, Bart Schultz focuses on aspects of water management and land reclamation in the Delta. He reflects on the numerous communist-era plans to reclaim a significant part of the Delta for agricultural production. The prime example of integrated delta development in regards to agricultural production was the Netherlands. In the period 1980–1986, Schultz was involved in a joint research program with various Romanian research and development institute counterparts. His experiences highlight how little influence local residents had on decision-making, how little attention was being paid to environmental quality (in any sense), and also how limited the engineering approach to the Delta was. Indeed, the plans described by Schultz are the most direct embodiment of ambitious biopolitics, of reshaping landscapes to control communities and societies at large. Ultimately, the plans failed by and large. Either they didn’t happen or the implemented elements were very disappointing and/ or very costly. Ironically, the authoritarian nature of the ambitious regime dashed many of their own ambitions: the relationships between scientists, engineers, bureaucratic managers and those in the higher echelons of politics were strained continuously by anxiety and distrust. Nobody dared to tell the truth, people could be replaced quickly, and long-term perspectives were hard to develop and sustain. In the next chapter, Iulian Nicherşu offers an overview of the new official policy plan on the Danube Delta. This plan offers a glimmer of hope that the

Introduction xxiii

biopolitics of the Delta is actually becoming more inclusive and that sustainable development can be developed with input from locals and from a wider array of scientists. Such policy plans might greatly benefit from the collaboration between local and foreign experts. Joanne Vinke-de Kruijf, Hans, Bressers, and Denie Augustijn present their experience with the application of Dutch policy concepts and interactive planning methods in the lower Danube. They present a case study in which integrated spatial plans for an area along the lower Danube River were developed as a pilot for the implementation of flood mitigation measures, in combination with wetland restoration and socio-economic development. It is argued that innovative, participatory projects, like those presented in the case study, may stimulate cooperation and interaction between actors at various levels, an experience that is still largely lacking in Romania’s and Ukraine’s water governance structure. The authors also imply that creating a proper link between such projects and the policy-planning landscape is challenging. They demonstrate that the import or transplant of policy measures, methods, and associated expertise is very tough. Governance is a coordinated whole, the result of a co-evolution of rules, roles, and expertise, and isolating one element from the original context and moving it into a new governance context is difficult, indeed. Such a scenario is likely to produce unanticipated effects. Measures and expertise serving one goal—e.g. renewing local democracy or improving environmental quality—can be captured by very different interests elsewhere. New expertise will have to fit existing discourses and new forms of participation will require a renegotiation of many roles and rules. Paul and Natasha Goriup examine the general evolution of nature conservation policies and institutions in the Ukrainian Danube Delta, beginning with the original focus on protection and research and moving on to the current situation, which involves a wide variety of resource and land use issues, as well as both national and international actors. They begin their Ukrainian Danube Delta conservation history in 1967, when a coastal strip of the Kilia branch mouth was declared a reserve (largely for its geomorphological importance) by the Ukrainian Soviet Republic’s Council of Ministers. Since that time, the protected area has grown steadily until it was declared a Biosphere Reserve by Ukraine in 1998. In February 1999, UNESCO included the site in the Romanian-Ukrainian Danube Delta Cross Border Biosphere Reserve. However, unlike Romania, a large part of the Danube Delta in Ukraine is not part of the Danube Biosphere Reserve, including some internationally important floodplain/wetlands lying to the west of the border with Moldova. As different levels (and branches) of local, regional and national government implement developmental schemes with little or no coordination, and as current protection measures are often not respected, maintaining the integrity of the Delta as an ecosystem proves nearly impossible. The authors make a

xxiv Introduction

good case for a broader understanding of the Delta’s ecosystem, encompassing an area larger than considered by other contributors to this book. This understanding links up with the chapters by Panin, Overmars and Constantinescu, whose analysis of old maps points in the same direction; the need to see the delta as including more floodplains and limans to the west and north. At the same time, Goriup and Goriup show that this larger ecosystem would require even more coordination and better integrated planning. They demonstrate, perhaps even stronger than other contributors, why this is very unlikely to happen and how late it is to restore the “original” delta. Rather than moving to dramatic conclusions, one can deduce from this analysis that, indeed, the Danube Delta and its socio-ecological system has been the product of evolving biopolitics for centuries. They posit that the realistic challenge ahead is to find a new way to accommodate uses and users, including also non-humans. In the final chapter of the book, Kristof Van Assche, Martijn Duineveld, Raoul Beunen, and Petruţa Teampău attempt to reconstruct the process of policy formation and its application for the Danube Delta, with an accent on the Romanian side. They focus on the interactions of power and knowledge in the formation, transformation, and implementation of policies on different scales. Special attention is devoted to various constructions of “the locals,” as well as to their absence and their silence in decision making. Through their research, the authors attempt to unveil additional reasons why one cannot turn back the clock, since that would imply returning to an “original” socio-ecological system, to configurations of power/knowledge that no longer exist, and the existence of which are currently made impossible by new power/knowledge configurations. In addition, their analysis shows (in line with many other contributions to this book) that moving forward has to be equally conscious of current configurations of rules and roles, of power and knowledge, and equally aware of processes of co-evolution. New plans might rely on forms of coordination that do not exist. The new forms of expertise built into these plans might also be recombined with entrenched expertise in ways that trigger unwanted effects. For instance, “locals” that are supposed to mitigate a perceived democratic deficit might be partly a product of old biopolitics, partly resistant to inclusion, and then partly excluded by the very studies and policies purported to include them. Cultures (in contrast to Soviet perceptions) are not species in the taxonomy of folk life—groups of people that have always been distinct, recognizable by their specific dress, food, and folk dance. In fact, it would be problematic to define cultures as immutable species that have to be protected when endangered. If people want to redefine themselves, then scientists should not and cannot force them to stay “authentic.” If they want to move out of a place, looking for better opportunities elsewhere, then they should be free to exercise such a right. Finding a balance between nature and culture in the

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Danube Delta cannot depend on forcing people to stay there and by imposing folkloristic stereotypes as established by scientists—western or otherwise. Many of the contributors to this book and—in all likelihood—many of our potential readers, have their distinct disciplinary interests and their own perspectives on what makes good environmental governance, and on how relationships between reservations and local residents work. Such differences in perspectives are an integral part of what defines scientific or public debate as well as being an essential part of any democratic polity or scientific community. We hope that the variety of perspectives offered here can enrich and deepen the ongoing debate on the future of the Danube Delta, and, more generally, on the governance of large preservations and the possibilities for sustainable development in complex natural and cultural environments. It might be all too commonplace to affirm that sustainable development means different things to different people and that all issues pertaining to communal life are ultimately political matters, nature included. Yet, we believe that the contributions collected in this volume can help elucidate both the social construction of “sustainability” and the need for more sustainable governance of deltas or, for that matter, any large area with ecological values. Biopolitics in, and for, the Danube Delta has to be unraveled if we wish to grasp a more realistic understanding of the kind of feasibility of sustainability and development that will lead to a genuine coexistence between man and nature. The rhetoric and politics of nature protection must be analyzed and understood for the sake of society as well as for the sake of nature protection itself, just as the rhetoric of law enforcement, democracy, and development must be analyzed if we are to improve those features that make a healthy society. In other words, both sides of the coin have to be demystified and deconstructed if we want to figure out how they can still fit on the same coin. Indeed, those actors who invoke or “utilize” the rhetoric of local democracy might, in practice, not be acting democratically minded themselves. At the same time, unilaterally favoring the visions and interests of local actors might threaten some of the gains nature protection policies have implemented in the last twenty years. The fine line between the two sides is indeed delicate, since law enforcement and laws on nature protection both run the risk of being manipulated to serve vested interests. This, however, should not be an excuse to impede new investigation and further discussion. We hope that the current volume is a step in the right direction, being that the contributions have been written by specialists who have likewise engaged in critical self-reflection on the strengths and limits of their own disciplinary perspective. What happens in the Danube Delta doesn’t stay in the Danube Delta. Not only does the Danube Delta interact with a larger geographical area, but many of the Delta-specific problems and issues discusses in this book are also faced by communities and ecologies elsewhere. Yet, while sharing common

xxvi Introduction

patterns, deltas offer their own, unique ecological complexity. The Danube Delta is a prime example of that complexity; in this area, many of the core sustainable development issues manifest themselves to the full extent of their prickliness, all spikes up. The Danube Delta can be thus regarded as a testing ground not only for nature conservation and restoration policies in highly pressured environments, but also for notions of democracy, local governance, and citizen participation; issues that have been touted for decades in the governance literature. In summary, this book argues that the Danube Delta’s developmental plans and policies need to incorporate a more complex image of places and communities. Our contributors discuss the Danube Delta’s history and future prospects from a range of angles, deconstructing the divergent and often competing values that vie for a role in shaping policy. This brings us to the question of process design for governance: the Danube Delta’s intricate policy puzzles illustrate just how futile the quest for a simple planning formula is and, in turn, how important the flexible experimentation with various institutional settings, policies, and plans is. A place like the Danube Delta requires a form of governance that can be constantly adjusted to new conditions, as part of an ongoing process of social learning. Such processes require the inclusion of multiple scientific perspectives, in close dialogue and cooperation with local actors and their visions. Certainly, divergent views, on-going debate, and even conflict will continue to be part and parcel of the new, envisaged open and more complex style of governance, but these are some of the forms a democratic process takes. Increased flexibility, hence adaptation and resilience, makes this “risk” for open debate a worthy price to pay. Notes 1. For an exploration of imperial strategies of domination over riverine regions and of the challenges states faced in these “treacherous places,” see Benton 2010, esp 40–103. 2. Of the vast literature on the Danube written during the communist period, see specifically: Rădulescu 1955; Asociaţia Generală 1957; Petrescu, 1957, 1975; Panighianţ 1959; Institutul de Cercetări Forestiere 1960; Cercetǎri 1960; Costin 1964; Rudescu, Niculescu, Chivu, 1965; Banu, Rudescu 1965; Alexandrescu 1966; Radu 1979; Popovici 1984; Radu 1988. On the collaboration between Institutul de Studii şi Cercetări Hidrotehnice, Romania, and Gosudarstvennyĭ okeanograficheskiĭ institut, USSR, see Diaconu, Nikiforov, Almazov, 1963. On the Danube Delta as a turistic ‘paradise,’ see Delta Dunării 1963; Thijsen 1967; Niţu 1982; Miclea 1983. 3. Suciu, Suciu, Bota 1994; Gâştescu 2008; Andreşoiu 2009; Roman, Díez 2009; Delta Dunării 2009; see also Analele ştiinţifice ale Institutului de Cercetare şi Proiectare Delta Dunării.

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Caputo, John and Mark Yount, eds. (1993). Foucault and the Critique of Institutions. University Park, Penn.: Pennsylvania State University Press. Carozza, Jean-Michel, Christian Micu, Florian Mihail and Laurent Carozza (2012). “Landscape change and archaeological settlements in the lower Danube valley and delta from early Neolithic to Chalcolithic time: A review.” Quaternary International, (261), 21–31. Cercetǎri forestiere şi cinegetice în Delta Dunării. (1960). Bucharest: Editura Agro-Silvică. Claudio Magris. Danube. New York: Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 1989. Original Italian edition: Danubio. Milano: Garzanti, 1986. Costin, Eugen (1964). Condiţii ecologice ale culturilor forestiere de pe nisipurile litorale din Delta Dunǎrii. Bucharest: Editura Agro-Silvicǎ. Costin, Eugen (1964). Conditii ecologice a le culturilor forestiere de pe nisipurile litorale din Delta Dunării. Ekologičeskie udlovija lesnych kul’tur na pribrežnych peskach del’ty Dunaja. Ecological Conditions of Forest Crops on Shore Snad from the Danube Delta. Bucharest: Editura Agro-Silvica. Darier, Eric (1999). “Foucault and the Environment: An Introduction,” in Eric Darier, ed., Discourses of the Environment. Malden, Mass: Blackwell Publishers, 1–34. Dean, Mitchell (1999). Governmentality: Power and Rule in Modern Society. London: Sage Publications. Delta Dunǎrii: Peisajul Anului 2007/09. (2009). München: Huber. Delta Dunării: Prefaţă şi legende de Fanuş Neagu. (1963). Bucharest: Meridiane. Diaconu, Constantin, IakovDmitrievich Nikiforov and A. M. Almazov (1963). Zona de vǎrsare a Dunǎrii: Monografia hidrologicǎ. Bucharest: Editura Tehnicǎ. Dickinson, Edward Ross (2004). “Biopolitics, Fascism, Democracy: Some Reflections on Our Discourse about ‘Modernity.’” Central European History 37(1), 1–48. Foucault, Michel (2003). Society Must Be Defended: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1975–76. New York: Picador. Foucault, Michel (2004). Naissance de la biopolitique: cours au Collège de France (1978–1979). Paris: Gallimard, Seuil, 2004. Gâştescu, Petre (2008). Delta Dunǎrii: Rezervaţie a biosferei. Bucharest: CD Press. Howarth, William L. (1999). “Imagined territory: The writing of wetlands.” New Literary History, 30(3), 509–539. Hurd, Barbara. (2001). Stirring the mud: On swamps, bogs, and human imagination. Boston: Beacon Press. Institutul de Cercetǎri Forestiere. (1960). Cercetǎri forestiere şi cinegetice în Delta Dunǎrii: Culegere de lucrǎri. Bucharest: Editura Agro-silvicǎ. Institutul Delta Dunǎrii. (1992– ). Analele ştiinţifice ale Institutului de Cercetare şi Proiectare Delta Dunǎrii. Tulcea: Institutul Delta Dunǎrii. Iordachi, Constantin (2002). Citizenship, Nation and State-Building: The Integration of Northern Dobrogea into Romania, 1878–1913 (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press), Carl Back Papers in Russian and East European Studies No. 1607. Iordachi, Constantin (2010). “Global Networks, Regional Hegemony, and Seaport Modernization at the Lower Danube,” in Biray Kolluoğlu, Meltem Toksöz, eds., Cities of the Mediterranean: From the Ottomans to the Present Day (London, New York: I. B. Tauris), 157–182.

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Lauren A. Benton (2010). A Search for Sovereignty: Law and Geography in European Empires, 1400–1900. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lemke, Thomas (2002). “Foucault, Governmentality, and Critique.” Rethinking Marxism, 14(3): 49–64. Luke, Timothy W. (1999). “Environmentality as Green Governmentality,” in Eric Darier, ed., Discourses of the Environment. Malden, Mass: Blackwell Publishers, 121–151. Marin, G., Institutul de Cercetare şi Proiectare Delta Dunǎrii, Tulcea and AuenInstitut. (1997). Reconstrucţie ecologicǎ în Rezervaţia Biosferei Delta Dunǎrii/ România: Ostroavele Babina şi Cernovca. Renaturierung im Biosphärenreservat Donau-Delta/Rumänien: die Inseln Babina und Cernovca. Ecological restoration in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve/Romania. Babina and Cernovca islands. Tulcea: ICPPD. McDermott, John Francis (1976). “Artist-Discoverers of the Mississippi.” Design Quarterly, (101/102), 28–31. Miclea, Ion (1983). Delta Dunǎrii. Bucharest: Sport-Turism. Netherlands., Delft, Institutul de Cercetare şi Proiectare-Delta Dunarii and Institute of Biology (Iaşi). (1994). Danube Delta: Vegetation map, 1991–1993, 1 : 100.000. Tulcea, Romania: Institutul de Cercetare şi Proiectare Delta Dunǎrii. Niţu, Marin (1982). Turismul în Delta Dunǎrii. Bucharest: Sport-Turism. O’Connor, Jim E. (2004). “The evolving landscape of the Columbia River Gorge. Lewis and Clark and catalysms on the Columbia.” Oregon Historical Quarterly, 105(3), 390–421. Pallis, Marietta (1916). “The Structure and History of Plav: the Floating Fen of the Delta of the Danube.” Journal of the Linnean Society of London, 43(291), 233–290. Panighianţ, Eugen (1959). Delta Dunării. Bucharest: Editura Tineretului Cultura Fizica şi Sport. Paola, Chris, Robert R. Twilley, Douglas A. Edmonds, Wonsuck Kim, David Mohrig, Gary Parker Enrica Viparelli, and Vaughan R. Voller (2011). “Natural processes in delta restoration: Application to the Mississippi Delta.” Annual Review of Marine Science, 3, 67–91. Petrescu, Ioan Gh. (1957). Delta Dunǎrii: Genezǎ şi evoluţie. Bucharest: Editura Ştiinţificǎ. Petrescu, Ioan Gh. (1975). Delta Dunǎrii, aspecte-resurse. Craiova: “Scrisul românesc.” Popescu, Maria (1900). Delta Dunarii: Rezervaţii şi monumente ale naturii. Tulcea: Muzeul “Delta Dunarii.” Popovici, Ioan (1984). Podişul Dobrogei şi Delta Dunǎrii: Naturǎ, om, economie. Bucharest: Editura Ştiinţificǎ şi Enciclopedicǎ. Pringle, Catherine M. (1991). “US–Romanian Environmental Reconnaissance of the Danube Delta.” Conservation Biology, 5(4), 442–445. Pritchard, Sara B. (2004). “Reconstructing the Rhone: the cultural politics of nature and nation in contemporary France, 1945–1997.” French Historical Studies, 27(4), 765–799. Radu, Dimitrie (1979). Pǎsǎrile din Delta Dunǎrii. Bucharest: Editura Academiei Republicii Socialiste România.

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Part I

PHYSICAL LANDSCAPE

Chapter 1

Physical Landscape Distribution of the Vegetation within the Danube Delta Jenică Hanganu, Mihai Doroftei, Ion Sârbu, and Nicolae Ştefan Introduction Over the last century, numerous studies conducted on the wetland located at the mouths of the Danube River reveal its importance within Earth’s biosphere. This living museum, this place called the Danube Delta, is situated in Eastern Europe (specifically, south-Eastern Romania) and is one of three large geographical units that make up the Dobrogean Plateau. As a biosphere reserve, this wetland is also the largest protected zone (5,800 km2) and one of the most important geographical areas in Europe (Gâştescu and Posea, 2005). The Danube Delta, Romania’s youngest landmass, is a fluvial-maritime floodplain on two floristic provinces, the lower Danube (ponto-sarmatic) and the Black Sea (euxinic) (Borza, 1960; Ciocârlan, 1994). The diverse geomorphology, soils, and hydrological conditions favor the proliferation of a large number of aquatic, semi-desert, and saline habitats. At the international level, almost all habitats are considered very important. By the same token, each habitat is part of a unique nature conservation network. The flora in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve (both Romanian and Ukrainian sectors) is specific for a steppe bioregion with a temperate climate, featuring almost 1,200 species of vascular plants (Doroftei et al., 2011) of which five species (one subspecies) are endemic (0.51 percent of the total number). According to the Danube Delta “red list” (Oţel et al., 2000), 382 vascular plants are on the watch list and by 2008 scientists identified 95 endangered species, mainly affected by habitat loss (Schneider and Tudor, 2008). As for alien plant species, the number is increasing from 90 species to 168 (Anastasiu, 2011). To date, 158 plant communities have been classified into nine units of vegetation in this area. These include forest flood lands; beach/sea dune vegetation; salt tolerant vegetation; grassland on sandy steppe; river levee grassland; dune forest; marsh and 3

4 Jenic Hanganu, Mihai Doroftei, Ion Sârbu, and Nicolae tefan

aquatic vegetation. The natural marsh (reed beds) and aquatic vegetation are the most widespread in the Danube Delta (70 percent). Most of the plant communities and species are terrestrial and are found on river levees and beach barrier complexes. Within the aquatic plant communities, the predominant floristic characteristics are Eurasian and circumpolar. The terrestrial plant set’s predominant floristic characteristics are Eurasian, continental, Pontic, and Mediterranean. Classification of the vegetation here has been mostly influenced by the defining geomorphological and ecological characteristics of the wetland environment. The description and distribution of the main vegetation units of the Danube Delta will follow each definition. For each classification noted in this review, a selection of specific plant examples will also be provided. Vegetation distribution has been determined using remote sensing techniques borrowed from a variety of sources (aerial photographs, satellite images, field mapping). As for the floristic composition and plant sets described, classical methods for vegetation observation and Flora Europaea as nomenclature has been used. The short description of soil types was made in accordance with FAO-UNESCO classification (see also Lupaşcu et al., 1998).

I. Research on Flora and Vegetation Many studies on the Danube Delta’s flora and vegetation have been published to date. A selection of the most important contributions in this area are as follows: Janka (1837–1900); Kanitz (1879–1881); Antonescu (1881); Brândza (1884, 1898); Grecescu (1898); Pallis (1916); Enculescu (1924); Georgescu (1928–1929); Săvulescu (1924–1934); Panţu et al. (1935); Prodan (1935–1939); Ţopa (1939); Morariu (1959); Simon T. (1960); Pascovschi (1962); Zahariadi and Ţucra (1963); Krausch (1965); Leandru (1968); Tarnavschi and Nedelcu (1970); Godeanu M. (1976); Dihoru and Negrean (1976); Popescu and Sanda (1973, 1976, 1977, 1999); Dubyna (1984); Ştefan et al. (1995); Sârbu et al. (1995, 1997, 2001, 2013), Doniţă et al. (1992, 2005); Ciocârlan (1994, 2000, 2009, 2011). Maps indicating the distribution of the Danube Delta’s vegetation and explanatory reports describing main plant communities can be found in Hanganu et al. (1994, 2002). The Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve’s flora (both Romanian and Ukrainian sectors) is specific for steppe bioregion with a temperate climate. Nearly 1,200 species of vascular plants are distributed across 5,800 km2 (Doroftei et al., 2011). Regarding the floristic types, the most common are Eurasian (30 percent), followed by those of Asian and European origin (15 percent). Furthermore, the Danube Delta’s flora includes some rare or endemic species that are now under wildlife protection: Centaurea pontica, Elymus pycnattum deltaicus, Centaurea jankae (all endemic species); Ornithogallum amphibolum,



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Figure 1.1  Protected Plant Species within the Danube Delta: a) Salvinia Natans; b) Marsilea Quadrifolia; c) Aldrovanda Vesiculosa

Ornithogallum oreoides, Cakile maritima ssp. euxina (endemic subspecies specifically for the western part of the Black Sea); Aldrovanda vesiculosa (Figure 1.1c) and Marsilea quadrifolia (Figure 1.1b, these are species protected by the Bern Convention and the Habitat Directive); Trapa natans, Salvinia natans (Figure 1.1a) and Angelica palustris (species protected by the Bern Convention); Epipactis palustris, Euphorbia agraria, E. amygdaloides, E. falcata, E. leptocaula, E. lucida, E. maculata, E. palustris, E. paralias, E. peplis, E. salicifolia, E. seguierana, E. stricta, E. villosa and E. virgata (species protected by the Washington Convention). As for the Romanian “Red List” species, these include species such as Petunia parviflora, Trachomitum venetum, Convolvulus persicus, Artemisia tschernieviana, Dactylorhiza incarnata, Stachys maritima and Urtica kiovensis (endangered species); Convolvulus lineatus, Onosma arenaria, Merendera sobolifera, Palimbia rediviva, Ornithogalum oreoides (vulnerable species); Sagina maritima, Limodorum abortivum, Festuca beckeri ssp. arenicola (rare subspecies); and Liparis loeselii (possibly extinct). II. Main Geo-Morphological Units and Vegetation Cover The Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve includes the Danube alluvial plain between Isaccea and Tulcea (known as the Somova-Parches lacustrine complex), the marine coastal waters (20 isobaths), and the Danube Delta itself with a total surface of 5,800 km2 (Figure 1.2). The Danube Delta refers to the area between the three main branches of the Danube River (from North to South: the Chilia, Sulina, and Sfântu Gheorghe [St. George] branches) located in Romania with a total surface of 3,510 km2, the third largest delta in Europe after the Volga Delta (13,000 km2) and the Kuban Delta (4,300 km2). In accordance with its genesis, three major types of zones are distinguishable within the Danube Delta. These are the fluvial zone, the transitional zone, and the marine zone, which have been described by Munteanu (1989, 1996) and Hanganu et al. (1994, 2002). Each zone has specific soils, hydrological regimes and vegetation patterns.

6 Jenic Hanganu, Mihai Doroftei, Ion Sârbu, and Nicolae tefan

The fluvial zone The fluvial zone (Figure 1.2), from a geomorphologic point of view, is a river floodplain in the process of being filled up by river sediment. Peat formation is limited to the most isolated parts of the remotest swamps. The Danube branches in the fluvial part of the delta are accompanied by river levees. The levees separate the summer bed of the river branches from the remote swamps in the back. During the flooding period (normally from mid-April to midJune), the vegetation traps the suspended sediment. The most of the sediment, including the coarsest material (fine sand) is trapped very close to the river (basically, on the levees). Floodplain forest containing ash and white poplar is the common natural vegetation of the levees. The tops of the levees are covered by forest or by pastureland, with both growing on well-drained alluvial soil containing little calcareous content (calcaric fluvisols). With decreasing elevation, this vegetation is replaced by floodplain forest or pastureland on soil containing mineral substrates formed by reduced levels of iron and other elements (i.e. (gleyic)-calcaric fluvisols). In lower parts of the more remote swamps, reed mace and reed marshes grow on periodically emerged/ inundated alluvial gleysoils. Natural floodplain forests can also be found on the edges of silted lakes, forming a mosaic-like pattern along with reed mace and reed marsh. River levee vegetation has been influenced by human exploitation in many places. Small gardens with corn (maize) and vegetables are widespread. In areas where logging and cattle grazing is extensive, the forest has been replaced by pastureland. In some places with less intensive land use, the resulting pastures also feature isolated willow trees. In places where only grazing occurs, the tree line may remain intact but marsh-undergrowth will be replaced by grass vegetation. Water entering the remoter swamps through the marsh vegetation is relatively clear. In this case, the high organic productivity occurring in back—swamp marshes (a mix of the low sediment input plus the long-lasting inundation) creates histic alluvial gleysoil peat layers (i.e. peat soil formed by Sphagnum moss). Reeds located here are very tall (4–6 m) and densely mixed with—or dominated by—reed mace (Typha angustifolia). Lakes in the fluvial part of the delta are small and shallow (0.5–0.6 m depth in the dry season). Lake bottoms and their mineral sediment emerge almost each summer along the edges of the lakes. Mudflat pioneer species that complete their life cycle before the winter will start rapidly colonizing these edges. Man-made channels have notably affected the delta’s natural flooding system. The Mila 35 Channel, for example, crosses the levee. It excretes a strong discharge of sediment-packed water directly into the back—swamps. This results in increased silting, during which peat layers are buried under fresh clay sediments and the lakes fill up at an accelerated pace. The vegetation reacts to this fast paced silting-up process with a dominating overgrowth of reed mace overtaking the reed population and with an expansion of floodplain forest.



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Figure 1.2  Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve (Romanian part) Geo-Morphological Units

The transitional zone Depressions located both in fluvial and marine zones of the delta are characterized by extensive reed beds covering thick (1–3 m or more) peat deposits and by the presence of wide, 1–3 meter deep lakes. In a geomorphological sense, these zones are a composition of several former lagoons in the final stage of being filled up with peat. The lakes are the last remnants of the lagoon.

8 Jenic Hanganu, Mihai Doroftei, Ion Sârbu, and Nicolae tefan

Sedimentation of river silt is much more limited here than it is in the fluvial zone. This is due to the smaller amplitude of floods, as it is so much closer to the Black Sea. River sediment is deposited only along narrow levees along the river branches and along the shores of large creeks. During the accumulation process, large sections of the lagoons are covered with a special type of reed peat. In its initial stage, this reed peat is not connected either to the mineral lagoon bottom or to the lake bottom itself. It is literally a floating layer, consisting of a network of viable rhizomes (fibric peat) with a thickness of 0.8–1.3 meters, often with many patches of water in it. The local name for this peat marsh is “plaur” (Romanian), “plavy,” or “splavyny” (Ukrainian). The layer grows gradually thicker. Sooner or later, it establishes contact with the mineral floor. This takes place usually only during periods of low water levels, and in its later stages almost permanently. In the final stage, the layer with viable rhizomes rests on layers of older and more mineralized peat (hemic or sapric peat). Reed marshes can be located upon isolated plaur islands in lakes or on plaur mosaics (dispersed with patches of water) or on continuous plaur. The latter (plaur either fixed on mineral subsoil or floating) is indicative of the final stage in the process of filling up a lagoon or lake. Often times, reed marshes are invaded by grey willow (Salix cinerea) bushes. Sometimes, floating plaur at the edge of lakes breaks free and is moved by the wind or water currents. They become small floating islands, moving around until they anchor to the bottom at a shallow point. The boundaries between fluvial and marine zones of the Delta (the area we will discuss next) are distinguished by large, ancient beach barrier complexes. The marine zone The delta’s marine zone (Figure 1.2) is geomorphologically characterized by the presence of parallel sandy beach barriers separated by shallow depressions. Most beach barriers are narrow and low, measuring several tens to a few hundreds of meters wide and lying 1.0–1.5 meters above sea level. The depressions between them are relatively wide; many of them are hundreds to several thousand of meters across. Three complexes occur in which the barriers are wider and the depressions narrower: the Sărăturile complex, the Caraorman complex, the Letea complex. This is also true in the case of the Zhebryanski Ridges. Sacalin Island is Romania’s most recently formed beach barrier on its present coastline. When proceeding inland from Sacalin, one finds barriers and depressions of increasing age. The distribution of soil and vegetation is strongly related to the geomorphologic structures and to their age. In the



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fast-growing Chilia Delta, we find (Hanganu et al., 2002) the so-called “new land,” sand bars that are developing in a northern to the southern direction. These sand bars will later form the new beach, when the area between the secondary delta and this new land has been silted up. Geomorphologically, the marine zone consists of narrow beach barriers with very wide depressions in between. The crests of major beach barriers (for instance, Buhaz, Palade, and Crasnicol) are 1–1.5 meters above sea level. They are out of the reach of flooding. They are often even too high to be influenced by the saline groundwater. The terrain consists of shifting sands and pastureland featuring Bermuda grass (Cynodon dactylon), silky wind grass (Apera spica-venti ssp. maritima), corn brome (Bromus squarrosus) and roundhead bulrush (Holoschoenus vulgaris). The beach barrier soil, at intermediate elevation, is still moderately saline. The vegetation on these saline calcaric arenosols consists of a moderately salt-tolerant pasture of alkali grass (Puccinellia convoluta), P. distans, Apera spica-venti ssp. maritima and redtop (Agrostis gigantea ssp. pontica). Further on, past this Puccinellia convoluta zone, the increasing influence of fresh water flooding (up to three months a year) decreases the saline content. Agrostis gigantea ssp. pontica, rush (Juncus gerardi) and reed (Phragmites australis) are characteristic of this dynamic habitat, with alternating fresh water flooding and moderate saline levels. The next, lower zone, which floods for three to six months per year, is covered by sedge marshes, with reed mace and some reeds. The depressions themselves, with a flooding period of over six months per year, are covered by reed marshes with some sedge, growing in peat beds. Some of the younger depressions will still be in the process of being filled up with reed peat. Small lakes occur in their centre. These lakes are the last remnants of the lagoon. Reeds dominate the plaur in these small lakes. High saline levels means glasswort (Salicornia patula) and seepweed (Suaeda prostrata) are rare in this area, only present in a few isolated depressions within beach barriers not flooded by fresh water. The St. George branch of the Danube cuts its way to the sea through this beach barrier. Its river levees are low and narrow and vegetated by a mosaic of Alnus- or Alnus-Fraxinus forest within a humid pasture. Interesting gradients occur in the contact points between the river levees and the beach barriers. In such cases, the lower flooded part of the beach barrier is vegetated by a narrow strip of black alder (Alnus glutinosa) forest instead of sedge marsh. This forest surrounds an open, saline pasture with Agrostis gigantea ssp. pontica. The saline pasture grows along the central part of the beach barrier, slightly more elevated and less flooded. This kind of complex is present in the Grindul Sărăturile, north of the village of St. George. The beach barrier sand contains many shell fragments. Grindul Sărăturile differs

10 Jenic Hanganu, Mihai Doroftei, Ion Sârbu, and Nicolae tefan

geomorphologically from the previously described complex. The main difference is the closer succession of the beach barriers, with depressions between the barriers far narrower. This makes flooding by fresh river water less intensive than in the previously described complex. Many depressions are more or less isolated from fresh water supply and therefore more saline. The soils on beach barriers over 1.2 meters high have little or no contact with saline groundwater. They meet with very dry conditions and are covered by a pasture of Cynodon dactylon, Apera spica-venti ssp. maritima, Bromus squarrosus and Holoschoenus vulgaris. The active beach barrier along the sea has an altogether different vegetation, dominated by sea-shore plant species like woolly butterbur (Petasites spurius), sea holy (Eryngium maritimum) as well as, on occasion, by sea shore bushes—i.e. common sea-buckthorn (Hippophae rhamnoides), Russian silverberry (Elaeagnus angustifolia) and salt cedar (Tamarix ramosissima). From the tops of the beach barriers to the depressions, two different types of gradients can be easily observed. Gradients of the first type, with higher saline levels, are to be found in depressions without a direct link to the river. The lower a place, the closer it is to the saline groundwater and the higher its saline level. Flooded places here are flooded by saline ground water. The middle zone of this gradient consists of saline, calcaric arenosol (soil that is 90 percent sand and clay, with low calcareous content) and is characterized by vast fields of rush (Juncus littoralis and J. maritimus). The depressions themselves have a heavily saline, solonchak soil and open, salt-tolerant vegetation (like Salicornia patula, Suaeda prostrata and Aeluropus littoralis). Gradients of the second type are linked to fresh water river flooding. This mid-level, elevated zone is dominated by saline ground water but the lowest levels are dominated by fresh river water. Fertile and productive quack grassland (Elytrigia elongata, E. intermedia) occurs at intermediate elevations. Much like couch grass (Elytrigia repens), these river levee grasslands in the fluvial part of the delta have comparable nutrient supply coming from the flooding river water and exhibit similar the drainage levels. The depressions with little flooding offer brackish conditions to a marsh vegetation including Typha angustifolia, T. laxmanii and depressions with a longer flooding period (6–8 months per year) are covered by reed marsh with sedges, or, if very close to the river, by reed marsh. Beach barriers and dunes The beach barrier complexes are situated on the boundary between the fluvial and transitional parts of the delta. Geomorphologically, they consist of parallel old beach barriers separated by narrow depressions, comparable to the Grindul Sărăturile. At Letea and



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Caraorman, however, the initial beach barrier has partly been reshaped by the wind into a dune landscape. The dunes reach a maximum elevation of 11 meters above sea level. The ground water quality at the Letea and Caraorman complexes represent a second difference with Grindul Sărăturile. Many depressions in the Letea and Caraorman complexes are fed by fresh ground water, even when it’s not being flooded by river water. This is in huge contrast to the predominance of saline ground water in Grindul Sărăturile. It creates relatively rare habitats with humid, nutrient-poor, non-saline sandy soil. One source of fresh ground water is horizontal ground water flowing from east to west, driven by the difference in the eastern (up-stream) water level and the western (downstream) water systems bordering the complexes. Ground water flows easily, and in large quantities, through the highly permeable subsoil, carried along by layers high in shell fragment. Another fresh water source is the surplus of rainfall occurring in the elevated dunes. The dunes are covered with open steppe vegetation such as Carex colchica, sea grape (Ephedra distachya), wild rye (Secale silvestre), Volga wild rye (Elymus giganteus) and Festuca beckeri. Young depressions containing fresh ground water may feature a low rosemary leaf willow (Salix rosmarinifolia) shrub. Usually, however, fresh (ground) water depressions are forested by oak (Quercus pedunculiflora) and pubescent ash (Fraxinus pallisae). Quercus robur and Fraxinus angustifolia are rarely present in these forests on their own. The ground water in the depressions may rise to several decimetres above the surface during flooding periods and sink to 1.2–1.4 meters below surface in the dry season. Both Letea and Caraorman complexes include less elevated areas around their edges, with saline ground water close to the soil surface. This is indicated by its salt-tolerant vegetation (Puccinellia convoluta, sea lavender (Limonium gmelinii), sea rush (Juncus maritimus) and Aeluropus littoralis). These plants grow in mosaics mixed in with less salttolerant flora and with bushes of Tamarix ramosissima, Elaeagnus angustifolia and Hippophae rhamnoides. Further along the margin of the complexes, flooding becomes increasingly important. This is reflected by a gradual change from salt-tolerant vegetation to brackish pasture with annual cyperaceous and further to reed mace marsh, which finally is replaced by reed marsh with sedges on peat soils. Lakes within the Danube Delta There are over 300 lakes within the delta and their sizes vary from 14 to 4,530 hectare. Lakes are supplied with fresh river water through vast (circa 3,700 km) networks of natural and artificial waterways. The lakes’ water levels vary depending on river flow. Normally, the peak water level is recorded

12 Jenic Hanganu, Mihai Doroftei, Ion Sârbu, and Nicolae tefan

in late spring (May–June). With water depths of 1.5–4 meters and a chloride concentration below 60 mg/litre, the Danube Delta lakes are characterized as shallow freshwater lakes. The man-made network of canals in the delta has intensified water circulation and input of river water into the lakes. The lakes’ aquatic vegetation depends on complex biogeochemical gradients, both spatial and temporal (Coops et al., 2008). These gradients are a direct indication as to the degree of connectivity (Oosterberg et al., 2000). Results of analysis on multivariate vegetation (Coops et al., 1998) classify Danube Delta lakes into three groups: (1) clear mineral lakes with dense vegetation; (2) turbid mineral lakes with sparse vegetation; (3) isolated plaur lakes. Lakes with direct access to river water loaded with silt are characterized by the dominance of water chestnut (Trapa natans)–type vegetation (e.g. Rotund, Răducu, and Obretin). The type of substrate is a major influence. In larger, open lakes with mineral sediment, potamid growth is characteristic (e.g. Gorgova, Furtuna and Uzlina). Clear water lakes are characterized by dense hair-like pondweed (Potamogeton trichoides) beds that fill up the water column over large areas of the lake. On the other hand, the turbid lakes (e.g. Roşu, Roşulet and Isac/Uzlina) showed only sparse stands of sago pondweed (Potamogeton pectinatus), curly pondweed (P. crispus), and clasping-leaf pondweed (P. perfoliatus). The plaur (floating reed bed) lakes clearly form a separate group. Here, the sediment consists of organic material and is sulphate rich. The lakes in Răduculeţ, Tătaru, Lebedele, Plin, Serbata are characterized by extensive beds of charophyte starry stonewort (Nitellopsis obtusa). In contrast to the charophyte-dominated state, lakes with a higher influx of exogenous water (Potcoava-R, Răducu, Isăcel) showed less clear water (higher chlorophyll concentrations) and dominance of the ubiquitous species rigid hornwort (Ceratophyllum demersum). Patches of nymphaeid type vegetation was noted in some lakes, in particular on sites having firm peat (such as sunken plaur areas). For example, such conditions were present locally in Potcoava-G, Fastic, Isac, and Isăcel. Vegetation classification The Danube Delta is a fluvial-maritime floodplain with a great deal of marshland (70 percent), lakes, channels, river branches (13 percent) and sand barriers (17 percent) (Doniţă et al., 1992). The marshes and lakes cover the lowest areas and the dry land is represented by fluvial and marine dunes, dikes around the channels/branches, and seashore. The Danube Delta’s vegetation is notably different compared to the Dobrogean Plateau, as most



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of the plant communities are restricted by the ecological conditions of this wetland. The flooding, the soil texture, and drainage, all play an important role in the habitat’s persistence and overall distribution. The representative plant communities for this wetland are hydrophytes, hygrophyte, sand and salt species and, of course, the sand dune forests. To date, 158 plant communities, including nine vegetation units, were identified in this area. Classification of the nine vegetation units was made according to the report on “Vegetation of the Biosphere Reserve Danube Delta” and can be considered the most concise classification available. Furthermore, for each unit described, a list of corresponding habitats conservation networks is planned (Palearctic Habitats and Eunis). Forest flood lands represent 5 percent of the Danube Delta’s vegetation. 1.1 Floodplain Forests Correspondences of the habitats in conservation networks: PAL.HAB: 44162 Pontic willow passages EUNIS: G1.1142 Ponto-sarmatic steppe willow passages Soft wood forests are one of the characteristic vegetation types for river levees (Figure 1.3). Floodplain forests are dominated by white willow (Salix alba) and crack willow (S. fragilis), with indigo bush (Amorpha fruticosa) along the fringes. The distribution of willows and poplars is relative to the flooding schedule. In floodplain forest, willows survive flooding periods up to six months. White poplar (Populus alba) and hybrid poplars (Populus x canadensis in planted forest) are limited to habitats with a maxim of three months of flooding (Doniţă, 1992; I.C.A.S., 2004). Floodplain forests often grow in mosaics next to a river levee pasture. In the marine part of the delta, alder trees (Alnus glutinosa) mix with the Salix alba on the narrow clayey river levees. Often they grow together with ash (Fraxinus angustifolia and F. pallisiae). In such cases, the ash grows in the most elevated part of the levee, accompanied by bushes guelder rose (Viburnum opulus) and silk vine (Periploca graeca). Following the period of six months of flooding, white and crack willow (Salicetum albae-fragilis, Issler 1924) is common for the Danube floodplain. The dominant and edifying species along the tree line is Salix alba, together with Salix fragilis and other poplar species (Populus canescens, P. alba and P. nigra). The cluster of bush, is represented by Rubus caesius, the common dogwood (Cornus sanguinea) and North American species of indigo bush (Amorpha fruticosa).

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The almond willow (Salicetum triandrae, Malcuit 1929) has a sporadic appearance, reflecting its exposure to the flooding alluvial soil and groundwater near the surface. This plant set was identified on minor surfaces along the delta riverside. We can find numerous other shrubs (Salix purpurea, Rubus caesius, Cornus sanguinea, Amorpha fruticosa), with a constant frequency, nearby Salix triandra, while in the herbaceous layer, mesohygrophile and hygrophile plants are found. In this plant community, the North American species Amorpha fruticosa has replaced the native species Salix triandra. Grey willow (Salicetum cinereae Zolyomi 1931) forms clusters or strips on marshy, substrate rich in organic matter at the edge of lakes, canals, and natural backwaters. Salix cinerea may be the dominant species, but other hygrophilous species are also present including reed (Phragmites australis), cutleaf waterparsnip (Berula erecta), gipsywort (Lycopus europaeus), woody nightshade (Solanum dulcamara), marsh fern (Thelypteris palustris), and others. A very attractive landscape has been formed by the marsh fern and the common alder tree (Thelypteridi-Alnetum, Klika 1940). Both have relatively reduced levels in the delta and suffer habitat loss brought on by drought conditions in recent years. The biggest habitat is now in the Erenciuc Forest (Figure 1.3), but other sightings have been made on the Palade sand bank, in Caraorman Forest and in Letea Forest. Together with the two characteristic species, Alnus glutinosa and Thelypteris palustris, common creepers (Periploca graeca and Vitis sylvestris) are also found as well as many other hygrophilous herbaceous species such as yellow iris (Iris pseudacorus), water violet (Hottonia palustris), greater pond-sedge (Carex riparia), water-dropwort (Oenanthe aquatica), Lycopus europaeus, ken fern (Bidens tripartita), reed canary grass (Phalaris arundinacea), and reed (Phragmites australis). Beside natural floodplain forest, poplar plantations (Populetum marylandicae, Mititelu, 1970; Populetum x Canadensis, Lupu 1979) are present in Danube Delta too. The first forest plantations are mentioned in the 1960s, when forest were planned with various fast-growing black poplar hybrids and other species (from North America) such as box elder (Acer negundo), green ash (Fraxinus penssylvanica) and black locust (Robinia pseudoacacia) were included. The herbaceous layer in these plant communities is characteristic to the natural riparian forest. Presently, these planted forests occupy the least amount of red areas along the main branches of the Danube, coming to about 5 percent of total vegetation coverage. According to forest administration, the profit of these plantations is reduced by the high abundance of indigo bush (Amorpha fruticosa) in the bush layer and because of the expensive procedure involved in removing this invasive plant species.

Figure 1.3  a) Floodplain Forest in the Erenciuc Region; b) Distribution of Floodplain Forests on the Danube Delta

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16 Jenic Hanganu, Mihai Doroftei, Ion Sârbu, and Nicolae tefan

1.2 Floodplain Bushes Correspondence on the habitats in conservation networks: PAL.HAB 1999: 44.8141 Western Pontic tamarisk thickets EUNIS: F9.3141 Pontic tamarisk thickets The Danube Delta’s floodplain brush is mostly tamarisk bush and common sea-buckthorn bush (Figure 1.4). The halophilous character of these bushes can be noted in the substrate deposits and species compositions. The chee reedgrass and tamarisk bushes (Calamagrostio-Tamaricetum ramosissimae, Simon and Dihoru, 1962 and 1963) form a plant set frequently located on alluvial soils with loamy-sandy texture and, sometimes, with slight saltiness. The herbaceous layer is heterogeneously developed amongst Tamarix ramosissima bushes (i.e., Elymus repens, Agrostis stolonifera, Calamagrostis epigeios, Euphorbia seguieriana, Potentilla reptans and others). Salt cedar (Tamarix ramosissima) is tolerant of a medium to high salt content, as situation indicated by the presence of samphire (Salicornia patula), greater sea-spurrey (Spergularia media), the moderately salt-tolerant species sea starwort (Aster tripolium ssp. pannonicus), and wooly butterbur (Petasites spurius). Another specific floodplain bush set is formed by the chee reedgrass and common sea-buckthorn (Calamagrostio epigei-Hippophaëtum rhamnoides Popescu, Sanda and Nedelcu, 1986). This combination is wide-spread for the delta’s maritime sector sand dunes, specifically those near Sfistofca, Cardon, Caraorman, and St. George. Brush layer height is around 3–4 meters and is dominated by the Hippophae rhamnoides species (80 percent) and Russian silverberry (Elaeagnus angustifolia). This floodplain brush often mixes in clusters with coastal dune vegetation. For instance, it is often accompanied by Calamagrostis epigeios, Petasites spurius, blue wildrye (Elymus sabulosus), common saltmarsh-grass (Apera maritima), threefork gypsophyla (Gypsophila trichotoma) and water germander (Teucrium scordium). Hippophaë rhamnoides often takes root along sandy substrates that feature a specific floristic composition, a natural herbaceous layer bouquet that, for example, may include spurge (Euphorbia seguieriana), wild rye (Leymus sabulosus), sea rush (Juncus littoralis), roundhead bulrush (Scirpoides holoschoenus), perfoliate baby’s breath (Gypsophila perfoliata), wind bent grass (Apera spica-venti ssp. maritima). The Russian silverberry (Elaeagnus angustifolia), originally introduced to the habitat by man, takes root amongst thickets along the riverbank and the seaside. However, once it found the right conditions for natural reproduction, it began forming mixed bushes with common sea-buckthorn and sometimes with tamarisk.

Figure 1.4  a) Floodplain Brush (tamarisk) Located along the Danube Delta’s Crişan Chanel; b) Distribution of Floodplain Brush

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18 Jenic Hanganu, Mihai Doroftei, Ion Sârbu, and Nicolae tefan

Indigo bush (Amorpha fruticosa) is another bush species, of NorthAmerican origin, that was artificially introduced to the area. It tends to spread along the fringes of the river levee forest with Salix alba and S. fragilis (sharing Galega officinalis as a common species), also cohabitating with Salix cinerea and Salix triandra bushes in peat beds. 1. Beach/Sea Dune Vegetation Correspondences of the habitats in conservation networks: PAL.HAB: 16.1232 Pontic sand beach annual vegetation EUNIS: B1.132 Pontic sand beach annual vegetation Seashore vegetation represents 6 percent of Danube Delta vegetation and is characterized by pioneer sand species that are prone to fixate on the substrate (Figure 1.5). Littoral vegetations settle on shifting sand, ranging from slightly humid to extremely dry conditions. In this sequence, they are dominated by sea kale (Crambe maritima), siberian sea rosemary (Argusia sibrica), wooly butterbur (Petasites spurius), sea holly (Eryngium maritimum) and rye grass (Elymus giganteus). They are open, low growing vegetation. They are usually accompanied by mammoth wildrye (Leymus sabulosus), European searocket (Cakile maritima ssp. euxina), Astrodaucus littoralis, Argusia sibirica, sagebrush (Artemisia tschernieviana), Elymus farctus ssp. bessarabicus, yellow horn poppy (Glaucium flavum), sea knotgrass (Polygonum maritimum), sea hedge nettle (Stachys maritima) and sea alfalfa (Medicago marina). On the new sand bars, which form an islet in Musura and Sacalin Bay, vegetation is dominated by Salicornia europaea and Bassia hirsuta. The seashore vegetation is relatively poor compared to the other units. Below, is a description of a few plant communities. The sea orache and the European sea rocket (Atriplicetum hastatae— Cakiletum euxinae Sanda et al., 1999) is a plant grouping located in the front of a beach washed by the waves and creates clusters with small coverage. This type of plant community is formed by annual species with a short cycle of vegetation and includes species important for conservation. Sea kale (Crambetum maritimae, Serbănescu, 1970; Popescu et al., 1980) is found on relatively higher mobile coastal sands, washed up by bigger waves, especially in winter. Within this grouping, a (low) number of accessory species are also found. On mobile coastal sands, the Siberian sea rosemary (Argusietum sibiricae, Sanda et Popescu, 1975) form open, low growing beds and is accompanied by a minimal number of accessories species.

Figure 1.5  a) Beach/Sea Dune Vegetation Near St. George; b) Distribution of Beach/Sea Dune Vegetation on the Danube Delta

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Lactuco tataricae-Glaucietum flavae (Dihoru and Negrean, 1976) also inhabit mildly salty, humid mobile or semi-fixed coastal sands. Convolvuletum persici (Borza, 1931; Burduja, 1968) is found along seashores between Sulina and St. George, as well as on Sacalin Island and at Cardon, and Periteaşca. 2. Salt-Tolerant Vegetation Correspondences of the habitats in conservation networks: PAL.HAB: 15.115211 Western Pontic glasswort swards EUNIS: E6.224 Western Pontic solonchak habitats Salt-tolerant vegetation (Figure 1.6) covers significant surfaces on beach barriers and sand dunes (Sărăturile, Caraorman, Letea, Grindul Lupilor and Zhebryanski Ridges). For example, on high saline, inter-dune depressions, wet in spring and dry in summer, one can find Salicornietum europaeae (Wendelbg 1953) and Suaedetum maritimae (Soo, 1927), while Salsoletum sodae (Slavnic, 1948) is found on maritime dunes with strong chlorine salinity. The areas with strongto-moderate salinity are favored by Aeloropo-Salicornietum (Krausch, 1965), indicating the transition from strong to moderate. One can find this in large areas in Letea, St. George, and Sulina. Puccinellio-Salicornietum (Popescu et al., 1987) is likely to grow in moderately saline soils, but also in clay/sandy areas with a lot of moisture in the spring. This soil is moderately humid in early summer. Puccinellietum limosae (Rapaics ex Soo, 1933) will spread across large areas of solonetz (soil with sodium content in the first 20 cm) and salty humic gleysol (mineral soil with humic acid). The places they like to grow are excessively moist in spring, but almost dry or dry during summer. There are entire meadows overrun by Aeluropetum littoralis (Prodan, 1939; Şerbănescu, 1965). This species grows on sandy-loam deposits, which are permanently wet. At the same time, it prefers moderate salinity. It grows alongside Aster tripolium ssp. pannonicum, Lymonium meyeri, Spergularia media and other plants, but ultimately Aeluropus littoralis predominates. Plantaginetum maritimae (Rapaics, 1927) and Hordeetum maritimi (Şerbănescu, 1965) grow over small areas of salty and compacted wet and moderately-wet sands. The dominating species, Hordeum marinum, is often accompanied by buck’s horn plantain (Plantago coronopus), Lepidium latifolium, Juncus gerardi, and Spergularia media. In the Danube Delta’s maritime sector, Agropyretum elongati (Serbănescu, 1965) forms meadows located on slightly salinized arenosols that can spread

Figure 1.6  a) Salt-Tolerant Vegetation on Grindul Sărăturile; b) Distribution of Salt-Tolerant Vegetation on the Danube Delta

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out far and wide. The characteristic species is Elymus elongates, strongly rooted shrubs. Agrostetum ponticae (Popescu and Sanda, 1973) settles itself on slightly salty, compacted or shifted sands, with Agrostis gigantea ssp. Maeotica, characteristic for this type of soil. Carici distantis-Festucetum orientalis (Sanda et al., 1999) is located on the same kind of terrain, preferring humic and moist soil. Characteristic species here are Festuca arundinacea ssp. Orientalis, accompanied by species such as Carex distans, strawberry clover (Trifolium fragiferum), Teucrium scordium, Centaurium spicatum. Unlike these species, Spergularietum salinae (Tx. ex Volk, 1973) is happiest on compacted soil, with strong-to-medium salinity. It prefers moderate humidity but it can occasionally be located inside depression areas, too. 3. Grassland on Sandy Steppes Correspondences of the habitats in conservation networks: PAL.HAB: 16.22B121 North-western Pontic Ephedra –Carex fixed dunes EUNIS: B1.4B1 Western Pontic fixed dunes This type of grassland covers a significant portion of the Letea and Caraorman sand dunes complexes. On the upper part of the sand dunes, one can find Juncus littoralis, Festuca beckeri, Carex colchica, Ephedra distachya, Secale silvestre, sand star thistle (Centaurea arenaria) and Elymus giganteus, sea plantain (Plantago maritima), sea wormwood (Artemisia maritima), sea aster (Aster tripolium), long bracted sedge (Carex extensa) and greater sea-spurrey (Spergularia media). Here steppe-like dunes spread out in a mosaic-like fashion with fresh water depressions covered with oak-ash forest (Quercus pedunculiflora, Fraxinus pallisiae), reed (Phragmites australis), reed mace (Typha angustifolia) or sedge marsh (Carex elata). The main units of vegetation are: Juncetum littoralis (Popescu et al., 1992; Sanda and Popescu, 1992); Juncetum maritimi (Rubel, 1930) Pign. 1953. Artemisietum maritimae (Christ, 1927; Br.-Bl. et De L. 1936); Plantaginetum coronopi (Tx. 1934). 4. River Levee Grasslands Correspondences of the habitats in conservation networks: PAL.HAB: 37.263 Danubio-Pannonic riverine and humid meadows EUNIS: E2.251 Ponto-Pannonic mesophille hay



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River levee grassland, a periodically flooded zone, is characterized by a mix of mesophilous species. It represents 2 percent of the Danube Delta’s vegetation. Subtypes can be defined on the basis of the dominating species, their habitat ranging from well-drained to wet conditions. They are dominated, in order of significance by Agrostis stolonifera, Elytrigia repens, Phalaris arundinacea, reed sweet grass (Glyceria maxima) and Galega officinalis. Some salinization occurs in these grasslands. Hence, the presence of salttolerant species such as Agrostis gigantea ssp. pontica, Aster tripolium ssp. pannonicus, marshmallow (Althaea officinalis), Trifolium fragiferum and saltbush (Atriplex hastata). They occur especially in the well-drained grasslands of Crişan and Grindul Ivancea. In the fluvial part of the delta, river levee grassland is often bordered by, or mixed with, white willow forest (Salix alba, Salix fragilis) or poplar forest (Populus alba, Populus canescens). In downstream river levees, moderate to strong salinization may occur. Grasslands in such habitats are characterized by species like manna grass (Puccinellia convoluta) and Aster tripolium ssp. pannonicus. The most elevated areas, with a sandy soil, have mesoxerophilous river levee grassland that is dominated by species like Chrysopogon gryllus and Apera spica venti ssp. maritima. Most of salt-tolerant species are found in the more humid Cynodon dactylon or Puccinellia convoluta pastures. In addition to their hydrophilic character, they are also inclined to nitrophile conditions, and can be found at the edge of water sources like swamps, humid micro-depressions, on rich substrate where decomposing organic matter is located. They exhibit pioneer vegetation characteristics, the most frequent species being Bidens tripartita, devil’s beggar tick (Bidens frondosa), nodding beggar tick (Bidens cernua), curly top knotweed (Polygonum lapathifolium), marsh pepper knotweed (Polygonum hydropiper), tasteless water pepper (Polygonum mite), cursed buttercup (Ranunculus sceleratus), Austrian yellow cress (Rorippa austriaca), toothed dock (Rumex dentatus ssp. halácsyi), golden dock (Rumex maritimus), marsh dock (Rumex palustris), clustered dock (Rumex conglomerates), comfrey (Symphytum officinale), barn yard grass (Echinochloa crus-gali), water mint (Mentha aquatica), flatsedge (Cyperus glomeratus) and marsh hedge nettle (Stachys palustris). Characteristic plant species located within alluvial soil, mostly along the rivers, include the following: liquorice (Glycyrrhiza echinata), stinging nettle (Urtica dioica), galega (Galega officinalis), marsh spurge (Euphorbia palustris), austrian yellowcress (Rorippa austriaca) and hedge false bindweed (Calystegia sepium). Muddy places are good places for certain species. Bidentetum tripartitae (Koch, 1926) grow along the borders of muddy alluvial deposits around water

Figure 1.7  a) Sandy Steppe Grassland on the Grindul Letea; b) Distribution of Grassland on the Sandy Steppes of the Danube Delta

24 Jenic Hanganu, Mihai Doroftei, Ion Sârbu, and Nicolae tefan



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basins, places with high levels of organic and decomposing material. Bunches of Ranunculetum scelerati (Sissi. em Tx., 1950) grow in stagnant water and where there is an accumulation of decomposing organic matter. Alluvial soil supports the proliferation of many species. One of these is Chenopodion rubri (Tx. in Poli. and J. Tx., 1960 corr. Kopecky, 1969). It brings together phytocoenoses that, besides alluvial soils, tolerate eutrophic or clay sands. Another species, Glycirrhizetum eckinatae (Slavnic, 1951), forms in groups or bands of varying sizes within temporarily flooded, alluvial soils. On the other hand, Galegetum officinalis (Dobrescu and Viţalariu, 1981) prefers alluvial soil that is permanently moist and appears on mounds or along ridges, along natural backwaters, pounds, or flooded meadows. Atriplicetum (hastatae) prostratae (Poli. et J. Tx., 1960 corr. Sârbu, hoc loco) grows in small clusters along the coastal zone, on moderately salty and humid clay sands. The same way, Euphorbietum palustris (Westhoff, 1969) prefers clay soils (particularly alluvial and loamy) and frequently covers relatively small portions of land, particularly areas that are flooded, permanently moist, and rich in organic matter. Trifolio fragiferi-Cynodontetum (Br.-Bl. Bolos et, 1958) springs up on sandy or loamy-sandy soil. The land it grows on must be compact, slightly saline and lacking in moisture in summer. As for pioneer plants groupings, Echinochloo-Polygonetum lapathifolii (Soo and Csuros, 1947) grows on eutrophic, permanently humid flooding land. It spreads out far and wide and includes a range of annual plants. Another example of a pioneer plant community is Echio-Meliloletum albi (R. Tx. 1947). It is characterized as being heliophilous and usually located on compacted sands in the Danube Delta’s maritime areas and on some dams. On the northern border of the town of Sulina, Plantago coronopiCentaureetum ponticae (Sârbu, 2003) has been found growing on sandy and compacted soils, slightly nitrophilous and halophilous. 5. Dune Forests Correspondences of the habitats in conservation networks: PAL.HAB: 44.6621 Danube Delta Periploca poplar-oak-ash avenues EUNIS: G1.3621 Danube Delta Periploca poplar-oak-ash avenues One of the delta’s most interesting landscapes are the dune forests in the Letea and Caraorman dune complexes. These two natural forest ecosystems, Letea and Caraorman, grow on the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve’s oldest fluvio-maritime sand dunes. The habitat of the forests on these dunes is very diverse. They range from floodplain river levee forests to saline forests and

26 Jenic Hanganu, Mihai Doroftei, Ion Sârbu, and Nicolae tefan

inland forest: white poplar (Populus alba), marsh ash (Fraxinus pallisiae), marsh apple (Malus dasyphylla) and wild apple (M. sylvestris), wild pear (Pyrus pyraster) and white oak (Quercus pedunculiflora). Among the oaks, Quercus pedunculiflora is the only species of quantitative importance. Quercus robur, however, is present, too, but it is very sparse and often accompanied by Fraxinus angustifolia. Monumental individuals of Quercus robur (diameter of 4.20–4.70 m) are identified in both forests. Their presence illustrates the affinity of this habitat with Central European hardwood forest floodplains. In Romania, Letea and Caraorman are the only natural forests with hard wood species on sand dunes (called “haşmac” in Romanian). Haşmac are distributed on parallel lines developed along inter-dunes (depressions) areas where the soil humidity is higher. Locally, in isolated peaty depressions with more permanent inundation, Alnus glutinosa forest occurs. Inundation, drainage conditions, and (ground-) water quality differ to a very small degree, due to the strong relief. This makes the classification of the dune forests rather complex. Homogeneous areas are few and far between. So, it is difficult to make generalizations about the tree lines that are representative of one homogeneous habitat. Within these two types of forest, strictly protected areas have been established (according to Governmental Decision 248/1994: for Letea, 2,745 ha; for Caraorman, 2,250 ha) that are designated for flora conservation primarily and secondarily for fauna. These strictly-protected areas contain valuable species of flora and fauna, most of them protected by different environmental protection conventions (10 plant species, 106 bird species, 15 endemic invertebrates). The current conservation status was established for the first time in 1930. In 1938, it was declared a natural reserve for landscape, flora, and fauna elements (such as balcanic, mediteranean, sub-tropical and steppic). Later, at the 4th International Council for Program Coordination “Man and Biosphere” in Paris in 1979, these forests were included in the international network of the biospheres. The dune forests span a total area of 6,648 hectares, of which 5,396 hectares belong to Letea and 1,252 hectares to Caraorman. The climatic conditions, relief, and substrate sand dunes—all specific to the Danube Delta—are unique in Europe. These ecosystems are considered unique geographical and ecological phenomena due to their lowland areas and groundwater almost at surface level. In the past, these places housed secular oak and poplar forests, which the Ottomans exploited for shipbuilding. Regarding its dynamic state, it is agreed that most of the hard wood species are currently in decline, especially the oak trees. The evolutionary tendencies of the forest ecosystems are monitored in relation to local conditions and the herbaceous species that invade and take over the sand dunes. The forest’s expansion process is very slow and cannot compete with the herbaceous layer.

Figure 1.8  a) River Levee Grassland in the Area around Crişan; b) Distribution of River Levee Grassland on the Danube Delta

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Fraxino pallisae-angustifoliae-Quercetum roboris (Popescu et al., 1979) develops in excess, humid soils in lower areas of Letea Forest. Shrub species such as Vitis sylvestris, Humulus lupulus, Periploca graeca are characteristic for this type of forest, giving it a luxuriant aspect. Quercetum robori-pedunculiflorae (Simon, 1960) is found in Letea Forest on sand dunes with relatively shorter flooding periods. The presence of almost surface level ground water influences the floristic composition of the herbaceous layer, containing numerous hygrophilous species. 6. Marsh Vegetation Correspondences of the habitats in conservation networks: PAL.HAB: 53.113 Gigant Phragmites beds EUNIS: C3.21 Phragmites australis beds Reeds, covering more than 220,000 hectares, are by far the Danube Delta’s dominant species. The primary plant community is Scirpo-Phragmitetum (Koch and Soo, 47). It can be found on neutral pH, hydromorphous, organic soils with low to moderate saline levels. The dominant species is Phragmites australis, usually accompanied by hydrophilous species as Typha angustifolia, Schoenoplectus lacustris, and Sparganium erectum, Thelypteris palustris. The various community-types are distinguishable. A great deal of Danube Delta reed types and subtypes fit under the classification of Scirpo-Phragmitetum (Koch, 1926; Soo, 1947). All these grow on hydromorphous and organic soil, with neutral pH levels and low to moderate saline levels. Due to the variation in the main ecological factors, there are important variations also in the floristic structure and composition, variations that—in connection with the biometrical parameters of the specific reed populations—determined the individual categorization of many sub-associations: Bolboschoeno-Phragmitetum creates a variable width band around the exterior edge of the marsh. Located on the edge of temporary flooded marshes, it grows on gleyic soil and moderate-to-strong saline arenosoils with low alkaline pH. It is recognised as a type of halophyle species. For this subassociation, we proposed to differentiate between the species Eleocharis palustris, Carex distans and Rorippa austriaca, mezohygrophylous species. In contrast to it typical association, some changes can be observed in the structure of the plant community which belong to this sub-association. For instance, a decrease in the percentage of Phragmites australis and Bolboschoenus maritimus is associated with a considerably increase of the percentage of Eleocharis palustris, both in terms of range and as a biomass quantity.

Figure 1.9  a) Letea Sand Dune Forest; b) Distribution of Dune Forests Across the Danube Delta

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Astero tripolii-Phragmitetum is found on the shores of maritime areas that experience temporary, low levels of flooding and are prone to saline psammosoil and alkaline reaction. The reeds, each a diameter of 0.2–0.9 cm, are not very tall (0.90–1.65 m), but make up 50–75 percent of the total biomass. Still, on the whole, these plant communities produce a lower quantity of biomass in comparison with other types and subtypes of reed plots. The species Aster tripolium, a halophytic species, is co-dominant species with maximum constancy, but with a relatively low abundance-dominance index. This indicates a floristic composition totally different the reed plots described up to now. 7. Aquatic Vegetation Correspondences of the habitats in conservation networks: PAL.HAB: 22.421 Large pondweed beds EUNIS:The lakes along the Danube Delta are characterized by their rich, aquatic vegetation. The richest vegetation (i.e. dominance by charophytes) is found in the most isolated lakes. The large lakes in the Gorgova-Uzlina, Roşu-Puiu, and Merhei complexes, however, typically represented turbid lakes with sparse, submersed vegetation. Eutrophic water from the river enters the lake primarily during times of high discharge (usually in April–May). Depending on the local situation, the inflow may largely be water filtered during its path by extensive reed beds or from channel connections to the main branches of the delta. In the latter case, the inflowing water carries a heavy load of suspended solids, causing gradients from turbid to more clear water within a lake. Vegetation distribution within a lake reflects the gradients of depth and transparency of the water (Spence, 1982). Most likely, the presence of a dense vegetation structure enhances the latter gradient. There is also a strong seasonal variation in water quality of the lakes, depending on the flooding stage of the Danube and the hydrological state of the lakes. Flow lakes are those continuously flushed by water from the river, whereas isolated lakes only receive water during periods of high water levels. Consequently, many lakes experience a seasonality of the vegetation. In waters ranging from eutrophic up to hypertrophic, the dominant plant sets are usually formed by Lemna and Spirodela, while phytocoenoses in less eutrophic waters consists of Ricci and Ricciocarpus. Characteristic species for this class rank are the following: Lemna minor, Lemna trisulca, Lemna gibba, Lemna minuta, Spirodela polyrhiza, Azolla filiculoides and Salvinia natans. There are many cases of submersed synusiae (Ceratophyllum demersum, Myriophyllum spicatum and Najas marina) within this class rank.



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Usually, Spirodelo-Salvinietum natantis (Slavnic, 1956) lies next to the reeds in calm and shallow waters that are rich in nutrients and partial shaded. At the periphery of reeds, especially in enclosed water basins, the common species that can be found is Spirodeletum polyrhizae (Koch, 1954). The shadow mesh through the reeds is inhabited by Riccietum fluitantis (Slavnic em 1956; Tx. 1974) and it has rather restricted distribution in the Danube Delta. Within areas with stagnant waters, species such as Lemnetum gibbae (Mayawaki and J. Tx., 1960) and Lemnetum minoris (Th. Muller and Gors, 1960) are on display. The former inhabits stagnant waters that are strongly eutrophicated, warm, and shallow. The latter is present along channels and natural backwaters (ranging from eutrophic to hypertrophic). In stagnant waters, it groups into compact formations. Stagnant water or slow running water reveals the presence of Riccio-Lemnion trisulcae (R. Tx., 1974), Lemnetum trisulcae (Knapp and Stoffers, 1962) and Lemno-Azolletum carolinianae (Nedelcu, 1967). The first prefers partly shady waters with moderate nutrients content, the second likes rich nutrient contents and it forms submerged mats near the surface, and the third one plants itself on eutrophicate types of water. This includes groups of submerged macrophyte algae found in lakes, swamps, temporary lakes, or on sandy or oozy substrates. Water varies from 0.5 to 2 metres in depth (mesotrophic until oligotrophic). Only the Azolla filiculoides species has been found on the Danube Delta. (The correct name of this plant community should be Lemno-Azolletum filiculoides.) The species through which this class can be recognized have a wide distribution (Chara fragilis, Chara vulgaris, Chara contraria and Chara aspera). Lakes favor the emergence of plant groupings such as Charetum tomentosae (Corillion, 1957), which were identified at Roşca Lake and in the Şontea–Sireasa area. This plant community is located in shallow waters with a murky bottom. The pH is slightly alkaline. In lakes of other sizes along the Danube Delta, with approximately the same conditions (murky bottom, rich in nutrients, slightly alkaline pH levels), Nitellopsidetum obtusae (Sauer ex Dombska, 1961) forms compact, submerged mats. Charetum canescentis (Krausch, 1964) develops in brackish lakes with depths up to 1.5 meters, with a sandy substrate. This coenotic class groups the submerged or floating aquatic phytocoenoses, fixed or unfixed, on a substrate. It is frequently encountered at depths between 0.3 and 3 meters in lakes, canals, or other natural backwaters that flow smoothly, and contains a rich mix of nutrients. The dominant species are hydrophilious, but amphibian species are found here, too, such as Polygonum amphibium or even helophytes such as Sparganium erectum. The main species that help define this class (present in phytocoenoses which are identified

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and described for the Danube Delta) are: Ceratophyllum demersum, Elodea nuttallii, Hippuris vulgaris, Hydrocharis morsus-ranae, Myriophyllutm spicatum, Myriophyllum verticillatum, Nuphar lutea, Nymphaea candida, Nymphaea alba, Potamogeton lucens, Potamogeton natans, Potamogeton crispus, Potamogeton pectinatus, Potamogeton perfoliatus. Potamogeton trichoides, Ranunculus aquatilis, Ranunculus rionii, Potamogeton nodosum, Vallisneria spiralis, Trapa natans and Nymphoides peltata. As mentioned beforehand, lakes collect a variety of plant sets. Among them, Hydrocharitetum morsus-ranae (Van Langendonck, 1935) is worthy of mention. It is frequently found in swamps, lakes, along the channels and natural backwaters, in sheltered locations, and along the edge of the reed beds. Ranunculetum aquatilis (Gehu, 1961) is also present in almost all the Danube Delta lakes and on some channels without drainage, where they form an almost homogenous plant community. In lakes, natural backwaters and channels with clear, smoothly running water, and with a murky bottom, it is very likely to find Myriophyllo-Potametum lucentis (Soo, 1934). Two sub-phytocoenoses have been identified along the Danube Delta: Myriophylletosum spicati and Vallisnerietosum, individualized by species dominance. The habitat specific to lakes and natural backwaters (clear waters, flowing smoothly, ranging from mesotrophic to eutrophic) provides good conditions for Potamogetonetum trichoides (J. et R. Tx. in R. Tx. 1965) to develop. Nymphaetum albo-candidae (Pass., 1957) is a frequent plant set identified in all ponds, lakes, and natural backwaters that flow smoothly and have a murky bottom. At the edge of lakes and ponds, Nymphoidetum peltatae (Allorge, 1922; Bellot, 1951) forms almost pure mats and develops in stagnant, shallow waters (0.4 to 0.6 m) on clay and murky substrates. Nymphoideto peltatae-Marsileaetum quadrifoliae groups spread has been limited on the Danube Delta (Stefan et al., 1997). Identified at Obretin Lake and Mila 23, this plant community prefers stagnant and warm waters, up to 0.5 meters deep, usually lakesides on murky substrate. Marsilea quadrifolia is a rare and threatened species in Romania and throughout Europe and, in 1992, it was added to the red list of Annex II of Directive 92/43/EEC. Lemno-Utricularietum vulgaris (Soo, 1928) is frequently found in patches or strips along the edge of the reed beds in lakes, natural backwaters, and slow flowing drainage channels. The same biotopes that define this plant community are also shared by Myriophyllo verticillati-Nupharetum lutei (Koch, 1926). It frequently borders the reed beds, but it consists of a small number of species, which can support the shaded area. Apart from lakes, other stagnant or smoothly flowing waters are home to a wide range of plant communities. Although they prefer almost the same conditions, there are certain differences, however, that cannot be ignored and will be spelled out here in the following lines.



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Elodeetum nuttallii (Ciocarlan et al., 1997) is a submersed plant set frequently located in all water basins with stagnant water and a depth up to 1.5 meters. In order that the plants develop, the place has to be heavily sunlit and eutrophicated. Polygono-Potametum natantis (Soo, 1964) can be spotted in water with the same range in depth, with a murky bottom, rich in decomposing organic matter. Potamogetonetum lucentis (Hueck, 1931) inhabits clear, stagnant waters, with depths up to 2 meters, but it is also found on some natural backwaters and canals that have a smooth flow. Potamogetonetum crispi (Soo, 1927) enjoys dirty, stagnant, shallow waters (ranging from eutrophic to hypertrophic). Spirodelo-Aldrovandetum (Borhidi and Komlodi, 1959) is very rarely found on the Danube Delta at present, though it grows if ever in enclosures and abandoned settlements such as Ceamurlia and Obretin, in stagnant water and in eutrophic channels without drainage. The previous observations have not actually been confirmed and Aldrovanda vesiculosa is in notable and continuous decline. This requires the establishment of strictly protected areas in the abovementioned places and monitoring of the evolution of this species. There are some plants that are favored both by stagnant and smoothly flowing waters, thus doubling their chances of survival and development. A good example would be Ceratophylletum demersi (Hild, 1956). It is a submersed plant group, frequently formed of compact, almost completely homogenous population. This plant group is located in waters up to 2 meters deep, with a good sunlight and rich in nutrients. It has an important role in the clogging of the aquatic basins that do not have drainage or have a slow, smooth flow. Potamogetonetum perfoliati (Koch, 1926) is located in well-sunlit waters, rich in nutrients. On sandy/clay substrates, with waters up to 1.5 meters deep, one rarely sees Potamogetonetum graminei (Koch, 1926; Passarge, 1964; Gors, 1977). It seems to like low limestone content. Content rich in organic, decomposed matter and a murky bottom is appropriate condition for Utricularion vulgaris (Passarge, 1964). The maximum depth water rises here is 1.5 meters, as it groups submerged phytocoenoses. Trapetum natantis (Karpati, 1963) needs, in addition, clay and it is frequently located in stagnant and smoothly running waters. It prefers clear waters with depths up to 2 meters and occupies shaded biotopes near the reed beds where, sometimes, they form large areas. Murky bottoms are preferred by Stratiotetum aloidis (Nowinski, 1930) as well. It grows abundantly over large areas, in shallow, calm waters across the entire Danube Delta. A plant community such as Zanichellietum pedicellatae (Nordh 1954; Pott 1992) develops in stagnant brackish waters on murky, sandy substrates. Here, it forms compact clusters on small areas. Najadetum marinae (Fukarek, 1961) inhabits mainly clear brackish waters of depths up to 1 meter, which get a lot of sunlight.

Figure 1.10  a) Marsh Vegetation on Matiţa Merhei Complex; b) Distribution of Marsh Vegetation in the Danube Delta

34 Jenic Hanganu, Mihai Doroftei, Ion Sârbu, and Nicolae tefan

Figure 1.11  a) Aquatic Vegetation on Obretinul Mare Lake; b) Distribution of Aquatic Vegetation on Danube Delta

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36 Jenic Hanganu, Mihai Doroftei, Ion Sârbu, and Nicolae tefan

Its “eutrophic character” is a key phrase for the following. Among these Batrachietum trichophylli (Soo, 1927/1971) is one worthy of mentioned. It is found on clogged canals and drainage clefts without drainage water, ranging from eutrophic to hypertrophic in character. It was then localized at Sulina. Hottonietum palustris (R. Tx., 1937) tends to grow in shallow waters, arranging from mesotrophic to eutrophic in character (usually shaded). An association that formerly could be considered common in clean, clear waters is Elodeetum canadensis (Eggler, 1933). Nowadays, it has been replaced by Elodea nuttallii, which is better adapted to eutrophic waters. Potamogetonetum pectinati (Carstnesen, 1955) is different from that as it has wide distribution across the Danube Delta. It forms submerged compact mats (almost pure) localized a range of eutrophic to hypertrophic waters, with depths up to 2 meters. The concentration of oxygen is low and the favorite substrate is loamy clay or loamy sandy. Brackish water, arranging from mesotrophic to eutrophic, creates the perfect conditions for Zanichellion pedicellatae (Schaminee et al., 1990; em. Pott, 1992). It groups the rooted aquatic phytocoenoses, which need conditions much like those mentioned above. Potamogetonetum nodosi (Soo, 1960; Segal 1964) is located on the canals, in those natural backwaters that flow slowly, deeply, and clearly, and in places that are sufficiently oxygenated. Bibliography Anastasiu, P. (2011). Studiu complex asupra plantelor alohtone din Delta Dunarii in vederea stabilirii impactului ecologic, evaluarii riscului si elaborarii masurilor minime pentru managementul acestora. Sinteza lucrarii. Bucuresti: Universitatea din Bucuresti. Buijse, A. D., H. Coops, M. Staras, L. H. Jans, G. J. van Geest, R. E. Grift, B. W. Ibelings, W. Oosterberg, F. C. J. M. Roozen (2002). “Restoration strategies for river floodplains along large lowland rivers in Europe.” Freshwater Biology, 47(4), 889–907. Ciocârlan, V. (1994). Flora Deltei Dunarii. Cormophyta, Bucuresti: Editura Ceres. Ciocârlan, V. (2000). Flora Ilustrată a României, Pteridophyta et Spermatophyta, Ediţia a II a, Bucureşti: Editura Ceres. Ciocârlan V. (2009). Flora Ilustrată a României, Pteridophyta et Spermatophyta, Ediţia a III a, Bucureşti: Editura Ceres. Ciocarlan, V. (2011). Vascular flora of the Danube Delta, Analele stiintifice ale Universitatii “Al. I. Cuza” Iasi, Tomul LVII, fasc. I, s.II.a, paginile 41–64. Biologie vegetala, Iasi. Coops, H., J. Hanganu, M. Tudor, W (1998). Oosterberg. Impact of trophic gradients on aquatic macrophytes in the Danube Delta, Romania). 10th EWRS Symposium on Aquatic Weeds.



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Coops, H., T. Buijse, A. Constantinescu, S. Covaliov, J. Hanganu, B. Ibelings, G. Menting, I. Navodaru, W. Oosterberg, M. Staraş, L. Török (2008). “Trophic gradients in a large-river delta: ecological structure determined by connectivity gradients in the Danube Delta, Romania).” River Research and Applications, 24(5), 698–709. Dihoru, G. and G. Negrean (1976). ‘Sintaxoni specifici Deltei Dunarii,’ Peuce. Muzeul Delta Dunării. V, 101–118. Doniţă N., A. Popescu, M. Păucă-Comănescu, S. Mihăilescu, I. A. Biriş (2005). Habitatele din România. Bucureşti: Editura Tehnică Silvică. Doroftei, M., A. Oprea, N. Stefan, I. Sarbu (2011). Vascular wild flora of Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve, Scientific Annals of D.D.I., volumul 17, paginile 15–52. Editura Centrul de Informare Tehnologică Delta Dunării Tulcea. Dubyna, D. (1984). Vegetation Map of the State Reserve “Dunaiskie Plavni,” Kiev, Ukraine. Enculescu, P. (1924). Zonele de vegetaţie lemnoasă din România în raport cu condiţiunile oro-hidrografice, climaterice, de sol şi de subsol. Bucureşti: Mem. Inst. Geol.al României. Godeanu, M. (1976). “Consideraţii generale asupra principalelor asociaţii acvatice şi palustre din Delta Dunării în condiţii naturale şi amenajate.” Peuce, V, 57–99. Hanganu J., M. Gridin, H. J. Drost, T. Chifu, N. Ştefan and I. Sârbu (1994). Explanation to the vegetation map of the Romanian Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve 1:150.000. Danube Delta Institute, Institute for Biology Iasi and Directorate General for Water Management, Transport and Public Works. Hanganu J., I. Grigoraş, N. Ştefan and I. Sârbu (2002). Vegetation of the Biosphere Reserve Danube Delta, Institute for inland Water Management Treatment RIZA. Institutul de Cercetări şi Amenajări Silvice, Amenajament Ocol Silvic Tulcea (1984). Studiu general de amenajare a fondului forestier proprietate publică de stat. Bucureşti: I.C.A.S. Krausch, H. D. (1965). ‘Vegetationskundliche Beobachtungen im Donaudelta,’ Limnologica, Berlin, 3(3): 271–313. Leandru, V. (1968). “Vegetaţia forestieră din Delta Dunării.” Societatea de Ştiinţe Biologice din România. Comunicări de botanică. A VI-a Consfătuire Naţională de Geobotanică (Dobrogea, Delta Dunării, 17–26. VII.). Munteanu, I. (1996). Soils of the Romanian Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. Bucharest and Tulcea: Research Institute for Soil Science and Agrochemistry, Bucharest, Danube Delta Institute, Tulcea. Oosterberg, W., M. Staraş, L. Bogdan, A. D. Buijse, A. Constantinescu, H. Coops, J. Hanganu, B. W. Ibelings, G. A. M. Menting, I. Navodaru and L. Török (2000). Ecological gradients in the Danube Delta; present state and man-induced changes. RIZA the Netherlands, Danube Delta National Institute Romania and Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority Romania. RIZA rapport nr. 2000.015. Pallis, M. (1916). “The structure and Hystory of Plav: The floating fen of the Delta of the Danube.” Linnean Society’s Journ. Bot. XLIII. Pantu, Z, et al. (1935). “Contribuţiuni la flora Deltei Dunării.” Mem. Sect. şt. Acad. Rom., seria III-a, 11(2), 1–57.

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Pascovschi, S. and V. Leandru (1962). “Tipurile de păduri din Delta Dunării.” Revista Hidrobiologia, 4. Popescu A. and V. Sanda (1976). “Contributii la cunoasterea vegetatiei psamofile din Delta Dunarii.” Peuce. Muzeu Delta Dunării Tulcea, V, 193–216. Popescu, A. and V. Sanda (1977). “Contribuţii noi la cunoaşterea vegetaţiei litoralului românesc al Mării Negre.” Stud.şi Cerc. De Biol. Seria Biol. veget., 29(2), 161–167. Popescu, A., V. Sanda, S. Oroian, T. Chifu, N. Ştefan and I. Sârbu (1997). “Vegetaţia Deltei Dunării.” Marisia. Studii şi materiale, XXV, 12–143. Prodan, I. (1935–1939). “Conspectul Florei Dobrogei.” Bul., Acad. Agron., 3, 6, 7. Sanda, V. and A. Popescu (1973). “Cercetări privind flora şi vegetaţia din Delta Dunării.” Studii şi cercetări de biologie: Seria botanică, 25(5), 399–424. Sârbu, I., Ştefan N., I. Lăcrămioara and C. Mânzu (2001). Flora ilustrată a plantelor vasculare din estul României, determinator, vol. I–II. Iaşi: Editura Universităţii, “Al. I. Cuza.” Sarbu, I., N. Stefan, A. Oprea (2013). Plante vasculare din Romania - Determinator ilustrat de teren, Editura Victor B Victor, Bucuresti. Simon, T. (1960). “Contribution á la connaissance de la végétation du Delta de Danube.” Annales Universitatis Scientiarum Budapestinensis de Rolando Eötvös. Sectio Biologica, 3, 307–333, Spence, D. H. N. (1982). “The zonation of plants in freshwater lake.” Advances in Ecological Research, 12, 37–125.

Chapter 2

The Impact of the Hydrological Regime on the Diversity of Natural Habitats in the Danube Delta Erika Schneider

The Danube Delta’s unique and rich complex of ecosystems is the product of a very specific hydrological regime. With a mix of water bodies, floodplains and sand dunes, the Delta features areas that are always under water, areas that are always dry and areas that are submerged when water levels are high but dry when the water level drops. This chapter offers an overview of the Danube Delta’s diverse habitats, and the variety of flora and fauna supported by these habitats. The study focuses on the way that the hydrological regime, with fluctuating water levels, makes these habitats possible. The diversity of the Delta’s habitats is made apparent through the chapter’s description of natural levees and their characteristic vegetation; the genesis and development of gallery-like white willow forests; banks that temporarily fall dry, and their pioneer settlements; the diversity of waters with their respective characteristic aquatic vegetation; and the large reed beds. Emphasis is placed on the transition areas between land and water—dynamic habitats that are characterized by the juxtaposition of either more terrestrial or more aquatic elements, depending on water level fluctuations. The study also discusses the saline areas, with their characteristic vegetation and the dune rows, where a diversity of microrelief structures creates a huge variety of microhabitats. The study also looks at the anthropogenic impact on natural habitats, with a focus on grassland communities that developed subsequent to the clearing of the White willow forests.

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Introduction One of Europe’s broadest wetlands, the Danube Delta comprises a unique and biogeographically outstanding complex of ecosystems. The area’s natural habitats range from constantly water covered and temporary flooded areas to wetlands and extremely arid dunes. The Danube Delta has a total area of about 4,170 km2. In all, 82 percent of that area is in Romania while 18 percent is in Ukraine. About 80 percent of the Delta’s territory consists of areas that are naturally permanently covered by water, 3 percent of the area is naturally dry—including the quaternary loess deposits, the area known as Chilia Field and part of the Bugeac Plain and dunes. The remaining 17 percent of the Delta’s surface area is only temporarily flooded, and is used by the local population for agriculture and pastureland (Gâştescu and Ştiucă 2008, Horvat, Glavac and Ellenberg 1974). The main cause of the area’s habitat diversity is the hydrological regime, which involves fluctuations of water levels, water circulation in the inner Delta and its residence time in the various water bodies. The duration, height time period in the course of a year and frequency of floods all play a major role in the area’s complex of ecosystems and influence the distribution of habitats along ecological gradients and their vegetation. In some areas, the natural ecological gradients are overlaid with man-induced changes that modify habitat conditions and alter biotic communities. The input of nutrients and suspended solids, as well as the dynamics of soils/sediments, are closely connected to discharge and water levels, and they also affect habitats. The hydrological regime is responsible also for the mechanical stress of the vegetation during high water levels, for the exchange and drift of organisms, and the dynamics of the groundwater table, which is fundamental to the dune area’s vegetation in the marine part of the Delta. All together, this complex framework of interrelated effects, which are conditioned by the hydrological regime and are typical of floodplains and deltas, form the basis for the dynamic of vegetation and fauna (Dister 1994, Marin and Schneider 1997). Understanding this framework, which is closely connected to the area’s continental climate, builds the basis for a better appreciation of the complexity and biodiversity of these ecosystems. Biogeographically speaking, the Danube Delta is not only characterized by European and Eurasian flora and fauna elements, but also by Pontic, Sarmatic, Irano-Turanian, Balkan and Mediterranean elements (Ciocârlan 1994, Popescu-Gorj and Scobiola-Palade 1968). Even though the Delta-specific vegetation of the floodplains, marshes and swamps is characterized by a permanent fluctuation of the water levels, and thus is mainly azonal (Horvat, Glavac and Ellenberg 1974), the very particular imprint appearing in the Danube Delta’s sea-adjacent dune areas is conferred by different biogeographical elements.



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The physical form of the Danube Delta is characterized by a large alluvial plain that is impacted by both fluvial and marine accumulation processes. (Gâştescu and Ştiucă 2008) Owing to these processes, different geomorphological structures appear in the upper fluvial and lower marine parts of the Delta—and in the transition zone in between. The differences between the upper fluvial part of the Delta, which is influenced by Danube River dynamics, and the marine section, which is subject to the dynamics of the Black Sea, is made apparent by the distribution and structure of vegetation. The sediment load that the river transports into the Danube Delta is deposited in and on the delta front. The sediment load has been reduced in comparison with the time prior to hydrotechnical measures (i.e. construction of dams and weirs) taken on the Danube River and its tributaries. Despite these measure the Danube Delta is growing, especially around the mouth of its northern Chilia/ Kilija Branch in Ukraine, where a secondary delta has emerged (Gâştescu and Ştiucă 2008). In this secondary delta, Europe’s youngest territory, the Danube Delta’s evolutionary processes can be monitored. We can observe pioneer plant settlings on newly emerged silt deposits and the evolution of new habitats and vegetation communities. Looking at these processes helps us understand how delta formation and the evolution of vegetation occurred in former times. We see typical floodplain ecosystems along the main and secondary branches, but there are also characteristic lake ecosystems—with surrounding reed vegetation, aquatic macrophyte communities in the open water area, silting-up processes with growing reed beds and developing reeds, as well as sedge-peat deposits. (Gâştescu and Oltean 1997) The marine zone of the Delta, and the transition area between the fluvial and marine, are characterized by beach barriers and fan-like sand dune complexes, with a mosaic of different, very particular habitats sheltering numerous species of flora and fauna that have done well in adapting to the specific conditions of the dune areas. Adjacent to the Black Sea and along the coast, species living on saline areas (halophilous species), and their communities, are well represented. What follows is a more detailed breakdown of the various habitats seen on the Danube Delta—along with a catalogue of some of the species supported by these habitats. Along the River and its banks: The Natural Levees The water courses of the Danube include main branches of the river, large secondary natural branches, large channels flowing into secondary branches, small and narrow channels connecting the lakes, smaller streams (“gârla” in Romanian) and flood depressions (japşe). These water courses are bordered by natural river bank levees, called “grinduri de mal” in Romanian (Figure 2.1).

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Figure 2.1  Danube Delta Overview Map Realized at WWF-Auen-Institut on the base of Information Provided by the Danube Delta National Institute Tulcea. Source: Schneider, Dister & Döpke 2008, map sheet 15.



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Gallery-like floodplain forests of White willow (Salix alba) grow here, on and above mean water level. Softwood trees also grow in gallery-like forests—along a riverside or wetland—atop artificial levees that were built during construction of polders or dragging of new canals. The composition of the White willow forests reflects the duration of the floods: they reach from the lowest areas on the mean water level to the highest spots of the levees. In lower areas, the floodplain forest is relatively meager. The tree layer mainly consists of White willows, and the poor shrub layer stagnates in places where inundations last for six months. The herbaceous layer is also poor in species diversity and mainly consists of moisture indicators and species that have adapted to fluctuating water levels well (Schneider 1991). A characteristic species of White willow forests, particularly in wateradjacent fringes, is the tall herbaceous Swamp groundsel Senecio paludosus. The structure of the White willow forest changes in places where flood duration does not exceed four months per year. In these areas, the softwood forest consists of White poplar (Populus alba) and Grey poplar (Populus canescens). In some places, the softwood stands are covered by curtains of wild grape (Vitis sylvestris). This is the case in the area of Şontea-Fortuna channel and on the numerous islands of Chilia/Kilija and Tătaru branches—for instance in Kisliţa, Ukraine and Ostrovul Tătaru north of Pardina Polder, Romania. White willow gallery forests offer habitats to a multitude of bird species. Cormorants frequently nest in these forests, in mixed colonies that include heron species—such as Night heron (Nycticorax nycticorax), Little egret (Egretta garzetta) and/or Great white heron (Casmerodius albus)—as well as the European spoonbill (Platalea leucorodia) and Glossy ibis (Plegadis falcinellus). Great cormorants (Phalacrocorax carbo) and Pygmy cormorants (Phalacrocorax pygmaeus) also breed in the gallery forests bordering the banks. These last two species may also be found breeding in the reeds. The Grey heron (Ardea cinerea) breeds in the tall white willows of the gallery forests. The Squacco heron (Ardeola ralloides) nests in the gallery forests adjacent to its feeding grounds—specifically in the floating leaf carpets consisting of White water lily (Nymphaea alba) and Yellow water lily (Nuphar luteum). This is also where the Eurasian penduline tit (Remiz pendulinus) builds its braided, hanging nests made of grass. The nests of the White-tailed sea eagle (Haliaetus albicilla) can be found in tall, old willows situated in calm and remote areas. Hollow willows serve as a nesting place for the European roller (Coracias garrulus), which is common in the Danube Delta. As a characteristic pioneer species, the White willow is dominant in the Danube Delta and grows on newly emerged virgin soil with fine grains. On these soils, one may observe the development of gallery forests of different age categories, creating a “terraced willow fringe.” When banks are uncovered at the time of the seed drift, a dense fringe of young willow stands, called

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“reniş” in Romanian, develops along the drift line of the larger and smaller delta branches. If comparable conditions arise in the next seeding period, such fringes can appear again and again (Figure 2.2). This is how terraced willow fringes arise parallel to the river bank and finally transform it into a dense White willow gallery forest, with a structure and species composition dependent on the height and duration of the floods. On the downstream sections of the Danube’s branches, with increasing proximity to the Delta’s mouth in the Black Sea, the White willow gallery forests lose their compact appearance and belt-like structure and instead appear as groups of trees or single bushes that grow between the reeds that are now prevailing along the delta’s branches. Tamarisk bushes (Tamarix ramosissima) occur locally in the White willow gallery fringes. On newly emerged, vegetation-free banks, they germinate in a way that’s similar to White willows. In spots where White willow trees and bushes have been cut and burned, with a view toward pastureland reclamation, Tamarisk bushes develop on the new grasslands and prevail in some places (Figure 2.3). Tamarisk bushes are also common in the dune areas and in the marine areas of the Danube Delta. Tamarisk bushes basically indicate a light salinization of the soils. They constitute a particular plant community (Calamagrostio-Tamaricetum ramosissimae) and habitat for specific insects

Figure 2.2  Terassed Willow Gallery Forest with Different Age Categories on the Main Chilia Branch



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Figure 2.3  Tamarisc Bushes (Tamarix ramosissima) on Babina Island

living only on Tamarisk species. Among these are the weevil (Curculionidae) species Coniatus splendidus and the bug (Heteroptera) species Tuponia prasina (Eckbert Schneider, unpublished data). The habitat of the Tamarisk is listed under habitat type 92D0, southern riparian galleries and thickets (Nerio-Tamaricetea and Securinegion tinctoriae) in the annexes of the European Union’s Flora-Fauna-Habitat Directive (European Commision DG Environment 2007, Schneider, Tudor and Staras 2008). A higher dominance of common reed (Phragmites australis), as compared to less compact White willow galleries, is caused by a reduction of the slope and the very slow velocity of the water flow—especially on the last stretches of the Danube branches. Low slope and reduced flow velocity allow the development of reed stands that coexist with the willow forests along the water borders, even in those stretches where gallery forests are still well represented. On the silt banks of these areas, a colonization of common reed, Reed mace (Typha latifolia), Bulrush (Typha angustifolia) and Common club-rush (Schoenoplectus lacustris) can be observed. Other species such as Sea club-rush (Bolboschoenus maritimus), Galingale (Cyperus serotinus) and Flowering rush reed (Butomus umbellatus) occur as well, the latter being a characteristic indicator species for emerging silt banks and the beginning of siltation processes in the whole Delta. The formation of reeds along the water-facing side of White willow forests is very characteristic of lowland rivers and reveals that the balance between erosion and deposition on

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upstream river sections. This changes further downstream, where dominant deposition processes shape the area. Over the last decades the invasive Indigo bush (Amorpha fruticosa) spread widely in the Delta’s willow gallery forests. Indigo bush has grown to dominate the shrub layer in parts of the White willow forest, causing a considerable change in the habitat’s natural composition (Doroftei 2009). Indigo bush also dominates in bush formations of White willow (Salix alba), Salix triandra and Salix viminalis. Various tall herbaceous fringes have developed on the water-facing side of the White willow galleries and willow bushes. These fringes are composed of a mixture of almost annual and biannual (as well as perennial) pioneer species. White willow seeds not only germinate along the mean water level, they also grow below mean water level, though they cannot persist there because of short dry periods. At low water levels that temporarily lay bare broad parts of the river banks, the fine-grained protosoil sites provide appropriate conditions for very specific plant communities—biocoenoses that have adapted to these minor bed sites. These low-level bank areas are settled by ephemeral species that complete their life cycle within two to three months, during the low-water-level period. Given that low water periods do not occur annually, these species and their communities do not occur each year. But because the diaspore of these plants remains in the soil, they may reappear after years on dried out areas covered by silt or silt and sand. On these sites, one may typically find species such as the Galingales Cyperus michelianus and Cyperus fuscus, the graminea Heleochloa alopecuroides, Low cudweed (Gnaphalium uliginosum), Limosella aquatica, Toad rush (Juncus bufonius), Bristle club rush (Isolepis setacea), Needle spike rush (Eleocharis acicularis), Red goosefoot (Chenopodium rubrum), Many-seed goosefoot (Chenopodium polyspermum) and others. Together with these species, the protosoils are settled by characteristic beetles, such as species from the genus Bembidion and Clenius. The willow forests emerging on natural habitats without anthropogenic impact are pristine forests that reach the highest degree of naturalness. The same is true of the abovementioned pioneer vegetation of ephemerous species in the low river bed. These habitats therefore deserve special attention from a nature conservation point of view (Dister 1980, Schneider 2003). A Mosaic of Reed Beds, Water Courses and Lakes with Abundant Macrophytes Broad wetland complexes with running and standing waters, rich macrophyte vegetation and extended reed beds characterise the area between the main Delta branches. The whole complex reflects a broad spectrum of



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developmental sequences, ranging from open, macrophyte-free waters, to waters that are covered by extended macrophyte carpets, to the gradual siltation of shallow lakes. The manifold network of water courses and the different types of bodies of standing water in various sizes shelter rich growths of aquatic macrophyte vegetation. The lakes are connected to the main branch of the river, or to branches of second and third category, or are isolated within the reeds. The connecting waters consist of larger or smaller water channels, the small running water courses known as “gârla” and temporary flood channels. The broad variety of connecting waters offer a high diversity of aquatic and semiaquatic habitats (Figure 2.1, Danube Delta map). Numerous small waterways, such as the flood channels, change their aspect with fluctuating levels. At high water levels they temporarily transform into running water, and at low water levels they temporarily become standing waters, disconnected from the dynamics of running waters. The hydrological regime, hydromorphological processes and trophic condition of the water bodies constitute the basis for a broad diversity of aquatic macro- and microhabitats. These are settled by various macrophytes and their communities, and are distributed along ecological gradients. The habitats are differentiated by their spatial structure and the species composition of the macrophyte communities. Ecological gradients exist between the various types of water bodies, depending on their size, water depth, hydraulic residence time and the type of substrate (organic or mineral). A variety of habitats occur within individual water bodies, with, for example, one type of habitat on the bank and another in the deepest water. The degree of differentiation of habitats within a water body depends on its width, depth, flow velocity and turbidity/content of suspended solids. The distribution of water macrophyte communities perfectly reflects habitat conditions. The water’s ecological state affects the abundance of aquatic vegetation and the composition of plant communities. The species composition of aquatic plant communities and the abundance—dominance (A-D) values of species in general are subject to natural fluctuations that are determined by the dynamics of the water levels, the hydrological regime as a whole and the dynamics of sediments (Schneider 2009). The Danube Delta shelters a broad range of water macrophyte communities that are represented by duckweed communities (Lemnion minoris), Frogbit communities (Hydrocharition), Stonewort communities (Chara species), various submerged pondweed communities (Potamion eurosibiricum p.p.) and Water lily communities (Nymphaeion). The duckweed communities are simply structured in one or two layers that are composed of floating carpets of Giant duckweed (Spirodela polyrhiza) and Common duckweed (Lemna minor). These carpets may also be joined by a supplementary floating layer, below the water surface, comprised of Ivy-leaved duckweed

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(Lemna trisulca). Moreover, an overlapping of duckweed covers with rooting water macrophytes, especially Hornwort (Ceratophyllum demersum) communities, is frequent. The frogbit group (Hydrocharition) includes communities of the Water fern (Salvinia natans)—very common in the Danube Delta—Frogbit (Hydrocharis morsus-ranae) and Greater bladderwort (Utricularia vulgaris) communities, all of them interfering with one another. Frogbit and bladderwort occur in moderately eutrophic, clear water. The Water soldier (Stratiotes aloides) is also characteristic of moderately eutrophic water and covers broad areas in smaller branches of “gârla”-type waters with low carbonate content. It occurs along with Great bladderwort and Frogbit, and in some locations, with White water lily (Nymphaea alba). As has been observed in the Babina area, Water soldier communities constitute the first phase in floating reed developments (Schneider, Tudor and Staras 2008). Reed stems take root along the nodes enlacing the water soldier, creating an overlaying layer. Submerged pondweed communities (Potamion eurosibiricum p.p.) occur frequently in the waters of the Delta. Some species, such as the Fennel-leaved pondweed (Potamogeton pectinatus), cover a broad ecological range. This indicator of eutrophic conditions occurs both in standing and slowly running waters and colonizes both habitats with clear waters as well as habitats with a high sediment load. It occurs as well in shallow waters along the borders of the main branches of the Delta, such as in the Chilia Branch, where it settles on the water-facing area of the White willow stands. In combination with Potamogeton crispus, the species is an indicator for hypereutrophic (extremely nutrient rich) conditions (Schneider 2009). Pondweed Potamogeton perfoliatus is another species that occurs both in the Delta’s standing and slowly running waters. Shining Pondweed (Potamogeton lucens) is a submerged pondweed and usually occurs in clear, moderately eutrophic waters. This category also includes the Hairlike pondweed (Potamogeton trichoides). Some of the Delta’s water bodies are characterized by a water macrophyte community that is composed of Hornwort (Ceratophyllum demersum) and Spiral wrack (Vallisneria spiralis), a thermophilous species that is more common in Mediterranean waters (Krausch 1965). There actually are no significant differences between the water macrophyte communities of the Danube Delta’s water courses and its lakes. This is due to the low slope and the low flow velocity. Nevertheless a small number of characteristic species occur only in water courses—like Potamogeton nodosus, a pondweed—or mainly in running waters, as is the case with Potamogeton gramineus ssp. heterophyllus (Schneider 2009). The group of water lily communities (Nymphaeion) is characteristic of the Delta landscape (Figure 2.4). Species in this group include Fringed water lily (Nymphoides peltata), Water chestnut (Trapa natans), Yellow and White



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Figure 2.4  White Water Lily Carpets

water lily (Nuphar luteum and Nymphaea alba) and Water milfoil (Myriophyllum spicatum). The Fringed water lily may be considered an indicator species for highly eutrophic to hypereutrophic conditions. It grows in slowly flowing waters (0.3 meters/second) with low transparency and also in shallow lakes. The species is known to grow along the main branches of the Danube and has been observed in the shallow water area along the borders of the river’s Chilia Branch. But this species also appears along with Common Mare’s-Tail (Hippuris vulgaris) on less eutrophic sites. The Water chestnut (Trapa natans) occurs frequently in some lakes of the Danube Delta—including the lake complex of Gorgova-Isac-Uzlina, Rotund Lake of Fortuna Polder area—and may be found as well in both moderately and highly eutrophic waters (Figure 2.5) (Schneider 2009). Even though it mainly occurs in lakes, these are usually connected to running waters of different categories and the plant is well adapted to dramatic water level fluctuations and stronger currents. This is why, in running waters and lakes, Water chestnut may be found in places that are temporarily characterized by a stronger current. The fruit of the Water chestnut has been harvested by the local people for food. The story goes that, up until a few decades ago, large amounts of Water chestnuts were sold on Tulcea market (Kiss 1997). The Yellow water lily (Nuphar luteum) usually indicates moderately eutrophic to highly eutrophic conditions. When growing alongside the White water lily (Nymphaea alba), it indicates moderately eutrophic waters. The abundant aquatic macrophyte vegetation offers habitats to phytophile macroinvertebrates along with providing niches for small animals and fish.

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Figure 2.5  Water Chestnut Trapa Natans and Swimming Fern Salvinia Natans

Phytoplankton, zooplankton—as well as a species-abundant macrozoobenthon fauna with numerous small crustaceans and gastropodae—constitute the basis for an abundant fish fauna. There are also prosperous amphibian, reptile, bird and mammal faunas that are bound to aquatic habitats or waters as partial habitats (Schneider, Tudor and Staras 2008). Tern species, such as Wiskered tern (Chlidonias hybrida) and Black tern (Chlidonias niger) build their nests on the large floating leaves of the Yellow water lily (Nuphar luteum) and European white water lily (Nymphaea alba) (Figure 2.6). For the Squacco Heron (Ardeola ralloides), these large floating leaves are a basic resting place and a starting point for foraging. Water bodies covered with extended floating leaf carpets provide habitats for Water rail (Rallus aquaticus), Spotted crake (Porzana porzana) and Common moorhen (Gallinula chloropus). The Great crested grebe (Podiceps cristatus) and Black coot (Fulica atra) are among the numerous bird species sojourning on the broad, open waters of the Delta lakes. Their floating nests are attached to aquatic plants along the water borders. The area inside the reeds and along its borders offers perfectly hidden habitats. Reeds, Sedges and Rushes Covering a surface area of about 160,000 hectares, the Delta’s compact reed beds of Phragmites australis are the largest such growths worldwide, and



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Figure 2.6  Tern Nest on White Water Lily Carpets in the Area of Popina

they offer large-scale habitats to numerous species. The reeds grow in very dense stands that reach an average height of three or four meters, but can grow up to six metres tall. On the Danube Delta vegetation map, reed areas are summarized as “reed marsh,” even though they may be classified in various forms. (Hanganu, Gridin, Drost, Chifu, Stefan and Sârbu 2000, Hanganu, Dubyna and Menke 2002) Among the very characteristic elements are the extended floating reeds, locally called “plaur” in Romanian or “plavny” in Ukrainian. Whole sections of these carpets may be torn off and set adrift by strong breezes or storms. They form floating islands that can cause hazards for fishermen as they may lock up inlets and channels of the small water courses. The “plaur” or “plavny” is from the phytocoenological, hydrological and pedological point of view a specific type of the Phragmites australis reed community (Rudescu, Niculescu and Chivu 1965), occurring particularly in the downstream area of the Delta in clear and clean waters that are filtered in the reed areas. Plaur develop in constantly water-covered areas on a relatively thick mud layer consisting of organic mud (sapropel) on a sandy soil. Over the years, these reed communities may produce floating islands, consisting of a dense reed rootstock matting with suspended material, humus and undecomposed organic matter. These islands are formed when matting of densely interwoven, thick air-filled rootstocks develop in the

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ground of a body of water. The matting detaches from the ground as a carpet and floats to the surface, where it forms broad coverings. This phenomenon occurs mainly in summer, when considerable amounts of hydrogen sulfide (H2S), methane (CH4) and carbon dioxide (CO2) form below the dense rootstocks and the layer of further secondary rootstocks and lift both soil and reeds to the water surface. This process is enforced by the spring floods that can sometimes completely cover the old reeds (Antipa 1917, Buşniţă 1943, Rodewald 1943, Rudescu, Niculescu and Chivu 1965). The rootstock carpets are torn into pieces by the waves in the water, and the result is the formation of swimming reed islands. Floating reed carpets may also form along the water body borders when broken reed culms take root on their nodes. The reeds are rooted to the ground, but the fine silt prevents them from being permanently fixed, so this reed-root carpet can float to the surface at the moment of the first big flood, to form smaller floating islands on the surface. The formation of more durable floating carpets can be observed in spots where dense populations of the Water soldier (Stratiotes aloides) settle in lakes, old gârlas (small streams) and along the channel borders. The Water soldier layer can make floating reeds more stable. These reed beds can still be torn into pieces and form the floating plaur islands. Scientists also believe that plaur are a symptom of older reed stands that lift from the ground and float in the water after they grow to the point where their rootstocks die back. After these reed stands break loose, their growth alters and the rootstocks expand vertically, developing new reed culms at their extremities. Along with reeds (Phragmites australis), plaur are also composed of other characteristic species, including Grey sallow (Salix cinerea), Swamp fern (Thelypteris palustris), Hemlock (Cicuta virosa), Greater spearwort (Ranunculus lingua), Purple loosestrife (Lythrum salicaria) and Woody nightshade (Solanum dulcamara). From an ecological point of view, one could also add the Swamp calla (Calla palustris), which is mentioned in the botanical literature of the Danube Delta (Topa and Beldie, 1972 in Flora. R. S. R., XII, p. 775, Ciocârlan 1994), but has not been found in recent decades. Swamp calla occurs in other parts of Europe, including some of Germany’s NorthEastern fens and swamps, in a characteristic combination with the Swamp fern (Thelypteris palustris). It is quite conceivable that the species also existed in the Danube Delta until the Delta’s ecological conditions were changed by people cutting canals through the reeds. It could be that the canals let greater amounts of unfiltered water flow into the inner Delta, causing eutrophication, so that Swamp calla became very rare or even disappeared completely. The composition of the reed bed vegetation depends on the different siltation phases, on water quality and the type of connection a body of water has to the Danube. Based on these criteria, the reeds have been subdivided into



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various types, depending on the kind of fen or water body in which they occur (Hanganu, Gridin, Drost, Chifu, Stefan and Sârbu 2000). The eco-type of small reeds occurring in sea-shore areas has been particularly differentiated. Plaur constitute a precious habitat for numerous species. The White pelican (Pelecanus crispus), for example, finds perfect nesting grounds in the broad, hidden reed areas and along the plaur bordering the water. The reed carpets frequently grow to several meters thick, and offer an adequate habitat for wild boars (Sus scrofa) as well. Some bird species, such as the Bittern (Botaurus stellaris) and Purple heron (Ardea purpurea), depend on the dense reed rushes for breeding grounds. The Great white heron (Casmerodius albus) frequently nests in the reeds, and the Marsh harrier (Circus aeruginosus) builds its large, water-surrounded nests here as well. The Delta’s broad reed areas also offer a habitat for the highly threatened European mink (Mustela lutreola). Large populations of the European otter (Lutra lutra) may still be found here as well. However, in spite of protection measures, the otter is exposed to poaching. Aside from hosting different reed rush types, larger areas along the reed marsh borders are also densely covered by reed-mace rushes (Hanganu, Gridin, Drost, Chifu, Ştefan and Sârbu 2000). Reed-mace rushes of the type Typha latifolia and Typha angustifolia occur mainly and frequently in the Delta’s upstream section, Narrowleaf cattail (Typha angustifolia) being the more common species. The Common cattail (Typha latifolia) is characteristic of nutrient-rich sites along standing waters or waters with a low flow velocity. It represents a typical pioneer species, occurring on new silted areas and humous, silty soils. The species is peat-forming as well. The Narrowleaf cattail mainly borders standing, warm and more or less nutrientrich, frequently noncalcareous waters—on humous, silty soils. The species is tolerant to salinity and therefore also occurs in the sea-adjacent areas of the Danube Delta. Both Narrowleaf cattail and Common cattail are pioneers of the beginning of the siltation processes. In times of need, the young shoots of the Narrowleaf cattail, and even the succulent leaf parts of adult plants, have been used as aliment by the population of some villages in the Delta. Among the silt communities living in the Danube Delta lakes, the Black locust (Schoenoplectus lacustris) appears frequently as well. This species can occur in association with Common reed and Reed mace, but it also forms broad stands by itself. Like the species mentioned above, Black locust belongs to the pioneers of the early siltation processes, growing on nutrientrich, silty soils. In the Danube Delta’s shore-adjacent areas it is frequently replaced by the halophilous Grey clubrush (Schoenoplectus tabernaemontani), which copes better with the conditions of this site. The frequently appearing Sea club-rush (Bolboschoenus maritimus) are among the characteristic small reeds that border the waters along with large

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rushes, reeds and reed mace and are frequently in close interaction with bulrush reeds. Sea club-rush is characteristic of saline muddy and clayey soils. It not only occurs in the silted areas of standing, permanent waters, but also in temporary flood depressions and swamp meadows. The Common spikerush (Eleocharis palustris) may frequently be found here as well. In shallow waters along the waterside border of the reeds, and in some spots along the borders of White willow galleries, one may find stands of small rushes composed of Arrowhead (Sagittaria sagittifolia) and Sparganium erectum in muddy areas. The Arrowhead locally appears in floating forms and has adapted to standing and slowly running waters. Closely related to the various rushes, sedge reeds are composed of numerous reed species (Carex sp.) occurring mainly as broad stands in the water’s siltation areas. The Cypress-like sedge (Carex pseudocyperus) occurs along with Hemlock (Cicuta virosa) (Sanda, Öllerer and Burescu 2008) and borders mesotrophic or eutrophic lakes with a low pH-value in places with plaur formation. In some spots, Greater pond sedge (Carex riparia), Bladder sedge (Carex vesicaria) and Slender-tufted sedge (Carex acuta—gracilis) form stands. Some sedge species occur even in small-scale wetland and wet meadows—these include the True fox-sedge (Carex vulpina) or Distant sedge (Carex distans). The latter is an indicator of light salinity. Small rushes and sedge areas, especially Carex elata sometimes form hammocks that are locally called “popândace” (Figure 2.7) and offer a specific

Figure 2.7  Destroyed Hammocks “Popândace” during the Drainage in the Area of Dunavăţ



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habitat and perfect hiding possibilities. This is where one may sometimes observe the Sedge warbler (Acrocephalus schoenobaenus) building its nests in large and small rushes. The Aquatic Warbler (Acrocephalus paludicola) does the same. At the very end of the developmental sequence, from open shallow waters to total siltation, we can find the alder swamp forest, a type of growth that is very rare in the Danube Delta. The alder forest developed in a former, naturally straightened meander (Erenciuc) on the Danube’s southern main branch of Sfântu Gheorghe. It is composed of Black alder (Alnus glutinosa), Narrow-leaf ash (Fraxinus angustifolia) and Swamp ash (Fraxinus. pallisae) (Hanganu, Sârbu and Ştefan 2008). With its tall hammock-forming Sedges (Carex elata) this area shows aspects of a typical swamp forest. Bubble sedge (Carex vesicaria) and Swamp fern (Thelypteris palustris) are characteristic as well. This old meander, which has practically become a lake at present, is only attached to the main branch of the Danube by a small channel. The area is characterized by permanently high ground water and high surface water tables as well as water level fluctuations of generally less than a meter. In the river’s Erenciuc Branch, peat deposits have developed from the organic matter of reed and sedges over a long period. Small alder patches can be found along the right bank of the Sfântu Gheorghe Branch. Small groups of alder also border the Chilia Branch downstream from the village of Periprava, were flow velocity is very low and water level fluctuations are insignificant. Change Between Aquatic and Terrestrial Conditions in the Ecotone Areas As a consequence of water-level fluctuations one can observe communities of aquatic and terrestrial areas that are interlaced. A close-knit relationship could and may still be observed between Sea club-rushes (community of Bolboschoenus maritimus) and Creeping bent grass stands (Agrostis stolonifera), which are brought together by the moistness of their habitat. A seesaw between moist to dry areas may be observed, which is why forms of Sea club-rushes appear along with Creeping bent grass Agrostis stolonifera, but also Agrostis stolonifera-dominated stands comprising Sea club-rush. Thus the ecotone areas, or transition areas between different types of terrestrial and aquatic habitats, features a comingling of species. This characteristic situation, which is due to water level changes, can be observed all over the Delta and has been studied in detail in the restoration areas of Babina and Cernovca in the north-eastern part of the Danube Delta (Schneider, Tudor and Staras 2008) and in the Popina area, which is also situated in the north-eastern part of the Danube Delta on the river’s Chilia Branch (Lagendijk and Schneider 2000).

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In some cases the stands of Sea club-rush occur in very shallow waters that are only a few centimeter’s deep, comprising a lower herbaceous layer in a moist habitat. This layer may consist of Stonewort (Chara globularis), Water fennel (Oenanthe aquatica) and Three-leaved water-crowfoot (Ranunculus trichophyllus), and instances have also been recorded in shallow depressions of Sea club-rush. Greater bladderwort (Utricularia vulgaris) has also been found in the lower herbaceous layer of Sea club-rush. Creeping bent grass (Agrostis stolonifera) occurring in the Sea club-rush border area, shows distinctly amphibious characteristics. It is possible to find places where Creeping bent grass stands of the terrestrial area intertwine with stands of Fringed water lily (Nymphoides peltata), which are characteristic of shallow waters (Schneider, Tudor and Staras 2008). This cohabitation is possible because Creeping bent grass stolons spread out up to the water surface borders—and they may even build a loose film and survive there for a longer period. Such intertwining of terrestrial and water plant communities in the ecotone areas is altogether determined by the dynamics of the water levels and is apparent in broad parts of the Delta. Amphibious characteristics, and tendencies to shift toward the drier or wetter part of the ecotone area, can be observed among the terrestrial rush communities of Juncus maritimus and Juncus littoralis and groups of the aquatic Greater bladderwort (Utricularia vulgaris) in the wet areas of the southern Popina Polder, close to the Black Sea (Schneider 2001, unpublished field data). In the same area, we can observe flooded meadows with Creeping bent grass and Yellow water lily (Nuphar luteum). Quack grass (Elymus repens) has also adapted to these double conditions and to changes in the moisture of the environment. When the Danube River water level is high, aquatic plants occur in swamp and wetland meadows, and the area’s fauna shifts towards aquatic zoocoenosis. This is where macrozoobenthos species, various small crustaceans and aquatic gastropods occur. When the water level sinks, and summer draughts occur, there are changes, and terrestrial zoocoenosis returns as various ground beetles (Carabidae) species reappear. Salt Grasslands and Marshes In the Delta’s sea-adjacent area, there are salt grasslands that are mainly constituted of Saltwort (Salicornia herbacea), Camphorosma arenaria, Kochia prostrata, Pedunculate sea-purslane (Halimione pedunculata) and Statice species. In pan-shaped depressions on silty saline soils, Reflexed Salt Marsh grass (Puccinellia distans) develops broad stands along with Sea Aster (Aster tripolium), Orache (Atriplex tatarica), lesser Sea-spurrey (Spergularia salina) and Sea-blite (Suaeda maritima). The Sea Aster forms communities along with reed (Phragmites australis) in proximity to the



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Black Sea area. The surfaces covered by halophilous vegetation reduce the quality of the pastures. In areas showing a lower salinity, it’s common to find grasslands with Marine rush (Juncus maritimus), Distant sedge (Carex distans), Brookweed (Samolus valerandi) and Viper’s Grass (Scorzonera parviflora). These habitats occur in the southern Popina area towards the end of the Danube’s Chilia Branch and in proximity to the Black Sea. These grasslands are used as pastures by the people of the neighboring villages (Sfiştovca, C. A. Rosetti). The saline areas have broadened in some places subsequent to water balance alterations caused by diking and drainage—for instance in the area of Letea (Figure 2.8). On Babina and Cernovca, two island polders that had been diked for agricultural purposes, soil salinization has been caused by the disturbed water balance, the high evaporation rates and the distinct climate characteristic of the area. A comparable phenomenon has been observed on Ermakov Island and in some former rice polders in the Ukrainian part of the Danube Delta. Very characteristic in this is the distribution of species such as Saltwort (Salicornia herbacea), Camphorosma arenaria, Kochia prostrata, Pedunculate Sea-purslane (Halimione pedunculata), Statice species and SeaAster (Aster tripolium). In some disturbed spots, a number of ruderal species

Figure 2.8  Salt Steppe Near Letea

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occur, such as Hordeum murinum, the Orach Atriplex tatarica, Sisymbrium officinale, Cocklebur (Xanthium strumarium) and Tansy (Tanacetum vulgare) (Marin and Schneider 1997). The areas were of no agricultural use and had been lost as wetlands too. They thus lent themselves to a return to wetlands, coupled with restoration of fishing areas and an extensive use of the pastures (Marin and Schneider 1997, Schneider, Tudor and Staras 2008). The Dune Areas The fan-like positioned dune areas—“beach barrier” complexes of the Letea and Caraorman forests—with their dune ridges and dune (inter-barrier) depressions, offer a richly structured and multifaceted complex of habitats. The dune areas shelter very specific and unique vegetation and fauna in a range of habitats, which vary depending on the dune’s exposure to sun and the related level of dryness, as well as the alternation between dunes and depressions in between. All sand-dune habitat types listed in the appendix of the EC Directive on the conservation of natural habitats and of wild fauna and flora may be found here—from the white, uncovered dunes to the gray dunes, to dunes that are abundantly covered in vegetation. The small dune depressions are more humid due to changing groundwater levels, which are caused by the Danube’s water level fluctuations, so that these depressions are subject to frequent inundations (Cioaca, Dimache and Schneider 2005). In the past, the forests growing in the dune depressions were inundated as soon as the Danube flooded. Due to construction of dams to protect villages in the dune area, flooding of these surfaces no longer occurs. The central parts of the dune complexes of the Letea and Caraorman forests have lenses of fresh groundwater. The formation of a body of groundwater is probably caused by rain on the large surface area—the whole central part of the coarse sandy beach barrier complex which is two to three time larger then the water consuming forest (Pons 1992)—and by feeding from the Danube when the water level is high. The water table in the gley soils fluctuates between about soil surface level to 1.5 meters below the surface. The vegetation in the central parts of the Letea and Caraorman forests is fed by this body of fresh groundwater. Sand willow shrubs (Salix repens) develop in the dune depressions, forming a kind of forest pre-stage. A further stage in the evolution of the dune depressions with humus-rich sand-gleysols, is a specific type of floodplain/delta, liana-rich hardwood forest. This is a Swamp ash-Balkan oak forest, with oaks (Quercus robur and Quercus pedunculiflora), Elm (Ulmus laevis), Swamp ash (Fraxinus pallisae) and Narrow-leaf Ash (Fraxinus angustifolia). In the lowest and wetter parts of



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these forests, Swamp ash (Fraxinus pallisae) is the dominant species (Simon 1960, Krausch 1965, Leandru 1970, Ianculescu 1970). Characteristic of this floodplain forest are the liana species, such as Silk Vine (Periploca graeca) and Vine (Vitis sylvestris) (Figure 2.9), as well as Old Man’s Beard (Clematis vitalba) or Cynanchum acutum, the latter occurring primarily in drier areas. The Greek Liana or Silk vine, a Mediterranean species, is also interesting from a biogeographical point of view given that in the Danube Delta (Letea in Romania and Jebrianskaia Griada near Vilkovo in Ukraine) the species reaches the northernmost border of its geographical distribution. This species also represents the only food plant for the caterpillars of the rare small butterfly (Microlepidoptera), Euclasta splendidalis. (Rákosy, Goia and Kovács 2003) Along with diversified tree and shrub layers, the abovementioned liana provide a rather tropical character to the floodplain forests of the dune depressions, contributing to their uniqueness as a habitat in Europe. Ash-oakforests are replaced by White poplar (Populus alba) stands on more arid sites, where Tamarisk bushes (Tamarix ramosissima) and bushes of Sea buckthorn (Hippophae rhamnoides) also occur. These last two species, as well as the Russian Olive (Elaeagnus angustifolia), settle on dryer spots in the dunes and frequently reach even up to the dune ridges. The Buckthorn (Hippophae rhamnoides) shrub brush offers a multitude of habitat niches to various bird and insect species. One of the many insects found here is the Asilidae Satanas

Figure 2.9  Silk Wine Periploca Graeca in the Letea Forest. Source: Eckbert Schneider.

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gigas, a denizen of the steppe that lives on Sea buckthorn bushes and feeds on various bug species. Dry, Open Sections in the Dunes with Sand and Steppe Grasslands Various colonization stages may be observed on the dune ridges—ranging from loose open grasslands with pioneer species to surface-covering grasslands. The plant species living in the specific dune habitats on top of the dunes have adapted well to the extremely dry, desert-like conditions via different morphological-histological structures—including wax-covered leaves, hair, cells with water accumulation, leaves transformed into thorns and specific very deep reaching root systems. The precious dune mosaic constitutes a noteworthy part of the Danube Delta’s broad biodiversity. The loose Carex colchica grasslands that penetrate the sand dunes with their root system are among the first pioneer settlers. Plants like the spurge, known as Euphorbia gerardiana, also contribute the dunes’ consolidation. The species found in this habitat demonstrate the ability to maximally use the poor water resources available on the dunes, and they are well adapted to extreme aridity. Among them are Sea-grape (Ephedra distachya), the rare Sand bindweed (Convolvulus persicus), a species of Irano-Turanian origin, a number of lichen species of the Cetraria genus, as well as fungi that occur in the sand and spread their spores through an opening in the sand’s surface. The Sea-grape constitutes habitats that are comparable to similar ones in the Mediterranean region (Figure 2.10). The open sand dunes are also the habitat of the Steppe Runner (Eremias arguta), a lizard species that mostly dwells in the Kazakh steppe but reaches the westernmost border of its distribution area amid specific habitats in the Danube Delta. Various species of Myrmeleonides occur here as well. Their cones may be found in many places in the dune sand. Xerophile insect species, beetles, butterflies and locusts live here too. Among the butterfly species of the Noctuide family found in the Delta’s dunes are the more Central Asian Drasteria cailino and Drasteria caucasica—as well as the Mediterranean Dysgonia algira. Biogeographically notable orthoptera species appear in the open, dry sand dune areas, including Parameles heldreichi, a Mediterranean praying mantis, as well as Empusa fasciata and Acrida hungarica (oral communication by Eckbert Schneider). Xeric grasslands that more-or-less cover the ground are found in areas where the dunes provide broad even surfaces. These communities primarily consist of feather grasses (Stipa ucrainica, Stipa borystenica), and they are comparable to those found in the pontic steppe north of the Black Sea (Figure 2.11).



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Figure 2.10  Dune Area Letea with Dry Vegetation on the Top and Wet Vegetation in the Depression

Figure 2.11  Fathergrass Steppe on Letea Dune Area. Source: Eckbert Schneider

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This habitat is where other xerophilous species, such as the pink (Dianthus pontederae), Onosma arenaria and Siberian bluebell (Campanula sibirica), can also be found. Natural and Seminatural Grasslands As was noted above, fluctuating water levels lead to a shift towards moisture or dryness in the ecotone area around the oscillating shoreline. Here we can find Fringed water lilies (Nymphoides peltata) growing in association with moist grassland populated by plants like Creeping bent grass (Agrostis stolonifera). Creeping bent grass on the water surface is thus no curiosity in the Delta area. We must differentiate between moist grassland and fresh grassland. Depending on the water level, rushes, mainly reed and Sea club-rush (Bolboschoenus maritimus), are also used as pastures, especially in the border areas of wet grassland communities. The grasslands are generally confined to the surroundings of villages and smaller settlements—including houses situated outside the villages on natural river levees. These grasslands are more-or-less seminatural formations, which developed after willow galleries were cut for agricultural purposes and for reclamation of grazing places for animals. Because the only spaces for agriculture and grazing in the Delta occur along elevated spots on the river levees, the pressure imposed on these areas has been considerable. This agricultural pressure was mentioned in the early twentieth century by Antipa (1911). The grasslands typified by Creeping bent grass (Agrostis stolonifera), Creeping wheat (Elymus repens) and Dog’s-tooth-grass (Cynodon dactylon) occur only in a few places. But as natural pioneer settlers, these grasses are able to rapidly cover protosoils and to develop more or less compact natural grasslands. All these species may expand by means of stolons. This ability to disperse by sending out rapidly growing runners enables these grasses to cover dried-up, open areas after a flood. Among the species mentioned above, the Dog’s-tooth-grass (Cynodon dactylon) is predominant. Dog’s-tooth-grass (Cynodon dactylon) occurs on moderately saline sites, as do other species, such as Strawberry headed clover (Trifolium fragiferum), Narrowleaf bird’s foot trefoil (Lotus tenuis), Blue lettuce (Lactuca tatarica) and Marsh-mallow (Althaea officinalis) (Schneider, Tudor and Staras 2008). Marsh-mallow is a Hollyhock species that serves as host plant to the longicorn insect species (Plagionotus speciosus). Its larvae develop in the plant’s roots, while the bug itself lives in its flowers (oral communication Eckbert Schneider). Creeping wheat is a characteristic species of alluvial meadows and occurs in broad stands, but not on a larger scale. It has also been recorded together



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with Creeping bent grass. On sites comparable to those where Creeping wheat grows, one may also find small-scale Reed Fescue (Festuca arundinacea) stands. Creeping bent grass (Agrostis stolonifera) develops a dense grass cover in the transition zone of aquatic and terrestrial habitats, and this grass shifts its borders, as described above, depending on the water levels. These are merely a few examples to illustrate the complex interrelations among the individual habitats and ecosystems, all of them proving the area’s extremely high biological diversity. Conclusions The ecosystems and habitats of the Danube Delta host an impressive variety of ecological conditions: wetlands with reeds, rush-reed and sedges, reeds with grey-willows and swamp-fern, partly floating and gallery-like softwood floodplain forests, tamarisk bushes, habitats with halophilous vegetation and fauna along the Black Sea coast, fan-like structured dune areas and hardwood forests and grasslands on deforested natural river levees. Many of these habitats are included in Annex I of the EU Habitats Directive or the annexes of the Bird Directive. This study can only offer an overview of the habitats, flora and fauna of the Danube Delta. Each individual ecosystem within the Delta’s broad ecosystem complex deserves a proper and detailed presentation for itself. The purpose of this chapter was simply to point out the broader context of the interrelations, to emphasize the determining factors—such as the dynamics of water levels with its complex framework of ecological effects—and to consider the vegetation that depends on these diverse habitats and site conditions. Macro- and microhabitats that emerged through the dynamics of the Danube River and the Black Sea are part of a multifaceted mosaic that provides the basis for an extremely abundant species diversity. Human beings have taken advantage of the natural resources that thrive within this area of high biodiversity. As far as vegetation goes, humans have made use of reeds (mainly for construction of houses or fences and for heating purposes), wood from the softwood and hardwood floodplains of the dunes, grassland as pastureland—and various plants that are used for food or medicine. Vegetation, relief forms and water surfaces shape the landscape—creating the daily environment of the local people and providing high aesthetic and recreational value. As long as the area was exploited in more traditional ways, the ecological balance could be preserved. Only later on, by the second half of the twentieth century, did various dramatic anthropogenic impacts became noticeable and begin to show an effect on habitats and species diversity. This is why protection measures are increasingly focused on better serving the

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aims of sustainability. These measures may target the biosphere reserve, its severely protected areas or those that are used sustainably—and they may be part of Natura 2000 legislation or the European Water Framework Directive. Achieving sustainability in the Delta will benefit not only wild life, but also the people living there.

Bibliography Antipa, G. (1911). Das Überschwemmungsgebiet der unteren Donau. Anuarul Inst. Geologic al României, VIV, fasc. II, 496. Antipa, G. (1917). Problemele ştiinţifice şi economice ale Deltei Dunării. Analele Inst.Geol. Român, Bucureşti. Buşniţă, I. Th. (1943). Problemele biologice şi economice ale stufului din România. Publicaţiile Academiei de Ştiinţe din România, Seria III, Memorii şi monografii, nr. 5. Cioacă, E., D. Dimache and E. Schneider (2005): “Hydrological regime within the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve—Letea forest ecosystem case study.” Scientific Annals of the Danube Delta Institute, 11: 142–151, Editura Tehnică Bucureşti-Tulcea. Ciocârlan, V. (1994). Flora Deltei Dunarii. Editura Ceres, Bucuresti, 116. Dister, E. (1980). Geobotanische Untersuchungen in der hessischen Rheinaue als Grundlage für die Naturschutzarbeit. Diss. Georg-August Universität Gättingen, 170. Dister, E. (1994). “The Function, Evaluation and Relicts of Near-Natural Floodplains.” Limnologie aktuell 2, Kinzelbach, R. ed.: Biologie der Donau. Gustav Fischer Verlag Stuttgart/Jena/New York, 317–329. Doroftei, M. (2009). Cercetări ecologice asupra unor specii de plante lemnoase alohtone din Delta Dunării. Teză de doctorat, Universitatea «Ovidius» Constanţa, 163. European Commision DG Environment 2007. Interpretation Manual of the European Union Habitats. EUR 27, Bruxelles, 142. Gâştescu, P. and M. Oltean (1997). Ecosystems of the Romanian Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve, explanation to a map 1: 175.000. Institutul de Cercetare şi Proiectare Delta Dunării, Institutul de Geografie, Institutul de Biologie, Institute of Inland Water Management and Waste Water Treatment RIZA, 32. Gâştescu, P. and R. Ştiucă, eds (2008). Delta Dunării. Editura CD Press, 400. Hanganu, J., I. Sârbu and N. Ştefan (2008): 11.3. “Vegetaţia,” in: Gâştescu , P. and R. Ştiucă: Delta Dunării Rezervaţie a Biosferei. Editura CD Press, Bucureşti, 144–149. Hanganu, J., M. Gridin, H. Drost, T. Chifu, N. Stefan and I. Sârbu, (2000). Explanation to the vegetation map of the Romanian Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve 1: 100 000. Flevobericht Nr. 356, Directoraat-Generaal Rijkswaterstaat, Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority.



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Horvath, I., V. Glavac and H. Ellenberg (1974). Vegetation Südosteuropas. / Vegetation of Southeast-Europe. VEB Gustav Fischer Verlag Jena, 768. Ianculescu, M. (1970). La vegetation naturtelle du grind Letea dans le Delta du Danube (Romanian with French abstract). Comunicari de Botanică, a VI-a Consfătuire Naţională de Geobotanică (Dobrogea, Delta Dunării 17–26 VII (1968). Societatea de Ştiinţe Biologice din Republica Socialistă România, Bucureşti, 192–204. Kiss, J. B. (1997). Cartea Deltei. Fundatia Aves, Odorhei, 221, and 11 annexes. Krausch, H.-D. (1965). Vegetationskundliche Beobachtungen im Donaudelta. Limnologia (Berlin). 3(3), 271–313. Lagendijk, O. and E. Schneider, eds (2000). Perspectives on Popina. Recommendations for ecological restoration and wise use of former fishponds in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve/Romania. DDNI, WWF, RIZA RIZA-work document (2000). 137X, 58. Leandru, V. (1970). La vegetation forestière dans le Delta du Danube (Romanian language with French abstract). Comunicari de Botanică, a VI-a Consfătuire Naţională de Geobotanică (Dobrogea, Delta Dunării 17–26 VII (1968). Societatea de Ştiinţe Biologice din Republica Socialistă România, Bucureşti, 181–191. Marin, G. and E. Schneider, eds. (1997). Ecological restoration in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve /Romania. Babina and Cernovca islands. Danube Delta National Institute and WWF Germany, 121. Pons, L. J (1992). “Chapter 1. Morphology, climate, geology and soils,” in Environmental Status Reports, vol. 4: Conservation status of the Danube Delta. International Union for Conservation of Nature, 1–22. Popescu-Gorj, A., X. Scobiola-Palade (1968). L’entomofaune de l’ile de Letea (Delta du Danube). Introduction, généralités. Travaux du Muséum d’histoire naturelle “Grigore Antipa,” IX, 49–65, Bucuresti. Rákosy, L., M. Goia and Z. Kovács (2003). Catalogul Lepidopterelor României/ Verzeichnis der Schmetterlinge Rumäniens. Societatea Lepidopterologica Româna, Cluj-Napoca, 446. Rodewald (=Rudescu). L. (1943). Das Schilfproblem in Rumänien mit besonderer Berücksichtigung des Donaudeltas. Analele Instititutului de Cercetari Piscicole din România, II, 2, Bucureşti. Rudescu, L., C. Niculescu and I. P. Chivu (1965). Monografia stufului din Delta Dunării/Monography of the reeds in the Danube Delta. Editura Academiei Republicii Scialiste România, Bucureşti/Bucharest. Sanda,V, K. Öllerer and P. Burescu (2008). Fitocenozele din România. Sintaxonomie, structură, dinamică şi evoluţie. Ars docendi, University Bucharest. Schneider, E. (2003). “Formation and evolution of natural softwood stands with respect to water dynamics. Examples from the Loire, Rhine, Elbe and Danube rivers.” Kanitzia Journal of Botany, 11: 67–84. Schneider, E. (2008).“Importance of Floodplains and Floodplain wetlands along the Lower Danube with special regard to phytodiversity.” Transylvanian Review of Systematical and Ecological Research, 6: 59–70. Schneider, E. and M. Tudor (2008). “Chapter. 11. 2 Flora,” in Gâştescu, P. and R. Ştiucă ed. (2008). Delta Dunării. Editura CD Press, 138–144.

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Schneider, E., Marian Tudor and M. Staraş eds. (2008). Evolution of Babina polder after restoration works. WWF Germany and Danube Delta National Institute Tulcea, 81. Schneider, E. (2009). Aquatic macrophytes in the Danube Delta—indicators for water quality and habitat parameters. Studia Universitatis Babes-Bolyai, Ser. Biologie, Cluj- Napoca, v. 54, nr. 1: 21–32. Simon, T. (1960). Contributions à la connaissance de la végétation du Delta du Danube. Annales Universitatis Scientiarum Budapestinensis de Rolando Eötvös nominatae, Sectio Biologica, T. 3, 307–333. Topa, E. and A. Beldie (1972). “Fam. Araceae” in: Flora. Republicii Socialiste România, vol. XII, p. 775 Calla palustris, Editura Republicii Socialiste România, Bucureşti.

Chapter 3

The Importance of Danube Delta Reed Beds—for the Environment and for Use by Humans Jenică Hanganu and Mihai Doroftei

Reed is by far the dominant species in the Danube Delta, where reed marsh covers more than 220,000 hectares. It is also one of the more important species, providing an essential habitat for many of the mammals, birds, fish, reptiles and macroinvertebrates that populate the Delta. Along with sheltering other wildlife, the Delta’s reed beds perform a vital function in filtering pollution that would otherwise dump into the Black Sea. And people have long made use of reed, harvesting it for building thatched roofs and fences and using it as cattle fodder. In more recent times, reed has been used for industrial applications, including making hardboard products. This chapter describes the variety of the Delta’s reed populations, looking at the way soil and hydrology determine where certain types of reed grow. The chapter also describes the importance of reed to the environment, detailing various species that dwell, feed and/or breed in Danube Delta reed beds. And it looks at the various uses that humans have found for reed, as well as the means used for harvesting reed. Because reed is so important to the Danube Delta and its inhabitants, the chapter concludes with a section on management of reed beds. Certain human interventions in the Delta have been shown to reduce the reed population—even the construction of polders, which were built in the 1960s in the hope of increasing reed growth. Studies have since shown that careful harvesting and winter burning are among the best ways to conserve reed beds. The effort to preserve this resource is clearly worthwhile: In areas where reeds are burned or harvested, water quality and fish catch have been shown to improve.

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1. Reed Classification The Phragmites australis is known to be a highly polymorphic species. (Rudescu et al. 1965) The original diploid form (2x=24) of Phragmites australis is considered to be lost. The plant is known to have a wide genetic variability in euploidy level (3x, 4x, 6x, 7x, 8x, 10x, 11x, and 12x). A higher ploidy level is usually associated with tall Phragmites plants in Romania. (Raicu et al. 1972) Tetraploid, octoploid and infertile hexaploid clones of the species coexist in the Danube Delta. (Hanganu et al. 1999) The “giant” variety of Phragmites—which grows to more than four meters tall and has thick rhizomes and a high total leaf area—is frequently described as octoploid, and the “fine” variety is referred to as tetraploid. (Paucă-Comănescu et al. 1999) Octoploids predominate in deeper water, while tetraploids favor peat or saline habitats. (Raicu et al. 1972; PaucăComănescu et al. 1999) The reed belongs to the class known as Phragmito-Magnocaricetea Klika in Klika and Novak 1941. The species with which this class can be identified and which are often encountered in the Danube Delta are: Reed (Phragmites australis), Bulrush (Scirpus lacustris), Gypsywort (Lycopus europaeus), Water buttercup (Ranunculus lingua), Great yellow cress (Rorippa amphibia), Reed sweet grass (Glyceria maxima), Yellow loosestrife (Lysimachia vulgaris), Great water dock (Rumex hydrolapathum), Water mint (Mentha aquatic), Yellow iris (Iris pseudacorus), Purple loosestrife (Lythrum salicaria) and Lesser bulrush (Typha angustifolia). This class has a physiognomic and floristic heterogeneity and includes three main plant communities. The non-floating reed communities that grow on marshy gleysols or marshy calcaric arenosols with low or moderate salinity are classified as Scirpo-Phragmitetum. The floating reed formations identified by the Romanian word “plaur” belong to the Thelypterido-Phragmitetum phytocoenosis, where Marsh fern (Thelypteris palustris) is often co-dominant with Phragmites australis. A third type of reed community (Astero tripolii-Phragmitetum) is halophilous-hygrophilous, frequently encountered in the maritime area of the Danube Delta. They develop on wet, saline soils, on a sandy substrate. The dominant species is Phragmites australis, which forms a layer between 1.5–1.9 meters in height, with 80–90 percent coverage. Below this level, there is a lower layer formed by the halo-tolerant and halophilous species, such as Sea aster (Aster tripolium), Herbaceous seepweed (Suaeda maritime), Salt marsh sand spurry (Spergularia marina) and Salt tall grass (Aeluropus littoralis).



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2. Reed Bed Typology In 1965, L. Rudescu classified the Delta’s reed areas into four groups containing 10 biotopes. In 1993, T. Chifu and his collaborators established seven reed types with seven subtypes suitable for harvesting. Based on biometric particularities and on the soil substrate type; Hanganu et al. (2002) identify nine reed eco-types, of which five are suitable for harvesting: reeds on gleic soils (S-F), reeds on peat gleic soils (S-Ft), reeds on compact floating reed islets (S-Ps), reeds on psamosoils (S-N) and reeds on salinized organic soils (S-Pa). Biometric characteristics of each type of reed are shown below (Table 3.1). Reed beds on gleic soils (S-F), where Phragmites australis has an average covering of 90 percent: Reed populations have an average density of 57 individuals per square meter, an average height of 2.9 meters, an average stem base diameter of 1.10 cm and an average biomass of 1.66 kg d.s./m2, representing 92 percent out of the total biomass of the type, which is 1.8 kg d.s./m2. Reed stems represent 72 percent and leaves represent 19 percent of the total reed biomass. The recognition species for this reed type are Swamp saw grass (Cladium mariscus), Field mint (Mentha arvensis), Skullcap (Scutellaria galericulata), Marsh bedstraw (Galium palustre) and Field bindweed (Convolvulus arvensis). Reed beds on peat gleic soils (S-Ft), where Phragmites australis has an average cover of 80 percent: Reed populations have an average density of 52 individuals per square meter, an average height of 2.7 meters, an average stem base diameter of 0.97 cm and an average biomass of 2.05 kg d.s./m². The type consists of a total biomass of 2.12 kg d.s./m² on average, out of which the reed stems represent 71 percent and the leaves 20 percent. The recognition species are Comfrey (Symphytum officinale), Lakeshore bulrush (Schoenoplectus lacustris), Bittersweet (Solanum dulcamara), Lycopus europaeus and Lythrum salicaria. Reed beds on compact floating islets (plaur) on hemic organic soils (S-Ps), where Phragmites australis has an average cover of 80 percent: Phragmites australis population has an average density of 43 individuals per square Table 3.1  Biometric Characteristics (average*) of the Harvesting Reed (Hanganu et al. 1995–2002) Vegetation map symbol Height (m) Stems diameter (mm) Density (stems/m²) Stems biomass (kg d.s./m²) *Deviation from average: 20 percent. Source:  Hanganu et al. 1994.

S-F

S-Ft

S-Ps

S-N

S-Pa

2.9 11 57 1.66

2.7 9.7 52 1.50

2.35 10.2 43 0.91

2.5 9.5 73 1.63

2.2 8 135 1.49

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meter, an average height of 2.35 m, an average base stem diameter of 1.2 cm and average biomass of 1.14 kg d.s./m². The total biomass of the type is 1.22 kg d.s./m², out of which reed stems represent only 75 percent and the leaves approximately 18 percent. The recognition species are Mentha aquatica, Thelypteris palustris, Cowbane (Cicuta virosa), Fen ragwort (Senecio paludosus) and Rorippa amphibia. Reed beds on psamosoils (S-N), where Phragmites australis has an average cover of 90 percent: reed populations have the average density of 73 individuals per square meter, an average height of 2.51 meters (maximum 4.75 meters), an average base stem diameter of 0.95 cm (maximum 1.67 cm) and a total biomass 2.30 kg d.s./m², out of which the reed stems represent 71 percent and the leaves 22 percent. The recognition species are: Larger bindweed (Calystegia sepium), Lysimachia vulgaris, Common water plantain (Alisma plantago-aquatica) and Ranunculus lingua. Reed beds on salinized organic soils (S-Pa): These beds are characterized by an average reed-stem density of 135 individuals per square meter, an average height of 2.2 meters, average base stem diameter of 0.8 cm and a total biomass of 2.3 kg d.s./m², out of which the reed stems represent 65 percent. The recognition species for this reed type are Aster tripolium, Distant sedge (Carex distans) and Soft stem bulrush (Schoenoplectus tabernaemontani). Mixed reed beds with reed maces on mineral soils: These beds are characterized by the presence of Phragmites australis in 50 percent coverage and reed mace (Thypha angustifolia) in 20 percent coverage. The reed vegetation has an average density of 35 individuals per square meter and the height of 2.18 meters, with an average base stem diameter of 0.88 cm. The biomass is 1.01 kg d.s./m2, out of which the reed stems represent 77 percent. The recognition species for this reed type are Thypha angustifolia, Thypha latifolia, Glyceria maxima and Marsh sow thistle (Sonchus palustris). Reed beds on open floating islets (plaur), where reed vegetation covers more than 90 percent of the area. Phragmites australis has an average density of 220 individuals per square meter (of which the green stems represent 50 percent), an average height of 1.86 meters (maximum 3.75 meters) and average diameter at the stem base of 0.56 cm (maximum 1.37 cm). The biomass is 2.07 kg d.s./m2, out of which the reed stems represent 78 percent and the leaves 17 percent. Frogbit (Hydrocharis morsus-ranae), White water lily (Nymphaea alba) and Yellow water lily (Nuphar lutea) are the recognition species for this type of reed. Mixed reed beds and bushes/trees, distributed on compact and open plaur, mineral and gleyic soils: The dominant species Phragmites australis has an average cover of 60 percent, willow bushes and trees (Salix cinerea, S.triandra, S.alba and S.fragilis) and Indigo bush (Amorpha fruticosa) cover 30 percent. The average density of the reed stems is 36 individuals per square meter and the average height is 2.17 meters with an average base stem



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diameter of 0.88 cm. The biomass is 1.72 kg d.s./m2, representing 89 percent of the total biomass of the reed type. Mixed reed beds with sedges and reed maces on gleyic soils, where Phragmites australis has an average cover of 50 percent, Sedges (Carex riparia, C.acutiformis) 35 percent and Reed maces (Thypha sp.) 10 percent: The average reed density is 48 individuals per square meter. The average height of the reeds is 2.05 meters and the average base stem diameter is 0.87 cm. The biomass is 0.97 kg d.s./m2, out of which the reed stems represent 42 percent and the leaves 13 percent. 3. Distribution in Relation to Type of Substrate and Hydrology Reed is by far the dominant species in the Danube Delta, where reed marshes cover more than 220,000 hectares (Hanganu et al. 2002). Following an elevation gradient, reed marshes start to develop from backswamps of river levees that are temporary flooded to depressed areas that are quasi-permanently or permanently flooded. In the fluvial zone of the Delta, reed covers soils of fluvial origin, such as marshy gleysols and histic marshy gleysols. In the maritime zone, reed covers temporarily flooded marshy calcaric arenosols and moderate to strongly salinized calcaric arenosols. Depressions in the topography of the fluvial and marine parts of the Delta are characterized by extensive reed beds on organic soils (histosols) consisting of a peat layer substrate of 1–3 meters (maximum, five meters) in thickness and by the presence of broad, 1–3 meter deep lakes. The reed peat may be connected to the ground or not: It can be a floating layer, consisting of a network of viable rhizomes (fibric peat) with a thickness of 0.8–1.3 meters. The local name for this peat marsh is “plaur” in Romanian (“plavni” in Ukrainian). At low water levels, plaur can come in contact with the substrate and rise with increasing water levels, but in the lowest elevation areas of the Delta, plaur is almost permanently floating. Sometimes, pieces of floating plaur at the edge of the lakes are broken free and moved by the wind or water currents as small floating islands, after which they can stick to the ground in shallow places, thereby colonizing other areas. The Delta empties into the Black Sea, and despite the reduction in silt load from 12 percent to 7 percent in the last century (Gâştescu, 2000), the Danube still carries considerable amounts of material that contribute to the Delta’s growth. The Musura Gulf is currently being partly filled and isolated from the sea and a new marsh of approximately 25 km2 is being covered first by helophytes—including, successively, Flowering rush (Buttomus umbelatus), Branched bur-reed (Sparganium erectum), Reed sweet grass (Glyceria maxima) and lesser Bulrush (Typha angustifolia). Eventually the area will probably be dominated by reeds. Conversely, reed beds at the western part

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of the Danube Delta are being filled with sediment and replaced by forests. The central part of the Delta includes intermediate situations, such as marshes that are drying up and deep-water lakes. On the older maps of the Danube Delta, it would appear that reed marshes were more extensive than nowadays (Hartley, 1886). New measurements show that there is a slight decline in the reed bed areas, averaging around 0.25 percent per year, with a particularly high rate in the eastern fluvial part of the Delta. An increase in reed area of 0.3 percent was observed only in one complex during the period from 1990–2001. At this rate, there would be a 50 percent disappearance of the reed bed over the course of a 250-year period. Most major changes in reed population were observed in deep-water lakes and floating reed beds. At the edge of the lakes, we observed decline but no offsetting recolonization within the study period. Most edges of reed beds around large lakes in the Delta are sharp erosion edges rather than colonization margins. The size of the lakes increases due to the sinking of reed beds that form an organic lakebottom. On the soil map (Munteanu 1996), the bottom of the central part of the pristine lakes consist of silt or sand deposits while the margin of the lakes, especially relatively new formed lakes (eg. Baclăneşti), are lined with organic deposits that most probably consist of sunken plaur. On a shorter time scale, observations support the hypothesis that, alongside eutrophication, colonization of floating reed beds by other species, such as Marsh fern (Thelypteris palustris), Golden sedge (Carex elata) and Typha angustifolia contribute to a decrease in buoyancy—and in time reed rhizomes will decompose, loose their ability to float and finally sink, together with the colonizing plants. In places where the reed was recently harvested or burnt, reed density was higher, and there was a higher level of healthy floating rhizomes. We observed that the thickest reed beds with the highest reed dominance and rhizome volumes had been burnt rather recently, as burned stumps were evident. Fire seems to favor reed at the expense of other species—particularly willows (Salix cinerea) and ferns, both species that cause a decrease in buoyancy. In the short term, fire does probably block colonization by non-reed species—thereby assisting buoyancy and strengthening floating reed beds. Reed harvesting, especially harvesting on ice and at a large scale, probably has a similar effect. The use of fire as a management tool to prevent succession would probably decrease the decline in floating reed beds. In any case, efforts to monitor fires set by local inhabitants would be useful in studying this phenomenon. 4. Reed Functions and Values Reed serves important functions in the Danube Delta. It is not only an economically beneficial plant, but an ecologically important one as well. Reed is



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used in many ways in the Danube Delta, including as: roof thatching, cattle fodder, fence material and fuel. Cellulose from reed is extracted for manufacturing hardboard products. Perhaps more important than being economically useful, reed plays a tremendous role in supporting wildlife and the environment, as it provides natural habitats and makes a key contribution in taking up nutrients of eutrophic waters, attenuation of heavy metals and trapping of sediments. The reed beds shelter a diversity of bird and mammal species, making the Danube Delta particularly important to biodiversity in Europe and across the Palearctic. Some of these species are endangered regionally and worldwide. a. Reed Use by Wildlife There are a number of bird species that use reed beds as their habitat, including Bitterns (Botaurus stellaris), Little bitterns (Ixobrychus minutus), Marsh harriers (Circus aeruginosus) and various types of rallids. Pelicans (Pelecanus onocrotalus, P.crispus), Great white egrets (Egretta alba), and Purple herons (Ardea purpurea) use the reed beds for nesting. Moreover, the shallow lakes and pools in reed bed openings are favorable spaces for species such as the Coot (Fulica atra) and other wildfowl, cormorants (Phalacrocorax carbo, P.pygmaeus), marsh terns (Chlidonias sp.), herons, and others (IUCN East European Program 1992). It is now well established that reed beds provide habitats for significant populations of colonial waterbirds. Reed beds are home to 61 percent of the world’s population of Pygmy cormorants (Phalacrocorax pygmaeus) (under review for the IUCN Red List of Threatened Animals), 52 percent of the Palearctic population of White pelicans (Pelecanus onocrotalus), 5 percent of the world population of the endangered Dalmatian pelican (Pelecanus crispus), as well as significant European populations of Great white egrets, Purple herons and other birds (IUCN East European Program 1992). The fact that various bird species use reed beds has been mentioned in a great number of European studies, though there is not much research focusing specifically on this subject. One notable study looks at the Reed warbler (Acrocephalus scirpaceus), which breeds in reed beds in the Netherlands. (Spaans, 1994) A definite correlation was shown between breeding density and the number of reeds overtaking an area. Another study looked at how Reed and Sedge warblers (A. schoenobaenus) build up their body reserves in a coastal area of Phragmites swamp prior to migration, according to observations in Southwest Wales by Ormerod (1990). The observations revealed that the birds fed on plum reed aphids (Hyalopterus pruni), which were abundant in reed habitats. Brichetti et al. (1989) found that the abundance of marsh warblers (Acrocephalus palustris) correlated positively with

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the presence of reed habitats in northern Italy. As Rolando and Palestrini (1989) reported in another Italian study, the Marsh warbler, Reed warbler, Great reed warbler (Acrocephalus arundinaceus), Sedge warbler and Savi’s warbler (Locustella luscinioides) prevail in reed beds. Sukopp and Markstein (1989) noted that the number of Little bitterns, Sedge warblers, Reed warblers and Great reed warblers has decreased in the areas where the amount of reed had diminished. For wading birds, ponds bordered with reed beds are employed by the Little bittern (Ixobrychus minutus) in Poland. (Cempulik 1994) The populations of Corn crakes (Crex crex) have increased in Britain, where the reed cover is wide. (Stowe et al. 1993) On a Phragmites reed pond, breeding of the Squacco heron (Ardeola ralloides) and the Glossy ibis (Plegadis falcinellus) and the presence of Little egrets (Egretta garzetta) and Cattle egrets (Bubulcus ibis) have been noted (Grussu 1987). Purple herons have been found to build nests primarily on common reed: “A very large majority of purple heron nests in other countries in reed nests” (van der Kooij 1991). Marsh harriers in France are found to breed and nest in reeds (Bavoux et al. 1989). It has been noted that, by doing so, they lay more eggs and better succeed in nesting than they would in other types of habitats. Certain bird species, such as the migrating Swallows (Hirundo rustica) in Wales, also roost in coastal reed swamps (Ormerod 1989), and Crested grebes (Podiceps cristatus) find shelter within lakeside reed beds (Ostendorp, 1989). Mammals Plaurs, the large floating reed islands in the Danube Delta, facilitate the breeding of species such as as the European mink (Mustela vison), Raccoon dog (Nyctereutes procyonoides) and Wild boar (Sus scrofa). These animals find the security they need in plaurs, because the floating reed islands are difficult for others to reach (IUCN East European Program 1992). Reed also offers cover and food for Voles during the cold season (Woodall, 1993), a place for Muskrats to construct their homes (Hjalten, 1991) and basic food for other rodents, such as Water vole (Arvicola sapidus) (Ventura et al. 1989). Reptiles Ten species of reptiles and seven amphibian species have been identified in the proximity of the reed beds in the Danube Delta. (Oţel et al. 1992) Dice snake (Natrix tessellata), Grass snake (Natrix natrix) and amphibious species, such as the European tree frog (Hyla arborea) and European green toad (Bufo viridis) are frequently recorded along the edges of the reed beds, near the water’s surface.



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Fish Forty-seven species of resident freshwater fish and four migratory species have been identified in the Danube Delta. (Oţel et al. 1992) Aquatic vegetation, such as Phragmites, favors fisheries. (Ishak and El Halawany, 1989; Mitsch and Gosselink 1993) Submerged reed stems in stands adjacent to lakes and ponds offer food and cover for littoral fish—and are also critical nursery areas for young fry. In Germany, research connected a decline in reeds with population decreases in a variety of fish species, including Pike (Esox lucius), Tench (Tinca tinca) and Loach (Misgurnus fossilis) (Sukopp and Markstein 1989). A number of factors led to diminishing fish habitats, lower fish populations and less species diversity in the Delta. The most damaging environmental changes affecting the area’s fish are construction of polders, dikes, and channels—and eutrophication (IUCN Eastern Europe Program, 1992). If efforts were made to improve the reed beds, attenuating the associated pollution and the sediment trapping functions, fish in the Delta would prosper. Macroinvertebrates Macroinvertebrates are part of the detritus food chain that includes insects, worms, leeches, crustaceans and other arthropods. Macroinvertebrates, along with fungi, periphyton, and bacteria, are also included in the diet of birds, fish, and mammal species. Neacşu (1988) recorded six leech species (Dina apathyi, Erpobdella nigricolis, E. octoculata, Glossiphonia complanata, Piscicola geometra and Thermomyzon tesselatum) on stalks and roots of reeds in Danube Delta ponds. Thirty-three species of Collembola (springtails) were found by Bulimar (1992) in Danube Delta reed beds—especially on the banks of flooded swamps, among reeds bordering canals and on floating and fixed reed mats. Collembola are basicly adapted to a specific type of food, being mainly plant detritus feeders (Christiansen and Snider 1984). The high productivity of reed-swamp biomass is greatly influenced by the role that Collembola plays in the decomposition cycle. Reed beds around Europe have been found to include an impressive range of macroinvertebrates, including: beetle species (de Martin et al. 1992; Hansen 1994), Damselflies (Schmidt 1993), Caddisflies (Sode and WibergLarsen 1993), earthworms (Granval et al. 1993), Leafminers (Scheirs and de Bruyn, 1992), Leafhoppers (Trolle 1988), Lepidopterans (Galichet et al. 1992), water stick insects (Cloarec and Joly 1988), ostracods (Benzie 1989), Plum reed aphids (Ormerod 1990), Gall midges (Tscharntke 1992, 1990, 1989; Grabo, 1991; Rohfritsch 1992; Stibane and Abraham 1989), parasitic wasps (Stibane and Abraham 1989), Stem-boring moths (Tscharntke 1992, 1990) and 46 species of arthropods (Grabo 1991).

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b. Pollution Prevention The Danube Delta is under stress from eutrophication. High nutrient and heavy metal loads are an increasing concern in the Delta, which is the terminus for the polluted waters of the Danube River. Reed beds are important filters of this contaminated water and serve as a barrier, catching some of the pollutants that would otherwise enter the Black Sea. Reed plants are also able to reduce the concentration of methane buildup in soils (Wagatsuma et al. 1992), and they play an important role in stabilizing banks and trapping sediments (Ostendorp 1989). They also play a limited role in attenuating nutrients and heavy metals (Nebesnyi et al. 1992). Reed may be less effective than many other wetland plants when it comes to removing nutrients and heavy metals from floodwaters. Yamasaki et al. (1992) establish that Phragmites australis absorbs very little nitrogen in anoxic conditions, even when the nitrogen is in high concentration, but they do remove some of these pollutants from a wetland, if at lower quantities (Suzuki et al. 1989; Gries and Garbe 1989; Drbal 1991). The uptake of heavy metals and nutrients, however, may come at a cost to the plant’s vigor. An excess of nutrients, as found in waste sludge, increases stalk density, but with decreased height and root mass, as compared to “natural” reed stands (Gries and Garbe 1989). Reeds grown near agricultural areas, where nutrient assimilation is high, have a larger diameter, weaker structure and a substantial change in cell composition (Young et al. 1991). The plants respond to nitrogen fertilizer in water by becoming thicker and less woody than those growing out of water and without fertilizer (Tobler 1943). Phosphorus Reed beds are not a good filterer of phosphorus (Osterberg et al. 1998). Over most of the spring and summer periods, reed beds are only a slight sink of P-total at best, and a considerable source at the worst. Reed beds are a considerable source of P-ortho, the active phosphorus component for the growth of phytoplankton. However, during the brief period of rising water levels in early spring (April to mid-May), reed beds consistently act as a considerable phosphorus sink. The main process responsible for this sink is the sedimentation of phosphorus that is suspended in river water. Nitrogen The reed bed is a good filterer of nitrogen (Osterberg et al. 1998). Approximately 70 percent of the river’s nitrogen input is retained inside the reed bed. The N-total concentration in the water flowing out of the reed bed was generally below 1 mg N/l. At this nitrogen concentration, the summer



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average chlorophyll concentration will be in the order of 15–25 ug/l; a value which—in a shallow system of two meters or less—is low enough to permit a clear water column, filled with water plants. Suspended Sediments The reed bed is a good filterer of suspended sediments. (Osterberg et al. 1998). While at present the water turbidity inside the former fish farm of Holbina is mainly determined by phytoplankton, the continuous accumulation of sediment inside the system might lead to a growing contribution of sediment-turbidity. Filtering reed beds would effectively stop this accumulation. It is difficult to predict whether sediment-turbidity in Holbina is likely to increase in the present situation of direct river water input. Sediment-turbidity is a bigger factor in nearby Lake Razim, due to wind-driven re-suspension. However, this lake is much larger and more exposed than Holbina. Reed Production in the Danube Delta Reed harvesting is a traditional activity for inhabitants in and near the Danube Delta. The expansive reed beds of the Danube Delta are a source of fiber that has been used for centuries as thatch for roofs, fencing material and cattle fodder (Figure 3.1). Reed was commercially harvested for cellulose in the Delta following construction of the first factory in Brăila, Romania in 1908. The factory was destroyed at the end of World War I, and rebuilt in 1940. A second factory—and accompanying infrastructure of polders, dikes, and canals for transporting the reed—was built in 1958, when the Romanian government sought to expand reed harvests. With this increased capacity, the amount of reed that had to be harvested to supply the factory also increased considerably. In 1958, the total amount of harvestable reed in the Delta was estimated to be 290,000 tons. The factories alone needed upwards of 100,000 tons per year of biomass to operate at full capacity. On top of this industrial demand, residents of the Delta also used reed for building materials and agriculture. Scientists in the early 1960s believed that impounding reed beds would improve reed biomass and enable reed growers to harvest mechanically. Polders were planned with the goal of improving harvesting by creating a hydrologic regime that would favor reed growth, but depress growth of other plant species. The hydrologic regime in polders could also be controlled to prevent winter flooding, which would allow for harvesting all winter. Initially, as predicted, reed production did increase, from about 6,500 tons in 1955, all harvested by hand, to 226,000 tons in 1964–1989 percent of which

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Figure 3.1  Traditional Use of Reed Resource in Danube Delta.



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was harvested mechanically. After 1964, however, harvests decreased steadily. By the time final construction of all polders was completed between 1965 and 1974, the reeds in polders were already beginning to show signs of decline. Between 1980 and 1990, annual reed harvests continued to decline, from 54,549 tons to 33,143 tons (IUCN East European Program, 1992). Currently, several companies, and a few individuals, harvest reed in the Danube Delta for export. The main product from this is now high-quality thatch (Doroftei 2006–2010). The most useful reed for thatching is straight, up to 10 millimeters in diameter and up to two meters long. Longer, coarser reed may also be used, particularly on long straight roofs, and is often seen in the Delta, where it is used in the form of loosely packed bunches placed on the roof. Some private companies are manufacturing reed mats using mechanized equipment (Figure 3.2). The large diameter reed and long stems are preferred for this kind of product (Covaliov et al. 2010). Presently, reed for thatch materials and reed mats are exported to Italy, Germany and England, places where the rustic look of a thatched roof and fence is popular. In Germany, thatched roofs are used for vacation homes in the countryside, and thatching has become a sort of status symbol. A wellbuilt thatch roof can be very expensive, but it can last up to 80 years longer and is considered to be a better insulator than most other roofing materials (Eastman 1995). Management of the reed beds and conservation of biodiversity Rotational cutting and removal of reed is one of the most effective ways of conserving the Phragmites community. Summer cutting of reed for hay is a traditional activity for local farmers in the Danube Delta. Some small areas alongside lakes and water courses that are easy accessible have been managed in this way for more than 30 years. This practice leads to a thinning of the reeds that increases the diversity of plants and prevents degeneration of the reed bed by scrub encroachment. Early harvesting of reed has a negative effect on the accumulation of sugars in the rhizomes (Stoica 1972). Rhizomes can continue to produce new shoots until October, but if new shoots are continuously cut during the summer, sugar accumulation will be greatly reduced. This leads to a progressive elimination of the rhizome and the production of small stems, similar in size and appearance. Grazing can cause damage in this way, but it may be a useful tool for the creating of biodiversity in reed beds that are not harvested commercially. Traditional burning and large-scale harvesting of reed beds in the Danube Delta have created big areas where reeds dominate in monoculture.

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Figure 3.2  Machines Utilized for Reed Beds Exploitation



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These kinds of practices were carried out over 50 years, between 1959–2009 (Figure 3.3). Today, because reed is burned or harvested in fewer places, the areas where the reed bed is suffering degeneration due to scrub encroachment and litter accumulation is growing. Large reed beds in the Danube Delta,

Figure 3.3  Harvesting Reed Areas from Danube Delta

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especially in the Matiţa-Merhei and Gorgova-Uzlina complexes where the water circulation is insufficient, are in the process of dieback due to litter accumulation. Organic matter that accumulates and decomposes in reeddominated wetlands, creating fermentative toxic products and increasing oxygen demand, is known to be one of the causes of reed dieback (Putten 1995). Previous studies conducted in the Danube Delta have shown that, after winter burning, reed productivity and quality are uniform, just like areas that are harvested annually (Rudescu, 1965). After burning, reed quality, density and productivity are improved, and the effects are more visible in areas where the reed is degenerated (Stoica 1972). In unmanaged areas, Peat willow (Salix cinerea) White willow (Salix alba) and Indigo bushes (Amorpha fruticosa) are extending their reach. In areas where reed was burned or harvested, water quality and fish yield improved (Rudescu, 1965).

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Rudescu, L., C. Niculescu and I. P. Chivu (1965). Monography of the Danube Delta´s reed. Bucharest: Romanian Academy. Scheirs, J. and L. de Bruyn (1992). “Leafminers (Diptera; Agromyzidae) of Phragmites australis in Belgium.” Bulletin et Annales de la Societe Royale Belge D’entomologie, 128(10–12): 310–315. Schmidt, B. (1993). “Sympecma paedisca in SW Germany.” Carolinea, 51: 83–92. Sode, A. and P. WibergLarsen (1993). “First Danish record of Limnephilus borealis (Zetterstedt (1840)) (Trichoptera, Limnephilidae).” Entomologiske Meddelelser, 61(1): 15–19. Spaans, B. (1994). “The breeding birds of the Volkerak-Zoommeer during the first five years after embankment.” Limosa, 67(1): 15–26. Stibane, F. A. and R. Abraham (1989). “Investigations on reed stands (Phragmites australis) in the Haseldorfer Marsh near Hamburg (West Germany) with special reference to the gall midge Giraudiella inclusa Frauenfeld (1862) (Diptera, Cecidomyiidae).” Entomologische Mitteilungen aus dem Zoologischen Museum Hamburg, 9(136–137): 271–282. Stoica, A. (1972). Comparative biological studies of the common reed in the characteristic areas of the Danube Delta and opportunities to maintain the current potential of reed. Study 2/197. Archives of DDNI Tulcea, Romania. Stowe, T. J., A. V. Newton, R. E. Green and E. Mayes (1993). “The decline of the corncrake Crex crex in Britain and Ireland in relation to habitat.” Journal of Applied Ecology, 30(1): 53–62. Sukopp, H. and B. Markstein (1989). “Changes of the reed beds along the Berlin Havel 1962–1987.” Aquatic Botany, 35(1): 27–39 Suzuki, T., K. Moriyama and Y. Kurihara (1989). “Distribution of heavy metals in a reed marsh on a riverbank in Japan.” Aquatic Botany, 35(1): 121–127. Ştefan N., M. Gridin, A. Constantinescu, I. Grigoraş and J. Hanganu (1996). Reed biomass analyze from DDBR using GIS. Scientific Annals of the Danube Delta Institute, Tulcea. Ştefan N., I. Sârbu, T. Chifu and J. Hanganu (1995). Contributions to the phytocenology of the Danube Delta’s reed. Scientific Annals of the Danube Delta Institute, Tulcea. Tobler F. (1943). “Stengelbau, Festigkeits- und Verwertungsunterschiede beim Schilfrohr Phragmites communis Trin.” Angewandte Botanik, 25: 165–177. Trolle L. (1988). “3 new Danish leafhoppers (Homoptera, Auchenorrhyncha): Found in approximately 1/2 hour.” Entomologiske Meddelelser, 56(3): 127–130. Tscharntke T. (1989). “Attack by a stemboring moth increases susceptibility of Phragmites australis to gallmaking by a midge: mechanisms and effects on midge population dynamics.” Oikos, 55(1): 93–100. Tscharntke T. (1990). “Fluctuations in abundance of a stemboring moth damaging shoots of Phragmites australis: causes and effects of overexploitation of food in a latesuccessional grass monoculture.” Journal of Applied Ecology, 27(2): 679–692. Tscharntke T. (1992). “Fragmentation of Phragmites habitats, minimum viable population size, habitat suitability, and local extinction of moths, midges, flies, aphids, and birds.” Conservation Biology, 6(4): 530–536.

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Ventura J., J. Gosalbez and J. M. Lopez-Fuster (1989). “Trophic ecology of Arvicola sapidus Miller (1908) (Rodentia, Arvicolidae) in the Ebro Delta (Spain).” Zoologischer Anzeiger, 223(5–6): 283–290. Wagatsuma T., K. Jujo, K. Tawaraya, T. Sato and A. Ueki (1992). “Decrease of methane concentration and increase of nitrogen gas concentration in the rhizosphere by hygrophytes.” Soil Science and Plant Nutrition, 38(3): 467–476. Yamasaki, S., M. Kimura and T. Yoneyama (1992). “Early withering of lower leaves of Phragmites australis (Cav.) Trin. ex Steud. in a eutrophic stand: role of oxygen concentration, fate of nitrogen and nitrogen uptake by the plants.” Aquatic Botany, 42(2), 143–157. Young, S. W., D. H. Davies and P. J. Milligan (1991). “The potential of anatomical features of the common reed Phragmites australis (Cav.) Trin. ex Steudal as a biotic indicator of adjoining land use.” Archiv Fuer Hydrobiologie, 122(3): 297–304.

Chapter 4

The Danube Delta Lessons Learned from Nature Restoration Projects Erika Schneider

The work to restore transformed parts of the Danube Delta to its original natural state was an impressive effort and the largest river reclamation project undertaken in Europe. Dikes that were built during the twentieth century, in order to claim parts of the Delta for human use, severely disturbed water flow and destroyed habitats that were supposed to host temporary flooding. Strategically planned efforts to open up these dikes and restore the natural water flow in the area have been remarkably effective. Monitoring following these projects show that once-damaged habitats tend to revert quickly toward their natural state, bringing an increase in biodiversity. At the same time, restoration of a more natural environment permitted people living in the area to pursue traditional activities, such as fishing, harvesting of reeds and using some of these areas for seasonal grazing land. This chapter begins with a detailed description of the problems caused by human intervention in the Lower Danube River, especially its mouth in the Danube Delta area. This is followed with a section describing the initial work in the early 1990s to assess the river’s problems and to come up with strategies that address the situation. Some of these strategies were based on successful work in the 1980s to restore the Upper Rhine River. The chapter also offers a detailed description of the first Delta restoration projects at Babina and Cernovca, as well as providing details of the results of monitoring at those two projects. It then goes on to describe other restoration projects in the Danube Delta, which were inspired by the first two projects, and to elucidate future possibilities for further projects. It concludes with a section describing lessons learned from these projects. The projects described were brought about by the WWF Institute for Floodplain Ecology in Rastatt/Germany, which committed itself to restoration 87

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projects in the Danube Delta in cooperation with the Danube Delta Institute in Tulcea and the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority. The author of this chapter reports her own personal experience with this restoration work, as she was concretely involved in the ecological evaluation for WWF and she assumed responsibility for the success of these projects. Riverine Wetlands and their Importance for Nature and Human Society The rivers and their adjacent lowlands are strongly related to one another through a framework of ecological effects that are dependant on the hydrological regime—including discharge dynamics and periodical changes between high and low water levels. These factors, in their turn, determine the dynamics of soils and sediments, the nutrient supply, groundwater table dynamics and the exchange of organisms between the river and its floodplain. All these factors have an influence on biodiversity, as well as the dynamics and development of plant and animal communities (Dister 1994, Schneider 2002). In the course of the last century, many rivers and their floodplains suffered from the consequences of human intervention, including efforts to train the river, dam construction and other work that cut the floodplain off from the dynamics of the river and the fluctuation of high and low water levels. Drainage measures transformed former flooded wetlands into agricultural land, intensive fish farms or intensive forestry areas. These transformations damaged former natural wetlands along rivers and deltas by interfering with the hydrological regime, the most valuable factor for a functioning ecosystem. Human interventions resulted in a broad range of damage to wetlands, which were sometimes disturbed, sometimes completely transformed and sometimes even lost. The loss of the major hydrological, biogeochemical and ecological functions and ecosystem services for man and nature caused a multitude of social and economical problems in the wetlands areas. Society seems to have underestimated the importance of wetlands for humans, but there are growing problems arising from the loss of floodplains and Delta wetlands. For example, there is an increasing flood risk due to a lack of retention areas, loss of important natural resources, such as fishing grounds, and alterations in water exchange and water circulation. These problems have raised the question of how best to reduce the consequences of human impacts, and to which degree it would be possible to go back to the former situation of functioning natural systems. Restoring the wetlands is important, but what do we mean by “restoration”? In many cases a return to the initial situation is not feasible. It is, however, possible to bring the ecosystem back to a functioning state. In these situations, “restoration” means



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recovery of an ecosystem, with respect to its health, integrity and sustainability, so that it can function on an autoregulatory basis (Hey and Philipi 1999, Schneider 2002). Restoration can also involve creation of new wetlands when they have been completely destroyed. In a number of countries, such as Germany, the term “restoration” is frequently used to mean “renaturation,” or returning an environment to its natural state. The term “revitalization” is commonly used as well (National Park Donau-Auen 2009). Given that the restoration of rivers and floodplains in Delta areas partly involves construction measures, Romanians use the term “ecological reconstruction.” In each case, as Hey and Philippi (1999) note: “creation and restoration of wetlands is a new science, and there is no question that we have a lot to learn.” This is why, in the beginning, restoration projects were like experiments on a large scale. Restoration actions started in the second half of the twentieth century— especially during the last three decades—with the recognition of the consequences caused by the loss of floodplains and wetlands in general (Moss and Monstadt 2008). The European Center for River Restoration (ECRR) has promoted river restoration over the last ten years and has hosted international conferences offering a scientific forum allowing an exchange of ideas among those in the field. ECRR marked it’s 10th anniversary and looked back on all its activities during a special event held in May 2009 in Lelystad, Holland. The Danube’s Various Landscapes From its source in the Black Forest to its mouth in the Black Sea, the Danube River extends over a length of more than 2,840 km and crosses various natural landscapes. On the Upper Danube, comprising the section between the springs where the river begins and the Devin Gate upstream of Bratislava, the extension of the morphological floodplain is smaller as compared to the rest of the river. The Central Danube, reaching from the Devin Gate up to the Danube gorges at the Iron Gate, and the Lower Danube, from the Iron Gate to the Delta, both have very broad morphological floodplains (Schneider, Dister and Döpke 2009). The Danube has a considerable west-southeast extension so that the vegetation growing along the river is not only affected by ecologically determining factors, like hydrological regime and morphological dynamics, but also by variations in climate—from a subcontinental, Central-European-influenced climate in the upper part of the river to a typical continental climate in the easternmost Danube region. In the large floodplain wetlands of the Lower Danube, as well as in the Danube Delta, the impact of a typically continental climate becomes apparent. That area has arid summers and frequent frost during

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winters, with little snow (Horvat, Glavac and Ellenberg 1974, Inst. de Geol. si Geografie 1969). The influence of these factors mean that the Danube floodplains are home to azonal vegetation that is joined by geographically specific vegetation in various sections. The continental climate in the eastward direction is reflected in the occurrence of section-specific species, like hardwood floodplain forests. However, the softwood floodplain stands, which sometimes still grow in galleries, are more azonal (Schneider, Dister and Döpke 2009). Historical Backround for Restoration on the Danube and the Danube Delta During the last four decades of the twentieth century, almost three quarters of the Lower Danube floodplains—about 450,000 hectares from a total floodplain area of 540,000 hectares—had been cut off from the river dynamic and transformed into agricultural lands (WWF-DCP and WWFAuen-Institut 1999, Schneider 1991, 2001; Schneider and Günther-Diringer 2004, Schneider, Dister and Döpke 2009). The large loss of Lower Danube floodplains, led to dramatic changes and loss of the natural functions of the floodplains. Among other natural benefits, floodplains act as a natural filter for the downstream area and as a spawning ground for fish, in particular short migratory fish (Carp/Cyprinids). The construction of dikes and the separation of the floodplain wetlands from the river increased the dryness of the floodplains and, due to high evaporation in conditions of the continental climate, this construction also caused a certain amount of salinization of soils. Moreover, these manmade changes reduced a number of large water bodies— numerous floodplain lakes that could compensate for drops in moisture in the local climate—leading to a greater aridity in the transformed areas. The Danube Delta is a unique complex of ecosystems and habitats spanning a wide range between constantly water-covered sites and the extremely dry areas on the dunes, with aspects of pontic-continental steppes. In the second half of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth, the area was subject to some man-made interventions that were meant to improve navigation and support agricultural use on a small scale. (Staraş 2001, Gâştescu and Ştiucă 2008). Still, at that time the Delta remained a largely natural landscape in which people lived in harmony with nature. As it is documented in the large volume Monography of the reeds of Danube Delta (Rudescu 1965), a large-scale program for industrial harvesting of reeds in the Danube Delta began in the end of the 1950s and the early 1960s (Gomoiu and Baboianu 1992, Pons 1992). To facilitate the reed harvest, people built canals that significantly altered the network of water courses between the main river branches Chilia, Sulian and Sf. Gheorghe. Other interventions in



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the Delta during this period resulted in dramatic alterations or disturbances of the water balance. These interventions included the building of dikes around large areas for the purpose of agricultural use, intensive fish-farming and forestry (especially hybrid poplar plantations). The Complex Plan for the Economic Exploitation of the Danube Danube Delta (CPEEDD), adopted in 1975 through a Decree of the Romanian Presidency and implemented beginning with the year 1979, called for intensification of land use via the construction of new dikes and large-scale drainage. This work caused further deterioration of the ecological balance as it interfered with natural processes and the regular functioning of the wetlands and led to the complete loss of area-specific wetland habitats. The numerous artificial canals that were created by cutting through the reeds involved further changes: unfiltered water from the river, carrying suspended solids, nutrients and pollutants, was allowed to pour into the inner area of the Delta. This resulted in a high nitrogen, phosphorus and oil load, and in some areas, it caused a gradual silting of Delta lakes (Staras 2001). The silting of the habitat, in turn, caused a change in species composition of the life communities/biocoenoses of some areas. The Danube Delta wetlands complex, with its broad reed areas acting as a filter that maintained the ecological balance in the Black Sea, was considerably damaged. The construction in the area ended in early 1990, just after the political changes in Romania in late 1989. By that time, the diked area of the Danube Delta covered 97,408 hectares, or 22 percent of the total Delta area of 482,592 hectares. In all, 39,974 hectares of the diked areas were dedicated to agricultural use. New Perspectives for Nature Restoration With the fresh impetus for nature conservation and environmental protection in Eastern Europe from 1990 onwards, new efforts were made to restore sustainable natural areas to the Danube Delta and the Lower Danube. By the beginning of 1990, international organizations—such as the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN), WWF and the secretariat of the Ramsar Convention—were already bringing together representatives for nature conservation from Romania and abroad. In the end of April 1990, a first meeting on how to address the Delta’s needs was organized by IUCN in Gland/Switzerland. Participants came from WWF International, the Ramsar Convention secretariat, the Romanian Academy of Science/Commission for Nature Protection, the Parliamentary Commission on Ecology/Bucharest and the Institute for Marine Research of Constanţa. Joint efforts continued at a conference in September 1990 involving experts from the International Organisations of Nature Protection—a group that includes the IUCN, WWF, the UNESCO/Man and Biosphere Programme,

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International Centre for Birds of Prey (ICBP), International Waterfowl and Wetlands Research Bureau (IWRB) and the Ramsar Convention secretariat. The international organizations were seeking a survey of the environmental and management status of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve and hoping to identify, along with Romanian colleagues, priorities for joint action. Different areas of the Delta were studied; presentations were made by Romanian scientists and engineers; and continuous detailed discussions were held between the Romanian and the International teams. Following the first international conference, a memorandum was sent to the Government of Romania. The memorandum noted the ecological value of the Danube Delta, listed evidence of decline and proposed five priority action points: • The ecological impacts of the creation and enlargement of canals and other hydrological works should be carefully evaluated before any further works begins. This evaluation should be conducted through the use of dynamic computer or physical models combined with the application of Environmental Impact Assessment techniques. • Romania and other Danubian states should take measures to reduce contamination of the river and to restore the filtering and biological functions of fluvial wetlands upstream from the Delta. • There should be a full assessment of the functioning of the system, the resulting range of benefits to people and inappropriate human activity. • A strategy and management plan for the Biosphere Reserve should be used to integrate human activity in the Delta in balance with the natural functioning of the ecosystem—thereby ensuring sustainable utilization of resources. • International organizations and their Romanian colleagues identified a number of other areas for action, including: provision of better equipment for research, an extended research program and wider international contacts; the production of educational materials for the public and for educational establishments; and studies to determine the most appropriate tourism and its management. In late autumn 1990, the first lines of a large Danube project with subprojects, named “The Green Danube,” was designed at the WWF Institute for Floodplain Ecology /WWF-Auen-Institut of WWF Germany. The institute did this work together with experts from the Danube Delta Institute in Tulcea, Romania. Their project, which later became a program of WWF International, included model project areas in each Danubian country. The Danube Delta was designated a key project area from the beginning. In fact, discussions and elaboration of concepts for restoration measures were started in the Danube Delta immediately following the 1990 proposal to make the area a Biosphere Reserve. (The area was officially nominated as a Biosphere Reserve on February 2, 1993.) From the beginning, restoration and the



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elaboration of concepts for the conservation of biodiversity and sustainable development were priority tasks of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority in Tulcea. An International Planning Seminar was organized under the umbrella of IUCN, with participation of other international nature protection organisations (WWF, MAB, Ramsar Convention) and financial institutions (World Bank, GEF, EBRD), in September 1991 in the Danube Delta at Uzlina. Attendees of that seminar came to agreement on the following important points: • The Danube Delta is a part of a dynamic ecological system that includes the Danube River, Danube Delta and Black Sea. All scientific research and restoration measures in these areas have to be regarded as being closely linked to one another. • The essential ecological factor is the hydrological regime, which includes water circulation, fluctuating surface water and groundwater levels, sediment input and the mixing-up of fresh water and seawater in the adjacent sea area. • The improvement of the hydrological regime, as a prerequisite for sound ecosystems in the Danube Delta, is a priority task in all restoration projects (s. Gomoiu and Baboianu 1992). Even though it was believed that the hydrological regime could be reestablished in a short time, restoration of the ecological balance and the complex ecological interactions was expected to be a long-term process. During the seminar and the entire early planning phase, there was discussion about the areas needing restoration. One type of area identified was embanked, abandoned surfaces, such as the south part of the large Pardina Polder, land that was prepared for agriculture at Sulina—and the Dunavăt II ponds, which never produced positive economic results, according to Gomoiu and Baboianu (1992). Other embanked areas had never been used for their planned purposes, including the islands Babina and Cernovca, in the northeastern part of the Delta; Fortuna Polder, north of the Sulina Branch of the river; and Holbina II, near the lagoon complex. A Management Master Plan, which was elaborated for the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve (IUCN 1991), listed a number of areas to be restored, including abandoned agricultural polders and unprofitable fish farms. In 1993, with the financial support of World Bank, the Romanian Government started a large “Danube Delta Biodiversity Project” for the development of an integrated management in the young Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. Another topic that was discussed during the beginning of planning activities was the vulnerability of soils. The Delta’s soils are vulnerable due to their formation and development in a constantly wet area, the rapidly mineralizable organic material they are composed of, the area’s continental climate

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with distinct dry seasons and little precipitation—and highly mineralized groundwater (Munteanu 2006). Destruction of the soil is manifested in rapid mineralization of the humus layer, degradation of the peat layer (reed peat), increasing soil salinization and desiccation through wind erosion, acidification and subsidence (Panait 2003). The rapid mineralization of the humus layer is very distinct in the soils of the agricultural polders. As a consequence of the warm and dry climate, floating reed communities (plaur) and drained reed peat layers are mineralized (turning into dry soil) at a rate of about five centimeters per year (Munteanu 2006). Repeated burning has destroyed more than 20,000 hectares of peat soil in agricultural and piscicultural polders. At a minimum, it is estimated that 200 million cubic meters of the Delta’s reed peat and plaur have been lost through burning. That’s a loss of about 60 million tons of organic matter. As a result, peat soil areas were subject to subsidence/sinking, which is caused both by mineralization of the organic matter and by wind erosion. The Delta has water deficit conditions, with an 800–1,000 millimeter evaporation rate offset by less than 400 millimeters of precipitation. This deficit, combined with hydrogeologically-conditioned, mainly mineralized groundwater, causes alterations in the salinity of the soils. Dam construction and drainage works involved an amplification of salinization processes, as could be observed in the Western part of Babina Island, Cernovca and the Ukrainian Ermakov Island. Similar phenomena have also been recorded in other parts of the Delta where drainage led to salinization processes. People living in the area noticed a variety of problems: disturbance of the water balance, degradation of soils, increasing dryness and salinization in some areas that were developed as agricultural polders, changed water circulation in fishponds, the loss of fishing grounds—as well as eutrophication and silting up of channels and lakes. (For examples of the latter, see lakes Fortuna and Rotund). The local people of Chilia and Periprava expressed a desire to restore the destroyed natural fishing grounds on the islands of Babina and Cernovca by opening the circular dike and reflooding the area. Their first proof of the possibility of restoration came through a “simple experiment”: opening one small point on Babina Polder to allow water into the polder area during fish reproduction time. Learning from the Rhine for the Danube: The Start of the Restoration To start a large scale restoration program, it was necessary to collect scientific knowledge and experiences from other restoration work. This was



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especially true for the Danube Delta, where restoration was never even considered before the political changes. Fortunately, the Institute for Floodplain Ecology, WWF-Auen-Institut of WWF-Germany was able to offer knowledge and experience from a large scale restoration and monitoring project started in 1985 in the Kuehkopf-Knoblochsaue Nature Reserve on the Northern part of the Upper Rhine. The objectives of the Upper Rhine restoration project included reconnecting floodplains with abandoned agricultural lands to the dynamic of the river, and making efforts to restore forests and meadows (Dister et al. 1992, Schneider 2001). The restoration of KuehkopfKnoblochsaue Nature Reserve was Germany’s first effort on a large scale involving experimental plots for monitoring the colonization of different species and the evolution of the reconnected area. Despite differences in climate conditions between the two areas, the general evolution of the recovery in the Rhine were applicable for the restoration of the Danube Delta. Furthermore, experience from work on other stretches of the Rhine River constitutes a good starting point for restoration in the Danube Delta. Additional experience was also offered by the Institute for Inland Water Management and Waste Water Treatment (RIZA) in Lelystad, The Netherlands. The first restoration projects in the Danube Delta were based on these experiences: Work on the Babina and Cernovca agricultural polders was started with the Institute for Floodplain Ecology of WWF Germany, while Dutch scientists from RIZA started restoration studies and planning for the fishpond area of Holbina-Dunavăţ. The objectives of all these ecological reconstruction/restoration projects was and is to restore the area’s natural, site-specific hydrological, biogeochemical and ecological functions; to ensure the redevelopment of the ecosystem; and to promote the re-development of site-specific habitats and their biodiversity. Moreover, the redevelopment of the natural resources should enable local populations to use these habitats in traditional, sustainable ways, such as traditional fishing, harvesting reeds for traditional construction and heating, collection of medicinal plants, etc. Local populations are also expected to enjoy the benefits of a sound ecosystem. Because the ecosystems of the Danube Delta depend on the dynamics of the Danube River, the re-establishment of the hydrological regime was the most important factor to be considered in restoration. In the case of embanked and drained areas that are no longer useful for agricultural purposes, the most important measure for successful restoration was reconnection to the flood regime of the Danube. But in other cases, such as the Fortuna Polder, restoration of the hydrological regime may also involve the closing of canals and restoring former flood channels. This is especially true in those cases where unfiltered Danube waters flow directly from the main river branches, through artificial canals and into the lakes in the heart of the Delta.

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Figure 4.1  Restoration Areas in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve

Babina and Cernovca Island Polders—a Pilot Project in the Romanian Danube Delta After preparatory discussions between the young Biosphere Reserve Authority, the Danube Delta Institute in Tulcea and the Floodplain Institute of WWF Germany, the agricultural polders of Babina (2,100 hectares) and Cernovca (1,560 hectares) were selected as pilot project areas for ecological restoration.



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Planning for the restoration involved detailed research to obtain an analysis and evaluation of the ecological status of the area that would be restored. Data concerning the natural status before any interventions was also available, so this data was considered too. Before they were encircled with a dike and hydrotechnical drainage system in 1983, the two islands of Babina and Cernovca—in the northeastern part of the Delta in the Danube’s Chilia Branch—showed typical floodplain functions that were characterized by water level fluctuations, flooding and drying-up. After the islands were cut off from river dynamics, all of these site-specific functions were lost, and the habitats of numerous species was damaged or even destroyed. Perhaps worst of all, the island habitats lost their extremely important function as a spawning ground for fish, which regularly showed up in these vegetation-abundant and shallow flooded areas. As a consequence, the area’s lakes, small water courses and wetlands no longer served as a traditional fishing location, and the local residents could no longer cut reed for their own needs. The area dried up and there was an invasion of weeds—both evidence of disturbances in the hydrological regime. The gradual formation of steppe and soil salinization occurring in the western part of both islands also restricted their possible use as grassland. Given these problems, the objective of the project was clear: to reconnect the polders to the flood regime of the Danube and guarantee the ecosystem’s redevelopment and functions—thus promoting the re-establishment of sitespecific habitats, such as floodplain willow gallery like forests, different types of reeds and water macrophyte communities. The redevelopment of natural resources, like spawning grounds, reed areas and grassland, should allow the local population to use this area in a traditional, sustainable way. After two years of preliminary studies—covering the water and nutrient balance as well as ecological conditions and biodiversity—the circular dam of Babina polder was opened in April 1994 in four locations, and the area was again flooded. Two years later, in spring 1996, the circular dam of Cernovca Polder was opened in two locations, and the area was reconnected to the river dynamics of the Danube. These restoration projects provided the starting point for the redevelopment of site-specific biodiversity and natural resources for the local people. The restoration of natural functions and site-specific habitats occurred rapidly. Fish, in particular the short migratory Cyprinids, used the area as spawning ground immediately after the dams were opened. Numerous wetland and aquatic birds found feeding grounds in the re-flooded areas with shallow waters. The early presence of fish-eating birds, such as pelicans and cormorants, confirmed the existence of fish in the reflooded area. During the first two years following the opening of the dams, aquatic and wetland vegetation developed in relatively dense stands, which were subject to flood related fluctuations from year to year (Schneider, Tudor and Staras 2008).

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Monitoring of development after reflooding After the reconnection to the flood regime of the Danube, the two areas were subject to a monitoring program over several years. This program documented the development of aquatic and terrestrial habitats, including the transition areas; measurements were taken of the biodiversity and overall performance of these habitats. While macrohabitats were developing, the more diverse vegetation structure also provided the basis for a differentiation of microhabitats. These microhabitats provided niches for a huge diversity of various macro- and microorganisms, both in the terrestrial and in the semiaquatic and aquatic areas (Schneider, Tudor and Staras 2008). Table 4.1 

Survey of Macrohabitats before and after the Dams were opened

Before opening Large areas with stands of halophilous plant species and characteristic macroinvertebrates in the upstream area of the polder Dry meadows along the dams

Disturbed, dry reed stands with weeds Poorly developed and species-poor stands of aquatic plants in the artificial canals Canals of various dimensions

— —

After reconnection Very small areas with halophilous plants and characteristic halophilous macroinvertebrates; diversity in the upstream area of the polder Temporarily flooded alluvial meadows Dry meadows along the dams Pioneer vegetation on newly emerged sediment banks Redevelopment of gallery-like softwood floodplain forests with White willow of various ages and categories and also White poplar in some areas Well-developed reed stands Well-developed stands of aquatic plants, rich in species, in the canals and in newly emerged lakes Canals of various dimensions Revitalized natural channels (“gârla”) with characteristic vegetation Lakes with characteristic biocoenoses, plants, fish, macroinvertebrates, zooplankton, phytoplankton Temporary, stagnant waters Temporary flood channels

Based on a network of well-chosen sampling spots of representative habitats in the restoration area, it was possible to document development of various aquatic and temporarily flooded biocoenoses after the dam was opened up. Annual chemical and biological samplings were taken at given moments at defined locations, allowing documentation of the development of the following



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biocenoses of the ecotone area: phytoplankton and zooplankton, macrozoobenthos (composed of different groups of small invertebrates), fish populations, aquatic plants, insect communities and aquatic and wetland plants. The diversity of aquatic plants developed very rapidly. Four species were found in the diked area; a year after opening, 23 species were documented; and, with a few fluctuations, 25–29 species were found in the years after 2000 (Schneider, Tudor and Covaliov 2008). The fluctuations in number of species and abundance was caused by fluctuations in the duration and height of flooding in various areas. The first species to return were floating plants, flowing in with the water, such as Water lens Lemna minor, Great water lens Spirodela polyrhiza and Water fern Salvinia natans. Rooted water macrophytes, including Fringed water lily (Nymphoides peltata) and White water lily Nymphaea alba, were also present in the first year after flooding, as their rhizoms were resident in the soil even when the area was dry. After the stabilization of plant communities that depend on different types of water, there were observations of rare bladderwort species, such as Aldrovanda vesiculosa, which is listed in Appendix I of the European FFH Directive, the basis for the Natura 2000 network. The re-developed filtering function of the reed was indicated by the Great Bladderwort (Utricularia vulgaris). This plant appeared after three years as a small belt on the border of channels in places were clear water flowed into the channels after being filtered through the restored reedbeds. Species such as the Frog bit (Hydrocharis morsus-ranae) and Water soldier (Stratiotes aloides) developed in the second and third year, after restoration in clear waters indicated the redevelopment of reed beds with a good filtering function. The development of zooplankton diversity and abundance grew slowly during the first three years. However, more considerable growth and stabilization could be observed during the four subsequent years. When it comes to species composition and abundance, the zooplankton of the Babina area is comparable to that of other eutrophic systems studied in the Danube Delta (Mihaela Tudor 2003, 2008). The phytoplankton diversity (mainly measured through studies of diatoms) increased with a few fluctuations from 78 species in 1994 to 102 species in 2001 (L. Török 2008). The macrozoobenthos, including various small water invertebrates that are a major source of food for fish, reached high species diversity and abundance during the first year. The composition and abundance of the macrozoobenthos—with diverse nutrition types, such as shredders/detritus feeders, grazers, filtrators, predators, parasites and omnivorous species— indicate well-operating relations between macrophytes, macrozoobenthos and fish (Obrdlik, Hulea and Ibram 2008). The fish populations developed well and were composed of 29 species, another indication of the redevelopment of their various habitats. Fish are

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represented by reophile species, characteristic of flowing and more or less sediment-rich waters; by limnophile species, occurring in stagnant, clear freshwaters and by species that may be found in both types of waters (Năvodaru, Staraş and Cernişencu 2008). The development and stabilization of the fish populations involves the use of fish resources and their socioeconomic significance for people living in the Delta. The vegetation on salt-rich sites was extensive when the dam was up, but decreased after the dams were opened and re-flooding began on a largescale. As salt-liking (halophilous) plants decreased, wet grasslands could redevelop. These were used by the local people of Chilia and Periprava for traditional purposes and as pastures for cattle and horses. The performance monitoring program that was implemented over several years after the opening of the dams was meant to support and evaluate the new development and, if required, to suggest any new measures needed in the restoration project. A river’s tendency to form natural levees when the water overflows the riverbanks is a characteristic and dynamic process of larger rivers that are carrying a high suspended load. In the case of the Danube, a river with a high sediment load, these levees are called “grinduri” and this process has led to an elevation of the sills at the dam openings situated upstream, as the openings were not large enough. Additional measures to improve water circulation and water exchange were thus revealed to be necessary. One way to prevent this would be to allow the water to flow through the circular channel before it enters the polder at a right angle. This approach could diminish the sedimentation processes in the inflow area. A temporary cutting-off from the flood regime of the Danube does, however, also occur under natural conditions at low water levels. In the case of Cernovca Polder, it became clear in the initial phase that two openings were not sufficient to secure optimal water circulation and water exchange. Even so, a reconnection with merely two openings had already improved the situation from how it was before. For greater improvement of water circulation—and to activate the island’s smaller former water courses, known as “gârla” in Romanian—additional openings were made in 2003. As for Babina, the opening was situated so that water was led from the Danube into the circular channel and entered the polder later on, at a right angle. Restoration of the Popina Fishpond Area The Popina fish polder is situated on the Chilia Branch of the river and represents the last characteristic floodplain segment in the Delta area shortly before the mouth of the Danube enters the Black Sea. In its natural condition, this



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area is typical of what would be called a “Balta” in Romanian: a wetland with lakes that were partly covered with carpets of floating plants, water courses, large-scale reed areas and levees with gallery-like white willow forests. The southwestern part of the Popina Polder is characterized by sand dunes with a typical microrelief, and an arrangement of plant communities corresponding to this relief, along ecological gradients. The area fulfilled the natural functions of a wetland area. It provided habitats to a broad range of different rheophilic fish (preferring fast flowing waters) limnophilic fish (from salt marshes) and eurytopic ones (widely distributed and very adaptable ones), aquatic birds and limicolae, as well as the European Pond Turtle (Emys orbicularis), which now occurs here in larger populations. On the sand dunes along the edges of the polder, one may find numerous biogeographically notable species of butterflies, beetles, locusts and wild bees (Lagendijk and Schneider 2000). As in the whole Delta, traditional land use was strongly dependant on the Danube water levels: at high water levels, fishing was more important in the Popina area. In times of shallow waters, the area that was not permanently covered in water was used as pastures for horses and cattle. In the 1970s, the Popina area, as part of the Danube Delta development plan, was transformed into a huge system of fish farms. Its two southern basins, Popina II (EC21 and EC22), are each 1,800 hectares in size. These areas were cut off from the Danube river dynamics, placed under an artificial hydrological regime and crisscrossed with a channel system. Despite their large size, it turned out that these fish farms could not be managed as planned, and they were abandoned. It therefore became possible, and in fact advisable, to restore the water circulation and exchange in the area by reconnecting the polders to the Danube’s Chilia Branch and reactivating the natural water course of the small waterways in the central area of the polders, known in Romanian as the Popina Gârlă. These measures formed the basis for a restoration of habitats, most of all for site-specific fish populations. But this work also reestablished the habitats of a number of other species characteristic of the floodplains and the Delta. The regeneration of natural resources, fishing grounds and reed areas, as well as the improvement of grassland, was implemented with regard to the traditional, sustainable use of these resources by local populations. Reconnection to the Danube’s Chilia Branch was implemented in June 2000, following preliminary studies evaluating the actual condition of the waters and their shore zones, by experts of the DDNI, the RIZA Institute and WWF-Auen-Institut/Institute for Floodplain Ecology of WWF Germany. The studies were conducted with respect to phyto- and zooplankton, macrozoobenthos, ichthyofauna, aquatic and wetlands plant communities—as well as insect communities. To improve water circulation inside the broad 3,600 hectare area, the separating dam situated between the two polder areas

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EC21 and EC22 was opened as well, and the natural course of Popina’s gârlă were reactivated (Lagendijk and Schneider, edit. 2000). Distinct improvements in the quality and structure of the aquatic habitats were already visible by the first monitoring program, which focused on bioindicator species—mainly macrozoobenthos, ichthyofauna and aquatic macrophytes. Among the improvements noted was an increase in the number of fish species characteristic of running waters (rheophilous species). After the flood-prone area was reconnected to the Danube River, many fish species (Cyprinids) could now use the location for spawning purposes. As a result, the basic conditions for traditional fishing in this area improved. As was the case for the Babina and Cernovca polders, the economic benefit of the Popina II fish farm restoration consists in its fish production, which is estimated at about 34 kilograms per hectare per year. Moreover, reed production has reached between one and two tons per hectare per year, and about 100 hectare of pastures are used, producing 0.5 livestock units per hectare per year (LU/ha/year). The ecological value of restoration is indicated by the biogeochemical function—the retention and turnover of 15 kilograms per hectare per year of phosphorus and 335 kilograms per hectare per year of nitrogen. Sediment retention has been calculated at 11 tons per hectare per year. The average yearly profit resulting from the use of fish and plant resources, as well as the income arising from ecotourism amounted to USD 140,000 (Schneider, Ştiucă, Tudor and Covaliov 2004, Schneider, Tudor and Staraş 2008). As a result of the re-establishment of the hydrological regime, ecological conditions improved in the pastures used as grassland for cattle and horses by the local people (Sfiştovca, C. A. Rosetti). Restoration of the Fortuna Agricultural and Forestry Polder Area The area of Fortuna polder (2,115 hectares) is part of the Şontea-Fortuna Delta complex, which is subject to natural inundations and the river dynamics of the Danube. In its original condition, the Fortuna area comprised natural water basins with broad reed areas and small natural channels (so-called “gârla”), bordered by natural levees with gallery-like White willow forests. Rotund Lake is in the centre of the area, and the broad Fortuna Lake is immediately north of it. The two lakes are connected to one another. Special attention had to be paid to this area, especially the lakes, for their ichthyofauna and avifauna. Pelicans (Pelecanus onocrotalus) find rich fishing grounds in the shallow water. In the shallow flooded and vegetation abundant shore areas, one may find numerous foraging Glossy ibis (Plegadis falcinellus). Perhaps even more important is the area’s population of European mink (Mustela



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lutreola), the biggest in Europe, as the Danube Delta provides perfect habitats for this species. The areas situated near villages consist of pastures and small-scale meadows. Little patches of high ground, situated on natural levees, are also used for small gardens. In 1984 hydraulic work was started to establish an agricultural polder, and Fortuna’s eastern section (Baba-Rada) was then dedicated to forestry. The area was surrounded by a dam and a circular channel, and some spots were left open on the northern edge. The dam had not yet been completed when its development was stopped in early 1990. Eight parallel canals cut the area into several sections. The canals and the material from constructing the hydraulic work, interrupted the natural west-eastern course of the Fortuna Gârla—the natural channels. These hydraulic measures caused dramatic changes in water circulation. The dam leading to the Sulina Canal was opened for construction purposes at mile 22, allowing sediment-rich, unfiltered water from the main branch to flow into the area and follow the perpendicular canals straight into Rotund Lake. The result was a gradually growing eutrophication and silting in the southern part of the lake. Increased sediment input also occurred through the so called Crânjala Channel into Fortuna Lake. Both lakes developed deposits of sediment similar to a small delta. The first settlers of these new silt banks were larger stands of Flowering rush (Butomus umbellatus) and, under certain circumstances, also White willow (Salix alba). The restoration plan of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve called for work on the Fortuna Polder to restore its hydrological regime, to improve its ecological conditions and to stop the silting up of the lakes. The area was supposed to be studied in the global context of the Şontea-Fortuna system. The main objectives were the immediate removal of water supply with sedimentary material from the Danube’s Sulina Branch, the reactivation of the Fortuna Gârla and its reconnection to the S 0 channel. The reactivation of the water courses’ west-east flow direction, parallel to the Sulina Branch, should also allow the broad reed stands to perform their natural filtering function. Based on an evaluation of the ecological state of the area—with special attention paid to macrozoobenthos and aquatic macrophytes as bioindicators—restoration measures were proposed and implemented stepby-step. The measures mainly involved closing the perpendicular canals, closing the effluent to Fortuna Lake and re-establishment of connectivity for Fortuna Gârla. The implementation of these measures were supposed to counteract silting in both Rotund and Fortuna lakes. Moreover, the measures were expected to improve and upgrade the habitats of numerous species. The network of sampling locations that underlies the evaluation of habitats before restoration began was also used for evaluating the implemented measures. Following the first restoration work—the closing of the perpendicular channels in 2001—it was already possible to observe a considerable

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improvement of the situation: Direct sediment input into the two lakes had stopped. The hydrotechnical works for restoration was finished with reconnection of the Fortuna Gârla, and with this, a restart of the water circulation from west to east in 2002. Restoration in the Dunavăţ-Dranov Region: the Holbina-Dunavăţ Fish Farms The area situated south of the Sfântu Gheorghe Branch of the Danube and Razim Lake was also slated for restoration. From the geomorphological point of view, this is a large backswamp in the process of peat accumulation. In its natural state, the area was bordered on three sides by Danube waters—the Sfântu Gheorghe Branch and two smaller branches, Dranov Creek (Gârla) and the Dunavăţ Danube. In the twentieth century, various human activities here included modification of the Razim lagoon, which was separated from the Black Sea by a sluice; dredging of a network of canals; and an increase in nutrient input. These activities changed the natural water and wetland habitats. An even greater negative impact was caused by the construction and exploitation of fish farms in the area around the beginning of the 1970s. Dunavăţ/Dranov was parceled into large isolated basins, which were surrounded by dikes and separated from each other by canals. Addition smaller canals were dredged withn the basins, and culverts and pumping stations were constructed. The first ecological impact of all this construction work was isolation of the marshes from open water, in the canals and the Razim Lake. Other impacts of the work included: the destruction of dense reed marshes in fish farm basins; a considerable lowering of the soil level due to disappearance of the peat soil layer; the introduction into Dunavăţ/Dranov area of temporary shallow water habitats with open vegetation; and the mortality of large birds by collisions with the electric power line across Holbina II (Drost et al. 1996). A 1994 World Bank project document made the case for restoration by reintegrating the area with the surrounding wetlands by opening the dike around the basins. This would affect 5,630 hectares of fish-farm area, including Holbina I (1,270 hectares), Holbina II (3,100 hectares) and Dunavăţ II (1,260 hectares). The area was the subject of a project to research and evaluate its ecological status. The project was conducted between 1993–1996 through the cooperation of the Dutch Institute for Inland Water Management and Waste Water Treatment RIZA in Lelystad, Danube-Delta National Institute in Tulcea, Romania and the Danube Delta Biosphere Authority. A restoration strategy was developed on the basis of this field research (Drost et al. 1996). The



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general objective of the restoration was the establishment of a self-regulating wetland of rich biodiversity that is connected with the surrounding open water systems and has a gradually decreasing riverine influence as we move from the periphery to the isolated central area (Drost et al. 1996). Based on Drost et al (1996), the best approach to restoration is to open up the fish farm basins to surrounding waters in a such way that the original water quality gradients are restored within the area. A difficult aspect of the work was the restoration of destroyed reed beds, with their very important filtering function. The Holbina I area remained more or less closed, and was only connected to the natural hydrological system of running water courses through culverts with shut-off valves for water exchange. It is used nowadays for sport fishing, as the dike area is leased to a private agency for tourism activities. On the fish polder called Holbina II, fishermen made some openings in the dike. In 2002, the ecosystem was clear water with a high degree of biodiversity (Drost, Bos and Tudor 2002). Clear water species, like Perch (Perca fluviatilis) and Pike (Esox lucius) occurred frequently. Investment funds were available in 2003, and the work of restoration was started and finalized in 2008, by opening the dike in some points and also opening the inner dikes to assure connectivity between the sub-basins. Evolution showed that the water system reverted from a turbid plankton-dominated state to one dominated by clear water macrophytes (DDNI 2009). Sfântu Gheorghe Meanders Project Rectification of the southern main Danube branch of Sfântu Gheorghe in 1989 and 1990 created islands when changes in water circulation started a sedimentation process in meanders that were cut off from the rest of the river. A proposal recommended that three of these islands, with an area of 687 hectares, should be reconnected to the river. This reconnection was seen as important because the migration routes of some fish with short migratory patterns had been interrupted when flood channels were constructed. After research and evaluation of the area’s ecological status by the Danube Delta National Institute and the Institute for Floodplain Ecology of WWF Germany, a technical project was developed by the Danube Delta National Institute. The implementation of the project was realized in 2006 (Cioaca 2003). At present the restored area in the Danube Delta, including former agricultural polders and fishponds, covers a surface of 15,712 hectares. The Master Plan for Sustainable Development of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve for 2005–2015 includes a further number of areas to be restored in two stages.

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The first stage, from 2005–2008, included desiltation of 195 km of canals and restoration of about 19,600 hectares of agricultural polders and fishponds that were no longer used for those purposes. The first stage of the planned restoration was realized in the Holbina fishpond. The other areas mentioned in the plan cannot undergo the first stage of restoration without agreement of the owner, the County Council of Tulcea. The second stage of the restoration work, set for 2009–2015, includes restoration of the large agricultural area of Pardina (27,032 hectares) and Sireasa (5,480 hectares), as well as a number of fishponds. Restoration in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve, Ukraine The “Vision for the conservation and sustainable development of the Danube Delta” focusing on the Ukraine includes the two model restoration projects described below (Chernichko, Overmas and Nestorenko 2003). Tătaru Island Shortly after the official presentation of the “Vision,” the first restoration project in the Danube Delta, Ukraine was implemented on Tătaru Island, which has an area of 800 hectares and is situated in the Kilija Branch, the northern branch of the Danube Delta. The dike around the island was opened in 2003 as part of the project “Partners for Wetlands,” which was financed by WWF Netherlands. Long stretches of the dike were removed and a broad area of the island was reconnected to the natural dynamic of the river. Unfortunately, there has not been thorough monitoring of the success of the project, only some studies concerning the impact of natural grazing on the island. Restoration of Ermakov Polder In July 2009, restoration measures were undertaken on Ermakov Island, a 2,500 polder in the Ukraine and part of the Babina-Cernovca-Ermakov group of islands. Like Babina and Cernovca islands in Romania, Ermakov was encircled with a dike, and the area had been used partly as pasture for cattle and horses. Also like Babina and Cernovca, the dike caused a shifting from wetlands to drylands and salinization processes in some parts of the islands. Restoration measures consisted of four openings, two inlets and two outlets. This work was done as part of the project called “Danube Delta: a natural gateway to Europe: ecology and economy in harmony,” which is part of the WWF-Danube Carpathian Programme financed by WWF Netherlands.



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At present the the Ermak Company has a concession to develop infrastructure for ecological tourism and sport fishing in the area. Successes of Restoration Projects The openings of the dikes around Babina (1994) and Cernovca (1996) islands provided first large-scale examples of wetlands restoration and offered an experience from which we can learn what to do—and what to avoid—in the future. Romania’s first restoration project was not only significant nationally; the extent of this reclamation project makes it unique in Europe. The project represented a positive effort that found high approval on both a national and international level. The project received official recognition from the General Association of Romanian Engineers (AGIR) (1995), followed in the same year by the European Union’s Eurosite Award. In 1996, the first restoration pilot project realized in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve, Romania, garnered the WWF International “Merit Conservation Award” (Schneider, Tudor and Staras 2008). The implementation of the restoration measures—including the reestablishment of the hydrological regime via the opening of dams (in Babina, Cernovca, Popina, Holbina), the closing of canals (in Fortuna), the reestablishment of connectivity and other measures—started a redevelopment process. This redevelopment sometimes begins quite rapidly, though a true return to an ecological balance will only be realized after a number of years. The knowledge gained through all these projects may profitably be used in further reclamation work. The successfully implemented restoration projects in the Danube Delta helped stimulate and inspire other remarkable initiatives. The declaration of a Lower Danube Green Corridor, signed on June 5, 2000 by the countries of the Lower Danube—Bulgaria, Romania, Moldavia and Ukraine—started a largescale, trans-boundary nature conservation initiative, supported by WWF International. The Lower Danube Green Corridor comprises a network of existing protected areas, new areas that are to be protected and rehabilitation areas, reaching from Iron Gate up to the Danube’s mouth in the Black Sea. New areas for protection can be continuously added, through mechanisms such as the Natura 2000. Proposals for the restoration of the eastern part of Călăraşi Island represents the next step toward restoration. The Cama-Dinu project consists of studies on the biodiversity of floodplain habitats along a 20 km section upstream of the city of Giurgiu, as well as an evaluation of a 450 km stretch on the Bulgarian-Romanian border, between the mouth of the Timoc River and the towns Călăraşi (Romania) and Silistra (Bulgaria). This evaluation was elaborated with regard to proposals for the declaration

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of new protection and restoration areas and it represents one more step in the implementation process of the Green Corridor. Constraints, Limiting Factors Despite the successes of work to restore the Danube Delta, it is important to understand the constraints and obstacles that had an impact on the planning and implementation phase, as is described by Staras (2001). Functional integrity and water quality are also constraints to the restoration work. The measures undertaken did not restore the original conditions of the time before the diking, because this would require a complete removal of the dams, which is impossible in view of extremely high costs. As the dikes cannot be removed entirely, water circulation can not be restored exactly as it was before. The existing dikes, the adjacent canals created by digging up material for dike construction and the canals in the polder areas cannot be all closed. Before the construction of the dams, under natural conditions, flooding occurred on a large scale, covering much of these islands (Staras 2001). When planning to open the dikes, the breaks must be sufficiently large and situated in hydraulically effective spots, to allow the water to flow into a broad area and to ensure that the reconnection to the river dynamics can restore better performance of the ecosystem. This planning can assure redevelopment of site-specific biodiversity and natural resources. When openings in the dike are not big enough, bank-shaped blockages will form as a result of the Danube River’s high sediment load, and desludging at regular intervals will be required. Another important constraint is related to the ownership of areas being restored. Often dikes are privately owned and there are other concessionaires within the polder area. The waters are managed by national water authorities, and the flooded and temporarily flooded areas are of regional interest, usually administrated by a County Council. The flood protection dikes are state property, as they are of national interest. The same goes for the irrigation systems, though it’s another state authority that takes responsibility for them. The greater part of the Delta area—345,420 hectares—is under the administration of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. Another area, totaling 71,292 hectares, is under the administration of Tulcea County Council. A total of 6,442 hectares of forest are considered state property of national importance and are administered by ROMSILVA. There are also some territories owned by the villages of the Delta and some private areas. This patchwork of ownership means that each restoration project can affect a different group of stakeholders, who must be kept aware of the work being done. The appropriate political decision makers must be involved and more public awareness is also needed.



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Creating the understanding for restoration is essential. Local residents often have a better appreciation of ecological situations and the benefits of restoration than administrators. More time needs to be invested in ensuring public awareness, encouraging stakeholder participation and communicating the importance of restoration work. Conclusions In the large wetlands complex that is the Danube Delta, different objectives and means of measuring progress will apply to different areas designated for restoration. Nonetheless, for all these areas, the basic work necessary has been the restoration of the hydrological regime, to allow for water circulation and water exchange with the surrounding area. Restoration of the hydrological regime is the key factor for the redevelopment of characteristic biodiversity and natural resources throughout the Delta. This is why all the projects discussed here focus on the re-establishment of the hydrological regime, even though they differ considerably when it comes to planning and implementation. Agricultural polders, for example, require a complete re-flooding of the drained areas that could host characteristic floodplain habitats. In the case of Popina, however, the two planned polders are filled with water, and temporarily flooded grasslands are only found in its southern and southwestern parts. The object of this project consisted of reconnecting to the Danube River flood regime to stimulate the water network. The goal was to correct a formerly mixed system, with running and stagnant waters, which had been transformed into a completely stagnant water system. More specifically, the work was intended to: reactivate small water courses, especially Popina Gârla; improve both water exchange and water circulation; re-create the habitat conditions required by fish species of running waters; and, ensure the existence of both species of running and standing waters. Similarly, the Fortuna project was also centered around restoration of the hydrological regime, but, in this case, the problem was basically too much movement of water: Excessive flows direct from the Sulina Branch of the Danube brought in heavy sediment loads, leading to pronounced siltings. These examples distinctly show that re-establishment of the proper hydrological regime, a key factor in floodplain and Delta area restoration, is a very complex and multifaceted issue. Monitoring of the restoration projects that have been realized, particularly in abandoned agricultural polders, showed rapid recovery of the destroyed wetlands area. All of the typical natural hydrological, biogeochemical, ecological and socioeconomic functions of the ecosystem returned rather quickly. In the pilot area of Babina and Cernovca, improved nutrient retention

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led to reduced eutrophication in the restoration area—a change that also benefits the Black Sea. The opening of the dikes led to redevelopment of site-specific macro- and microhabitats in aquatic and semiaquatic locations, as well as the terrestrial areas found in agricultural polders. It also led to re-settlement of site-specific species that are arranged along ecological gradients—based on their tolerance for flooding, as well as variations in the duration, height and frequency of floods. The dike opening also led to the development and relative stabilization of site-specific biodiversity. It has been possible to document the redevelopment of former habitats in the pilot areas and in other restoration areas. Still, it is important to note that some processes need more time to recover. This is, for example, the situation with destroyed reed beds at Holbina, and it will probably be the same for the large area of Pardina, which is slated for future restoration. Both areas suffered the destruction of their peaty soils, and the peat layer can only redevelop slowly, over the longer term. Yet these reed areas are vital, as they play an important role as natural filters. Along with natural functions, the restored wetlands, when used sustainably, can also satisfy fundamental socioeconomic functions. That’s why people living in the Delta may benefit more from restoration of abandoned agricultural polders and fishponds than they would from restoration of abandoned polders that were not used as planned. Restored fishing grounds can provide a fundamental benefit for local populations. Reed cutting and use—especially for traditional methods of making roofs, fencing and bricks—is still important for many people living in the Delta. Unfortunately traditional construction practices are being increasingly abandoned, causing changes in the landscape and in the quality of the tourism experience. The interest in preserving the old construction styles is very low, so it would be useful to support education for the local population about the value of traditional techniques—for preserving the landscape and for promoting ecotourism. Already there is great interest in the natural wonders of the Delta, with its mosaic of waters and large reed areas, White willow gallery forests and dunes, supporting various habitats species—in particular its avifauna. Well-planned restoration projects may thus also contribute to the development of environmentally friendly, sustainable ecotourism. But it is important to promote public awareness of what makes ecotourism appealing, especially when it comes to issues like pollution in camp grounds or congestion of boat traffic through the overuse of speedboats. It is important to realize a monitoring program that can gauge the success of restoration measures. If monitoring cannot be performed annually, it should at least be conducted as a control measure a few years after implementation. The monitoring program conducted over several years for the pilot



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area of Babina and Cernovca islands clearly demonstrated how useful it is to follow the evolution of habitats after restoration, a practice that also allows suggestion of additional measures that may be needed. The restored areas are also of major relevance for the Natura 2000 network. Many of the habitats in the Delta are listed in Appendix I of the FFH Directive, so they require classification as protected areas. Meanwhile, many Danube Delta species are listed in Appendix II of the EU Flora-Fauna-Habitat-Directive and in the appendices of the European Council Directive on the conservation of wild birds. The restored areas are a perfect showcase for the redevelopment and broadening of natural habitats for fish, birds and other species that may contribute to the expansion of the Natura 2000 network. Thus, by promoting ecological restoration measures, the Danube Delta Biosphere Authority, provides for the protection and conservation of natural habitats and a site-specific biodiversity and the use of the existing natural resources. It is important to use these resources in a way that is environmentally sustainable but that also serves local populations’ needs. Bibliography Byers, B. A. (2007). Ecosystem Services: What do we know where should we go? Burlington: ARD, Inc. Cioaca, Eugenia. (2003). “Ecological reintegration of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve degraded ecosystems into the natural ones. Study case –The islets created after the Sfântu Gheorghe arm rectification.” Scientific Annals 2002, Danube Delta National Institute for Research and Development Tulcea/România, vol. 9, 35–38. Dister, E. (1994). “The function, evaluation and relicts of near-natural floodplains,” Limnologie aktuell, vol 2, Kinzelbach, R. ed.: Biologie der Donau, Stuttgart-JenaNew York: Gustav Fischer Verlag, 317– 329. Dister, E., Schneider, E., Schneider E., Fritz, H.-G., Winkel, S. and Flößer, E. (1992). “Großflächige Renaturierung des” Kühkopfes “in der Hessischen Rheinaue—Ablauf, Ergebnis und Folgerungen der Sukzessionsforschung.” in: Auen— gefährdete Lebensadern Europas. Renaturierung von Flußauen. Proceedings of the Internatioanl Congress in Rastatt, Beiträge der Akademie für Natur- und Umweltschutz Baden-Württemberg, vol. 13b: 20–36, Stuttgart. Drost, H. J., A. A. Rijsdorp, G. Marin, M. Staras and G. Baboianu (1996). “Ecological restoration in the Dunavăţ/Dranov region Danube Delta/Romania.” RIZA nota nr. 96.074, Lelystad, The Netherlands, 58. Drost, H. J., D. Bos and M. Tudor (2002). “Research for ecological restoration in the Dunavăţ-Dranov region, Danube Delta,” RIZA-werkdocument nr. 2002. Lelystad, The Netherlands, 28. Gâştescu, Petre. and R. Ştiucă, eds (2006). Delta Dunării Rezervaţie a Biosferei. Constanţa Editura Dobrogea, Gomoiu, M.-T. and Baboianu, G. (1992). “Some

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aspects concerning the ecological restoration in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve (DDBR),” in: Auen-gefährdete Lebensadern Europas. Renaturierung von Flußauen. Proceedings of the International Congress in Rastatt/Tagungsdokumentation des internationalen Kongresses in Rastatt, Beiträge der Akademie für Naturund Umweltschutz Baden-Württemberg, vol. 13b: 131–144, Stuttgart. Hey, Donald L. and N. S. Philippi (1999). A case for wetland restoration. New York/ Chichester/ Weinheim/ Brisbane/ Singapore/ Toronto: John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 215. Horvat, Ivo, Glavac, V. and H. Ellenberg (1974). Vegetation of Southeastern Europe, Stuttgart: G. Fischer Verlag Series: Geobotanica Selecta 4. Institutul de Geologie şi Geografie al Academiei Republicii Socialiste România (1969). Geografia văii Dunării Româneşti. Bucharest:Editura Academiei Republicii Socialiste România. International Steering Committee for Conservation of the Danube Delta: IUCN, Foundation for International Nature Protection, ICBP, IWRB, Ramsar Bureau, UNESCO, WWF (1991). Management Objectives Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve, IUCN, Gland/Switzerland, 24. Lagendijk, O. and Schneider, E., eds (2000). “Perspectives on Popina. Recommandations for ecological restoration and wise use of former fishponds in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve/Romania,” RIZA-workdocument, 137. Marin, Georgeta and Schneider, E., eds. (1997). Ecological restoration in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve/Romania. Babina and Cernovca islands, ICPDD Tulcea/ WWF Germany/Rastatt, 120 this is a book edited by WWF. Moss. T. and Monstadt, J (2008). Restoring floodplains in Europe. Policy contexts and project experiences, IWA Publishing London and IRS Leibniz Institute for Regional Development and structural Planning. Munteanu, I. (2006). Cap. 14 “Solurile,” in P. Gâştescu, and R. Ştiucă, eds. Delta Dunării Rezervaţie a Biosferei. Constanţa: Editura Dobrogea, 230–244. Năvodaru, I., Staraş, M. and Cernişencu, I. (2008). “Evolution of the ichtyofaunaresults of sampling and monitoring,” in Evolution of Babina polder after restoration works. Agricultural polder Babina, a pilot project of ecological restoration, WWF Germany/ DDNI Tulcea, 42–45. Nationalpark Donau-Auen GmbH (2009). Managementplan Nationalpark DonauAuen 2009–2018. GmbH: Orth/Donau. Obrdlik, P., Hulea, O. and Ibram, O (2008). Chapter: “Evolution of Macrozoobenthos,” in: Schneider, E., Tudor, M. and Staraş, M., eds.: Evolution of Babina polder after restoration works. Agricultural polder Babina, a pilot project of ecological restoration, WWF Germany/DDNI Tulcea, 36–41. Panait, V. (2003). “Impact of subsidence on Murighiol-Dunavăţ dammed and drained area.” Scientific Annals (2002). Danube Delta National Institute for Research and Development, Tulcea/Romania; 133–137. Pons, L. J. (1992). “Natural resources,” in Conservation Status of the Danube Delta. Environmental Status Reports, vol. 4: 23–36, World Conservation Union IUCN, East European Programme.



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Rudescu L., Niculescu C. and Chivu I. P (1965). Monografia stufului din Delta Dunării. Bucureşti: Editura Academiei R.S. România. Schneider, E. (1991). Die Auen im Einzugsgebiet der unteren Donau.—Laufener Seminarbeiträge vol. 4: 40–57, Akad. Natursch. und Landschaftspfl. (ANL). Laufen, Salzach. Schneider, E. (2001). “Restoration of floodplains meadows and forests. Results of 15 years of monitoring in natural and controlled succession on re-flooded areas in the Nature Reserve Kühkopf-Knoblochsaue/Upper Rhine.” River Restoration in Europe. Practical approaches. Conference on River Restoration, Wageningen, The Netherlands (2000). Proceedings: 197–199. Schneider, E. (2002). The ecological functions of the Danubian floodplains and their restoration with special regard to the Lower Danube, Large Rivers, 13(1–2): 129–149. Arch. Hydrobiol. Suppl. 141(1–2): 129–149, Stuttgart. Schneider, E. and Günther-Diringer, D. (2004). Ecological and restoration potential on the Lower Danube floodplains. Problems and perspectives. 3rd European Conference on River Restoration, Zagreb, Croatia, 17–21 May (2004). Proceedings: 337–344. Schneider, Erika, Dister, E. and Döpke, M (2009). Lower Danube Green Corridor Atlas. WWF Germany, 27 and 15 maps. Schneider, Erika, Ştiucă, R., Tudor, M. and Covaliov, S (2004). 10 years of restoration in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. WWF-Auen-Institut and Danube Delta National Institute, 17. Schneider, Erika, Tudor, Marian and Covaliov, S (2008). Water macrophytes and their communities, in: Schneider, Erika, Tudor, M. and Staraş, M., eds.: Evolution of Babina polder after restoration works. Agricultural polder Babina, a pilot project of ecological restoration, WWF Germany/ DDNI Tulcea, 47–55. Schneider, Erika, Tudor, Marian and Staraş, M. eds. (2008). Evolution of Babina polder after restoration works. Agricultural polder Babina, a pilot project of ecological restoration.- WWF Germany/ DDNI Tulcea, 81. Staraş, M. (2001). Restoration Programme in the Danube Delta: Achievements, benefits and constraints, in: River Restoration in Europe. Practical approaches, Conference on river restoration. Wageningen, The Netherlands (2000). Proceedings: 95–101. Török, L. (2008). Evolution of Phytoplankton Diversity, in: Schneider, Erika, Tudor, M. and Staraş, M.: Evolution of Babina polder after restoration works. Agricultural polder Babina, a pilot project of ecological restoration, WWF Germany/ DDNI Tulcea, 29–30. Tudor, Mihaela (2003). “Evolution of zooplankton diversity in Babina polder between (1997) and (2001).” Scientific Annals (2002). Danube Delta National Institute for research and development, Tulcea-România, 196–204. Tudor, Mihaela (2008). “Evolution of Zooplankton Diversity,” in: Schneider, Erika, Tudor, M. and Staraş, M.: Evolution of Babina polder after restoration works. Agricultural polder Babina, a pilot project of ecological restoration, WWF Germany/ DDNI Tulcea: 31–35.

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WWF-Danube Carpathian Programme and WWF-Auen-Institut of WWF Germany (1999). Evaluation of wetlands and floodplain areas in the Danube River basin. Danube Pollution Reduction Programme, Programme Coordination Unit. UNDP/ GEF Assistance, Scientific Report, with annexed maps. WWF-Danube Carpathian Programme Office Vienna, WWF-Project Office Odessa and WWF Netherlands (2003). A Vision for the Danube Delta, Ukraine. A living Danube Delta. A Home for wildlife and welfare for people.

Part II

HISTORICAL LANDSCAPE

Chapter 5

Recent Development of the Danube Delta Evaluation of Existing Cartographic Documents Nicolae Panin and Willem Overmars

Introduction The Danube River flows into the northwestern part of the Black Sea and, here, forms one of the largest deltas in Europe. The delta represents the transition zone for the largest European River—Sea Geo-system (the Danube River—the Danube Delta—the Black Sea). A lot of research has been carried out on the Danube Delta since the middle of the nineteenth century, which has improved our understanding of the genesis, structure, and evolution of this major coastal accumulative feature. Particularly important are the studies from the following: A.C. Hartley (1867), Gr. Antipa (1915, 1941), C. Brãtescu (1922, 1942), G. Vâlsan (1934, 1935), I. Lepsi (1942), H. Slanar (1945), I.G. Petrescu (1957), V.P. Zenkovich (1956, 1960, 1962), P. Cotet (1960), M. Bleahu (1963), H. Grumazescu et al. (1963), E. Liteanu et al. (1961), E. Liteanu and A. Pricãjan (1963), A.A. Almazov et al. (1963), A.C. Banu (1965), A.C. Banu and L. Rudescu (1965), C. Bondar (1972, 1989, 1992, 1993, 1994), C. Bondar et al. (1991, 2000), N. Panin (1974, 1976, 1983, 1989, 1996, 1997, 2001, 2003, 2009), N. Panin et al. (1983, 2002, 2004, 2005), P. Gâstescu and B. Driga (1985), A. Stancik, S. Jovanovic et al. (1988), A. Popa (1993), L.D. Wright et al. (1971) and L. Giosan et al. (1997, 2005). During the Quaternary period, the Danube River deposited significant volumes of sediment into the Black Sea that accumulated in depocentres, according to the sea level. The depocentres migrated from their extreme highstand position, represented by the present-day location of the Danube Delta, to the lowstand ones, beyond the shelf break, forming the deep-sea Danube 117

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fan complex. Research shows that the highstand Danube Delta edifice was, therefore, formed mainly during the Upper Pleistocene (Karangatian, Surozhian, Neoeuxinian) and the Holocene (Panin, 1989) periods. The present geomorphology of the delta plain clearly records the interaction between the river and sea during the Holocene. The main phases in the Danube Delta’s evolution during the Holocene have been evidenced and dated by corroborating geomorphologic, structural, textural, geochemical, mineralogical, and faunal analyses and, mainly, by 14C dating (Panin et al., 1983; Panin, 1974, 1983, 1989, 1996, 1997) as follows: (1) the “blocked Danube Delta” and formation of the Letea-Caraorman initial spit, 11,700–7,500 yr. BP; (2) the Sfântu Gheorghe I Delta, 9,000–7,200 years BP; (3) the Sulina Delta, 7,200–2,000 years BP; (4) the Sfântu Gheorghe II and Kilia Deltas, 2,800 years BP—present; (5) the Cosna-Sinoie Delta, 3,500–1,500 years BP (Figure 5.1). These ages are currently subject to debate. Giosan et al. (2005) proposes younger ages for the initial stages of the delta’s development (for example, in their hypothesis, the Sfântu Gheorghe I phase could not have taken place much before ~5,500–6,000 yr. BP). A new attempt at determining the exact age is presently ongoing and will probably soon provide new insight onto the timeline of the Danube Delta’s development throughout Holocene. Table 5.1  Chronology of the Danube Delta Lobes Nr. 1 1 2 3 3a 3b 3c 3d 4 5a 5b

Main lobe Initial Spit Blocked Delta Sfântu Gheorghe I Delta Sulina Sulina Delta – phase 1 Sulina Delta – phase 2 Sulina Delta – phase 3 Sulina Delta – phase 4 Cosna – Sinoie Delta Kilia Delta Sfântu Gheorghe II Delta

Relative Absolute dating Number of Number Progradation dating years BP channels of mouths speed 1 1 2

11,700 – 7,200 11,700 – 7,200 ~9,000 – 7,200

1 1 1

1 1 1

3–5 m/yr

3 3a

~7,200 – 2,000 7,200

1 1

1 1

3–5 m/yr 6–9 m/yr

3b

~6,000

3

3

3c

~4,900

5

5

3d

~2,800 – 2,000

2

2

3,500 – 1,500

1

1

1 to 19 1 to 3

1 to 19 1 to 3

4 4

2,500 – present ~2,800 – present

? 8–10 m/yr 8–9 m/yr



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Figure 5.1  Phases of the Danube Delta Development (after Panin, 1997)

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Anyway, in the present discussion, we shall avoid the topic of the delta’s development during the Holocene altogether and restrict ourselves to its modern evolution, employing the existing cartographic documents we have at our disposal.

Historical Overview The ancients visited, described, and mapped the Danube Delta and vicinity in quite a lot of detail. There have been attempts to evaluate and reconsider these ancient geographical descriptions and their precision, especially in measuring the distance between distributaries existing at that time and now (Panin, 1983). The ancient data is remarkable. However, it is difficult to make an evaluation of the migration of the coastline position since that time based on the references available. The most relevant cartographic documents date from the middle of the nineteenth century. There are some maps from the eighteenth century that also available, but the precision of their referencing systems are not enough good. Consequently, we shall present the main phases of the Danube Delta’s modern development based on documents from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

Figure 5.2  The First Phase in Construction of the Sulina Mouth Jetties Building (engraving, 1857)



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After the Crimean War, the 1856 Paris Peace Treaty deemed the Black Sea an “Open Sea” and international navigation of the Danube unrestricted. Following the treaty, two international bodies were created: the Danube European Commission was charged with the task of improving navigation of the Danube River mouth zone and along the lower course of the river and the Commission of Danube riparian countries was designed to handle the legal aspects of the Danube international waterway and effectively monitor all the economic activities related to the Danube. The first Danube European Commission was established with the participation of representatives from Austria, Prussia, Russia, Turkey, France, England, and Sardinia. The Commission of Danube riparian countries would come to be formed by representatives from Austria, Bavaria, Turkey, and Württemberg as well as officers from Valachia, Moldavia, and Serbia. Sir Charles Hartley was nominated chief engineer of the Danube European Commission or International Danube Commission. The Commission’s most important task (and Sir Hartley’s primary objective) was to improve navigation along the Lower Danube, specifically to open one of the Danube Delta distributaries for vessels coming from the sea. Extensive research and cartography was performed in 1856 by the British ship, H.M.S.V. Medina, under the command of Captain Spratt, assisted by Lieutenant Wilkinson and Master Millard. All the documents (maps and the reports) created by Sir Charles Hartley and his team are located in the depositaries of the national archives of those countries involved. The International Danube Commission went into detailed discussion concerning the choice of the river mouth to be used for sea-river navigation and about what should be done to improve it. The Kilia Delta distributaries, with their large, shallow delta front platforms, many sandbanks, and very active sedimentation were immediately rejected. Sir Hartley was in favor of the Sfântu Gheorghe distributary mouth where the underwater slope of the coast was steep enough and the littoral drift current very strong and, consequently, the river-borne sediments would easily be transported away alongshore southward. At the meeting of the Commission at Brãila in 1856, he presented large maps, plans, and cross sections for mouths of both the Sulina and Sfântu Gheorghe distributaries. The Commissioners were strongly divided and no decision was made. A provisional compromise was accepted: in 1857 Sir Hartley was commissioned to take the first and cheapest step to improve navigation at the Danube mouth by dredging the Sulina mouth bar and building funnel-like jetties on both sides of the mouth in order to increase the current velocity and wash out the sediments deposited by the river into the mouth bar. As these efforts were successful, the Commission decided to continue the work on improving the navigation along Sulina distributary in 1864. A series of Sulina distributary meander belt cutoffs were performed that resulted in shortening the water-way by almost 25 km and increasing the Sulina’s water and sediment discharge by over 10 percent.

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Changes in the Delta-Front Zone Coastline Development of the Sfântu Gheorghe Distributary Mouth Zone during the Period between 1771 and 2006 The first reliable cartographic information on the Sfântu Gheorghe distributary mouth zone is recorded on a map from 1771 (see the chapter 4.1). According to this map, the river was already divided into two arms by a middle-ground bar (later transformed into an island, called Olinka Island). According to this map, the Sfântu Gheorghe mouth was marked by two signposts (Figure 5.3). The first river mouth investigated by the European Danube Commission was Sfântu Gheorghe distributary (Figure 5.4a and b). On the HMSV Medina’s map from 1856, the river appears divided into two branches (as it is on the previous map from 1771), with a middle-ground bar (Olinka Island) and a sandbank in between. The southernmost branch (Olinka) has a main narrow channel of about 13 feet (3.96 meters), surrounded by shallows of 1–4 feet (0.30–1.21 m). At about 1.5 km from the bifurcation point the Olinka channel divides again into two smaller channels by a middle-ground bar (later upgraded to island status, where the Commission will one day build a lighthouse). In front of the mouth of this distributary there is a wide and very shallow (1–3 ft., ~0.3÷0.9 m) delta front platform.

Figure 5.3  The Sfântu Gheorghe Distributary Mouth in 1771. Source: Coll. Bodel Nijenhuis University Library, Leiden NL

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Figure 5.4  The Sfântu Gheorghe Mouth Zone on the British Map from 1856. Source: National Maritime Museum, London; b - Pläne vom Donaumündungsgebiet, mapped in 1855; Staatsbibliothek Berlin

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The northernmost branch (Sfântu Gheorghe or Kedrilles) is much deeper (23–30 ft., ~7÷9 m) with two channels on the mouth bar (the northern one is 7 ft. deep and the shallower, southern one is only 4 ft. deep). On the British map from 1856, the entire Sfântu Gheorghe secondary delta has a very wide and shallow (less than 4 ft.) delta front platform, with a steep front slope dipping to 10–12 meters. On the cross section (Figure 5.5) through the mouth bar, the dotted line of 16 feet (4.80 m) represents the depth required for navigation. Although the Sfântu Gheorghe distributary itself is deep enough, the mouth was blocked by a mouth bar and by the abovementioned delta front platform, with a very active sediment accumulation. The HMSV Medina’s detailed map (Figure 5.4a) also gives details on the coastal zone morphology. For example, the map shows coastal dunes north of the Sfântu Gheorghe mouth expressing excess littoral sedimentary budget in this area. Some old beach ridges from the Sãrãturile Littoral Accumulative Formation are also represented. A very dense network of sounding points, complete with measurements, are presented on the map and allow for good contouring of the Sfântu Gheorghe Delta Front Platform. The map from 1918 illustrates the further development of the coastline between Sulina and Sfântu Gheorghe. This map was most likely drawn up after the Romanian Department of Fisheries’ map from 1909. The map is much more elaborate, describing a lot of morphological features including old beach ridges, littoral accumulative formations (Sãrãturile, Caraorman), inter-ridge swales, natural channels, old (practically abandoned) distributaries, ox-bows, inter-ridge depressions, lakes, etc. The Sfântu Gheorghe distributary had already built a small secondary delta with three arms—the northern one, the Sfântu Gheorghe sensu-stricto or Kedrilles; the Olinka, which bifurcated into Seredne to the left (north); and the Turcului arms to the right (south). In front of this secondary delta, the same very large delta front platform and slope are present. On the platform, at its offshore limit, an exposed, arcuate lateral mouth bar appeared after the exceptional centennial flood of 1897. This bar developed into an arcuated spit (called Sakhalin Island) that grew in about 10 years (from 1897 to 1909) by around 7 km. South of Sfântu Gheorghe distributary, a large number of beach ridges of similar origin and

Figure 5.5  Cross Section through the Sfântu Gheorghe Mouth Bar, 1856. Source: Pläne vom Donaumündungsgebiet, mapped in 1855; Staatsbibliothek Berlin



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Figure 5.6  The Coastline between Sulina and Sfântu Gheorghe and the Secondary Sfântu Gheorghe Delta in 1918. Source: Karte der Donau Delta, K.ü.K. Militärgeographisches Institut, 1:20.000 scale; Österreichische Nationalbibliothek

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development as the present-day Sakhalin spit have formed within the last 3,000 years. The coastline between Sulina and Sfântu Gheorghe is still convex on this map and the Impuţita Canal, not far from the coast, has experienced a change of direction from NW-SE to W-E, towards the sea. On later maps, this inflexion disappears as all this area was eroded. The 1936 map from the Royal Navy (with successive corrections up to 1956) shows how Sfântu Gheorghe’s mouth zone evolved over a period of about 20 years (Figure 5.7). First, the secondary delta grew into a real delta, with three branches already described above. Then, the delta front platform narrowed and the platform in front of Sakhalin Island became very narrow and the front slope very steep. The Sakhalin spit lengthened to some 12 km and migrated closer to the secondary delta front. The coastline north of the Sfântu Gheorghe mouth became straight and its convexity (seen on the map from 1918) disappeared. The Romanian map from 1986 (Figure 5.8) beautifully depicts the morphology of the Sfântu Gheorghe II Delta: the divergent old beach ridges form the Sãrãturile Littoral Accumulative Formation on the northern side of the Sfântu Gheorghe distributary and a series of Sakhalin-like beach ridges lye on the southern side of it. The secondary delta of this distributary grew and Sakhalin Island lengthened to about 17 km. The coastline between Sulina and Sfântu Gheorghe straightened and dropped back visibly, while the Imputita Channel shortened and the curve to the east (described above) disappeared. The Google Earth satellite image from 2006 provides excellent evidence as to Sfântu Gheorghe’s secondary delta’s evolution (Figure 5.9). The Sakhalin Island lengthened by over 18 km (an average yearly rate of over 200 m). At the same time, the island migrated westward by over-washing some 30–70 meters/ year. The front of the secondary delta prograded rapidly. The northern end of Sakhalin Island entered into contact with the front of the delta and closed the Seredne branch mouth, which is currently almost completely clogged. The Sfântu Gheorghe meander loops’ cutoffs (performed in the eighties) shortened the natural course of this distributary by about 30 km. Consequently, its water and sediment discharge increased by about 6–8 percent and the sedimentary budget of the coastal zone became more stable. The long-shore sediment drift in front of Sakhalin Island is the most intensive on the entire Romanian coast (up to 1.3–1.5 M. m3/ year) and Sakhalin Island’s evolution sped up even faster. Development of the Sulina Distributary Mouth Zone during the Period between 1771 and 2006 Maps from 1771 and 1778 (Figure 5.10) depict the mouth of the Sulina distributary as a simple outlet towards the sea. Two signposts were located on



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Figure 5.7  The Sulina – Sfântu Gheorghe Coastline in 1936. Source: publ. Admiralty London; Österreichische Nationalbibliothek

Figure 5.8  Sulina – Sfântu Gheorghe Coastline and the Sfântu Gheorghe II Secondary Delta in 1986. Source: Inst. of Geography, Romanian Academy, Authors Gâstescu P. and Driga B., 1985

128 Nicolae Panin and Willem Overmars



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Figure 5.9  The Sfântu Gheorghe Distributary Mouth Zone, 2006. Source: Copyright 2006 Google, image copyright Terrametrics

both sides of the distributary mouth, but could be blown away by a storm at any given moment. The soundings mark the two deepest passages of the river current into the sea. The HMSV Medina’s 1856 map is quite precise and provides clear information about the Sulina distributary mouth zone. At that time, discharge of the Sulina was about 7–9 percent of the Danube’s total discharge and the mouth zone continued to be a simple outlet with a small mouth bar. At the mouth of the Sulina, there was a small town full of wood buildings and a 22 foot high lighthouse located close to the mouth on the right bank. As already mentioned, after long debate, the Danube Commission decided to settle on Sulina as a temporary solution for navigation of the Danube River. The first step was to build inexpensive jetties designed to last for a period of five years. The jetties were intended to keep the velocity of the river flow as high as possible, in order to maintain its sediment transport capacity and push the location of the mouth bar outside the river channel out to greater water depth offshore. This solution was quite innovative for 1858. Construction was completed in 1861 and the project was very successful. The river maintained a depth of 6 meters over the mouth bar, without requiring dredging. In 1865, additional money became available and the decision was made to build new, permanent jetties at the mouth of the Sulina.

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Figure 5.10  a) Fragment from the Map of the Sulina Mouth Zone in 1771. Source: Coll. Bodel Nijenhuis University Library, Leiden NL; b) Fragment from the Map of the Sulina Mouth Zone in 1778. Source: Österreichische Nationalbibliothek

A map from 1918 (Figure 5.12) indicates the old jetties are still functioning well. The jetties are prolonged offshore every year. To the south of the mouth, a considerable accumulation of sediment occurs. The area between the continuously developing Kilia Delta in the North and the Sulina jetties does gradually become clogged. On the British Sea Chart from 1926 (Figure 5.13), the Kilia Delta front platform and its slope are clearly visible (there is a sudden transition from water depth of 1–2 ft. to 18 ft.). South of the Sulina jetties, an eddy-like current develops, carrying sediment to the coast.



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After this first phase of jetty building, the Sulina distributary mouth zone was influenced by three sources of sediments: (1) the sedimentary load from the Sulina, (2) the Kilia-borne sediments transferred southward by littoral drift (3) sediment brought back to the Sulina’s mouth by the eddy-like current generated by the jetties. This situation forced the European Danube Commission to decide for the periodic lengthening of the jetties. The length of jetties in 1861 was 1,412 meters, 3,180 meters in 1925, 4,150 meters in

Figure 5.11  The 1856 H.M.S.V. Medina’s Map of the Sulina Distributary Mouth Zone. Source: London hydrographic office, British Library

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Figure 5.12  The Sulina Harbour and the Distributary Mouth Zone in 1918. Source: Karte der Donau von Ulm bis zur Mündung, Militärgeographisches Institut, Wien, 1911–1918; Coll. W.Overmars

1939, 5,773 meters in 1956, and nowadays it’s about 8 km long. Those jetties, reaching such a length, are influencing the dynamics of the delta front area. The following maps show the elongation of jetties and changes in the location of sediment depocentres within this area. During the eighties, important technical developments were carried out on the Sulina distributary mouth zone, as well as along the entire delta (Figure 5.16). The Sulina jetties were reinforced and a perpendicular pier was built at the end of the southern jetty in order to protect the mouth of the Sulina from the sediment spat back by the eddy-like littoral current generated by these jetties. A new harbour basin was dug close to the former Sulina port. A town contour canal was built to protect the local township and drain the area. The British sea chart from 1999 (Figure 5.17) shows the final development of the Sulina jetties (about 8 km long). South of here, a new groin has been built on the town beach in order to stop littoral sediment drift towards the north, as generated by the eddy-like current at the Sulina River mouth. In the North, Musura Bay shallowed out due to the constant supply of sediments supplied by southern branches of the Kilia Delta (Stary Stambulsky, Musura, Lebedinoe and other smaller distributaries). The satellite image (Google Earth, 2006) shows the present day situation at the Sulina mouth and the neighbouring areas on both sides of the



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Figure 5.13  Sulina Mouth (jetties and harbour) and the Kilia Delta Front Platform and Slope in 1926. Source: Russian Gov. Chart, 1914, completed by Danube European Com. in 1926, Publ. at Admiralty, London, 1927

Figure 5.14  The Sulina Distributary Mouth and Sulina Harbour in 1944. Source: Kriegsmarine, Donau Mündung, Berlin 1944., Österreichische Nationalbibliothek

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Figure 5.15  The Sulina Distributary Mouth and Sulina Harbour in 1983–1984 (Russian map). Source: Topographical map of the Danube Delta L35 series nr 108, detail. Published by USSR military, 1:100.000

Figure 5.16  The Sulina Distributary Mouth and Sulina Harbour in 1986. (Romanian map). Source: Institute of Geography, Romanian Academy, Authors Gâstescu & Driga

jetties (Figure 5.18). Musura Bay appears to be almost closed by a lateral mouth spit of the Stary Stambulsky distributary. The location of the sandbar has been influenced by an underwater jetty built in 1943 for directing the water and sediment flux of the Stay Stambulsky distributary to the east. The spit is lengthening rapidly (200–300 m/year) and presently only very few hundreds of metres remain of the southern end of the spit up to the northern Sulina jetty. The littoral sediment drift along the spit is quite important and the Stary Stambulsky distributary is continuously supplying this drift with sandy material. The southward coastal flux of sediments influences the Sulina



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Figure 5.17  The Sulina Distributary Mouth and Sulina Harbour in 1999. British Sea Chart. Source: Sea Chart Black Sea-Romania and Ukraine. Gura Sfîntu Gheorghe to Dnistrovskyy lyman. Hydrographic Office. Crown copyright 1999

mouth adding an increasing amount of sediment to that brought in the Sulina distributary as sedimentary load onto the mouth bar. Development of the Kilia Distributary Mouth Zone during the Period between 1771 and 2006 Two maps from 1771 (left) and 1778 (right) depict the Kilia Delta during the town of Vilkovo’s early years. The first map is in Russian (University of Leiden, Netherlands), and the second one, which seems to be a copy, in German (National Archive Wien) (Figure 5.19). According to Panin (1989), the Kilia branch started to develop about 3000 BP. At that time, Kilia was a very small distributary and, in this stage, it acquired a small cuspate, wave-dominated, secondary delta, with a single river channel. This river channel was bordered to the north by the Jibriany Littoral Accumulative Formation (a littoral body of successive beach ridges formed from sands coming by a north-east littoral drift via the Dniester and Dnieper) and to the south by the Letea Littoral Accumulative Formation (partly belonging to the initial spit, partly to the Sulina Delta). This early cuspate delta, developed into the lobate Kilia Delta that continued to prograde very quickly after 1800. The maps of 1771 and 1778 (Figure 5.19) show the beginning of this stage of

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Figure 5.18  Satellite Image of the Sulina Distributary, the Musura Bay and the Southernmost Part of the Kilia Delta, 2006. Source: Copyright 2006 Google, Image Copyright 2006 Digitalglobe. Image Copyright 2006 Terrametrics, Copyright 2006 Europa Technologies.

the Kilia Delta development. On these maps, the Kilia distributary is still not divided but it seems that two main channels can already be evidenced. In front of the Kilia mouth there were a number of islands (probably mid-ground bars) that will be points of bifurcation of different secondary distributaries in the next phases of delta development. On its right side, the Kilia distributary had a marshy area next to the Letea Formation. The maps also mark the “Lipovenskaya” Village (the village of Lipovens), later called Vilkovo. There is a warning written on the map, north of Jibriany Formation, saying that when very strong winds are blowing the beach barrier is over-washed by stormy waves. The soundings at the Kilia branch’s river mouth evidence a large river mouth bar. The river channel, located upstream from the mouth bar, is 24 feet (~8 m) deep, while the water depth above the mouth bar is only 9 feet (~3 m). The H.M.S.V. Medina’s 1856/57 maps go into great detail about the Kilia Delta’s coast, the river branches with soundings, the cities and villages and hills, and about all their development throughout the century (1771–1856). This map has been updated several times in later years and has been the basis for many other maps (Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Wien. Edition 1861) (Figure 5.20, detail).



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Figure 5.19  Maps of the Kilia and Sulina Distributaries Mouth Zones in 1771 (Left) and 1778 (Right). Source: (Left) Coll. Bodel Nijenhuis, University Library, Leiden NL; (Right) Österreichische Nationalbibliothek

The Kilia Delta appears already well developed on this map. It is remarkable that the morphological form of this delta is quite different from the Danube’s other deltas. This delta is a lobate one, showing that it was controlled by the river with large sediment supply (at that time, the Kilia was the main distributary to the delta, with water and sediment discharge totalling around 70 percent of the Danube’s total discharge. The delta front had a large development with a wide delta front platform. Earlier deltas (Sfântu Gheorghe I and Sulina) (Figure 5.1) and even the other contemporary delta (Sfântu Gheorghe II) are cuspate deltas, wave-controlled and build up by a juxtaposition between a large number of old beach ridges, where the sediments brought by the river were redistributed along the seashore.

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Figure 5.20  H.M.S.V. Medina’s Map of the Kilia Delta and Sulina Mouth 1856 – 1857 (soundings in feet, 0,3048 m). Source: Publ. at the Admiralty, London 1861; Österreichische Nationalbibliothek .



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On the British map from 1856, numerous Kilia Delta distributaries can be clearly seen. Amongst them are two of particular importance: the Ocheakov branch to the North and the Stary Stambulsky branch to the Southeast. Along the river branches, on the riverbanks, alluvial gallery-forests are indicated. The areas between the large river branches are filled with marshes and lakes. To the West, the area between the Stary Stambulsky branch and Letea Forest (mentioned in the 1771 map description) is already almost filled with sediment by 1856. Offshore, the Kilia Delta—a shallow, wide delta front platform—is already visible (with water depth of only 1–2 ft. and up to 2 km width). Exposed sandbanks are indicated at several places as well. All these features indicate that the Kilia Delta was in full expansion seaward by 1856. A 1:125,000 scale map of the lands east of the Iron Gates was made by the Austrian government in 1918 (Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Wien) (Figure 5.21). The map indicates that steady development of the Kilia Delta continued on. The marshy area, or the bay between Letea and the Stary Stambulsky distributary, was completely filled up during the period between 1856–1918. The river distributaries expanded seaward. The river-side levees are covered by forest and the delta front shallow platform has developed to the east and to the south. The progradation towards the north was slower and the delta became increasingly asymmetric under the influence of southward oriented littoral drift of sediments. The progradation rate for the 1856–1926 period (70 years) was comparable with the rate for the previous 80 year period (1771–1856). As already mentioned, the Royal navy map from 1856 (Figure 5.20) was revised many times. Large revisions have been made in 1936 and minor ones in 1947 and 1956. Compared with the German map from 1944, the British map documents the earlier morphological situation for the Kilia Delta (Figure 5.22) (Österreichische National bibliothek, Wien). On this map, the soundings extend far offshore. The delta front platform is narrower than on the earlier maps. The delta front slope has small valleys continuing the delta distributaries and representing the path-ways of the turbid denser water during river flooding periods. Especially the line of 10 fathom (~18.29 m) is strongly sinuous. The marshy areas to the right of the Stary Stambulsky distributary are now completely silted and exposed. On a German map from 1944 (Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Wien) (Figure 5.23) the shallow Musura Bay between the Stary Stambulsky distributary mouth zone and the Sulina distributary jetties appears to be actively silted. The most interesting feature on this map is, however, the Kilia Delta coastline itself. At both sides of the Bystroe distributary mouth, the coastline has changed into a strong, almost uninterrupted sandy barrier beach. At its southern end, a sandy spit is developing. This means that the seaward progradation of the delta, once controlled by the river (as seen up to this point), has changed into a wave-controlled system, with the river-born sandy sediments

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Figure 5.21  The Kilia Delta in 1918. Source: K.ü.K. Militärgeographisches Institut, 1:20.000 scale; Österreichische Nationalbibliothek



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Figure 5.22  British Map from 1936–1956 (soundings in feet – 0.3048 m). Source: Spratt’s map from 1856–1857, with additions from Russian Government charts from 1914 and European Danube Commission charts from 1936, corrections from 1947. Publ. Admiralty, London; Österreichische Nationalbibliothek

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Figure 5.23  The Kilia Delta and the Sulina Mouth, 1944 (soundings in meters). Source: Kriegsmarine, Donau Mündung, Berlin 1944; Österreichische Nationalbibliothek)



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redistributed onto shore-line beach ridges by the waves and littoral drift systems. The eastern delta front platform closed in. To the north, not much has changed as the sea’s energy is dissipated by a wide, shallow sea bottom in front of the delta. To the south, the Stary-Stambulsky distributary mouth zone is still riverdominated as its supply of sediment is enough large for prograding into the sea as a lobate secondary deltaic body. The change in delta morphology was caused, probably, by the diminishing of the water and sediment supply from the Kilia distributary as the resistance to water flow increased when the branch became too long and water was distributed amongst too many branches. The change in delta morphology into a wave dominated cuspate in the vicinity of the distributary mouth zones continues to present day. A Russian map from 1983 (Figure 5.24) shows that the morphological changes continue and accelerate. In the northern part of the Kilia Delta, the two main branches Prorva and Potapovskoye Girlo, which fork at the seaend of the Ochakov distributary, are lengthened visibly and the delta bodies they formed are cuspate, wave-dominated, in shape. A newly formed spit called the Potapovskaya Kosa represents the southern part of the Ochakov mouth zone. All along the eastern coastline of the delta barrier beaches are developing. The spit south of the Bystroe distributary mouth almost closed the Anokin Kut Bay; the mouth of Vostochnoye distributary is also almost closed by the Bystroe-born sandy sediments. Only at the Stary Stambulsky branch mouth, to the south, the progradation is still very active. At the end of the river channel, there is a beginning of a middle ground bar formation and a new bifurcation of the channel is visible. In the period between 1970 and 1990, the Soviet Union developed harbour facilities called Ust’ Dunaisk on the left side of Prorva distributary, close to its mouth. The sea chart from 2005 (Figure 5.25) doesn’t offer many details about the Kilia Delta’s coastline. However, the Ochakov mouth zone appears to be developing alongside sea-dominated secondary delta bodies, which are being formed by the Prorva and Potapovskoe Girlo. West and North of the Ochakov distributary mouth lays Zhebryanski Bay. Here, some sediment is deposited along the coast mainly by the littoral drift from the Dnieste and Dnieper River mouth zones. The flux of the littoral drift is not very important and the barrier beach limiting the Sasyk Lagoon (liman, as it is called locally) towards the sea is quite narrow and with a relatively steep underwater beach slope. The map doesn’t offer enough detail to assess changes at the Stary Stambulsky distributary in the south. The situation seems to change quite rapidly and the Musura Bay, situated between the southern Kilia Delta front and the Sulina jetties is silting up actively.

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Figure 5.24  Kilia Delta in 1983. Source: Topographical map of the Danube Delta, sheet L-35-108, scale 1:100,000 detail. Published in 1984 by USSR military cartographic service with data of 1948–1983 mapping.



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Figure 5.25  British Sea Chart for the Kilia Delta Zone from 2005.

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Figure 5.26  Kilia Delta in 2004. Source: Copyright 2006 Google Image copyright 2006 TerraMetrics Copyright 2006 Europa Technologies



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On the satellite image (Google Earth published it in 2006, but it was probably taken in 2004), further development of the Kilia Delta is clearly visible (Figure 5.25). At the Ochakov distributary mouth zone, north of the Potapovskoye Girlo mouth, a new sandy spit has developed, almost closing up the area between the mentioned arm and Prorva distributary. Here, the change of delta morphology into a sea-dominated delta is clearly visible. South of the Bystroe distributary mouth, a new spit has been formed called Ptychyi Island. The Bystroe distributary sandy load is deposited and redistributed on this spit. To the south, only the Stary Stambulsky mouth still shows signs of active progradation. However, even here there is an evidence of the sea-controlled redistribution of the sedimentary load supplied by the distributary. In 1943, an underwater jetty was built on the right side of the distributary mouth in order to direct the river jet flow eastward. At the end of this jetty, a lateral mouth bar was formed and very rapidly (during the eighties) it was transformed in a lateral spit with a dynamic development. Nowadays, the spit almost closes off the Musura Bay (the gulf between the southern front of the Kilia Delta and the Sulina distributary) and facilitates the clogging of this area. For visualising the Kilia Delta development during the 1771–2006 period a satellite image of 2006 has been utilised. This satellite image is taken during the 2006 flood and plumes of sediment are clearly visible. Figure 5.27 demonstrates how rapidly development of the delta took place up to 1926 and how it has slowed down in the present times. The delta morphology has changed from lobate, river dominated, to locally cuspate, sea controlled delta front shape. Discussions and Conclusions On one hand, the morphology of a delta depends on river water and, especially, sediment input. On the other hand, it also depends on the marine factors, specifically the wave power and currents. For a given wave power regime, when the sediment supply is very high, the morphology of the delta will be river dominated (lobate or even finger-like). On the contrary, when the supply drops, the shape of the delta will be cuspate, wave-dominated and marked by successive beach ridges of river-borne sediments reworked by the waves and littoral currents along the shore. Many other factors play an important role in shaping a deltaic body. Among these are: the difference between the river water density (fresh water, plus sedimentary load) and the density of the receiving body of water (in the case of the sea, the water is salty and, consequently, denser than the river’s fresh water), the salt-water wedge that enters the river mouth beneath the fresh river outflow, the shape

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Figure 5.27  Growth of the Kilia Delta During the Period Between 1771 and 2006, with Shorelines of 1771, 1856, and 2013 Superimposed on a Satellite Image

of the receiving body of water, and the subsidence. In exchange, changes in the morphology of a deltaic lobe can give information about the distributary sediment discharge changes—e.g. when a lobate delta attests large river sediment supply and then the delta shape starts to change indicating a wavedominated pattern, it means that the discharge is diminishing and the marine factors are prevailing. When river sediment discharge is great, the first step towards mouth zone development is indicated by the development of a large shallow offshore (1–4 ft.) frontal platform that ends at a quite steep slope (up to 12–15m water depth). Sometimes, on the external side of such a platform, low sandy ridges can form and develop into lateral mouth bars and spits (e.g. Sakhalin Island at the mouth of the Sfântu Gheorghe and the Musura Spit at the mouth of the Stary Stambulsky distributary).



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During the Holocene development of the Danube Delta, one can identify a number of phases when the main river discharge switched from one distributary to another with formation of corresponding deltaic lobe. The main phases are the following: Sfântu Gheorghe I Delta, Sulina Delta, Sfântu Gheorghe II and Kilia Deltas, and Cosna-Sinoie Delta (Figure 5.1). The most prograding lobe was the Sulina Delta—over 30 km in about 5, 000 years (average progradation rate of 6–10 m/yr.). The Kilia distributary was also very active in the last three centuries, when the rate of progradation was very high (8–10 m/yr.). The present day Danube Delta lobes differ substantially—the Kilia Delta is lobate while the Sfântu Gheorghe II Delta is cuspate. These differences in morphology indicate that the Kilia branch was the main delta distributary for a period of time (about 2–3 centuries), with the largest water and sedimentary discharges. In the last period, the Kilia distributary sediment supply dropped considerably (from 70 percent of the total Danube sedimentary discharge to about 50 percent) (Figure 5.28), inducing changes in the morphological pattern of the lobe. The river-dominated lobate delta starts to change into a wave-controlled one (with cuspate shape close to main distributaries mouth zones), the delta-front platform tapered in and the delta-front slope steepened. The partition of the sediment discharge between the main distributaries at the delta entrance is very similar to the distribution of the water discharge. The diminishing of the Kilia distributary water and sediment discharges is due to natural and anthropogenic causes. The main natural factor in the diminishing of water and sediment discharge is the constant and increasing resistance to the water flow caused by the overlengthening of the Kilia natural course and, consequently, the diminishing

Figure 5.28  Changes in water discharge repartition for the Danube Delta’s main distributaries during the period between 1840 and 2003 (from Bondar and Panin, 2000).

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the free water slopes as well as the dispersal of the water outflow to the sea through a large number of relatively small distributaries. The anthropogenic influence is multifaceted and can be summarised as follows: • The Sulina meander belt cutoff programme performed by the European Danube Commission between 1858–1902, in order to improve navigation along this distributary, shortened the branch by about 25 percent, thus, inducing an increase in water discharge from the Sulina distributary (from about 7 percent of the Danube’s total discharge in [around] 1860 to approximately 15 percent in 1928 and currently at about 20 percent) and implicitly decreasing the Kilia discharges (see Figure 5.28); • In 1970 and 1983, the Danube River was dammed two times at Iron Gates and, consequently, the total river sediment supply decreased by about 40 percent. This had a very negative impact on the sedimentary budget of the delta coastal zone, which became unbalanced and it experienced a process of heavy erosion to its delta front; • Between 1984 and 1988, another meander cutoffs programme was carried out on the Sfântu Gheorghe arm. These projects lead to distributary shortening (of about 31 km) and, consequently, to an increase in water and sediment discharges, whereas the Kilia discharges decreased again. Existing cartographic documents from the last two-and-a-half centuries provide an excellent basis by which to study the scale of development and range in behaviour of the Danube Delta edifice. This, in turn, provides a good base for the documentation of all kinds of projects related to implementation of sustainable and adaptable management systems in sensitive environmental areas, such as deltas are.

Bibliography Almazov, A. A., C. Bondar, C. Diaconu, V. Ghederim, A. N. Mihailov, P. Mita, I. D. Nichiforov, I. A. Rai, N. A. Rodionov, S. Stanescu, V. Stanescu and N. F. Vaghin (1963). Zona de vărsare a Dunării. Monografie hidrologică. București: Editura Tehnică. Antipa, Grigore (1915) Wissenschaftliche Und Wirtschaftliche Probleme Des Donaudeltas. București: Göbl. Antipa, Grigore (1941) Marea Neagrã, vol. 1: Oceanografia, bionomia si biologia generalã a Mãrii Negre. București: Monitorul Oficial și Imprimeriile Statului, Imprimeria Națională. Banu A.C. (1965) “Contribuții la cunoașterea vârstei și evoluției Deltei Dunãrii.”  Hidrobiologia, 6, 259–278. Banu A.C., Rudescu L. (1965) Delta Dunãrii. București: Editura Stiintificã.



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Bleahu M., (1963) “Observaţii asupra evoluţiei zonei Histria în ultimile trei milenii.” Probleme de Geografie IX, 45–56. Bondar C. (1972) “Contribuție la studiul hidraulic al ieșirii în mare prin gurile Dunării.” Studii de Hidrologie (Probleme de Oceanografie), XXXII, 467 p. Bondar C. (1989) “Trends in the evolution of the mean Black Sea level.” Meteorologie si Hidrologie 19(2): 23–28. Bondar C. (1992) “Trends and cyclicity of annual Danube discharge at Delta input.” XVI Konf. der Donaulander uber Hydrol. Werhersagen und Hydrologische-Wassersistschaftliche Grundlagen, Kelheim (18–22 May 1992): 321–326. Bondar C. (1993) “Hidrologia în studiul de caz al Deltei Dunrăii.” Anuarul Stiinţific al Institutului Delta Dunării, 285–289. Bondar C. (1994) “Referitor la alimentarea și tranzitul apelor Dunării prin interiorul Deltei.” Anuarul Stiintific al Institutului Delta Dunarii, 259–261. Bondar C., Panin N. (2000) “The Danube Delta Hydrologic Database and Modelling.” GeoEcoMarina 5–6: 5–53. Bondar, C. (1998) “Hydromorphological relation characterizing the Danube River mouths and the coastal zone in front of the Danube delta.” Geo-Eco-Marina 3: 99–102. Bondar, C., I. State, D. Cernea, E. Harabagiu (1991) “Water flow and sediment transport of the Danube at its outlet into the Black Sea.” Meteorology and Hydrology 21(1): 21–25. Brãtescu C. (1922) “Delta Dunãrii. Geneza si evolutia sa morfologicã si cronologicã.” Buletinul Societãtii Regale Geografie, 41, 3–39. Brãtescu C. (1942) “Oscilatiile de nivel ale apelor şi bazinului Mãrii Negre.” Buletinul Societãtii Regale Geografie, LXI, 1–112. Cotet P. (1960) “Evolutia morfohidrograficã a Deltei Dunãrii (O sintezã a studiilor existente si o nouã interpretare).” Probleme de Geografie, VII, 53–81. Driga, B., Gâştescu, P. (1999) “Inundabilitatea Deltei Dunării.” Revista Geografică, IV, New series, 48–52. Gâsteşcu P., Driga B. (1981) “Evolution du débit liquide à l’embouchure du Danube dans la Mer Noire pendant la periode 1850–1980.” Revue Roumaine de Géologie, Géophysique, Géographie, Série Géographie, 25(2): 229–236. Gâsteşcu P., Driga B. (1985) Delta Dunãrii. Harta turisticã. București: Editura Sport-Turism. Giosan, L., H. J. Bokuniewicz, N. Panin, I. Postolache (1997) “Longshore sediment transport pattern along Romanian Danube delta coast,” Geo-Eco-Marina 2: 11–24. Giosan, L., J. P. Donnelly, E. Vespremeanu, J. P. Bhattacharya, C. Olariu and F. S. Buonaiuto (2005) “River Delta Morphodynamics: examples from the Danube Delta.” In “River Deltas – Concepts, Models and Examples,” in L. Giosan, P Bhattacharya, eds, SEPM Special Publication, Tulsa, Oklahoma, 83: 393–411. Grumãzescu H., Stãncescu Cornelia, Nedelcu E. (1963) “Unitãțile fizico-geografice ale Deltei Dunãrii.” Hidrobiologia, IV, 129–162. Hartley, A. C. (1867) “Rapport sur l’amélioration de la navigabilité du Bas-Danube.” Mémoires sur les travaux d’amélioration aux embouchures du Danube par la Commission Européenne, Galatz: CED, 29–48. Lepsi, I. (1942) “Materiale pentru studiul Deltei Dunării. Partea I-a.” Buletinul Muzeului Regional Bassarabia 10: 94–325.

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Liteanu E., Pricãjan A. (1963) “Alcãtuirea geologicã a Deltei Dunãrii.” Hidrobiologia IV, 57–82. Liteanu E., Pricãjan A., Baltac G. (1961) “Transgresiunile cuaternare ale Mãrii Negre pe teritoriul Deltei Dunãrii.” Studii si Cercetãri Geologice 6 (4): 743–762. Panin N. (1972) “Histoire Quaternaire du Delta du Danube. Essai d’interprétation des faciès des depôts deltaïques.” Cercetãri marine IRCM, 4: 5–15. Panin N. (1974) “Evolutia Deltei Dunãrii în timpul Holocenului.” Studii Tehnice si Economice ale Institutului Geologic, Seria H - Geologia Cuaternarului, 5, 107–121. Panin N. (1976) “Some aspects of fluvial and marine processes in the Danube Delta.” Annuar Institute Geology and Geophysics, 50, 149–165. Panin N. (1983) “Black Sea coast line changes in the last 10,000 years. A new attempt at identifying the Danube mouth as described by the ancients.” Dacia, N.S., XXVII(1–2): 175–184. Panin, N. (1989) “Danube Delta: Genesis, evolution and sedimentology.” Révue Roumaine Géologie, Géophysique, Géographie, Série Géographie, 33: 25–36. Panin N. (1996) “Danube Delta. Genesis, evolution, geological setting and sedimentology.” Geo-Eco-Marina 1, 7–23. Panin, N. (1997) “On the Geomorphologic and Geologic Evolution of the River Danube – Black Sea Interaction Zone,” Geo-Eco-Marina 2: 31–40. Panin N. (2001) “Le delta du Danube et l’élévation du niveau de la mer: risques et réponses.” In Actes Coll.d’Arles, France, 12–13 Oct. 2000: Le changement climatiques et les espaces côtiers - L’élévation du niveau de la mer: risques et réponses, 66–71. Panin N. (2003) “The Danube Delta. Geomorphology and Holocene Evolution: a Synthesis.” Géomorphologie: relief, processus, environnement, 4, 247–262, Paris. Panin, N., Ion, G., Ion, E. (2005) “The Danube Delta – Chronology of Lobes and Rates of Sediment Deposition.” Geo-Eco-Marina 9–10: 36–40. Panin, N., D. Jipa. (2002) “Danube River Sediment Input and its Interaction with the North-western Black Sea: Estuarine.” Coastal and Shelf Science 54(3): 551–562. Panin, N., S. Panin, N. Herz, J. E. Noakes (1983) “Radiocarbon dating of Danube Delta deposits.” Quaternary Research, 19(2): 249–255. Panin N., Popescu Irina (2004) “The Black Sea: Climatic and Sea Level Changes in the Upper Quaternary.” Trav.de l’Inst. De Spéologie “Emile Racovitza,” XLI (2002) – XLII (2003), 39–51. Petrescu I.G. (1957) “Delta Dunãrii. Genezã și evoluție.” București: Editura Stiintificã. Popa, A. (1993) “Liquid and sediment inputs of the Danube River into the northwestern Black Sea.” Mitteilungen aus dem Geologisch-Paläontologischen Institut der Universität Hamburg 74: 137–149. Slanar H. (1945) “Zur Kartographie und Morphologie des Donaudeltas.” Mitteilungen der geogr. Gesellschaft, 1–12. Stancik, A., S. Jovanovic et al. (1988) Hydrology of the river Danube. Bratislava: Priroda. Vîlsan G. (1934) “Nouvelle hypothèse sur le Delta du Danube.” Comptes rendus Congr. International Géographie, II, 342–355.



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Vîlsan G. (1935) “Remarques complémentaires à propos de la nouvelle hypothèse sur le Delta du Danube.” Buletinul Societãtii Române de Geografie, 54. Wright, L. D., J. M. Coleman (1971) “The discharge/wave-power climate and the mophology of delta coasts.” Proceedings, Association of American Geographers, 3: 186–189. Zenkovich V.P. (1956) “Zagadka Dunaiskoi Deltî.” Priroda 45 (3): 86–90. Zenkovich V.P. (1960) “Evolution of the Soviet Union Coasts of the Black Sea.” T.II, Akad. Nauk USSR. Zenkovich, V. P. (1962) Processes of coastal development. Moscow: Akad. Nauk.

Chapter 6

Various Approaches to the Danube Delta From Maps to Reality Ştefan Constantinescu A Map Can Tell You Where You Are, but it Cannot Tell You Why You’re There . . . Locating the coordinates for an area on a plan does not constitute only a cartographic effort, but also requires a special type of approach. A specific historical cartographic analysis is also the story of the approaches used in regards to that area. The first representations of the Danube Delta are found in a schematic form on the mappa mundi dating from the Middle Ages. It is a rather symbolic vision marked by the influence of Christianity. Ptolemy’s Geography was the first description of the Danube in a mathematical context, using latitude and longitude for positioning. Some cartographers preserved the Greek coordinates for the Danube mouths until the eighteenth century. No other approaches were able to create so many maps as those based on a Ptolemaic typology. Increasingly accurate maps were required during the war periods within the second half of the eighteenth century, in order to define the new borders between empires. In order to achieve accurate representations, Austrian or Russian officers undertook topographical studies based on field measurements. Presently, the Danube Delta continues to be a territory of merging civilizations or, in other words, it belongs to both land and water. The island representation was valid until 1856, when, after the Crimean War, the new political context led to the creation of the European Commission of the Danube. English engineers created several maps of the entire Delta, but accurate measurements were carried out only along the main arms. The only maps that survived are those displaying a labyrinth image with many lakes and channels. A Romanian engineer, Gheorghe Vidraşcu, who conducted topographical surveys between 1909 and 1911, elaborated the first accurate map of the entire Danube Delta. His representation marked a new approach 155

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rendering the Danube Delta as a unitary area. The communist ideology aiming to control everything and extend agriculture imposed a necessity for more up-to-date maps, which would support new developments. An impressive effort was made between 1960 and 1980 when new cartographical representations were performed based on field measurements and aerial photography. But an ever-changing area such as the Danube Delta constantly needed new maps in order to display the latest modifications. After 1980, new satellite products helped to create the most spectacular approach to the entire area. The development of GIS, Remote Sensing and GPS technologies marked an evolution of cartographic orientation towards a new type of product: digital maps. • Symbolic vision • Ptolemaic typology • Island aspect • Labyrinth simplification: Danube maps provided by the European Commission • Unitary approach to the Danube Delta • Realistic vision dating back to the communist period • The Danube Delta seen from space • Danube Delta 2.0 (digital maps). Every Map Has a Story, but Many Stories Can Be Found on Maps . . . Thanks to the high spread of Portolan charts, the first cartographic evidence of the Danube Delta can be traced back to the fourteenth century. Written evidence from Antiquity is can be found in the works of authors such as Herodot, Eratostene, Apollonius of Rhodos, Polybius, Strabon, Pliny the Elder, Ptolemy, Flavius Arrianus, etc. Most of it was not based on personal observation, since it was information provided by sailors, soldiers or other traders having travelled to that area. It is not reliable and the distances between mouths or localities must be considered rather approximate. However, we know that the Danube emptied via 5–7 mouths (stomata) named (from South to North): Hieron (holy or sacred), Naracum (narrow), Calon (beautiful), Pseudo (fake), Boreo (northern) and Psilon (empty, deserted) (Olteanu, 2008). Certainly, the most influential approach was Ptolemy’s Geography specifying the coordinates of the main localities in northern Dobrogea and of Istros River mouths. Many medieval cartographers used this data in creating their maps, preserving the old Ptolemaic names, especially in the case of mouths. The impact of these designations was so great that some of their derived forms persisted until the eighteenth century (Ortelius-1595, Blaeu-1662, etc.).



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The official map of the Roman Empire, known as Tabula Peutingeriana, displays the course of the Danube and has a simplistic approach to its delta. If we consider that the original version of this map dates back to the fourth century A.C, this would be the first cartographic representation of the Danube Delta. However, its background story is much more complicated, since the map that we have is in fact a copy produced by a monk from Colmar monastery around 1265. This copy was discovered by Konrad Bickel, librarian of the Austrian Emperor Maximilian, in 1508. In his will, he leaves it to his close friend Konrad Peutinger, a famous collector of the day (Smart, 2004). This is the explanation of the name by which it was known from then on. It is hard to say how Bickel acquired this copy. It seems he had found it somewhere in a library, but presently this aspect is not very relevant. The map consists of 11 sheets, which are now preserved within the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek in Vienna. The Danube mouths can be found on Board VIII. The importance of this copy is not at all due to its cartographic accuracy, but in the specification of the most important localities, as well as the distances between them (in millia pasuum, using Roman figures). The accuracy of these figures regarding important localities in northern Dobrogea is outstanding: Noviodunum (present Isaccea), Salsovia (Mahmudia), Ad Stoma (not yet identified), Histropolis (Istria), Tomis (Constanţa), etc. Out of these, the most interesting is Ad Stoma, due to the mystery still surrounding its location. The name suggests its position: ad (Lat.) means at and stoma (Gr.) means mouth, i.e. the locality at the mouth. Euratlas (www.euratalas.net) has received permission from Österreichische Nationalbibliothek to present online the 11 original segments. The period preceding the emergence of Portolan maps was marked by a symbolical approach to the world. Earth is mostly represented as having the shape of a circle with Jerusalem at its centre, the most important city for Christian civilization. Maps generally display East in the upper side, an approach preserved on many subsequent Portolan maps. The Garden of Eden (the divine Paradise also has a terrestrial counterpart) is the spring of the main sacred rivers: Nile, Tigris, Euphrates and Ganges. One of the most important maps preceding the Portolan is the Psalter map. Its name comes from a copy of the Book of Psalms where it was found. Its size is small: 15 cm high by 10 cm wide. The Black Sea is represented as a division of the Mediterranean Sea and the place where Danubius empties. The map dates back to the thirteenth century and it is certainly a copy of a much older document. The original is presently located at British Library. Portolan maps are sailing maps, mostly created in Italy and Spain, which were used across the Mediterranean Sea and the Black Sea beginning in the thirteenth century. The oldest copy dates back to 1275 and is known as Carte Pisane. Portolan maps display coastal configurations, indicating the most important harbours and the sailing routes between them. Although

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they are intended as realistic representations of the maritime area, they are still strongly marked by a Christian approach to the world. The upper side of the map often displays the image of Virgin Mary holding little Jesus (Roselli-1466, Maggiolo-1516, Russo-1533, Maggiolo-1541, etc.) or of Jesus crucified (Oliva-1602). Mythical islands are also represented (Frisland, Thule, St. Brendan Island, etc). During a period of the Middle Ages dominated by the symbolist ideology, color is always a social factor whose main role is to classify, associate and grade (Pastoureau, 2006). Considering a medieval map only from a cartographic, toponymical or historical perspective eventually proves to be a simplistic approach. The western European man of the Middle Ages was extremely complex (Gurjewitsch, 2004). To him each newly elaborated product carried a great symbolic value. A map did not only provide useful information for sailing, but was also intended to express social realities, rivalries between kingdoms, influential areas, etc. For this reason, a simple enumeration of the localities on a map is only the first step of cartographic analysis. Color is intended to complete, stress or diminish historical reality. Until the discovery of color spectrum by Newton (1665), the relations between warm/cold colors had a totally different meaning for the people in the Middle Ages. Color ranges, chromatic systems or nuance catalogues specific to the European area until the seventeenth century mark a positioning of yellow towards red and white, while green is located towards blue and black (Pastoureau, 2006). Besides all these, the symbolic triad mineral-plant-animal is used to stress differences, contrasts or to express claims of territories. For these reasons European cartography must not be separated from the religious, historical or artistically context of the epoch. Portolan maps created by Battista Agnesse (1544) represent the arms of the Danube Delta as green and the Black Sea contour as blue (Figure 6.1). Harbours are mentioned in a chromatic hierarchy: the most important ones are written in red, secondary ones in black. Chieli (presently Chilia) and Licostoma (Gura Lupului, perhaps presently in the Vâlcov locality) are the most important delta harbours and are mentioned in red, while Solima (present Sulina) and S. Zorzi (presently Sf. Gheorghe) are illustrated in black. For that period of time (1559), we can find the same chromatic differences on Diego Homem’s maps, yet no longer delimiting the Danube from the Black Sea shore since both of them are illustrated in green. The same green color used to represent shores can be found in the works of Bartolomeu Velho (1560) or Fernao Vaz Durado (1570). There is no coincidence that in his approach to the Black Sea basin Joan Martines (1578) separates western shores by red and eastern shores by green. The demarcation is placed through Bosphor and Kerci Strait (Cimmerian Bosphorus, in fact). However, this demarcation is not reproduced on subsequent maps. Nonetheless, some areas (especially islands or peninsulas) are illustrated by a color different from



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Figure 6.1  Detail from Battista Agnesse’s (1544) Map. The Danube arms are illustrated in green and the Black Sea contour in blue. Compared to the original, the image is rotated with the south in the upper side. Source: Library of Congress, Geography and Map Division.

the general contour of the coast (green for the Crimean Peninsula and other Mediterranean islands or red for Serpents’ Island) as it can be noticed in the works of cartographers such as Bartolomeo Olives (1580), Joan Oliva (1590), Abraham Ortelius (1595), Luis Teixeira (1600), Pascoal Roiz (1633), etc. Therefore, status importance and its relevance with clothes only for a higher social class are conveyed also from a cartographic perspective. The name of a city such as Constantinople can only be written in red, the most powerful and important color on medieval maps. The presence of submerged banks in the proximity of shores, posing dangers to sailing, was also invariably illustrated in red. The comprehension of an area such as the Danube Delta can only take place in a general context of the Black Sea basin; any attempt to separate it from the background is nothing but a reductionist approach. The Ptolemaic approach No other vision influenced European cartography for such a long time as the one belonging to the author of Geography. A great deal of the information

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in this book is based on the map elaborated by Marinus of Tyre, which has long been lost (Popescu-Spineni, 1978). The Geographical Handbook was to be rediscovered by the western civilization much later and the reproduction of coordinates therein on other maps persisted until the second half of the eighteenth century. According to Ptolemy, the Earth’s circumference was 28 percent smaller than its determined mass today. Therefore, its coordinates contain related errors. However, the importance of the information provided regarding the deltaic area could only be equalled by the creation of maps by Russian officers in the eighteenth century. The oldest copy of a map based on Ptolemy’s data dates back to the twelfth century and is located at the Vatoped Monastery in Mountain Athos. Other subsequent representations belong to Nicolaus Laurentii (1482), Hartmann Schedel (1493), and Johan Scotus (1505). Longitude values were calculated with reference to a meridian situated in the west of Canary Islands, the farthest away area known at that time, while the present reference point is Greenwich. This is the explanation for values between 46 and 47 degrees East longitude for the deltaic area. Values are inaccurate also in the case of latitude. For instance, for Ptolemy, the difference between Noviodunum (presently Isaccea) and Histria was 30’, while in fact it is now determined to be 42’. Between the Danube mouths (Hieron, Naracum, Calon, Pseudo, Boreo and Psilon) there is a general difference of 10’, expressing only a schematization of his approach and not a geographical reality. On Fra-Mauro’s map of the world (1459), Dobrogea is called Zagora, which means behind hills. The Danube empties by means of five mouths, and the last southern arm bears a ramification flowing into a lake. This is one of the oldest representations of Razelm lagoon system. Sebastian Munster (1488–1522) is the author of several maps based on Ptolemy’s data (Universal Geography, Cosmographiae universalis). Gerhard Mercator (1512–1594) is famous for the cylindrical projection bearing his name. His maps contain a representation of Peuce Island and of the Danube as having seven mouths. The location of Peuce Island is extremely interesting: it is situated between the southern arm (presently Sf. Gheorghe) and a secondary arm flowing from it and returning to it just before influx. There is a great similarity between Mercator’s map and Nicolaus Germanus’ map since Peuce Island has an identical location. Georg de Reichersdorf (1495–1554?) was born in Transylvania. Throughout his lifetime, he held several positions at the royal court of Hungary. In the court of Prince Petru Rareș, he was commissioned to undertake a voyage to Moldova, which led to the publication of Chorographia Moldaviae in Vienna. Some have mistakenly attributed the publishing of a map to him, but his work was not accompanied by such a representation. Later in Cologne, there was published a map allegedly drawn up by the famous



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Hogenberg, based on Reichersdorf’s data. The style of its elaboration supports this assertion (Popescu-Spineni, 1978). It is considered to be the first map of Moldavia until the publishing of Cantemir’s work. Map coordinates are provided in keeping with the Ptolemaic system. The only locality in the deltaic area is Kilia; Razelm is not illustrated, while Serpents’ Island is much exaggerated. Abraham Ortelius’ 1595 map, entitled Daciarvm, Moesiarvmqve vetus descriptio, does not entirely preserve the Ptolemaic approach. Boreon stoma (northern mouth) is situated in the South of Calon and Pterum promotorium in the South of Tomea (Tomis or presently Constanţa). It seems that all these errors are made using information provided by various ancient authors. Hence, Ortelius inserts four sand banks in front of the mouths, probably considering their mention in The Histories by Polybius. Other maps published by Ortelius were inserted in the atlas Theatrum orbis terrarum (1570) or in Thesaurus Geographicus (1603), joining the materials previously elaborated by various authors. Some of them also contain the Danube area and the Black Sea. In a famous atlas of that time (Blaeu, 1645) we can note the same insular approach to the delta, preserving Ptolemaic designations, but mistakenly positioning localities. The map is entitled: Walachia, Serbvia, Bvlgaria, Romania (the political status of territory under Ottoman domination is indicated by the crescent marking the map title). On Guillaume Le Vasseur’s map of Ukraine (1648), the Danube Delta is illustrated as having four mouths. Its author enrolled in the Polish army in 1630 and nine years later he participated in a military campaign in the Nistru Valley, following which he elaborated upon two maps. There is no evidence that Le Vaseur ever arrived on the delta shores; therefore we can ascertain that he primarily used the available information at that time to complete his maps. By the second half of the seventeenth century, there is a greater concern for map details. Although the information therein does not change, more diverse chromatic ranges are inserted, while the shoreline is marked by an indenture of contours, as it is the case of maps created by Gerardus and Leonardus Valk (1678, 1695). An interesting aspect is the representation of Serpents’ Island on sixteenth and seventeenth century maps. In case of Portolan maps, the island is often colored in red or dark red (Olives-1580) and its dimensions are exaggerated. This might be simplistically interpreted as a cartographic flaw, but the underlying motivation is a deeper one. The Black Sea has few islands, most of them located in the proximity of the coast and of no importance for sailing. The only Pont-Euxin Island of any significance would always be Serpents’ Island or Leuce Island (its ancient name). Consequently, its representation on the maps of that time was exaggerated in order to stress its importance. The

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island can be identified under various names: Leuce (Ortelius-1590, Mercator), Fidonisi/Sidonisi (Arnoldi-1602), Ilanada (Sanson, Homanni and Valck1695). In Turkish ada means “island” and ilan means “serpent.” Maps of the Danube course in the 16TH–17TH centuries This period is marked by a unitary approach to the entire Danube course. Europe’s biggest river did not have only a major role in the transport of goods but also ensured the connection/separation between two different worlds: Christianity vs. Islam (Figure 6.2). Unitary approaches to the Danube basin may be found on the maps elaborated by the following cartographers: Gerard Mercator: Valachia, Bulgaria, Serbia, Romania (48−36.5 cm), Amsterdam 1606. The map indicates various localities in the Danube Delta: Kilia Nouă, Kilia, S. Giorgio, etc. Not all of them are correctly positioned; the most suggestive instance is Saline (Sulina), which is placed on the northern shore of Thiagolla Lake. The Black Sea is called Mare Maggiore or Maurotha Lassa. In order to illustrate the seashore the author used the hachure technique combined with shading. N. SANSON d’ABEVILLE: Course du Danube, depuis Belgrad josque au Pont Euxin (1665) is an attempt to elaborate a map of the Danube course, which materialized later in 1693. The latter was to be used as reference for future representations. At the bottom, there are six insets of panoramic images of several cities: Varadin (Oradea), Kanischa (Nagykanizsa), Temeswar (Timișoara), Sighet and Belgrade. The last inset provides a representation of Bosfor and Constantinople (Ciortan, Radu, and Penda, 2004). The general title of the map is Le cours du Danube depuis sa source jusqu’a ses Embouchures. Dresse sur les Memoires les Plus Neauvaux du P. CORONELI et Autres, Par le S. Sanson Geographe du Roy. Sanson was geographer in the court of King Louis XIII and state counsellor (Popescu-Spineni, 1978). The Danube mouths have a South-West/North-East orientation, facing Ilanada Island. Carasu Lake is continued as an arm of the Danube up to the Black Sea, which is a recurrent error on the maps of that time. In the second half of the seventeenth century, the Danckerts family founded a cartographic publishing house in Amsterdam. Among its members, we can make note of Justus and Theodorus Danckerts, who elaborated on several maps of the Danube course and of the Balkan Peninsula. The allegorical elements at the bottom corners of maps and the care for all the aesthetical elements should be noted. Exactissima Totius Danubii Fluvii Tabula et minores in eum influentes Fluvii was published in Amsterdam in 1690, sized at 50×56 cm. Although inspired from previous works, it does not preserve

Figure 6.2  Christian and Muslim Worlds in Conflict. A detail from the map of Ioannes Ianssonius (1649). The trampled cross may be noticed at the bottom, on the right side. Source: The original map located at the University Babeș-Bolyai. Courtesy of the University Babeș-Bolyai, Department of Geography.

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the SW/NE orientation of the Danube mouths, as in the maps by N. Sanson, but rather preserves the representation of the Carasu arm, ensuring the connection with the Black Sea. Although Sanson’s extensive map was published in 1693, the influence of the previous material (1665) was considerable. Such reproductions may also be identified on Justus Danckerts’ map in 1680 entitled Regni Hungariae, Graeciae et Moreae. Illanada dominates the Danube mouths and for the Black Sea, both the ancient designation Pontus Euxinus and Mare Nigrum are preserved. Mattheus Seutter published Atlas Novus in 1728 in Vienna. It contains a board entitled Theatrum Belli sive Novissima Tabula . . . Pars Danubii . . . yet not marked by a major change of approach compared to the previous materials, as far as the Danube Delta is concerned. Johann Baptist Homann is the author of several materials regarding the Balkan area. Among all of them, we remark a unitary map of the Danube course, published in Nurnberg (approx. 1720): Fluviorum in Europa principis DANUBII cum adiacentibus regnis nec non totius GRAECIAE et ARCHIPELAGI. Few localities in the deltaic area are represented and mistakenly positioned, just as on the previous maps. On a 1715 map of Ukraine, there is the same representation of the Romanian shoreline, with a stress rather on the political demarcation than on the physical aspects. The most interesting document elaborated by this cartographer is the one published in 1716 in Nurnberg (size: 46×57 cm) at an approximate scale of 1:2000000: Danubii fluminis hic ab urbe Belgrado, per Mare Nigrum . . . In our opinion, this material is extremely important since the author inserts a new element by prolonging the fluvial flow into the sea and suggesting a North-South flowing direction of the Danube towards the Bosphorus. This concept is subsequently preserved on the map Tabula Geographica Qua Pars RUSSIAE MAGNAE . . . wherein the Danube joins other rivers flowing from the North (Dniester, Dnieper, etc.) forming a big river flowing towards the Bosphorus. In keeping with the trends of the time, its insets are elaborated, displaying various allegorical characters or deities personifying the water bodies (Ciortan, Radu, and Penda, 2004). It may be, therefore, concluded that the general maps of the Danube course are mainly intended to display a political status, with a stress on the demarcation of borders between empires. In the 16th–17th centuries, decorative elements played an important role in the motivation of the political status. Insets are marked by Turkish swords or flags trampled by Christians, or by a crossing of the swords specific to the two worlds: one bearing the symbol of the cross, the other bearing the symbol of the crescent. The Danube Delta is rendered under the same insular approach preserving former Greek names of the mouths and exaggerating the size of the Serpents’ Island (Ilanada). The insularity of the delta is preserved, irrespective of the map scale, regardless if it is a map of Europe, of the Ottoman Empire or of the Black Sea. The



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compilations resulting from previous materials contribute to deepening the ambiguity of this area. However, the chromatic perspective is preserved with the same color for the entire delta (Covens, 1742). Razelm Lake is largely extended towards the North up to its connection with the Danube, in the North of Harsova (Bowen, 1747). The latter representation is due to the coalescence between accurate information (the presence of a big gulf) and inaccurate data (the existence of Carasu arm connecting the Danube to the Black Sea). Austrian and Russian Cartography in the 18th and 19th Centuries Throughout the 18th and the 19th centuries, Eastern Europe witnessed various conflicts between three great empires: The Austro-Hungarian Empire, the Ottoman Empire and the Russian Empire. Numerous wars took place in Dobrogea, which implied the frequent changing of borders. The summarized order is the following: • 1716–1718: the Austrian-Turkish War • 1735–1739: the Austrian-Russian-Turkish War • 1768–1774: the Russian-Turkish War • 1787–1792: the Austrian-Russian-Turkish War • 1806–1812: the Russian-Turkish War These wars brought about the need for much more detailed information. New topographical undertakings were conducted by both Austrian and Russian officers, with a stress on accurate mathematical precision. The periods between conflicts were also marked by the imposition of economic supremacy, since the Danube offered the best means of goods transport. We believe that the assessment of each cartographic document must also consider the political background of the epoch; in fact, this is why we insist upon enumeration of the abovementioned conflicts. An excellent synthesis of these cartographic materials can be found in the memorandum for cartographic works regarding the war between 1787–1791 (Docan, 1912). Further on, we shall mention those having implied modifications in the overall image of the deltaic area. The Russian map of 1771 According to our research, the 1771 map drawn by Russian officers is the first to offer a unitary image of the Danube Delta, especially because the focus

Figure 6.3  A Russian Map of the Danube Delta (1771). Source: Collection Bodel Nijenhuis, Leiden University Library, Leiden, Nederland. Courtesy of Leiden University Library.

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is laid on the hydrological component (Figure 6.3). The name of its author appears to be the one located at the bottom side: Captain Aagapin. The text is written in ancient Slavic and the shape of letters is often illegible. At the bottom right corner there is an inscription in Latin alphabet: Door N. v. d. Monde van G. F. baron von Derfelden van Hilderstein. The text indicates the former owner, i.e. Nicolaas van Monde, who received the material from Baron Hinderstein. The latter was an important Dutch collector and cartographer of the day, the author of several maps of the Dutch Indies (Algemeene kaart van Nederlandsch Oostindie, 1842). The back of the map reads Donau-monden. 1771. Sints 1849 Russich grondgebied, namely Danube-mouths. 1771. Since 1849 Russian territory. The counterpart is located at Leiden University in the Bodel Nijenhuis Collection, bearing the title Port. 164 N. 85. The map does not contain a system of coordinates or other information regarding the method of its elaboration. At the centre, there is a description of the Danube’s tributary rivers as well as of main lakes and brooks. There is a detailed representation of Balta Brăilei (Brăila Pond), the water courses being grouped by depth categories (in fathoms or pounds), rendered by means of letters from A to F. The extraordinary value of this document is also granted by a first contour of the deltaic shore, which was, to date, the most accurate one available. In front of Chilia mouths, the first islands emerging from the future secondary delta can be noted. Sulina embouchure, the only one with sailing potential, gets special attention by means of depth sounding in front of it. The road network in the Delta is another premiere: the route between Sulina and Letea Field as well as the route between the Caraorman and Sulina arm are both highlighted. The continental relief of northern Dobrogea is graphically illustrated with brown, suggesting elevation differences. While until the elaboration of this map the lagoon system was illustrated as Halmyris or Baba on the Russian map it is entitled Ozero Razelm. However, its form remained ambiguous for over a century, until the elaboration of maps by CED. The Austrian map of 1778 A German map, a copy of the previous Russian map (registered under quota B III b 27), can be found at Nationalbibliothek in Vienna. This map is mentioned for the first time by N. Docan in 1912—in a surprisingly short description: it is “an unsigned map illustrating the Danube course from Galati to the Black Sea in three beautifully drawn boards, size 72×47.” He does not hesitate to classify the map as “not accurate enough,” considering that Lauterer made the first serious attempt to represent the entire Danube course. If we consider an approach to the entire Danube course, Docan’s assertion is true. However, a question remains: why did he still not realize the importance of

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the document he was dealing with? This map is the first attempt to create a unitary representation of the Danube between Galati and the Black Sea and the multitude of soundings grant it a particular value. It dates back to 1778 and adds little additional information compared to its predecessor. The different representation of depths is operated only in front of the mouths: in case of Sulina, the position of the values suggests the presence of a submerged bank. Not made mention of but graphically illustrated therein (placed north of Kisla Balaban), a sector of shallow waters is traced by means of a dotted line starting from Musura Bay all the way up to the proximity of Stambul Bay. The scale is approximately 1:148000. The two maps are certainly the first documents to display a unitary approach to the Danube Delta, indicating the emergence of an economic interest in this area. Their interests cannot be random and/or disassociated, since they express the same state of affairs. Only a compared cartographic approach may offer a satisfactory answer. A 1783 map of Moldova published in Amsterdam is the work of General Bauer (Bawr). In rendering the deltaic area, the map was certainly based on the previous undertakings carried out by Russian officers in the past, but its scale provides a general image of our area of interest. From then on, the North Danube shore systems and secondary deltas at Chilia and Razelm Lake start to appear on many maps, although only under intuitive forms. Although extremely important from a toponymic perspective, General Bauer’s map is not as accurate as intended. Its various copies marked the beginning of the nineteenth century. Captain Lauterer’s maps The information regarding the Danube area under Turkish occupation became a necessity for the Austrian trade (Netta, 1931). To this end, Captain Lauterer is sent on an expedition to the Danube mouths on June 11, 1782; it was, in fact, a small convoy headed by the Patriot, a ship transporting approximately 700 tons of goods (Căzan, 2002). This was not Captain Lauterer’s first trip. Only three years earlier, he travelled to Ruse – at that time elaborating upon several maps of the Danube waterways from Semlin up to Rusciuc (Ruse). At that time, he completed, on the whole, 11 boards (1:100000 scale; Plan des Donau-Stroms vom Zemlin bis Ruszug . . .). This second expedition gets him to Sulina, allowing him to complete his set of maps of the Danube lower sector (Plan des Donau-Stroms von Ruszug bis Sulina, an dem Schwarzen Meer . . .). This map is made up of 8 boards (12 to 20 at a 1:100000 scale forming, along with the previous 11 boards, an inseparable whole (Docan, 1912). In 1789, Lauterer’s map is revised by Baron Tauferer and some minor additions are brought in, compared to the previous document. This new version of the map is reduced to a scale of 1:195300 and contains eight boards



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illustrating the Danube’s course, specifically from Belgrade to Sulina. Its title is: Navigations-Karte der Donau von Semlin bis zu ihrem Ausfluss ins Schwarze Meer . . . (Docan, 1914). With a focus only on the navigable sector, Lauterer mentions ravine localities and the adjacent relief. We remark on the accurate representation of the mouths of tributary rivers, as well as of the islands on the river course. He carries out a representation of Sulina, the only navigable one, and of the deltaic shore only in the immediate proximity of this mouth. The colors he used are in keeping with Austrian cartography, with a prevalence of green to indicate water-course, red for localities, and dark yellow for islands. Depths are not marked and the navigation channel is indicated by a dotted line. Sulina appears more extended on the left shore, with the representation of a submerged bank at its mouth. On the right shore of the mouth, there is a lighthouse called Leuchtthurm. Sea depths are suggested by means of the technique of lines parallel to the shore. Along the shore, a road starts from the town towards the North ensuring the connection with Chilia. Contemporary with Lauterer, Wenzel von Brognard created a map of the western coast of the Black Sea from Constantinople up to the Danube mouths. It was annexed to his works regarding an expedition he undertook in the summer of 1786. Its importance is reflected in the representation of all the localities on the coast and is most useful when paired with the information in his written reports. Since the accuracy of von Brognard’s works was renown in Vienna, he was assigned extensively on Balkan expeditions. Our analysis is based on a 1931 translation by Gheron Netta. Several original texts by von Brognard may be consulted in the appendices to Netta’s book. The Danube Delta has a schematized representation, with its three arms over which the author wrote CUBANER UND ZAPOROGER TARTAREN. It is mentioned that the first mouth of the Danube is Portiţa Bogasi, a reference to it being the shortest way to Galaţi. The channel is suitable only for small watercraft since the depths in Razelm Lake are so shallow. Continuing up north, von Brognard gets to the second mouth of the Danube: Ederles Bogasi (Sf. Gheorghe). The description of the submerged relief on the deltaic shore is extremely valuable. “The coast here does not have a uniform aspect, due to the sand spits going far into the sea. The mouth has two openings with an island in between. Only the northern opening is navigable. To help sailors set the right course, a fire is kept constantly alight on a spot on the island. To the north of this opening, there is Ederles village, made up of 120 households populated by hardworking and skilful fishermen and cattle breeders.” (Netta, 1931: 128) Once he arrives to Sulina, he describes the town and the trade opportunities. After a four-day trip, he finally arrives to Galati on August 20, 1786. The eighteenth century brought important contributions to the cartography of Principalities (Wallachia and Moldavia), but all the maps continued to provide the same superficial representation of the Danube Delta. Nor are

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there any additional details regarding a territory doomed to remain marginal throughout all the empires on the map of Moldavia elaborated by Dimitrie Cantemir (1737). A RUSSIAN MAP from 1835/1853 was discovered by George Vâlsan in a Berlin library during the time he spent studying there. He classifies it as “the best cartographic work of the Russians in the Principalities” and states “we are dealing with the first original in 1835.” (Vâlsan, 1912) The map title translated from Russian is: The map of the theatre of war in Europe between 1828 and 1829, drawn up at a 1:420000 scale from real size, with the instrumental takings of Basarabia, on-site explorations of Serbia, of the eastern part of Bulgaria and Rumelia and the military takings in areas of Moldova, Wallachia and Babadag. This map was the topic of several works: Zagoritz (1915), Mihăilescu (1924), Băcilă (1931), Giurescu (1957), Popescu-Spineni (1978), etc. Out of these, Constantin C. Giurescu’s detailed analysis, an entire book dealing with the interpretation of the Russian map, stands out. The structure of the cartographic material: 10 main boards and an indexing board; their dimensions are 82×59.5 cm (Giurescu, 1957). Dobrogea is represented on boards V and VIII. We are dealing with a first original published in 1835 and a secondary edition, completed and updated in 1853. In case of Dobrogea, the cartographic analysis is based on a 1957 survey. Balta Borcea (Borcea Pond) contains 43 lakes and 13 brooks (gârle) and ravines (privaluri); as far as Balta Brăila (Brăila Pond) is concerned the watercourses are divided into 4 categories: rivers, brooks, ravines and arms. We make note of the hydrographical structure by functional categories, certainly reminiscent of the 1771 material. The lakes (limani) between the Chilia and Sulina arms are the following: Tamaier, Pojorita, Nazlîia, Noslar, Rătundu, Ghideanca Mică, Ghideanca Mare, Radacul, Achenuga, Ezer, Matita, Pojchi, Morheiul Mare, Morheiul Mic, Lisicie, Mamarul Mare, Mamarul Mic, Bendughen, Lunga, Chiper, Fortuna, Sodnea. The lakes between Sulina and Sf. Gheorghe arms: Moisa, Dragulinul Mare, Dragulinul Mic, Gorgov, Preslit (Preslavet), Uzlina Mare, Uzlina Mică, Usacov, Obreten, Porculet, Porcul, Lunciuc, Lunino, Puiol, Roşulet, Roşul, Stanail, Buivol. As far as the Sulina locality is concerned, its name does not appear on the map, however, a range of various elements, located therein, are mentioned: a lighthouse, a redoubt, shops, a café, and maybe a quarantine. Regarding Tulcea city, we are informed that, at that time, it was a village of 20 households situated at approximately two km ESE from the current city. Chilia Veche appears as an entrenched fortress with Chilia ruinată in the South (Giurescu, 1957: 73). The author used the Russian map as argument for the initial position of Chilia (on the right shore of the arm and not on the left one) during the Genoese and Venetian dynasties—as P.P. Panaitescu claimed. Its extraordinary importance, not only historical or economic, but also cartographically, was to be a major influence on subsequent representations of the



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Romanian Principalities. However, its influence on the Danube Delta did not last for too long, since the creation of the European Commission of the Danube (CED) in 1856 then led to the elaboration of a much more accurate map. The Russian cartography was reflected on those sailing maps then made by the British Navy, with a focus only on the aspect of the Danube arms, without the lakes in-between them. This is the case, for instance, of the map entitled Cape Kaliakra to Odessa, from the Russian Survey of 1834. The European Commission of the Danube (CED) and the Importance of the Cartographic Takings Performed by the English Officers Following the Crimean War, the new political arena was to be defined by the Treaty of Paris (1856). The interest of the Great Powers in the issue of the Danube led to the creation of this institution responsible for maintaining the navigability on the Danube Delta’s only suitable arm: Sulina. Initially, the Commission was to function for a period of two years, during which it had to draw up a report on the required harnessing works regarding the Danube mouths. The British delegate, John Stokes, was appointed to manage prospects along the entire Delta. His role was a discreet one, as his importance was diminished by the presence of the English engineer Charles Hartley. However, the merits of setting the framework for the subsequent development of the Commission belong to Stokes. Before proceeding to any task, there was a need for a detailed image of the deltaic topography, a simplification of the labyrinth, and the previous Russian maps were considered obsolete. The elaboration of a general map of the Delta was assigned to Captain Thomas Abel Spratt. His map contains eight detailed boards (from 1 to 7a) published in a report dated August 8, 1856. The detailed surveys of the Danube mouths are extremely important since, for the first time, they are based on hundreds of bathymetry points. Sulina, Sf. Gheorghe, and Chilia are described for the first time implementing bathymetric techniques that allow us to see the topography hidden under the waterbed. In 1861, a new version of the delta’s general map containing a system of coordinates (the first meridian related to Greenwich) is printed. The scale is 1:166400 and depth measurement units are expressed in feet (Figure 6.4). Although the cartographic projection is not specified on the map, it most certainly is Mercator—the one specific to the representations typically used by the British Navy on their sailing maps. From then on, CED (and, more specifically, chief engineer Charles Hartley), as assisted by Robert Hansford, created more elaborate, detailed maps of the Sulina mouth. Various reports on potential modern uses for the delta began to be accompanied by detailed plans, sometimes by three or four annual surveys

Figure 6.4  The map of the Danube Delta as Elaborated by Thomas Abel Spratt (1856). Source: Reproduction from the University of Bucharest, Faculty of Geography.

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of Sulina mouth alone. The Commission’s engineers developed a local projection system, maintained near the old lighthouse, with divisions marked every 500 feet (Constantinescu, 2010). A new general map of the Delta, entitled Carte du Danube et des ses Embranchements entre Brăila et la Mer, was published in 1871. It was revised in 1883, 1932 and 1937 (Petrescu, 1957). In the bottom left inset, there is mention of a triangulation network used by Robert Hansfort and Charles Kuhl (those in charge of the new map) as elaborated on by Charles Hartley. The approach is in keeping with an engineering perspective focusing only on the arms; out of these, the most accurate taking is that of Sulina. The system of lakes in between the main waterways is almost non-existent. Other areas which were overlooked are the one to the south of Sf. Gheorghe arm and Razelm-Sinoe lagoon system. The creation of the CED led to a specific overall change following the imposition of strict mathematical methods at the cartographic level. Unfortunately, these were not uniform for the entire Delta. COSTA ROMÂNIEI is the first map, produced by Romanian officers, of the entire Romanian shoreline. It still relied on much of the previous material attained by the Commission (Figure 6.5). Cartography was overseen by Commander A. Cătuneanu and was conducted between 1898 and 1899. It was presented at the Romanian stand at the International Exhibition in Paris (1900) where it was awarded the gold medal. As far as the Delta is concerned, the stress is laid on the representation of lakes and brooks with the designations mentioned in Romanian. The land in Dobrogea is rendered by shading techniques; the influence of Austrian cartography is to be remarked. New versions of this map were then republished in the first half of the twentieth century, with several terminology corrections. Maps of Romania according to the Lambert-Cholesky (1916–1959) projection system were commissioned following the recognition for the need of a unitary cartographic product at the country level. The projection systems, as well as the terminology, were presently different and this posed serious problems at the national level. For this reason, beginning in 1916, all existent cartographic information was gathered in a Lambert conformal conic projection, Cholensky variant, at a 1:20000 scale (Bartos et al., 2007). For the Danube Delta, the data was collected between 1880 and 1884; however, its quality was not equivalent to that of other sectors of the Danube (for instance, Balta Brăilei (Brăila Pond)). Most of the measurements were based on previous surveys, especially those performed by the Commission. This is why the form of the lakes is indicative; the Danube arms are the only areas accurately represented (Figure 6.6). Huge sections of the map are covered with a swamp symbol and representation of the sand bars has also been affected. However, localities are more accurately rendered, with more correct measurements concerning the representation of streets and houses. Following the comparison

Figure 6.5  Detail featuring the Danube Delta from the map entitled Costa României (The Romanian Coast) (1898–1899). Cartography was overseen by Lt. Commander A. Cătuneanu. Source: Reproduction from the University of Bucharest, Faculty of Geography.

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Figure 6.6  Sheet Entitled Grindul Saraturile at a scale of 1:20000 (Master Plans of Takings). Source: Reproduction of the original map is the property of the University of Bucharest, Department of Geography.

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of these materials, it was concluded that there was a higher accuracy for sections of Transylvania and Muntenia when compared to the sheets covering the Danube Delta. General products were subsequently elaborated at scales of 1:100000 and 1:200000, containing uniform captions at a national level. Lambert sheets continued to be reprinted with the associated modifications in terminology until 1959 at which time the Gauss-Kruger projection was adopted. Although these maps, especially the first editions, were not accurate in rendering hydrographical elements, but their toponymic value is considerable. Old designations of brooks, lakes and bars may be retraced and spatial evolutions of several localities may be assessed. The third campaign of topographic measurements for Austrian maps (Neue Aufname) began in 1869 (Timar, 2008). They are based on 1840 data for Sf. Ana and make use of the Bessel ellipsoid introduced in 1841 (Crăciunescu, 2006). Thanks to the efforts of members of the department of Cartography and Geoinformatics at Eotovos Lorand University in Hungary, these materials are now available over the Internet and able to downloaded and publicly distributed. The project eHarta from www.geo-spatial.org, integrated the charts into a national mosaic, converting it all into a Stereo-70 projection system. The maps can be downloaded using classic technologies or WMS procedures, delivered by means of a Geoserver. The Danube Delta appears on sheet 47–45 (the right corner at the bottom reads 1898, which is probably the printing year—not the date of the topographic reporting). However, there is no information regarding the nature of the data used, which are probably on-site measurements from CED reports. The designations used are in Romanian and the hachure technique was used for rendering the relief of Dobrogea continental area. The map as elaborated upon by eng. Gheorghe Vidrașcu (1909–1911). “It may be asserted that, until the last few years, the Danube Delta was not known from a scientific perspective.” This is the opening sentence of the MEMORANDUM REGARDING THE METHODS USED FOR GEODESIC, TOPOGRAPHIC, AND HYDROGRAPHIC UNDERTAKINGS IN THE DANUBE DELTA, an extensive work published in 1914 describing the methodology used. The Romanian engineer’s assertions are, naturally, well founded because had been no accurate map of the entire deltaic area up to this point. He then went on to depict how the measurements performed by CED only up to the level of the Danube arms, especially Sulina, with no levelling survey for the shores of Chilia and Sf. Gheorghe (Vidrașcu, 1914). The author provides the necessary explanations also regarding the previous fieldwork conducted by the Army’s Geographic Institute, concentrating its efforts in Moldova and Muntenia where a substantial lack of military facility had to be managed. For one, the Department of Public Fisheries was assigned the mission of elaborating an accurate map in order to render valuable the extensive surfaces in the delta. For this purpose, a proper geodesic system was created in order to



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better cover the entire area. There is a detailed description of all the issues faced during on-site activity, but also of the solutions, sometimes spectacular, for their settling. The first survey was reported at a 1:20000 scale, resulting in a general map containing two boards. Subsequently, there have been supplementary elaborated sheets scaling 1:10000 (0.5×0.75 m size for each sheet). Derivates were then made in subsequent years at scales of 1:50000 and 1:150000 (Figure 6.7). The map was revised in 1913, 1927, and 1935

Figure 6.7  The Version of the Map Elaborated on by Engineer Gheorghe Vidrașcu, General Product at a 1:150000 Scale. Source: Image Courtesy of the University BabeșBolyai, Department of Geography.

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(Petrescu, 1957). The survey method used employed hydrogrades aimed at identifying the surfaces, which would be flooded to certain levels at certain times. Its outstanding value has been recognized by the entire Romanian scientific community (including Grigore Antipa, Constantin Brătescu, George Vâlsan, etc.) and is used as a support for subsequent activities. Eng. Vidrașcu’s approach upheld for almost 50 years, subsequent documents using it as a permanent reference. From this point on, there was a radical change in the approach to the Danube Delta in terms of unitary perspective—no longer was it acceptable to neglect the areas in-between the arms. Subsequent maps were based on strict mathematical methodology. New maps, initially elaborated upon using the Gauss-Kruger method, were subsequently replaced by Stereo-70 system. The following decades were marked by the creation of new maps, the topic of extensive works. Hence, we shall only cite them briefly now: the Hydraulic Service drew a map between 1927 and 1931 at a scale of 1:20000, with depths on the arms and in front of the mouths; they then printed a map of the entire Danube course in 1935, including the Delta, at a scale of 1:50000; a photogrammetric project covering the entire delta took place between 1942 and 1944, resulting in a product at a scale of 1:50000 (Petrescu, 1957). The Military Topographic Department (Direcția Topografică Militară) elaborated upon a set of maps at various scales (1:25000, 1:50000, 1:100000, etc.) from the 1960s to present. The most important cartographic product of the delta’s relief was made by ISP and IPACH in collaboration with the Photogrammetry Laboratory at the Construction Institute in Bucharest between 1962 and 1965 (it is the only set with equidistant level curves of 0.5 m). The approach was realistic, in keeping with the latest requirements, to date. Nature could be transformed and savagery and exoticism could reach new levels of economic development potential, since people would be there to prize out of the waters new areas for agricultural purposes. For the first time in history, the inaccessibility of the Danube Delta could be surmounted by the creation of new techniques of reed exploitation because the “new man” (to be understood as system) could obtain higher levels of production (reeds, fish, cereals, etc.) and thwart any given context. According to this time and this research, it was finally possible, for the first time, for the Delta to be overpowered and it was to be controlled at any cost. Thematic maps of the Danube Delta. Based on aerophotograms from the 1970s and on field measurements from the early 1980s, the Geography Institute at the Romanian Academy published the first edition of their Danube Delta map in 1983. The authors were Basarab Driga, Camelia Anghel, and Petre Gâștescu (also the project coordinator). Updated editions were subsequently printed (1985, 1992, 2002, 2003 and 2007). Besides information



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for tourists looking to explore the delta, this map proved to be a highly influential document, especially on subsequent materials. Upon every field campaign, I, in fact, kept a copy of this map on me because the approach used on Gastescu’s map made a strong impression on me. This category of tourist map includes the editions elaborated by Emil Vespremeanu (Danube Delta Tours, Ed. Amco Press) and Ion Grigoraş and Adrian Constantinescu (Ed. Olimp, Ed. Grai, etc.). The Danube Delta National Institute published several thematic maps with scales between 1:100000 and 175000 (on themes such as Head deposits, Top soil texture, Soil salinity, Drainage and inundability, Ecosystems, Vegetation) under the coordination of Jenică Hanganu. Sedimentologic maps of the delta shoreline were conducted by the Institute of Geology and Geophysics (1986–1989) under the supervision of Nicolae Panin. The GeoEcoMar Institute has recently taken over the workings of the former laboratory, elaborating upon geological maps for the entire Romanian shoreline. Other types of oceanographic-theme maps are also being created by researchers at the“Grigore Antipa” National Institute for Marine Research and Development. An attempt to index all the maps currently updated by various Romanian, European, or Ukrainian institutions has proven to be extremely difficult. At this point, the resulting conclusion and cartographic product will have to be a specialized one, covering a wide range of interests within the field of Natural Sciences. The nautical charts elaborated by the Maritime Hydrographic Department span the entire Romanian shoreline. We enumerate below a list of the main Table 6.1  Nautical charts created by the Maritime Hydrographic Department Nautical charts index 1.025.11 1.050.03 1.050.04 1.050.05 1.050.06 1.050.06 1.100.03 1.100.04 1.150.03 1.250.01 1.300.01 1.500.06 1.750.01 1.750.02 No. 6 No. 17

Title

Year

Scale

Sulina Harbour From Mamaia up to the Chituc Bar From Vadu to Zaton From Zaton to Sf. Gheorghe Mouth From Sf. Gheorghe Mouth to Musura Bay From Sf. Gheorghe Mouth to Musura Bay From Midia to Sf. Gheorghe Mouth From Sf. Gheorghe Mouth to Buhta Zebrijanska The Danube Delta From Cape Nos Kaliakra to Chilia Arm From Nos Kaliakra to the Danube Delta From Sulina to Zonguldak The Black Sea. Western side The Black Sea. Eastern side From Cape Kaliakra to Chilia Arm From the Coast of Nistru to Sulina

1998 1998 2002 1999 1979 1998 1979/1994 1972–1979 2002 2000 2003 1997 2003 1993 1976 1959

1:25000 1:50000 1:50000 1:50000 1:50000 1:50000 1:100000 1:100000 1:150000 1:250000 1:300000 1:500000 1:750000 1:750000 1:250000 1:150000

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products published by this institution in reference to the Danube Delta coast. We would like to mention here that they are continuously in the process of being updated, sometimes being presented as part of annual publications for certain important sectors. These documents are extremely valuable as an evolutionary analysis of the submerged relief by staggered time intervals. Satellite approach The development of Remote Sensing in the 1970s and 1980s led to the emergence of a totally different approach to mapping. The great advantage of such products is the ability to obtain new images within very short time intervals. Considerably more accurate objects have now been recorded using Landsat (MSS, TM, ETM+) images, with a focus on the capacity for information spectral analysis. From a cartographic perspective, these images are useful as the basis for updating information on shore sectors with marked dynamics. New high-resolution sensors (Ikonos, Quikbird, etc.) allow for the mapping of detail elements, especially at the level of localities. The development of RADAR (TerraSAR-X) technology has made it possible to conduct subsidence analyses across the entire delta region at specific time intervals. From this point on, the evolution of cartographic products became strictly tied to the use of satellite images and aerophotograms. In addition, LIDAR technology made it possible to obtain Digital Elevation Models. Presently, there is no real unified model of the entire Danube Delta, since measurements are either still being carried out or are under various stages in the developmental process. The emergence of new solutions such as Google Earth, Virtual Earth, Bing Maps, Yahoo Maps, OpenStreetMap, etc. marked a new change in perspective. Besides the democratization of information, anti-secrecy of modern public policy and a new openness towards community-awareness led to the creation of new digital format products intended for the public. In the opinion of this author, the future will belong to digital cartography, without the elimination of classic maps on paper support. Danubube Delta 2.0 is a digital product created by the members of Marine and Fluvial Research Centre from Sf. Gheorghe, available for free in *.shp format from the project geo-spatial.org (Constantinescu, 2008). These new opportunities in information transfer (by means WMF, WFS services) allow for the fast download of data and their visualization on various supports, from GPS units to mobile phones. The great challenge in the future will consist of sorting spatial information, maintaining production standards, and managing data selection—quantifying and qualifying data provided by various sources.



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Whenever a cartographic endeavour was undertaken on the Danube Delta, it has proven to be incomplete. Here, we resorted only to a very general presentation of the main maps specific to this area. The changes in the approach to map making reflect not only a stage of the technical cartographic knowledge or its specific historical context, but also the actors’ choices in terms of ways of exerting power. For a long time, maps were the most important method of compressing spatial information and, consequently, were a powerful way of communicating and even exerting power. Besides the information they provide directly, these maps hide destinies, prides, and passions . . . in other words, they are the stories of those who created them as well as of those who once commissioned and examined them . . . .

Bibliography Băcilă, Ion (1928–1929). Hărţi geografice asupra ţărilor române între 1800–1856. Cluj: Lucr. Inst. Geogr. Univ. din IV. Bartos-Elekes, Zsombor, Ioan Rus, Ștefan Constantinescu, Vasile Crăciunescu and Ionuț Ovejanu (2007). “Románia topográfiai térképei Lambert–Cholesky-vetületben (1916–1959).” Geodezia és Kartografia, 59(6): 39–43. Căzan Iulia (2002). “Misiunea Căpitanului Lauterer și a grupului de pontonieri austrieci în 1779–1782.” Anuarul Muzeului Marinei Române, V: 227–235. Ciorănescu, Alexandru (1958–1966). Dicţionarul etimologic român. Tenerife: Universidad de la Laguna. Ciortan, Ion, Măriuca Radu and Octavian Ion Penda (2004). Descriptio Romaniae, Vol. I., R. București: Monitorul Oficial. Constantinescu, Ştefan (2009). “Seturi de date geospaţiale locale. Dobrogea,” retrieved 12 28, from geo-spatial.org: http://earth.unibuc.ro/download/ seturi-date-geospatiale-locale Constantinescu, Ştefan, Liviu Giosan and Alfred Vespremeanu-Stroe (2010). “A cartographical perspective to the enginering works at the Sulina mouth, Danube Delta.” Acta Geodaetica et Geophysica Hungarica, 45(1): 71–79. Crăciunescu, Vasile (2009). “Hărţile austriece (1910) reproiectate în Stereo70.” Retrieved from geo-spatial.org: http://earth.unibuc.ro/download/ harile-austriece-1910–reproiectate-in-stereo70. Docan, Nicolae (1914). “Explorațiuni austriece pe Dunăre la sfârșitul veacului al XVIII-lea.” Analele Academiei Române, Seria II Tom XXXVI, Memoriile Secţiunii Istorice. București: Librăriile Socesc and Comp. și C. Sfetea. Docan, Nicolae (1912). Memoriu despre lucrările cartografice privitoare la răsboiul din 1787–1791. București: Librariile Socec. Giurescu, Constantin C. (1957). Principatele Romîne la începutul secolului XIX. Bucuresti: Editura Științifică. Gurjewitsch, Aaron (2004). Individul în Evul Mediu european. Iaşi: Ed. Polirom.

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Mihăilescu, Vintilă (1924). Așezările omenești din Câmpia Română la mijlocul și la sfârșitul sec. XIX. O comparaţie între harta rusească din 1853 și harta topografică română de la sfârșitul sec. XIX. București: Cultura Națională. Netta, Gheron (1931). Expansiunea economică a Austriei și explorările ei Orientale. București: Cartea Românească. Olteanu, Sorin (2009). “Delta Dunării la autorii antici.” Retrieved October 21, from Thraco-Daco-Moesian-Languages Project (TDML): http://soltdm.com/geo/arts/ delta/delta_r.htm Pastoureau, Michel (2004). O istorie simbolică a Evului Mediu Occidental. București: Ed. Cartier SRL. Petrescu, Ioan Gh. (1957). Delta Dunării: geneză și evoluţie. București: Ed. Științifică. Popescu-Spineni, Marin (1978). România în izvoare geografice și cartografice. București: Editura Științifică și Enciclopedică. Smart, Lez (2005). Maps that made history. The influential, the eccentric and the sublime. Toronto: Dundurn Press. Timar, Gabor (2008). “Habsburg geodetic and cartographic activities in the Old Romania,” Studii şi Cercetări, Seria Geologie-Geografie, Complexul Muzeal Bistriţa-Năsăud, 13: 93–101. Vâlsan, George (1912). O fază în popularea Ţărilor Româneşti: cu prilejul unei hărți statistice vechi descoperite în ultimul timp. București: Ed. Socec. Vidrașcu, Ion G. (1914). Memoriu relativ la metodele întrebuinţate la ridicările geodezice, topografice și hidrografice din Delta Dunării. București: Tip. Curții Regale F. Gobl FII. Zagoritz, Gheorghe (1915). “Contribuţii la vechea statistică și cartografie românească.” Buletinul Societății de Geografie, 36.

Part III

CULTURAL-POLITICAL LANDSCAPE

Chapter 7

Pirates, Fish and Tourists The Life of Post-Communist Sulina Petruţa Teampău and Kristof Van Assche

“Sulina, little town lost on the shore/ Sulina, you are the nest of happiness/ Sulina, I call you in a whisper/ in the dark night, dear town./ So many memories born out of the little houses/ and so much longing from the wonderful stars/ that twinkle like little eyes/ The song of the sea is deceiving.” – A song from the interwar period

Located at the point where the Danube River meets the Black Sea, Sulina has been a pirates’ den, a pre-European Union experiment in joint governance and a tourist destination. The town, which served as a vital juncture for European trade in the 1930s, is now marginalized and nearly forgotten. Yet this isolated place with a history of individualism is still evolving. A look at Sulina’s past and present—gleaned from historical documents, the memories of locals and first-hand observation—gives the impression of a place that survives by constantly reinventing itself. This chapter looks at Sulina’s earlier history and the changes in the town after communism, as analyzed through fieldwork and through locals’ recent memories. It is hoped that this investigation reveals something about how the town has handled the transformations of the recent past, as well as showing how storytelling and memories affect the way people view their history and their home. The romantic description presented in the song quoted above describes a place with a magnetic pull. Since 2006, when we first set foot in this place to study a town that was “dying,” our research team felt this attraction. During repeated visits between 2006–2009, Sulina revealed itself as an extraordinary place. This chapter is therefore more than a simple scientific study. It is also necessarily a sympathetic portrait of a town that the researchers have come to love. 185

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The most Eastern locality of Romania, Sulina is a small town at the end of one of the Danube River’s three branches. Nowadays, the town has no land connection to neighboring localities, it must be reached by boat. Being nearly completely surrounded by water, it has the appearance and feeling of an island. Sulina is also unique in that its harbor is on both a river and the sea. The city’s long and fascinating history is only hinted at by the sporadic data that has turned up over the centuries—when Sulina receives a brief mention on old documents or maps. Many historical documents mention Sulina as a pirates’ nest, an unpredictable place that could not be avoided when sailing upstream on the Danube—a route that seems to have been of utmost importance on the geopolitical map of nineteenth century Europe. Before that period, the political and administrative authority in Sulina had belonged first to the Ottoman Empire and then to the Russian Empire, and both these regimes encouraged, or at least tolerated, a very flexible state of affairs. Practically speaking, it was a no man’s land, were the rules where made up on the fly. But the need to navigate the Danube made the area vital to the economic interests of the great European powers. Following the war of Crimea, the Peace Treaty in Paris (March 1856) established the European Commission of the Danube (CED), setting its headquarters in Sulina for an initial mandate of two years. This “European Union” avant-la-lettre included representatives of France, England, Austria, Prussia, Russia, Sardinia and Turkey. The CED stayed in Sulina between 1856–1939, and left just before World War II, when the Romanian state assumed jurisdiction over almost a century of development. During its long governance, the CED organized the navigation on the river and, in the process, transformed Sulina into a flourishing harbor and a pleasant city. Shortly after the war (1947), the communists came to power in Romania and, in spite of the beneficial presence that the CED once had in Sulina, the communist government officially forbade any mention of this period of “imperialism.” Many memories of that period were lost, together with the archives and material assets of the CED palace, such as luxurious furniture or silverware. The locals started “remembering” the CED period in the late 1990s, after the demise of the communist regime in Romania. We have argued, in a previous article, that this resurrection of the CED narrative is partly determined by the current difficulties of imagining a future for the city: “Once part and nexus of one of the first European organizations, today doomed to isolation, Sulina tries to recuperate a regional identity and position. [ . . .] The official discourse increasingly points to European integration, portraying Sulina as ‘the gate of Europe,’ thus reversing symbolically its—both geographical and socio-political—marginality, as summarized in the favorite catchphrase of the locals: ‘We are the first to see the light and the last to see justice’” (Teampău and Van Assche, 2007: 274).



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At the beginning of our field research, before and immediately after Romania’s 2007 integration into the EU, it appeared that this historical narrative served a very clear objective: “The future of the city is seen, once again, in connection to the European project. The almost mythical prosperity of the CED period is being projected into the near future—when Sulina will be a ‘European’ city—in a kind of cyclical replicating fate” (Teampău and Van Assche, 2007: 274). It is tempting to think of the period of the CED as Sulina’s “golden age,” and locals like to give that impression to tourists. Fragments of history and scattered images of that time appear on brochures and leaflets describing the town. However, the image of Sulina’s past and present is also shaped by memories of communism, the mainstream media and other sources. Many of the details we have about Sulina’s history come from an octogenarian storyteller of Greek origin who can recall the period before 1939, when several countries shared in administering the town as part of CED. A long-time resident with an incredible memory, Panait Zachis (1928–2010) demonstrated a remarkable ability to recall accurately places, names and practices from his childhood and the last period of the CED’s administration—approximately 1932–1939. Not only did he and his family have a long history in Sulina, with his own life stretching back to the CED days, but even more crucial: he was in a position from which he could observe much of the complex economic and cultural life of Sulina. Zachis was an important character in Sulina, recognized as the “official storyteller.” Local authorities used him as a resource in many ways: He was a reliable witness for people who returned to Sulina to reclaim property or houses, and he provided information for tourist brochures. Panait Zachis was also the ultimate person to talk to if you were a journalist, a movie-maker or a researcher with an interest in Sulina. Zachis’s importance as a storyteller did not however become clear immediately after the demise of communism, but only later (around 2000), when people started to realize the potential of these stories. It also took a little time after the end of communism before Zachis felt safe talking about these stories, as some of his relatives had to flee Romania under communism. Over the years, he made notes about his life and memories, collected pictures, and complemented his reminiscences with information obtained from others. His old friends, his parents and grandparents, get a voice, and old vibrant Sulina comes to life again. From bread baking over musical ensembles, to the minute details of shipbuilding, he remembered. He remembered places and moments of cultural mixing and mingling, and occasions to respect a distance; harmony and conviviality, but also time of tensions between cultural groups. Mr Zachis brought back to life the characters of Armenians, Jews, Turks and their contributions to the community. His descriptions of old Sulina show that belonging to a cultural, ethnic, religious group was not

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a simple fact; one could belong to several groups at once, and assert different aspects of one’s identity on different occasions. This, too, reminded of old Europe, with its multiethnic empires, where many people defined themselves in more complex patterns than is possible now, in the era of the nation-state (despite globalization and rhetoric on multiculturalism). He also recounted, alas, the slow unraveling of the international networks Sulina was embedded in. Newspapers in several languages used to be everywhere, then became less common, and under communism, they would have been dangerous possessions. A world closed, and then opened up again after communism, but now in a much more chaotic way. Of course storytelling provides an unusual means for recording or recuperating history, as Antze and Lambek have argued. “Stories require interlocutors, and the right to establish authoritative versions never rests with the individual telling the story alone. It shifts from communal institutions and collective memory to the domain of experts and beyond—to market forces and the power of the state” (Antze and Lambek, 1996: xvii). The stories we narrate depend on our own insertion into a social medium. The narrator is not simply validating their own “truths,” they are also placing themselves securely into the community. The storyteller is given a feeling of belonging and can view their story as part of the general narrative—thus conferring it substance and significance. Narrative is central to the functioning of memory. As Brockmeir notes, it is “capable of playing a number of different (cognitive, social and emotive) roles at the same time” (Brockmeier, 2002: 27). Narrative is also important to memory because it allows a vital space for the play of identities, for the reconsideration of what is being remembered—as well as a reconsideration of the role of the narrator in the stories (s)he is telling. Because Zachis’s memories have become the shared memories of the community, their impact is greater. As Bird (2002: 520) notes, “shared narratives serve culturally to construct a sense of place and, with that, a sense of cultural identity that includes some people while excluding others.” Stories people tell about places not only serve to position the narrator in a desired location, they also serve to delineate social boundaries by asserting who “belongs” and who doesn’t “belong” and who “we” are. As we have argued elsewhere, in Sulina, this narrative of the golden age comprises two main, intertwining, storylines: that of prosperity and that of intercultural tolerance. Zachis’s favorite narratives portray an interwar Sulina in which life was not only better, but also ordered. The discipline that children received in their education was reflected in people’s behavior and their interrelations. There were rules to go by, but they were simple and clear, and everyone could profit from them. People helped and respected oneanother, and working in the free port was a source of pride. Sulina was a good place to work and live, the essentials were cheap and goods were abundant.



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In Zachis’s narrative, it sounds as if life went along at a comfortable, easygoing pace. As a free port, Sulina boasted a unique blend of ethnicities, religious confessions and languages. Today, most of Sulina’s inhabitants are Romanians, Ukrainians and Lipoveni, who came “to the city” from neighboring villages. Very few are old enough to actually remember Sulina before the war, and those who have only heard about Sulina’s glorious past are less likely to feel a connection to a time they did not see (Teampău and Van Assche, 2009: 42). Naturally, different groups remember different pasts: Although Greeks and Armenians figure heavily in the nostalgic narratives, many of the Lipoveni and Romanians who now live in Sulina used to work for them—sometimes as domestic servants. Even when they participate in a common account of Sulina’s “good times,” details of their own biography locate them in different social strata and places. There is also the nostalgia for communism, which seems to function as counter-narrative for the official story about the good times of the CED. While the latter is definitely seductive, it is also the case that some of the locals had experienced the communist period as positive; others are simply dissatisfied with the uncertainties brought by the democratic revolution, and draw on an idealized near past to express cautiously a dissatisfaction that is deemed politically incorrect. Sulina in 2011 is a postsocialist city that was reasonably prosperous during communism and now shares the sad fate of many of the small cities of Romania. The Orthodox (Romanian and Greek) and Starover (Russian Orthodox “old believer”) churches in town—and the memories of Armenian and Anglican churches and mosques that existed in the past—bear witness to the confessional diversity that used to be one of the city’s peculiarities. Another common theme of the official discourse is that of multiculturalism: “Here there were 27 nationalities and languages.” In the 2001 census, Sulina had 3,955 Romanians, 2 Hungarians, 1 Gypsy, 59 Ukrainians, 504 Lipovens, 7 Turks, 1 Bulgarian, 62 Greeks, 1 Pole, 6 Italians, and 2 Armenians. Out of these, 4,279 spoke Romanian as mother language, 33 Ukrainian, 263 Russian, 22 Greek and 2 Turkish. In terms of religious confession, there were 4,340 Orthodox, 14 Catholics, 7 Muslims, 1 Unitarian, 235 Staroveri (old believers) and 1 Evangelical. Out of the total population of 4,601, a total of 16.29 percent were under the age of 14, another 34.2 percent were men and 33.6 percent were women between the ages of 15–59, and 6.99 percent were men and 8.88 percent were women older than 60. This city, born for the specific mission of supervising and ensuring the navigation of the Sulina Canal, is today a very isolated place for most of the year. It has low incomes and high unemployment rates, a fascinating history and an uncertain future. Although the recent communist past is absent from the mainstream social discourse, its legacy is visible in the form of abandoned

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factories and blocks of flats, vacant “universal shops” and old signs on the walls. Across the Danube, a former shipyard that was built during the CED regime is a reminder of a more prosperous age. Today, however, deserted structures on the site are inhabited by wild horses, and unchecked vegetation is taking over. On the left side of Danube, in the city proper, the rusting old Trabants are reminders of a communist period when people could afford to buy a car to drive around a place of only a few square kilometers. Here and there one can spot an unused boat in the middle of a garden or in front of a house. While the main streets are often filled with all-terrain vehicles that stir clouds of dust and sand on the road to the beach, nature takes over on the margins of the city: Cows walk the silent streets and small dogs sit dormant on the sidewalks. These days, Sulina is filled with decay: Sometimes the only part left of ruined old houses is the façade, behind which wild vegetation consumes old walls. Abandoned shops that still bear communist-era signs now hold a storeroom of memories. In this contradictory and heterogeneous urban landscape, restaurants full of lights and voices sit next to unused empty houses. The former communist market, deserted for years, was transformed into a fashionable open-air restaurant for tourists, while behind it are the unpretentious local taverns mostly frequented by Lipoveni. The loose feral horse eating the flowers in front of the town hall in broad daylight, as the European flag waves behind it and amused tourists look on, demonstrates both the chaos and allure of this place. Strada 1, or First Street, runs parallel to the Danube and is full of sounds and lights on warm summer nights. It overlooks an area called Prospect, the old shipyard and the fishermen’s neighborhood across the Danube, a place where life has a different rhythm, prices are smaller and there are hardly any lights at night. This heterogeneous physical landscape is filled with stories—stories of people born in Sulina, whose lives are entwined with its history, stories of people who came “to the city” from the deep of the swamp, for whom the city is just another village, with specific rules and laws. Uniting the various stories is the mainstream narrative about “how this city used to be,” a narrative that feeds local pride and substantiates the identity of the place. While the stories and memories of Zachis and others portray a desirable image of the city, the (mostly negative) image of Sulina in the mass media also influences how people perceive themselves and their hometown. Typical recent mass media accounts describe Sulina as “dead,” “asleep,” or “frozen in-between ages, intoxicated with its own memories.” The city’s self image is also shaped by Jean Bart’s pre-war novel “Europolis,” which both journalists and locals are fond of quoting. Even though the people of Sulina resent what the media write about their city, they cannot control the influence it has on their local identity: The negative projection of their city touches on their



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pessimism and low self-esteem. But not all the media accounts are negative, Zachis’s “memories” are also published in central newspapers, where they receive a much wider audience than his “live” storytelling performances. The attention has turned Zachis into a character and a local star, and has also shaped his “repertoire.” Still, Zachis’s description of “how our town used to be” is only one version of the past. In fact, what this overarching narrative that seems to saturate the current social and discursive space is doing is to silence counter-memories, the kind of memories that would testify to a different record of the past. Tim Edensor discusses “the power of involuntary memories” that “also lies in other experiences beyond childhood, in the rooms we have lived in, places we have been, things we have handled and the faces we have known but appeared to have entirely forgotten. These experiences, constituting a storehouse of mundane and extraordinary events, mix sensations—and hence bodily memories—together with the recall of overlapping geographies with their reference points, routes and networks” (Edensor, 2005: 144–5). A ruined factory is also a space in which people have worked, walked, laughed, lived; all those memories still cling to the walls and empty rooms of that deserted building. As de Certeau and Giard argue, “successive living spaces never disappear completely; we leave them without leaving them because they live in turn, invisible and present, in our memories and in our dreams. They journey with us” (apud Edensor, 2005: 145). New Times, New People, New Colors Under communism, officially insensitive to nationalism, Sulina became decidedly more Romanian. The city was forcefully re-developed, dotted with apartment buildings, and rapidly industrialized—most workers coming from other regions in Romania. Even without international trade, Sulina and the Delta were regarded as valuable economic assets, and fish, reed, silica needed to be harvested and processed. Sulina proved to be a place people want to identify with; the people moving in from the villages, even from other regions, learned stories about old Sulina, became engrossed in them, and made them part of their own identity. Some Greeks were let go, to the small country that was now called “Greece,” while others preferred to stay, or had to stay. (Like many members of the other merchant communities, Armenians and Jews, Greeks not always identified with the nation-state named after them, only a bleak reminder of the cosmopolitan network they used to live in.) As with most places in Romania, in Sulina, the fall of communism came with—often unrealistic—hopes for “change,” for a different future and for opportunities never before imagined. There was a period where it felt like

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the government was between regimes—as if no one was really in charge, or at least as if control was more lax. One of the most visible early signs of change for the town was the opening of the “shop” in the free port area to all customers. This situation only lasted for a couple of years, until a new customs office was set up, but for a while, products like whiskey, cigarettes, perfumes, chocolates and soaps were sold on valuta (foreign currency) with no taxes. On the streets of Sulina, the sight of people passing by with boxes of liquor or cigarettes was not uncommon. Owners of shops, boutiques and restaurants from elsewhere in Romania came here to buy cheap supplies. Sulina’s geographical situation made it a place for easy money during the first, more chaotic, years of Romanian democracy. As we have argued elsewhere, “the physical isolation of Sulina, separated by swamp, river and sea from the rest of the world, makes it easier to imagine it as a remote hell, and as a safe haven” (Van Assche and Teampău, 2010). There are advantages and disadvantages to marginality. In its role as a haven, Sulina was useful for people who needed to get goods into the country to help their families. Romanians who lived abroad and wanted to send care packages back home would send money to people in Sulina. The Sulina residents would purchase goods from the duty-free shop and mail those goods to other locations in the country. Sending goods this way was much cheaper than mailing packages from abroad and paying the customs fees. This arrangement is a replica of one used during communism: A pachet, or package from abroad, with scarce items like coffee, deodorants, soap or cigarettes, would provide a kind of currency that could circulate for weeks and ease the working of many social networks. A “gift” bought for a doctor, a professor, a policeman etc., could sometimes be traded around so much that it would eventually return to the original owner. It was around this time that sugar shipping was sweetening life for Sulina’s locals. There were large quantities of sugar coming down on Danube to be reloaded on ships bound for the Middle East. Locals would go to the port and buy sugar that sailors or others in the shipping trade had apparently stolen. These small thefts would go unnoticed because of the large amounts available. “We used to go by boat close to the ship, and they gave us sacks of sugar, we filled up the boat. And we just paid very little,” one Sulina resident recalls. “Even so, the owners used to come here as the only place where there is no stealing. Because in other places it was even worse. And for those quantities, the stealing was insignificant.” As we have argued in a previous article, it appears that “the methods and situation are strikingly similar to those of the half-pirate/half-thief inhabitants of nineteenth century Sulina. This is in fact part of a recurrent narrative that seems to inform the present local identity, as a kind of pride taken in avoiding taxes and gently working around the law. The prosperous—for some—period of the communist regime seems to act, in



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certain narratives, as a compensation for the affluence of the interwar period and in contrast with the current uncertainty of the transition” (Teampău and Van Assche, 2009: 55–6). In other words, before and after the revolution, people in Sulina were “getting by,” finding ways of survival or even of making nice money with little effort. The change of regimes seemed to have an impact on the appearance of the locals and their town. People started to dress more colorfully and in different styles, lights would not go off after 10 pm, as businesses and places of entertainment stayed open later, and suddenly the streets looked more vivid and colorful. Beneath these surface changes, more important structural changes were taking place too. In the first years after the revolution the fish factory went bankrupt and the big fishing ships started to disappear. Some of the ships were sold off in murky circumstances that stirred suspicions of political interference, others were sold for scrap iron. The “Delta,” a hydrographic ship, survived for a few years but was eventually stolen, piece by piece. Strange boats started appearing in Sulina, crafts that were home-built by locals, made from the metal remains that could be found around town. A few years later, these improvised crafts had disappeared and were replaced by more expensive motor boats made of glass fiber or metal—“the kind of boats we saw in the movies,” according to one local interviewee. But the economic changes were not all positive, and they forced some adjustments on locals. There was a “natural selection” of fishermen: Those who knew how to fish well were often able to stay in the business and those who didn’t lost that source of income. New forms of entrepreneurship appeared in the fishing industry: some became owners of a cherhana, a storehouse for collecting fish before they go to market; others managed a team of fishermen; others rented fishing equipment; and others provided cargo insurance. It was a period when everyone wanted to make money quickly and with the least investment possible; and some managed to do so. Officially, there is 40 percent unemployment in Sulina, one of the highest rates in the country. Unofficially, almost every family has one member working abroad, usually in Spain or Italy, or serving as crew for a foreign ship paying a good salary in euros. Others work locally in fishing but their work is not always officially recorded. The same is true of those catering to tourists during the summer—renting rooms, leading tours of the Delta or cooking “traditional” dishes like fish soup. Many people engaged in these activities are officially unemployed. The tourism business is a recent development that radically transformed the life of the locals. For the first few years after the revolution “no one was coming here, and the summers were very much like the winter,” according to an interviewee. Nowadays during the summer, Sulina swarms with people in shorts and flip-flops, coming or going to the beach, looking for a place to

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drink or eat, or just promenading along First Street on warm evenings. In peak tourist season, the town’s population doubles. Posters everywhere advertise “trips into the Delta” or cheap housing. The arrival of every ship, whether it is the big “Pasager” or a rapid boat called, ironically, a “rocket,” is an event, with locals gathering to meet their guests or to offer a room to tourists without a booking. One of our interviewees, a young artist, has fixed “working hours” during the summer that coincide with the schedule of the ships. Another key interviewee, the local photographer, has a workshop downtown, which during the summer keeps him busy after-hours, sometimes until 10–11pm. In the warm summer nights, First Street, with its restaurants and terraces, is full of people, lights and music until late. However, the lights and sounds gently dissipate as you pass along Second Street, while from Third Street onwards there are only stars and frogs. Out of season, life has a different rhythm, as locals spend more time indoors in winter and try to take care of personal tasks they have been postponing throughout the summer. Cristi, the young artist turned entrepreneur, spends his winters painting for the sake of painting, though some of those works will be sold to tourists next summer. When winter ends, Sulina gets back to the work of catering to tourists, an occupation that seems to involve everyone. “During the summer, we feel like holiday guides,” one interviewee said. The locals have developed an ambiguous relationship to the tourists who invade their city every summer. While many full-time residents of Sulina survive the winter with money earned from summer tourists, they can grate at the crass attitudes of the visitors. Sometimes small conflicts or altercations can occur, between people queuing at the supermarket or those just waiting for a ride to the beach. While these are not serious, they reveal the unexpressed tensions between locals and tourists. Beyond the beach, there are not many amenities to entertain the tourists. The old lighthouse has a small history museum with a meager display on the story of CED and displays about local novelist Jean Bart. The Maritime Cemetery is advertised as unique for its diversity of confessions: Orthodox, Muslim, Old-believers, Jews, Catholics and Protestant are buried in the same graveyard, though in different sectors. There are older monuments, going back more than a century ago, marking the graves of victims who died during navigation of the channel. Also of interest to tourists is the tombstone of a pirate and that of two lovers, buried under identical markers after an unhappy love story. These are among the moderately interesting attractions in town, but hardly major tourist draws. There was support by locals for the idea of transforming the remains of the CED workshops in the area called Prospect, on the left side of Danube, into a living museum. The old shipyard area has engines and machinery that are more than 100 years old, and it could be of interest to tourists. But, in the



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absence of the appropriate political decisions, nothing happened. The abandoned site is continuing to deteriorate: Some machines were sold for scrap iron, and wild horses took possession of a former workshop. The fish-tinning factory, built on the site of a destroyed Armenian church, stands quiet in the sun, as a reminder of more prosperous times. Ongoing Transformations and the Quest for a Common Future The transformation of Sulina is not likely to stop, and our observations in the years 2006–2010 indicate that the pattern is not stabilizing yet, that there is no authoritative version of self and history established and acknowledged. Even tourism is ambiguously regarded, and there has been little attempt to create tourist attractions out of the historical narratives and natural resources that might be of interest—such as the story of local novelist Bart, the CED era and the beautiful natural surroundings outside of town. Achieving a communal reflection on self-presentation is still difficult, and the communist legacy functions as a barrier between the current residents and the richer narratives of place and time from previous years. Sulina’s existence on the margin of mainstream society, and its history of flexible interpretation of the law, allowed people to creatively use existing assets or to invent new assets, enabling them to eke out a living in an unforgiving environment. Yet, the local’s uneasy relationship with the history of the place, and indeed the many types of histories that different locals have, make it hard to find a coherent basic narrative that the people of Sulina can call their own. If the locals cannot agree on a common past, it is difficult for them to envision a common future. Bibliography Belanger, Anouk (2000). ‘Urban space and collective memory: Analysing the various dimensions of the production of memory,’ Canadian Journal of Urban Research 11(1): 69–92. Bird, S. Elizabeth (2002). ‘It makes sense to us. Cultural Identity in Local Legends of Place,’ Contemporary Ethnography, 31(5): 519–547. Brockmeier, Jens, ‘Remembering and forgetting: Narrative as cultural memory,’ Culture & Psychology, 8(1): 2002: 15–43. Edensor, Tim (1995). Industrial ruins. Spaces, aesthetics and materiality, Oxford and New York: Berg. Kasinitz, Philip, and David Hillyard (1995). ‘Old timers tale: the politics of nostalgia on the waterfront,’ Journal of contemporary ethnography, 24(2): 139–164.

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Van Assche, Kristof and Petruţa Teampău (2010). ‘Landscape of the year. Social systems theory and the analysis of cultural and ecological adaptation in the Danube Delta,’ Studia Politica, 1: 83–102. Van Assche, Kristof, Patrick Devlieger, Petruţa Teampău and Gert Verschraegen (2009). ‘Forgetting and remembering in the margins: Constructing past and future in the Romanian Danube Delta,’ Memory Studies. 2(2): 211–234. Van Assche, Kristof, Patrick Devlieger, Petruţa Teampău and Miranda Schutt (2007). ‘Regionale landschapsarchitectuur in de Donau-Delta. Fragiliteit en schoonheid in de marge van de marge,’ Blauwe Kamer, 11(1): 82–86. Van Assche, Kristof and Petruţa Teampău (2009). “Layered Encounters: Performing Multiculturalism and the Urban Palimpsest at the ‘Gateway of Europe’,” The Anthropology of East Europe Review 27(1): 7–19. Van Assche, Kristof, Petruţa Teampău, Patrick Devlieger and Cristian Suciu (2008). ‘Liquid boundaries in marginal marshes. Reconstructions of identity in the Romanian Danube Delta,’ Studia Sociologica, 1: 115–138 Teampău, Petruţa (2009). ‘Sulina – oraşul de la capătul lumii,’ Ion Cuceu, ed., Alternative antropologice şi etnologice în cercetarea culturilor. Studii şi comunicări, Cluj Napoca: EFES, 339–350. Teampău, Petruţa (2009). Sulina- the City of Memories, http://europeancityseminars. blogspot.com/2009/03/petruta-teampau-sulina-city-of-memories.html Teampău, Petruţa and Kristof Van Assche (2008/2009). ‘Sulina, sulina/when there’s water, there’s no light. Narrative, memory and autobiography in a Romanian town, in Identities,’ Journal for Politics, Gender, and Culture, 7(1–2): 33–70. Teampău, Petruţa and Kristof Van Assche (2007). ‘Sulina, a dying city in a vital region. Memory, nostalgia, and the longing for the European future,’ Ethnologia Balkanica, 11(1): 257–278.

Chapter 8

(In)Accessible Land The Changing Practice and Regulation of Gardening in the Reed Beds of Ukraine’s Danube Delta Tanya Richardson Introduction The saying “a boat is a second pair of legs” attests to the significance of water and water resources in the life of Vilkovo. Indeed, the name Vilkovo has been synonymous with abundant and valuable fish resources through most of the settlement’s 250-year history. More recently, the Danube Delta town has acquired global recognition for the biodiversity of its wetland environments, which culminated in the creation of a UNESCO-designated UkrainianRomanian Transboundary Biosphere Reserve. In contrast, the cultivation of household gardens along the banks of the reed beds is a form of resource use outsiders are less aware of and, in contrast to fishing, has not yet been the subject of detailed study. Yet the transformation of the practice and regulation of gardening is a window onto the changing dynamics of resource value and access in Vilkovo, and in rural Ukraine more generally. Household gardens have existed along the banks of the Danube’s many branches near Vilkovo since at least the late nineteenth century but they expanded considerably during the late Soviet period when they became a major source of household income. As late as the 1970s, the gardens were located on land that was perceived by many as “no one’s”—belonging neither to the state nor to the fishing collective nor to a collective farm—even though they officially belonged to the Forest Service. Although island gardens have remained an important source of household food and income for many residents after the fall of socialism, over the last 10 years gardeners have encountered a number of obstacles in maintaining them. First, it has become significantly more difficult for gardeners to make an income from growing 197

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produce on their land, leading many residents to abandon them. Second, state regulatory regimes introduced in the 1990s and 2000s aimed at protecting nature and clarifying property rights have clashed, as a result of which residents have been unable to obtain formal title to their land. Third, while the viability of gardening has decreased, the value of the lands to non-locals as a site for the development of summer homes and tourism has increased. Consequently, residents have found themselves in a legal limbo looking on as wealthy outsiders use informal levers of power to acquire prime plots of land. This paper examines the interrelations between the changing value of land in Vilkovo and mechanisms shaping the ability of residents and non-residents to acquire and maintain access to garden plots in the reed beds of Ukraine’s Danube Delta. It is based on ethnographic fieldwork carried out in Vilkovo during June 2008, between October and November 2009, and in May 2010 as part of a long-term project on biodiversity conservation and natural resource use in the Ukrainian part of the Danube Delta.1 I argue that in order to make sense of the changes in the value of land and the conditions of access we need to attend to two key issues. First, we need to address the relationship between gardening and the changing political economy of agriculture in the Soviet and post-Soviet periods. Ukraine’s opening up to new markets and the withdrawal of state subsidies for transportation, fuel, food-processing and social welfare has had a dramatic impact on the ability of many gardeners to afford basic inputs to gardening (such as gas for their boats) and make an income. The second key issue in understanding the acquisition and maintenance of access to island gardens is the existence of overlapping and contradictory regulatory regimes in a context where informal politics predominates. Although informal practices (blat) were a key feature of Soviet life, in the post-Soviet period, the centrality of wealth and money in actors’ ability to seek particular benefits has increased. As a result of the legal limbo of the gardens, and the significance of informal politics in the post-Soviet context (Allina-Pisano, 2007; Ledeneva, 2006), Vilkovo’s gardeners face a greater degree of tenure insecurity than at any time in living memory. The changing value of land in Vilkovo is part of a broader process of postsocialist agricultural transformation whereby private property regimes have been introduced in order to dismantle collectivist property relations (Humphrey and Verdery, 2004). In the Soviet period, Vilkovo’s small garden plots (usually no more than a hectare) were the equivalent of (and classified as) lichnoie podsobnoie khoziaistvo—personal subsidiary farming. These private plots were a major source of certain kinds of produce throughout the Soviet Union and existed in symbiotic relation with the collective and state farm system (Wegren, 2000; Humphrey, 1998). The massive privatization projects pursued in Eastern Europe and Eurasia after socialism’s collapse transferred vast tracts of land from state ownership to private individuals (Allina-Pisano, 2007).



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Although some private farmers have emerged, much more common has been the reconstitution of large-scale agricultural enterprises created by renting or buying up the shares of farmers who did not have access to the inputs to work their land. In this situation, many rural residents have made use of the household plots to which they received title to meet subsistence needs and generate income (Pallot and Nefedova, 2003, 2007). Yet the Vilkovo situation is somewhat different from that found in many rural areas in the former Soviet Union because gardeners had no experience of commonly held land, as no collective farm existed. Furthermore, whereas the geographical and ecological specificity of the gardens (size, location, degree of mechanization, labour requirements) enabled Vilkovo gardeners to earn more from their gardens than their fellow farmers in nearby steppe settlements in the Soviet period, the same specificity now makes it more difficult to make a living from gardens in the current environment where the price of agricultural inputs has increased and the state has withdrawn subsidies for gas and transportation. Recent anthropological work on property can help make sense of the specificities of how the value of land is transforming in Vilkovo. Value is central to questions of property (Humphrey and Verdery, 2004). Property has been defined in various ways as things, person-person relations mediated through things, and as a bundle of abstract rights (Humphrey and Verdery, 2004: 1). Western property concepts emphasize “rights” or entitlements and view the subjects of property relations as inherently rights bearing (Ibid: 5). Rights talk in western political discourse assumes particular notions of persons, things (the boundedness of persons, the thingness of things) and their relations which anthropological literature on property has unraveled and denaturalized. Unpacking these assumptions has enabled anthropologists to pinpoint the processes through which value shifts, processes that have been particularly dramatic in the postsocialist world. For example, in her examination of how market values of state-owned enterprises in Kazakhstan were established, Alexander (2004) demonstrates that value may be a quality of networks of things and institutions rather than of a single object and that value can be lost by disembedding things from the networks in which they were previously embedded. In a study of the decollectivization of agriculture in Romania, Verdery reveals how a thing (land) was transformed from being valuable (in the immediate aftermath of privatization) to being valueless (several years on) without change in ownership, simply because the surrounding conditions have changed. In doing so, she demonstrates how private property does not just involve “rights” as private property proponents insist, but also risk, obligation, and liability (Verdery, 2004). Both Alexander and Verdery identify dynamics that are also visible in Vilkovo, namely the ways in which the disembedding of gardens from networks and changing conditions around it can lead to loss of value.

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While anthropological analyses of the property concept are useful in unraveling conceptions of ownership and the transformation of the value of land, the concept of access as theorized in political ecology helps pinpoint the politics and power relations surrounding land use. Analyzing this particular case through the prism of access is useful for two main reasons. First, it allows for a more careful unraveling of the political factors that have enabled particular kinds of people (locals, non-locals) to acquire and dispose of land under different property regimes. Second, it opens up possibilities for analyzing illicit and informal practices of gaining, controlling, and maintaining access to land, practices which, in different ways, have characterized access to gardens for decades. Ribot and Peluso define access as “the ability to benefit from things” (153), an approach which broadens property’s classical definition as “the right to benefit from things.” In their formulation, access is more like “a bundle of powers” which enables actors to gain, control and maintain access than “a bundle of rights”—property’s classical definition (153–154). Their notion of access draws attention to all of the ways in which a person is able to benefit from things—not just the socially acknowledged and supported claims or rights as implied by the notion of property. In this theory of access, property is one set of factors in a larger set of “institutions, social and political-economic relations, and discursive strategies” that shape the flows of benefits (157). Ribot and Peluso outline two broad categories of mechanisms of access: rights-based access (which includes both legal and illegal forms) and structural and relational mechanisms. Their view of rights-based mechanisms includes both legal and illegal dimensions. Laws and policies affecting access include zoning, licenses, permits, quotas, taxes, anti-trust laws, production seasons, species protections, laws of national domain, dumping laws, and price fixing but often contradict each other (162). Illegal mechanisms enable actors to obtain benefits from things in ways that are not socially sanctioned through coercion or stealth. Ribot and Peluso identify a series of structural and relational access mechanisms such as technology, capital, markets, labour, knowledge, authority, identities and social relations which they see as “political-economic and cultural frames within which access to resource is sought” (164). While the latter is a bit of a catch-all category, the subcategories are nevertheless useful for identifying factors that have shaped the embedding and disembedding of gardens in broader networks. This, in turn, can allow for specifying changes in how the residents and non-residents of Vilkovo are able to obtain and maintain access to island gardens. In order to track the transformation of the gardens’ value and access to them, this paper begins by situating gardening in the history, geography, and ecology of the Ukrainian part of the Danube Delta. The second part of this paper discusses some distinguishing features of gardeners’ perceptions of



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land and labour. Unlike rural smallholders elsewhere in Ukraine, Vilkovo’s gardeners have not had the experience of working land collectively. Further, in contrast to farmers on the steppe, the gardeners (or their ancestors) actually “made” their land by digging up the reed beds. Consequently, they have a highly individualized, almost Lockean, experience of land ownership. In the third section, I examine how changes in the ways in which gardens are embedded in a broader agricultural political economy and how the development of tourism in the region has transformed the value of land for garden owners. The final section of this paper examines the impact of the legal ambiguity created by the introduction of contradictory environmental and property rights regulation on the ability of different actors to obtain and maintain access to island gardens. As a result of the legal uncertainty, and because wealthy outsiders are better positioned to make use of informal levers of power, gardeners are unable to secure their claim to their plots and have in some cases been forced to sell their land at a lower price than they otherwise would. The re-valuation of resources in Vilkovo is a double-edged, contradictory process that can undermine local residents’ ability to access it while empowering outsiders to take control of it. On the History and Geography of a Fluid Landscape The processes transforming the value of gardens and access to them need to be situated against the backdrop of the town’s history, the history of Soviet agriculture, and the ecology of the Danube Delta’s reed beds. Vilkovo is a town of roughly 9,000 residents located in the Ukraine’s Kilia District in the southern part of the Odessa Oblast near the Romanian (and EU) border.2 Vilkovo, initially called Lypovanskoie, was settled in the mid-eighteenth century by Old Believers (Lypovans) who were fleeing persecution and by Ukrainian Cossacks who moved southwards to the border of the Russian and Ottoman Empires after the break up of the Zaporizhian Sich (SilantevaSkorobogatova, 1996). Since the establishment of Vilkovo as a settlement in the mid 1700s, state boundaries have shifted back and forth numerous times. Consequently, residents have found themselves part of (and sometimes divided between) the Russian Empire, the Ottoman Empire, Romania, the Soviet Union and Ukraine.3 Whereas Vilkovo and the neighboring village of Prymorskoie were settled at roughly the same time (Prigarin, 2010: 108–111), the settlements along the Ankundinov and other channels likely appeared in the nineteenth century (Prigarin, personal communication). Old Believers were initially attracted to the lower Danube because of its distance from centers of power (hence persecution) and because of the presence of rich fishing

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stocks (see Prigarin this volume). Fishing has been the foundation of the livelihoods of Lypovans in this part of the delta (and elsewhere) for centuries. However, at least as early as the latter half of the nineteenth century, some residents of Vilkovo cultivated gardens and orchards on the islands near the town. One gardener’s family history suggests that some residents of Vilkovo moved to Ankundinov because they did not inherit land in town and could not afford to buy it. Prior to the Soviet period, strict ethno-confessional boundaries were maintained in the town. There were distinct “Ukrainian” and “Lypovan” districts in Vilkovo. Lypovans lived in the area adjacent to the Belgorod Canal crisscrossed by an intricate network of human-made canals and on the islands of the delta. Significant blurring of ethno-confessional boundaries occurred during the Soviet period, though residents still have a strong sense of two distinct parts to the town and distinct ethno-confessional identities. Prior to 1969, Vilkovo consisted of the main town along both sides of the Belgorod Canal, small settlements on along the Ankundinov (which had a school and house of culture) and Poludionyi channels, and scattered residents along the Bystroe, Starostambul and Ochakov branches. Elderly residents’ testimonies suggest that prior to 1944, it was primarily residents of Ankundinov and Poludionyi who engaged in gardening whereas residents of Vilkovo proper were mainly involved in activities related to fishing or commerce and relatively rarely combined this with gardening. However, during the 1946/47 famine, a number of Vilkovchani created gardens for the purposes of survival, while others took up gardening later on in the fifties and sixties for personal consumption and marketing purposes. After a major flood in 1969 submerged the islands and large parts of the town, many of the approximately 200 people living along Ankundinov, Poludionyi and other branches relocated to Vilkovo proper (most often to the old town near a canal to provide them easy access to water). Nevertheless, Ankundinov residents retain a strong place-based identity which emphasizes not only their gardening abilities, but also their exceptional capacity for hard work, their mastery of a multiplicity of skills, and their toughness. The lower Danube region received considerable attention from the Soviet authorities out of a strategic concern to protect this new border area. They invested heavily in developing agriculture, transportation and industry in the region. Residents obtained opportunities for employment in the fishing collective and fish factory and in new areas such as the port, ship-repair factory, the labour colony, schools or other smaller enterprises. During the half century of Soviet rule, the population of Vilkovo grew to roughly 15,000 partly on account of immigration from other parts of the Soviet Union. While residents of Ankundinov and Poludionyi continued their cultivation of gardens and orchards, significant numbers of other residents created new gardens along other branches in the Danube.



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Although agriculture throughout southern Bessarabia was collectivized in the decade following World War II, the island gardens were not. These small gardens were classified as lichnoie podsobnoie khoziaistvo (personal subsidiary farming), an agricultural practice that grew out of the experience of the collectivization campaign of the 1930s (Pallot and Nefedova, 2007). Prior to collectivization, peasant households produced food for their own consumption on a household plot, a practice that had its roots in the Stolypin Reforms (Pallot and Nefedova, 2007). During collectivization, peasants resisted state attempts to get them to surrender all land including household plots, and eventually a compromise was struck: peasants were allowed to keep a small piece of land when they joined collectives. This practice continued so that subsequently, as new households formed, they were allocated their own plot (uchastok). For the first two decades after collectivization, this land was used mainly for personal consumption. However, it became a permanent part of the Soviet agricultural-food system in the post-Stalin years and made a major contribution to overall food production in the country, especially fruit, vegetable, meat, and dairy products. The Soviet leadership was uncomfortable with the importance of the sector in providing food products but nevertheless tolerated it. Indeed, the symbiotic relationship between the two sectors (whereby peasants received wage-supplementing inputs for their gardens in exchange for poorly-paid work on farms) is considered a defining feature of Soviet agriculture (Humphrey, 1998). In the post-War period, residents initially focused on growing potatoes, carrots, beets and other vegetables for their own families. However, in the 1960s and 1970s, the emphasis (of many) shifted to crops such as grapes, apples, quince, pears, plums, currents, squash, and strawberries, which could be sold to food processing enterprises or transported by residents themselves to sell at markets in other towns and cities. Gardeners who produce for the market often specialize in one or two crops and often exchange a portion of these crops for potatoes, wheat, or other crops grown in nearby villages. Proskovia Mishurnovaia, a gardener in her late 70s, recalled that although gardeners tended orchards under the Romanians, they seldom grew grapes or strawberries. She recalled that Vilkovchani began to grow grapes (novak) and strawberries more frequently in the early 1950s after someone brought new varieties from the neighboring village of Liski. This gradual shift to growing crops for sale at markets corresponded with a move under Leonid Brezhnev to promote agricultural and production interests (Wegren, 2000: 49). This included increasing the state purchase prices and subsidies to farms and liberalizing conditions for the operation household plots. This, in turn, led to an increase in the output and sales at collective farm markets and higher family incomes (ibid). Island gardens are located along the banks of Ankundinov, Belgorod, Prorva, Ochakov, Srednyi, and Starostambul branches of the Kilia arm of

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the Danube near the town of Vilkovo. The 96 hectares of garden plots on the islands in the Kilia Delta are currently divided between 320 owners (Kovalenko et al, 2009: 351). While the largest plots range between one and two hectares, most are much smaller. Gardens also exist within the town itself. However, whereas the town gardens officially fall within the administrative boundaries of Vilkovo, the island gardens do not. This was not a significant distinction in the Soviet period or in the 1990s. However, after the Land Code came into effect on January 1, 2002, individuals began seeking title to their land. While residents with gardens in town have been able to obtain formal title to their land residents with island gardens cannot, because their gardens are not technically part of the town (see below). The island gardens can only be reached by motor or row boat. Furthermore, while gardens along the Belgorod canal may be reached without going through border control (which is located at the point where the Belgorod Canal branches off from the Kilia arm), residents must pass through border control and cross the “great Danube” (the Kilia arm) to reach gardens on the Ankundinov, Prorva, Ochakov, Sredniy and Starostambul branches. By motorboat this can take anywhere from 20–40 minutes depending on the location of the garden. The Kilia Delta in which the reed beds are located begins below Vilkovo. It is the youngest part of the Danube Delta and has some of the youngest land on the European continent. This part of the delta has existed for roughly 400 years, although the areas closer to the Black Sea have existed for no more than 150 years and some sandy islands at the mouth of the river are only 10 years old.4 The Kilia arm of the delta is the main arm of the Danube in terms of volume and morphology.5 At Vilkovo, the Kilia arm divides up into a system of branches that form part of the Danube River’s marine delta. Here, 18 km from the Black Sea, the Belgorod branch splits off and runs through Vilkovo while the Kilia arm divides into the Ochakov and Starostambul branches, the latter of which is the main branch. These, in turn, divide into 14 smaller branches: Poludionyi, Ankundinov, Bystroe, Vostochnyi, Limba, etc. The 14 branches of the Kilia Delta are dynamic and changing in terms of their width, depth, and strength of flow, depending on the deposit of silt (Kovalenko et al, 2009: 66–67). The main factor in the formation of the Kilia Delta is the huge quantity of silt suspended in the water, which is deposited as the river slows as it meets the sea. The inner parts of the Ukrainian delta are fresh water whereas the parts of the delta to the north and east are influenced by the presence of salt water. The reed beds that form between the branches of the river in the delta have a dish-like shape in that they are higher around the edges and lower in the middle. This form is created along the riverbanks (as a result of the deposit of silt during flooding) and seashore (as a result of the wave action of the sea). The interiors of the islands are lower and under water for a large part



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of the year, and are characterized by a mix of reeds and other wetland plants, ponds, and small naturally forming canals. The islands contain both clay and clay-organic soils. The clay soils are found along the periphery of the islands where the ground water is 10–25 cm below the surface, whereas the organicclay soil is found closer to the centre of the islands (Hanganu et al, 2002: 19). There are distinct periods of flooding. In the lower part of the Danube, the highest levels of water occur in the period of flooding during April and May (although in specific years the water level during winter floods may be higher) while the lowest levels occur in September and October (Ibid). All island gardens are administratively part of the Danube Biosphere Reserve and the Vilkovo Forest Service. The Danube Biosphere Reserve (DBR) was created in 1998 by Presidential Decree on the basis of the Dunaiskii Plavni Nature Reserve and is administratively part of the National Academy of Sciences. The Dunaiskii Plavni Nature Reserve was created in 1981 and comprised 14,851 hectares. With the creation of the DBR in 1998 the area of the reserve was expanded to include all of the islands in the Kilia Delta, Ermakov Island, and the Stentsovsko-Zhebryanski Plavni (reed bed) and comprised 46,402.9 hectares. With the addition of the lands north of Lake Sasyk in 2004, the area of the DBR is now 50,252.9 hectares. It now completely surrounds the town of Vilkovo and borders on a number of other villages such as Liski and Prymorskoie. The territories included in the DBR are divided into four zones (anthropogenic, buffer, zone of moderate control, zone of strict control). Of the total area, 23,380.6 hectares belong to the DBR (meaning it has a state act for these areas), 11,575 belong to the Forest Service, 2427.4 belong to the Vilkovo Town Council, and 2333.7 belong to the Liski Village council. The gardens under discussion in this paper are part of the anthropogenic zone. The gardens are also designated state forest land. Large parts of the islands of the Kilia Delta and other parts of the Kilia District belong to the Vilkovo Department of the Izmail Forestry Service, which was created in 1947 when the southern part of Odessa oblast was still part of the Izmail Oblast (which was liquidated in 1954). In 1950, the Izmail Oblast Council transferred 24,000 hectares of land to the Vilkovo Forest Service including 180 hectares of forest, 20,500 hectares of reed beds, 1,420 hectares of sandy areas, and 1,900 hectares of grassland. Of the 11,909 hectares of state forestland for which the Vilkovo department is responsible, 11,575 hectares are now part of the Danube Biosphere Reserve (Kovalenko et al, 2009: 363–64). While foresters clear away fallen trees from the banks of the islands, they largely leave the gardeners on the islands to their own devices. Nevertheless, they distinguish between two kinds of island gardens depending on whether they belong to individuals whose families have gardened that plot since before World War II or whether they were created during the Soviet period. The

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gardens created prior to World War II are located along the Ankundinov and Poludionyi branches. Most of the gardens that appeared after World War II are located along the Belgorod, Ochakiv, and Starostambul branches. Whereas the gardens that were created in the Soviet period are officially state forest land and identified on maps as “samozakhvat” (self-occupation). The Forest Service acknowledges that the existing gardens on the delta islands belong to the families who work them and is in favor of clarifying the legal situation so that they can obtain title to that land. “By Hand and by Boat”: Perceptions of Land and Labour in Island Gardens Gardeners’ perceptions of the land and labour involved in gardening shares much in common with farmers elsewhere in rural Ukraine. Yet, unlike other rural farmland, the gardens were neither allocated by nor part of a collective farm. Rather, residents (or their ancestors) created the gardens out of reed beds, which were classified in the late 1940s as belonging to the Forest Service. The specific qualities of the labour involved in accessing and maintaining gardens seems to generate highly individualized, Lockean understandings of property and ownership. Moreover, gardeners share a concept of personhood that stresses labour and autonomy, which is now being challenged by the transformation in the value of land. While scholars might debate the issue of whether gardening is a “rational economic strategy” or a “deeply felt cultural practice,” both dimensions are evident in the gardening practices in Vilkovo (Caldwell, 2004; Pine and Bridger, 1997; Smith and Stenning, 2006). The ways in which gardeners had obtained access to their particular plots was highly varied. Until at least the 1970s, the factors shaping access were, in Ribot and Peluso’s terms, structural and relational rather than rights-based. If residents had access to basic tools (boat, shovel) and labour, they faced few obstacles to creating a garden. Some gardeners, now in their fifties, are the third or fourth generation to be working on a particular plot of land. Nikolai Izotov (56) explained that his paternal great-grandparents had moved from Vilkovo to Ankundinov prior to the October Revolution to dig a garden because the family plot in town could not be divided any further. Nikolai’s father gave two of the three rows that he inherited to his son [Nikolai], one to his a niece, and sold the final one to an acquaintance. Nikolai intended to buy back the piece that had been sold to the neighbor in order to enlarge his garden. In a second case, Angela (40) and her mother abandoned a large productive garden that was one of the last gardens along the Ankundinov branch because the population of boars had increased. Angela’s mother purchased one row further upstream. After her mother’s death in the early 2000s, Angela



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had purchased a second row. Proskovia (78), the elderly gardener mentioned earlier, is the descendant of a fisherman and a gardener. In her childhood, her immediate family was not involved in gardening. However, in 1947 Proskovia and her sister dug up a garden on the Starostambul branch next to her mother’s sister’s garden during the famine to grow food simply to survive. Later on Proskovia and her husband also gardened a plot on the Belgorod Canal that belonged to a relative. This couple abandoned their garden in 2006 because they no longer had the physical strength to work it. In narrating how a garden can be created out of a reed bed, gardeners seem to quite literally manifest John Locke’s conception of property as the mixing of land and labour. When residents of Vilkovo talk about their gardens they underscore the labour involved not only in cultivating and maintaining their garden, but also in creating the land in the first place. Whereas the land on the steppe had existed for eternity, they explain, their land is the product of their own physical labour. All gardeners stressed that they (or their relatives) “had made land with their own hands” and had “conquered” (otvoiovovali) the land either “from water,” “from the plavni” or “from the sea.” While some people in recent years have used an excavator to dig up new gardens, until recently, people dug up their gardens by hand, using only shovels, and small carts for transporting the mud. The land is not created once and for all through these efforts. Because the land is young, it sinks. Rain and flooding can wash soil away. Therefore, a garden plot must be continually raised and enriched and added to by digging up the mud and silt of the ditch (ideally every fall when it is dry, but at least every three to four years) and spreading it over the garden. From the point of view of gardening “high” plots are more valuable because they are less vulnerable to flooding (though if they are too high certain crops such as strawberries will not grow well). However, even high plots can be inundated during severe floods, as happened in 2006 when fruit trees and strawberries in particular were badly damaged. The individualized conception of ownership is accentuated not only by the labour required to create the garden in the first place, but also in the island-like form the gardens have when the ditches are full of water, and the arrangement of crops on the plot. A garden may consist of one or more plots (griadki) separated by ditches (kanavy or yeriki) roughly 5–10 meters wide and 100–150 meters long. They are created by digging into the plavni from the shore of the river and throwing up the mud and silt onto one side and the other, in this way creating two rows. Usually new gardens are created in the late summer and fall when the water level is lower. This enables the gardener to better assess the appropriate height for the garden (if it is too low it will be flooded; if it is too high it will be too dry). Generally speaking, gardens closer to the town are higher while those further away are lower. However, the different plots in one garden may be of different heights. Gardeners also

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periodically extend the length of their plots to increase the area available for cultivation. Gardeners boast about the quality of soil on their land and point out how their use of silt means they do not have to use artificial fertilizers. Every garden is an individual creation in terms of the arrangement of the orchard, grapes, crops for personal consumption, and ditches. Indeed, in response to my comment that every garden was arranged differently one gardener said: “Everyone does it in their own way” (Kazhdyi delaet po svoiemu). Moreover, gardeners in the same family sometimes differentiate which part of the garden belongs to whom, and who gets the money from the sale of a particular batch of grapes, apples or strawberries. To be an ogorodnik (gardener)—particularly from Ankundinov—is a social identity as much as an economic profession. Moreover, the notion of ogorodnik appears to be tied to a particular notion of personhood that emphasizes the capacity for hard labour, cultivation, and self-sufficiency. Insiders and outsiders stressed that Vilkovchani and ogorodniki in particular were distinguished by an exceptional capacity for hard work. The gardeners also underscored that while the quality of land on the islands was superior because of the proximity of silt for fertilizing the soil, the island gardens involved an exceptional amount of work because everything had to be done “by hand” and everything (equipment, harvest) hauled to and from the garden “by boat.” Whereas tractors and trucks might be used in similar gardens in neighboring towns, this was not an option for these island gardens. Consequently, tilling the soil was done by shovel, clearing tall grass and reeds on overgrown plots was done by scythe, while weeding vegetable and strawberry crops was done using a knife. Gardeners are in a constant battle with reeds, grasses, and other plants common to reed beds. If a garden is not maintained, it quickly becomes overgrown. Harvesting, they underscored, involved the additional work of hauling boxes and baskets of fruit in and out of lodki (wooden boats four to six meters in length) at the island and in town. If the owner has a motor, then the trips back and forth to town are effortless (though costly). However, many people still row their boats because they do not have a motor or because the gas for the motor is too expensive for their household budget. Those whose families have gardened for generations—who are from Ankundinov—derive considerable pleasure from their labour despite its hardships, profess strong ties to their gardens and orchards, and relish the time spent away from the public gaze of townsfolk. Angela enjoys the wide variety of tasks involved in gardening, particularly caring for her apple trees. Proskovia, who no longer gardens, misses it acutely and often dreams of being on her plot. Gardeners like Angela were upset that gardeners’ labour was no longer valued—evidence of which they saw in low food prices relative to the price of inputs and their inability to make ends meet. While they also lamented a generational shift in which young people were no



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longer interested in or able to do the hard physical labour of gardening, they understood those who sought to make money in other ways. Given the links drawn in rural areas across the former Soviet Union between landownership and labour and the centrality of labour to Soviet notions of citizenship, the importance of labour in conceptions of Vilkovo gardeners’ personhood and ownership is neither surprising nor unique (Perrotta, 2000: 168). Yet local conceptions of the extra labour involved in cultivation accentuates Vilkovo gardeners’ highly individualized experience of land and ownership (even though it is perhaps not as exclusivist as the ideology of private property informing privatization policies). From Labour to Leisure? The Changing Value of Gardens after Socialism The ability of gardeners to maintain access to their island plots has been challenged by the transformation of the rural political economy after the fall of socialism. Under socialism, gardeners in Vilkovo were able to make a substantial income from the gardens even relative to farmers on the nearby steppe because of the particular ways in which they were embedded in broader networks, the scale and organization of cultivation, and the low cost of inputs. Under postsocialism, as the configuration of these networks has transformed and the cost of inputs has risen, many island gardeners face even greater challenges than their rural counterparts in the steppe in holding on to their garden. Although the value of gardens for productive purposes has declined, in recent years some gardeners have been able to use their gardens to make money from an incipient tourist economy. In the Soviet period, gardeners were able to generate considerable income from gardening because of the specific ways in which they were embedded in agricultural networks. In the post-Stalin period, collective and state farm output market was regulated by the state through a delivery system. Purchases by the state provided a ready-made market for food producers, which meant they avoided the necessity and cost of finding customers themselves (Wegren, 2000: 51). The state controlled the wholesale market for farm inputs, which meant that they were sold at subsidized prices (Wegren, 2000: 53). In Vilkovo, the small size of the gardens meant that families rarely needed to hire additional labour or equipment. This, in combination with their location relative to markets and inter-city water transportation infrastructure, the availability of state employment, and the low cost of inputs (gas, plants, pesticides, registration of boats) created favorable conditions for generating income. In one case, Nikolai made 2,000 rubles a year from a job at the Labour Colony and 10,000 rubles a year from selling apples and grapes. Winemaking and fruit-preserving

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enterprises set up reception points in the town to receive and pay for fruit from residents who did not want to transport their fruit to markets in Kilia, Izmail, or Odessa. For the more entrepreneurial gardeners, the existence of an effective sea and river transportation system made it relatively easy, cheap and convenient to transport fruit and vegetables to Odessa, Mykolaiv, Kilia, Izmail and Reni. Vilkovchani could charge high prices for a week or so at the beginning of the season; in Odessa in the late 1970s, a kilogram of strawberries cost 17 rubles a kilogram while a monthly student stipend was 40 rubles. Meanwhile, developments in Soviet agronomy gave residents relatively easy access to new kinds of apples, pears, plums and strawberries. The end of socialism hit Vilkovo hard, as it did many small towns and rural areas across the post-Soviet world (Wegren, 2000). Most state enterprises have closed. Of the major ones, the Ust Dunaisk Port no longer functions. The ship-repairing factory laid off half of its staff. Over the course of the 1990s, the fish factory and fishing collective, which together employed roughly 800 people, gradually went bankrupt and were closed. The crumbling buildings and unmaintained yards of both enterprises along the Belgorod canal are a striking feature of the townscape and a sign of the radical transformation that has occurred over the past two decades. At the beginning of the new millennium, some new forms of employment emerged in the reed harvesting and tourism sectors. However, this work is seasonal and often temporary, while the permanent staff of the reed firms is usually small (4–5 people). Ten fishing firms have taken the place of the fishing collective but no fish processing plant has emerged. There is little employment in town for people with a higher education. As a result, the town has seen significant emigration to Odessa and further afield. A number of residents joked that things had gone full circle, back to where they were in 1944. With the dismantling of the state socialist system, the conditions for producing on the islands became much more difficult, a situation which parallels that found in rural areas in Eastern Europe more generally (Verdery, 2004). Selling one’s produce is much more complicated and expensive as there are no longer guaranteed state receiving points for plums, apples, pears, quince, and grapes. Meanwhile, the cost of pesticides and transportation has increased. Inexpensive Soviet-produced pesticides have recently run out, meaning that to spray one needs to buy expensive imports. Moreover, prices for petrol have increased exponentially, making the daily trips to and from the garden expensive. The costs of registering a boat and docking it have also increased dramatically in recent years. In 2005, it cost 65 hryvnias annually to register a boat. In 2009, the price was 528 hryvnias (roughly the equivalent of the average monthly pension). With the privatization of the docks in town, the price of just tying up a boat has jumped roughly the same amount, to the outrage of most residents. The price of new motors and their repair has also



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gone up. In some cases gardeners have switched back to their rowboats to save money. Meanwhile, the cost of public transport has increased relative to income while the river and sea transportation infrastructure has ceased to exist. According to the DBR, roughly 30 percent of island gardens have been abandoned due to the costs associated with gardening and the difficulties in generating income.6 If grapes, apples, and strawberries furnished a reliable source of income under socialism and even to some extent in the 1990s, gardeners pointed out that the price paid for grapes had fallen to such a degree by 2008 that, residents had let them rot on the vines rather than waste money, time, and energy on harvesting them. In the fall of 2009, a gardener could sell grapes for 1,000 hryvnias a ton ($125 US). At the Vilkovo and Kilia markets, depending on the size, sort, and degree of blemishing, apples fetched a price of between two and six hryvnias a kilogram. Some apple growers sold their harvest wholesale in Vilkovo to buyers so they did not have to transport it to market or worry about storage. Storage for fresh fruit is a major problem not only in Vilkovo, but also more broadly. With one exception, apple growers did not have any mechanized refrigerators for storing their produce. This meant that, depending on the variety of apple, they had to sell their produce as quickly as possible. Depending on the size of their crop and the demand for fruit, they lowered prices as the fall season advanced in order to sell all the apples. Some apple growers continued to take their apples to nearby villages to exchange them for potatoes or flour (that villagers had received for renting out their share of the former collective to an agricultural enterprise). As a result of the lack of storage facilities throughout the winter and summer months, the apples available for sale in Ukrainian markets were imported primarily from Poland. Gardeners claimed that if Ukraine were to follow Poland in developing its own storage infrastructure, they too would be able to sell their apples in winter. The transformation of structural-relational mechanisms of access—in other words, the disembedding of gardening from particular networks (Alexander, 2004)—has transformed many gardeners’ plots into a negative asset (Verdery, 2004). Despite the overall decline in the value of land for agricultural production, some gardeners have been able to continue generating an income from growing strawberries. As a result of Vilkovo’s southern location, growers are able to take advantage of higher prices for an early crop. A special variety grown in Vilkovo (zornitsia) is known for its sweetness and succulence and is appreciated by city-dwellers in Odessa and further afield. However, there are considerable risks associated with shifting to strawberry cultivation, particularly for island gardens. Firstly, the gardens sometimes flood (which they did in 2006), which can destroy the entire crop. Secondly, the islands’ wild boar populations are also is capable of ruining a season’s crop. To protect

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a garden, the gardener must ensure someone is present at all times in order to scare off the boars. The presence of boars was attributed to the fact that significant numbers of gardens had been abandoned, and so there were fewer people around to frighten them away or hunt them (which is not actually legal). In one case, Nadia, a gardener in her 50s, had previously grown only vegetables for her personal consumption, which meant that she scarcely bought anything at the market. Her daughters convinced her to switch to growing strawberries so that she could get some cash income from her crop. The first year she planted her strawberries (fall of 2005) her crop was lost during the flood of 2006. This meant she had to invest in new plants and that her harvest of vegetables for home use was smaller, meaning she had to buy more at the market (4). Increasingly, individual gardeners who transported strawberries to Odessa were facing problems actually getting access to the market place. The representatives of one large-scale strawberry-producing enterprise had had them banned from selling in the main part of the Pryvoz market of Odessa. In 2009 they were forced to sell at the wholesale market, which operates at night. One entrepreneur had threatened that he would make sure that they would not even be able to sell there the following year. However, in the spring of 2010, they still had access to the wholesale market. This gradual squeezing out of household gardeners from city markets is part of a broader trend whereby middlemen have take up pivotal position in the marketing of agricultural produce. The situation around selling strawberries in Vilkovo and Liski illustrates high degree of variability and growing differentiation among rural dwellers engaged in small-scale farming (Nefedova and Pallot, 2007). It also reveals changes taking place in how smallholders access markets and the advantages of different kinds of smallholding in the late socialist period and the 2000s. Whereas in the context of late Soviet socialism, the individualized gardening practices in Vilkovo produced higher earnings than the larger household plots in agricultural collectives, now smallholders in villages where collectives have been reconstituted can access inputs (knowledge of an agronomist, transportation infrastructure) that are not available in Vilkovo. This in turn contributes to the fall in the value of the land in Vilkovo for the purposes of gardening. While the value of land as an asset for engaging in agriculture has fallen dramatically its value as a landscape of leisure (primarily for non-residents) has increased, as it has in other rural areas in Ukraine and elsewhere. While some gardeners have been willing to take advantage of these opportunities, others are more ambivalent. Some gardeners are beginning to make use of their garden plot as a place to bring tourists for picnics or for overnight excursions. Nikolai is one such private tour operator. In 2007, while taking a break from work on his orchard, he saw an acquaintance go by with tourists in his boat. Nikolai asked his acquaintance how much he was making



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by ferrying tourists around for an hour and was floored when the response was 200 hryvnias. He thought of the cost of the inputs (gas, pesticides, and grafts) into his orchard and the labour he had to undertake in order to make 200 hryvnias at the market selling his apples. This inspired him to try his hand as a private tour operator offering boat tours in the delta. Some of Nikolai’s fellow gardeners joked that he was “running around after an easy ruble,” a comment which suggests some ambivalence about tourism as a way of making money and the emphasis on labour in the gardeners’ conception of personhood. Nikolai is extremely sociable and he enjoys his work with tourists immensely. However, because the tourist season runs through the spring and summer, he can spend less time on his orchard, which suffers, much to his chagrin. Nevertheless, he will not give up tending his orchard because he has looked after it all his life, enjoys caring for the trees, and feels an obligation to tend an orchard that his family created. Alexander (Nikolai’s cousin) and his wife Natasha, one of a handful of couples who live permanently on the island of Ankundinov, have decided to receive tourists at their home as bed and breakfast guests. In the summer of 2009, some tourists asked them if they could stay and paid what they thought was decent money ($10 per night). For Natasha, the return on the labour involved in receiving guests was high compared with what she was used to receiving by working in her garden. Alexander was less enthusiastic. He claimed that gardening kept them fit and was not keen to have to constantly look after guests. These examples illustrate some of the tensions that inhere in the shifting values accorded to gardens as a place of leisure. Whereas Nikolai and Natasha relish the income to be gained from tourists, Alexander seems to balk at the change in personhood—more specifically the loss of autonomy—that hosting visitors requires. Moreover, despite Nikolai’s enthusiasm for tourism, he is unwilling to give up the work tending his orchard because of its deep connection to his personal and social identity. As the networks in which gardening was embedded during socialism transformed, for some residents, gardens became a liability rather than an asset, not unlike the situation Verdery describes in Vlaicu, Romania (146). As a result, some gardeners in effect lost access to their gardens in that they have abandoned or sold them. The decision to abandon or sell a garden is painful. One gardener stated, “I poured half my life into that garden!” while another explained, “my heart bled when I sold my garden.” The transformation of island gardens’ value in Vilkovo differed from the dynamics Verdery witnessed in Vlaicu as a result of the absence in Vilkovo of a collective or state farm, the fact that most gardens were worked by couples and families, and Vilkovo’s potential for tourism and leisure. Some gardeners in Vilkovo are able to generate a good income. However, in the postsocialist period, overall the structural and relational factors that affect access to land (knowledge of

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agronomy, technology, markets, etc.) appear to disadvantage Vilkovo’s gardeners in relation to those in nearby Liski and other villages with agricultural enterprises. (In)Accessible Gardens: Regulating Resources, Restricting Rights The transformation of the ways in which gardening has been embedded and disembedded from the socialist and postsocialist agricultural political economy has had tremendous impact on the ability of gardeners to extract value from their land. In parallel, the proliferation of laws and regulation in the 1990s and 2000s has significantly affected the ability of residents and non-residents to obtain and maintain access to island gardens. Prior to the 1970s, access was conditioned primarily by structural and relational factors. However, the regulation of gardens has gradually expanded since the 1970s, and has intensified in the last 15 years with the introduction of the contradictory, overlapping regulation of the Land and Water Codes. As a result, gardeners who want to hold on to their gardens cannot get formal title to their land, while wealthy outsiders can use the uncertain legal environment to offer low prices to gardeners and conclude long-term rental agreements with the local state administration. The overlap of contradictory regulation aimed at titling and environmental protection is not unique to the situation in Vilkovo (Sikor, 2006; Wenk, 2009). Yet, while the scholarship on conflicts over resources is extensive, as are examples of resource users subverting regulation, detailed analyses of the effects of overlapping, contradictory regulation are surprisingly scarce. What stands out in the Vilkovo case is the impact of the practice of informal politics and the residents’ suspicions that these practices are being used, even when they lack evidence to confirm it. Although I have not yet located documentary evidence of regulation of this part of the Danube Delta prior to the 1950s, given the geographical marginality of this location, it is likely that ecology, technology, labour and knowledge were the barriers to gardening in the reed beds, rather than laws or regulations. Among the gardeners I have met whose families have long resided on Ankundinov, the earliest official proof of residence they possess is a resident’s book (domovaia kniga), which dates from the Soviet era. In the Soviet period, given that this land was zoned as forest but consisted of reeds the forest officials were lax about monitoring activities and the creation of gardens as they viewed the reed beds as lacking the potential for producing forest (Vasilii Fedorenko, personal communication). Thus, residents were able to make land and extract benefit (unofficial income) from it, precisely because it represented little or no value to the state.



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In the 1970s, local and district authorities attempted to “bring some order” to the gardens—in other words, clarify their ownership status and make them legible to state institutions (Scott, 1998). In speaking about the gardens, the ex-mayor Nikolai Bassov seemed to be unaware of the fact that these areas were counted as belonging to the Forest Service: “These gardens appeared spontaneously (stikhino). They weren’t registered anywhere. It was not state land. It was not part of any collective farm. For a long time no one could decide how they should be documented. During the 1970s, a general plan of Vilkovo was created which encompassed the existing town but not the islands.” In the 1970s and 1980s, people began turning to the city council for resolutions (razreshenie) to affirm their positions as the owner (khoziain) of their particular plots of land. Obtaining this resolution required gardeners to pay taxes on the land, even though the garden was outside the town limits. These taxes were lower than the taxes paid in neighboring villages. One gardener speculated that this was because people had made the land themselves. If individuals wanted to transfer the land to someone else, they would need to declare to the city council that they would give up their claim to the land while the person acquiring the land would also made a declaration indicating that he or she was acquiring it. The city then passed a resolution recognizing this transfer. While gardeners whose parents lived on the island often have a domovaia kniga, these city council resolutions and their tax records are often the only documentation that others gardeners have which justifies their claims to their gardens. Some have no documentation at all. The introduction of the Land Code in 2002 had a major transformative effect on the value of land in Vilkovo and Ukraine as a whole as well as on the rights based mechanisms used for obtaining and maintaining access too it. It laid the foundation for the sale of non-agricultural land and the long-term rental (49 years) of agricultural land. This created the conditions for a shift in investment and strategies among the new rich from real estate to land. This corresponded with (and likely facilitated) a shift in consumption practices that has been observed throughout the postsocialist world wherein it became a symbol of status and prestige to build (often extravagant) summerhouses in prime areas along rivers and in coastal areas often in violation of environmental regulations, such as the Water Code (Ballinger 2006). The lower Danube, including Vilkovo, also attracted these buyers’ attention. According to one resident who has brokered deals, the price of land increased 40 times between 2006 and 2008.7 Since the Land Code conflicts with the Water Code, gardeners have been unable to make use of mechanisms to secure access to their gardens. Outsiders’ interest in waterfront plots in town and on the islands provoked gardeners to seek out ways to formalize ownership of their land so that they could pass it on to their children. However, in their attempts to do so, they

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discovered that their plots could not be bequeathed to their children without having been privatized. After familiarizing themselves with the Land Code, they turned to the town’s land department in order to privatize their plot. To their surprise, they discovered that their lands were subject to article 85 of the Water Code, barring construction, agriculture and economic activity within 100 meters of the shoreline. Despite the fact that formal title could not be obtained for these lands, garden plots on the islands continued to change hands informally through city council resolutions until 2006. A buyer could offer to pay a resident a sum informally (with no transaction record). In exchange, the resident would formally renounce their claim to the land to the city council, the buyer would agree to take it on, and the city would pass a resolution recognizing this state of affairs. This process intensified as individuals acquired plots not only for building dachas, but also as an investment that would have higher returns when the legal situation was sorted out further down the line. Fearful that they could eventually be dispossessed from their land, four gardeners formed an association to advocate for an exception to the Water Code. When Volodymyr Lytvyn, Speaker of the Verkhovna Rada, visited the area in 2002, the gardeners submitted a letter with 200 signatures formally requesting that an exception be made to the Water Code. They received a reply stating that approval of the oblast and district land departments in the state administration was required for this exception to be made. The oblast department gave its approval for the exception but the Kilia department refused. The obstruction of this exception fits with a more general pattern of behaviour of local state officials in the land privatization process (AllinaPisano, 2007). The gardeners explained that even if the green light had been given at the district level, the legislative paralysis of the Verkhovna Rada would have meant delays in actually getting this issue brought to a vote. The reworking of blat and backroom practices in the context of new property regimes helped consolidate control of land in the hands of former directors of collective farms and keep power in the hands of local officials. Local state officials’ reluctance to support the exception in the Kilia District could stem from the fact that they stood to benefit more from the legal ambiguity around the gardens than they would if the land titling were to be formalized. The legal limbo and the informal markets create problems not only for gardeners who want to maintain their gardens, but also for those who want to or need to dispose of their land. For example, one gardener needed to sell her plot on Ankundinov in order to put her children through university. An acquaintance in Odessa agreed to pay a sum of $7,000 for her plot. This was based on the expectation that the legal situation would soon be clarified and that he could receive official title (a state act) to the land. When he could not obtain the formal title right away, he agreed to pay $3,000 in advance and



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the rest when the land was formally transferred. As prospects dimmed for a short-term solution to the legal contradiction, he began to demand the money back, which the gardener was unable to pay. In the end, after he threatened her, she allowed him to take possession of the land for $3,000 rather than $7,000. In this case, the legal uncertainty surrounding gardens had opened up an opportunity for the use of coercion as a means of obtaining access to land. The town council elected in 2005 took steps to address the legal ambiguity surrounding the island gardens. However, their efforts and different actors’ speculations about the operation of politics reveal the complicated and simultaneous employment of legal and informal measures to shift the dynamics of access to land in Vilkovo. In 2006, the town administration placed a moratorium on transferring land ownership in the hopes of curtailing the purchase of land by outsiders. In parallel, a donation by a parliamentary deputy enabled the town administration to initiate the drafting of a new general plan for the city in which the town limits were to be expanded to include the islands gardens. The goal was to change the legal status of plots previously outside city limits and enable them to be privatized. For the new general plan to be adopted, the town required official approval from the Danube Biosphere Reserve and the Forest Service. The approval of the Forest Service is particularly important since most of land that the city wants to include falls within its jurisdiction. However, much to the surprise of the DBR and the Forest Service, the city aimed to expand its territories threefold and to lay claims not only to the land that had been cultivated by city residents, but also to large areas along a number of river branches that have not been cultivated and that are close to the sensitive areas adjacent to the DBR’s core zone. DBR and Forest Service administrators speculated that town officials thought they could circumvent the process with the support of a powerful ally in Kyiv. Although the Forest Service and DBR support the expansion of the city limits to include areas that are currently gardened by the city’s residents, they are opposed to its expansion into other undeveloped areas. Representatives of both agencies suspect that this land would be sold off to wealthy outsiders (possibly the sponsor of the general plan) for private development rather than developed in ways that would benefit town residents as a whole.8 The plan was returned to the city for further elaboration, including the approval of the Forest Service. Gardeners shared similar concerns with the Forest Service and DBR. However, some gardeners suspected that certain wealthy outsiders had already informally divided up the land and had made the backroom deals with the relevant offices in Kilia State Administration that would enable them to formalize their legal claim to the gardens once the city limits expanded. Gardeners pointed to the abandonment of gardens and the increase in the average age of those working them. In their view, the authorities were in no rush to sort out

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the legal issues around the land because it was in their interest to wait until the gardeners aged to such an extent that they would no longer fight for their land. Commenting on this situation, Angela, whose only source of income is her island plot, explained that she was seriously considering trying to sell her house in town (which had no garden) for another house in town less favorably located but with a sizeable plot. She feared that her two island plots, only one of which she had a documentation for, would be appropriated by outsiders. This would leave her without an income and without a source of food. The overlapping and conflicting stipulations of the Land and Water Codes in Vilkovo have produced expanded opportunities for employing practices ranging from the informal to the illicit to gain access to resources. These practices include the informal sale of land between locals and between locals and outsiders, and the renting out of land to outsiders by the local state administration and more recently the Forest Service. The uncertainty of the situation has most often enabled outsiders to benefit (as in the case of the Odessan), while creating unfavorable conditions for locals who want to sell (lower prices) and tenure insecurity for residents who want to garden but lack documentation to prove their claim to their land. As of spring 2010, the new town plan was allegedly in its final stages of preparation. It remains to be seen whether creating the conditions for achieving formal title will create tenure security for all. Actually getting a state act is a costly and timely endeavour for those without deep pockets. Not all are likely to invest the time. New dynamics of constituting value and access will likely emerge. Conclusion This paper has examined the changing value of the gardens in the Ukraine’s Danube Delta reed beds and the factors shaping residents’ and non-residents’ ability to access them. The complex processes underlying the transformation of island gardens’ value have had contradictory effects on access to island gardens in Vilkovo. Although Vilkovo gardening practices share much in common with smallholders throughout Ukraine, gardeners in Vilkovo have a distinct sense of ownership that stems from the labour involved in making their land, the gardens’ island-like form, and the fact that they did not have the experience of working on a collective farm. Within the Soviet agricultural economy, the size of the gardens, the organization of cultivation, Vilkovo’s location relative to markets and transportation, and the subsidization of agricultural inputs, meant they were a particularly lucrative source of income. In the post-Soviet period, the value of gardens, like the factories Catherine Alexander describes, has changed as the relations and networks in which they are embedded have transformed. While the geographical and ecological



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specificity of the gardens made them lucrative in the Soviet period, these same features produce the opposite effect in the post-Soviet period and have played a role in transforming gardens into a “negative asset” that has led many to abandon them. In parallel to the decline in land’s agricultural value, the development of tourism has created conditions for the re-valuing of garden plots along the banks of the Danube as a landscape of leisure. However, this revaluation appears to have double-edged effects in terms of who can access land. On the one hand, the attractiveness of these areas to tourists has enabled local gardeners to earn additional income from their garden, which in turn reinforces their ability to maintain it. On the other hand, the attractiveness of these areas to rich Ukrainian citizens from other regions has undermined gardeners’ ability to benefit from their land by keeping it or selling it. Outsiders’ economic and social capital, has allowed them—through a mixture of stealth and coercion—to obtain much sought after plots of land. The dynamics described for Vilkovo have been observed along other riverbanks and coastal areas (Dnipro, Dnister), sometimes in even more dramatic ways. This doubleedged practice of revaluing land for leisure purposes is a stark reminder of the ways in which revaluing resources has the potential to produce dispossession as much as empowerment. Access to island gardens was initially conditioned more by structural factors such as tools and labour than by laws and regulation. However, as state authorities have sought out increased legibility of available resources since the 1970s, these sites have become subject to new layers of regulation and control by a number of agencies. The conflict between the Land and Water Codes has been particularly consequential in Vilkovo. State legislation designed to clarify property rights and protect the environment has been conceived in abstract terms, based on a geographical imaginary that takes as its ideal rural dwellers in non-riverine or non-coastal environments. As a result, the Delta’s island gardens cannot be privatized. There is some irony here given that gardeners in Vilkovo—I argue—have a more individualized understanding of land as property than rural dwellers elsewhere, as they (or their ancestors) actually made their land “with their own hands” and have never worked on land held collectively. However, more importantly, although gardeners did mobilize politically to draw attention to their case, they are conscious of the limits of their abilities to engage in the informal and illicit practices vis-à-vis local officials who exert control over access to resources. As one gardener said: “Money decides everything. Even if I had documents, a person with money could take my garden away if they wanted to anyway.” Unfortunately, this rather bleak statement reflects the view of many residents not only in Vilkovo, but also in Ukraine as a whole.

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Acknowledgements I would like to express my gratitude to the many gardeners who agreed to speak to me and to Nikolai Izotov for facilitating many of these conversations. I am also grateful to Akulina Fedorenko and Vasilii Fedorenko for sharing their knowledge, observations and insights about gardening and regulation in the Danube Delta. I thank Alexander Prigarin for alerting me to the expansion of gardening in the Soviet period and sharing his extensive knowledge of the history of the region. I am also grateful to Derek Hall for many discussions about this paper and his numerous helpful suggestions on how to think about land. Finally, Sergei Dyatlov and Alexander Voloshkevich played a critical role in getting this project off the ground. This research has been supported by a Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council Standard Grant and by a Course Remission Grant from Wilfrid Laurier University. Notes 1. I interviewed the deputy director of the Danube Biosphere Reserve, the former mayor of Vilkovo (1994–2001), the current deputy mayor, the head of the Vilkovo Forest Service, the four leaders of a gardeners’ initiative group, and spoke with 12 additional gardeners. I visited eight island gardens along the Ankundinov branch of the Danube, and on several occasions helped gardeners pick grapes and apples and weed strawberry fields. In this paper, the names of channels and places in the delta are transliterated from Russian to reflect the language that most people speak in the area, and the language in which the places were originally named. 2. According to the 2001 census, there were 9,426 residents (Kovalenko et al, 2009: 333). 3. In 1746, it was part of the Ottoman Empire; 1812, Russian Empire; 1856, Ottoman Empire and Romania; 1878 Russian Empire; 1918, Romania; 1939, USSR; 1941, Romania; 1944, USSR; 1991, Ukraine. 4. The formation of the Kilia Delta is divided into 4 stages: a period of a single branch (1740–1800), a period of few branches (1800–1865) when there were not more than 20 branches, a period of many branches (1856–1956) when there were between 40 and 60 branches, and then a new period of few branches from the 1960s when the number of branches decreased to 14. 5. Below the village of Paradina, it breaks into three large branches: Kislitskii, Serednii, and Ivanesht and creates a series of large islands. Below the town of Kilia, these branches come together again and flow as a singe branch for another seven kilometers. After this, it divides into the Babin, Solomoniv, Chernovka and Priamyi branches below which forms a lower internal delta. At the 21st kilometer of the river a series of branches join and flow for three kilometers as a single branch up to the town of Vilkovo (Kovalenko et al, 2009: 66). 6. According to DBR administrators, this abandonment began in the early 1990s. Gardening therefore reached a peak period in the 1980s. Although the main reasons



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for abandoning gardens include the cost and labour involved in working the garden, in certain cases, the landscape has transformed in such a way to make certain plots inaccessible by boat. 7. From the buyers’ point of view, the best plots in Vilkovo are those along the river in the town itself because formal title can be obtained and because they are accessible by both car and boat. However, interest in the garden plots on the islands has also grown even though formal title cannot be obtained. 8. This is of particular concern to the DBR following their experiences with two parliamentary deputies. One rented land on DBR territory, belonging to the Liski Village Council; the other rented land from the Forest Service. In both cases, there have been serious violations of the Biosphere Reserve regulations.

Bibliography Alexander, Catherine (2004). “Value, Relations and Changing Bodies: Privatization and Property Rights in Kazakhstan,” in Property in Question: Value Transformation in the Global Economy. Katherine Verdery and Caroline Humphrey, eds., 251–274. Oxford and New York: Berg. Allina-Pisano, Jessica (2007). The Post-Soviet Potemkin Village: Politics and Property Rights in the Black Earth, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ballinger, Pamela (2006). “Watery Spaces, Globalizing Places: Ownership and Access in Postsocialist Croatia,” European Responses to Globalization: Resistance, Adaptation, Alternatives. Janet Laible and Henri J. Barkey, eds. Amsterdam: Elsevier. Bridger, Sue and F. Pine (1996). Surviving Postsocialism: Local Strategies and Regional Responses, London: Routledge. Caldwell, Melissa (2004). Not By Bread Alone: Social Support in the New Russia. Berkeley: University of California Press. Hanganu J. et al, (2002). Vegetation of the Biosphere Reserve “Danube Delta.” Lelystad: Institute for Inland Water Management and Wastewater Treatment RIZA. Humphrey, Caroline and Katherine Verdery (2004). “Introduction,” in Property in Question: Value Transformation in the Global Economy. Katherine Verdery and Caroline Humphrey, eds., Oxford and New York: Berg, 1–25. Humphrey, Caroline (1998). Marx Went Away But Karl Stayed Behind. Ann Arbor: Michigan University Press. Kovalenko, G. D, O. V. Klimov, B. G. Aleksandrov, O. M. Voloshkevich (2009). Proekt orhanizatsii teritorii ta okhorony pryrodnykh komplexiv Dunaiskoho biosfernoho zapovidnika. Kharkiv: Ukrainskyi naukovo-doslidnyi institut ekolohichnykh problem. Ledeneva, Alena (2006). How Russia Really Works: The Informal Practices that Shaped Post-Soviet Politics and Business. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Pallot, Judith, and Tatyana Nefedova (2003). “Trajectories in People’s Farming in Moscow Oblast During the Post-socialist Transformation.” Journal of Rural Studies, 19(3): 345–362. Pallot, Judith, Tatyana Nefedova (2007). Russia’s Unknown Agriculture. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Perrotta, Louise (2000). “Politics, Confusion and Practice: Landownership and Decollectivization in Ukraine,” in Land, Law, and Environment: Mythical Land, Legal Boundaries. London: Pluto Press. Prigarin, Alexander (2010). Russkie staroobradtsy na Dunaie. Izmail: ‘SMIL’ –‘Archeodoksia.’ Ribot, Jesse, and Nancy Peluso (2003). “A Theory of Access.” Rural Sociology 68(20): 153–181 Scott, James (1998). Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human Condition Have Failed. New Haven: Yale University Press. Silanteva-Skorobogatova, Valentina, G. Kasim, and E. Minkevich (1996). Vilkovo: Gorod v Delte Dunaia. Odessa: Vydavnytstvo “Chornomoria.” Sikor, Tomas (2006a). “Land as Asset, Land as Liability: Property Politics in Rural Central and Eastern Europe,” in The Changing Properties of Property. F. von Benda-Beckmann, K. von Benda-Beckman and M. G. Wiber, eds., 106–125. Oxford: Berghahn. Smith, Adrian, and Alison Stenning (2006). “Beyond Household Economies: Articulations and Spaces of Economic Practice in Postsocialism.” Progress in Human Geography, 30(2): 190–213. Verdery, Katherine (2004). “The Obligations of Ownership: Restoring Rights to Land in Postsocialist Transylvania,” Property in Question: Value Transformation in the Global Economy. Katherine Verdery, Caroline Humphrey, eds., 139–160. Oxford and New York: Berg. Wegren, Stephen K. (2000). “State Withdrawal and the Impact of Marketization on Rural Russia.” Policy Studies Journal, 28(1): 46–67. Wenk, Irina (2009). “Land Titling in Perspective: Indigenous-Settler Relations and Territorialization on a Southern Philippine Frontier,” Colonization and Conflict: A Comparative Study of Contemporary Settlement Frontiers in South and Southeast Asia. D. Geiger, ed., 1–100. Münster: LIT Verlag.

Chapter 9

Fishing Traditions among Old Believers in the Danube Delta Survival Strategies During the 19th Century Alexander Prigarin Introduction Fishing plays a central role in the livelihood of the peoples of the Lower Danube. At present, ethnicity does not appear to play a significant role in the structure of this economic activity. The technology and tools used in river, sea, and estuary fishing differ notably. However, there exist very few differences in the lexicon of the Russian, Ukrainian, and Moldovan fishermen (Silantieva-Skrobogatova, Kasim, Minkevich 1996; Motuzenko 2006). What makes this particular region distinctly unique is that the Danube Delta itself is a kind of “ethnographic reservation.” The fishing methods, the equipment used, and the organization of fishing are all quite conservative (or outdated, as some might say). Social sciences research has focused on the study of traditionalism in this region. The creation of nature reservations in Romania and Ukraine, in particular, have become a theme of intensive academic and policy research. This effort has concentrated mostly on theory, while empirical research has been generally lacking. The structural elements of fishing as an economic activity (its methods, forms, and organization) have been well researched and documented (although with some difficulty) during expeditions to those villages inhabited by Old Believers (or Lipovani) in Ukraine, Romania, and Bulgaria. As for the historiography of this particular group, special mention should be made of Svetana Romanska’s work on the village of Kasashko in Bulgaria, describing in details their fishing traditions (1960). In addition, we also note the etymological work of Evgenii Motuzenko on the fishing lexicon of the Northwestern Black Sea Region (2006). This chapter focuses on a historical reconstruction of the processes that influenced the formation of traditional forms of fishing in the region, 223

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highlighing the factors that reinforce its role in social and economic practice. To this end, I have consulted archival documents and published sources which, when taken together, enabled me to identify the fishing traditions brought to the Danube Delta by the Russian Old Believers and to explore the manner in which they have been adapted to local conditions. This particular period was important in the history of this ethno-religious group and in the articulation of contemporary ways of using the ecological resources of the delta. The concept of tradition (De Benua 2008) is used in this work to refer to the reproduction of prior existing experience and its adaptation to new conditions. In the case of fishing, the category refers to the mechanism of transmitting a body of knowledge concerning the effective means of catching fish. The reconstruction of such a mechanism is possible on the basis of fishing devices known and used by contemporaries. Due to the fiscal character of the majority of the documents on fishing, detailed evidence is only available for commercial species. Fishing methods reveal a certain brand of conservatism. Descriptions of these techniques reveal that they were brought directly from the Don in the eighteenth century and have been used until present day without significant change. Technological progress in the twentieth century led to the simplification of certain operations, increasing the reliability of technical aspects of the catch. Further, fishermen in contemporary Vilkovo or Sarykee face fewer risks than their predecessors in the nineteenth century concerning an unsuccessful catch or loss of life. The size of fish catches has surpassed the level of their predecessors as a result of improvements in fishing equipment. However, even contemporary equipment retains its traditional structure. For example, many nets—once made of reed—were subsequently made from string, and now from artificial line. Yet the principle of catching fish, setting up and collecting of nets, etc. has remained “traditional.” Based on this, we will outline how fishing experience was assembled in a group of Old Believers. This practice was initially brought from the Don by the Nekrasovtsy, adapted to the conditions of the Danube in the eighteenth century, and further developed in the nineteenth century. Historical Background In the eighteenth century, the Danube Delta was located in the Ottoman Empire. The delta waterways were administered by various Ottoman officials, including the Aiana (heads) and Sirakir (military chiefs) for the cities of Babadag, Izmail, Tulcea, etc. (Sereda 2009: 40–72). There were no clear distribution of control over resources. Officials oversaw the catch in the weir nearest to the town in which they were based and collected rent from each fisher. The situation changed between 1807 and 1809 when Russian troops



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occupied the lower Danube region after a period of war. The Bucharest Treaty of 1812 set conditions whereby the Danube became the state border between the Russian and the Ottoman Empires. The Russian Empire acquired Bessarabia and the Kilia arm of the river. For the remainder of the nineteenth century there was rivalry between the two Empires for dominance in the area. The location of the area in a border zone contributed to the extensive forms of resource use. The Russian Empire controlled the entire Danube Delta from 1829, after successful military operations in 1828–1829. Under these conditions, fishing was a strategic issue in the administration of the area. However, neither empire was in a situation were it could actually monitor the movement of fishermen and the size of their catch. Representatives of the Customs and Border Services were located in the ports of Sulina, Kilia, Izmail, etc. In 1856, after the defeat of Russia during the war of 1853–56, the Danube Delta and the Southern Bessarabian territories were returned to the Ottomans. An amorphous system of administering the internal water resources continued. Dobrogea was directly subordinated to Istanbul while the left bank became part of the nominally independent Danube Kingdoms. When the San Stefan Peace Treaty once again set the Danube as the border between states in 1878, the right bank became part of Romania. From that moment on, a period of state control over water resources began along the Danube, including the monitoring of the size and type of fish caught. Russian Old Believers (known in this region as Nekrasvovtsy or Lipovani) are not only the main residents of the Danube Delta, but are also the main group involved in the fishing industry. Old Believers settled along the Danube not only because they were they were pushed from the edge of the Russian Empire (Don, Kuban, Polissia) but also because they were drawn by fishing resources. Nekrasov fishing cooperatives (artel) were constructed in a similar manner to early Christian fishing communities (Evseev 2005: 31–37). Specific forms of social organization and cultural traditions were formed on the basis of fishing. The majority of descriptions by contemporary observers speak about the importance of fishing as a form of livelihood among the Nekrasovtsy (Ivanov-Zheludkov 1866; Kelsiev 1875; Lupulesku 1889) in the Kuban, Danube, Anatolia, Aenos (Enez, Turkish) and in Varnenskoie Lake (Bulgaria). In this survival strategy, we simultaneously find attitudes of pragmatism (relating, for example, to the marketability of fishing) and “romanticism” (i.e. the aspiration to preserve the utopian equality of members and the just distribution of the fruits of their labour within Orthodox Christian communities). The constant changes in political borders along the Lower Danube as a result of the Russo-Turkish wars constitute an important external factor during this period. While the delta was an integral part of the Ottoman Empire from the 15th to 18th centuries (Palamarchuk 2008), this region became a

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military action zone from 1790 until 1877–1878. In 1807–9, the Russian Empire was able to take over virtually the whole of the Lower Danube and further reinforced its position when it annexed Bessarabia in 1812 and 1829. In 1856, the Russian Empire lost three counties in the lower Danube to the principality of Moldova. In 1878, following a decision by the Berlin Congress, Romania annexed Dobrogea and most of the Danube Delta, while the left bank of the Delta was returned to Russia. In this geopolitical situation, fishing was simultaneously stimulated, since the mobility of the industry allowed the population to adapt to the geopolitical transformations, even in a crisis. This was expressed in the transformation of the forms of catching fish and also in the major location of fishing activities. Prior to these events, fishing resources were used extensively and in an extremely labour intensive way. Every year, large weirs (gard) were constructed across the river for fish catching purposes. For example, descriptions from the mid-eighteenth century depict a fish vendor who was set up by the harbour master of Kilia (Chelebi 1968: 222–224). The catch provided the Turkish administration with supplies for all fortresses from Ochakov to Tulcea. Further, caviar was supplied to many markets in Russia, Reczpospolita, and the Habsburg Empire. By spending 100 koshelei annually, this fish vendor was able to secure an income of 500 koshelei, and was one of the main suppliers of sturgeon (krasniak or “red fish”) and caviar to Europe in addition to providing fish to residents of Dobrogea and Budjak. This construction was simple but required intensive inputs of labor. Each year wooden posts were hammered into the riverbed at mouth of the river so that they were visible above water. Vines and branches (liasy) were interwoven among them to close off most of the river with the exception of an area in the centre for the passage of ships. Net-baskets (seti-korziny) were placed along the barrier, which was used to catch fish. 2,000 Wallachians and Moldovans took part in building this construction and nearly 300 others were involved in catching the fish. Similar weirs were constructed along other rivers on the Black Sea coast. The most legendary of them was the weir on the Southern Bug (Boh) where Ukrainian cossacks used local rapids to close off the river (Evarnitskii 1888: 322–326). Under stable conditions, these methods of catching fish were effective, despite their extensive and predatory character. However, these forms of fishing could not ensure a guaranteed income in times of military insecurity. The fish vendor who had set up every year near Kilia is no longer mentioned in sources at the end of the eighteenth century. Instead, a tradition of mobile cooperatives of Nekrasovtsy and Ukrainian cossacks emerged in the middle and the last quarter of the eighteenth century, respectively. The Nekrasovtsy then settled further south, in the lower Danube, in the 1740s and the 1770s (Korolenko 1900; Prigarin 2000) in response to the



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fishing opportunities and the marketability of fish in the region, which compared favorably to the difficult ecological conditions at the mouth of the Kuban. Fishing was one of the important catalysts in the formation of Old Believer communities. The resources of the tributaries of the Danube, estuaries (limans), and other maritime areas determined the territories in which the Nekrasov communities of the Northwestern Black Sea region further settled. It is important to note that fishing is perceived as a fitting and God-worthy occupation amongst Old Believers, due to its association with early Christian communities in the Mediterranean (Evseev 2005: 31–37). Fishing was also facilitated by the preservation of the Cossack cooperative form of social organization. Initially, fishing in the lower Danube was migratory. In describing these traditions, we are drawing on a body of sources from the nineteenth century. The analysis of these sources does not reveal a dominant dynamic in the formation of fishing practices. Moreover, some of features described have persisted to the present without significant transformation. Separate cooperatives (vatagi) travelled to the Danube for the fishing season. After becoming familiar with the geography, local settlements of Nekrasovtsy appeared prior to 1740s. The Nogai Tatars inhabited the steppe and the Nekrasovtsy inhabited the coastal areas. This settlement pattern suited both ethnic groups and corresponded to their economic specializations. Only later, at the end of the eighteenth century, did the former Zaporozhian Cossacks come to occupy an ecological niche similar to the Nekrasovtsy (Bachinskii 1994, 1995). At the same time, there was an influx of Old Believers from different regions of Russia engaged in agriculture. A series of sources noted the following economic specificities: “their economy (industry) includes fishing and grain cultivation” (Klionova 1999). Both forms of economic activity were brought by the Old Believers to the lower Danube from their former places of residence: fishing from the Don and the mouth of the Kuban and agriculture from southwestern Russia, and other places where they had resided temporarily (Polissia, Podillia, Southern Ukraine, etc.). The stabilization of the Old Believer population in roughly 20 settlements across the Danube Delta, along both sides of the river, brought changes to the fishing techniques employed. Seasonal fishing continued to be widely used. Fishermen were grouped into cooperatives and travelled to various parts of the Northwestern Black Sea Coast for a particular fishing season. In addition, fishermen made trips that lasted from one to several days. The proximity of the settlement to the resources of the Danube and the Black Sea allowed fishing to take this form. Fishermen worked in groups called arteli or taifa (a corporate type of organization). Clear forms of organization and discipline were needed to organize the catch. A senior leader, called an ataman (schik), was chosen for

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a particular boat and for the cooperative as a whole. The remaining fishers were called polupaishiki (shareholders) because each received his part of the catch—a pai. There were also two verkhovika (fishermen seated above the nets) on each boat—a spadovik (who sat below the nets) and a parshchik (who sat behind the anchor and was responsible for spreading out the net). This collective—“a foursome”—was self-sufficient. Between two and four boats would cooperate for a large expedition. For longer trips, a cooperative might be made up of 12 boats, each operated by a foursome (Kelsiev 1875). These collectives were equipped with a wooden v-bottomed boat (kaiuk), which could be operated with sails or with the help of oars. To collect and transport larger fish, flat-bottomed boats were used (mahuna). The catch was delivered to the docks where storage facilities were located and where trading took place. Here the fish was looked over, sorted, salted and underwent preliminary processing. Often, it was sold to middlemen straight from the docks. The Organization of the Catch After the transfer of the left bank territories of the Danube Delta to Russia, trans-border fishing traditions continued to play an important role in the economic and social life of the local population. In the 1820s, the Bessarabian Vice Governor wrote the following after a visit to the region: “The residents are mainly Russians, who live exclusively on fishing” (Vigel 1893). A second official noted that, “here all types of fish are caught, the majority of which are sturgeon and beluga.” He also wrote, “this fish is salted and sealed in barrels, which are always available. In the Danube, carp, sterlet, and others types of fish are also caught” (Sviniin 1867). Officials divided the lower Danube into seven fishing zones: Kilia, Vilkovo, Galilesh, Kariachov, Furmanov, Kitai, and Shabo (Skalkovskii 1853). Besides Izmail, Kilia and Vilkovo, fishing was also a characteristic of Old Believers in the villages of Zhebryanski and Kariachova.1 An analogous situation was found in the Lipovan villages in Dobrogea. Most Lipovani were drawn to the banks of the Danube (Kamen, Novenksoie, Tataritsia) or nearby open estuaries (Sarykei, Zhurilovka). Only Slava Rus’e and Cherkiza were located in the hinterland and were therefore not involved in fishing. This paradoxical situation of the Old Believer region received special attention from Russian intelligence agents (Liparandi 1827). Old Believers caught fish in the many estuaries, bays, and branches of the Danube. There were also cooperatives that fished seasonally on the Black Sea. Evidence of this fishing geography is provided by the many passes that the border services handed out and that have been preserved in the archival



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fund of the Izmail Police Chief. Here is one sample that belonged to an individual from Nekrasov2: Pass Number 238. The holder of this ticket, Osip Honcharev, along with ___ people, of the Nekrasovtsy who settled from beyond the Danube, are permitted to catch fish on six boats in the lakes and estuaries of Ialpukh, Kugurlui, and Kagul from 25 September-1 January 1830.

As time went on, the pass acquired the characteristics of an international passport, which contained a description of the individual’s features and permitted activities3: Ticket № 1147 This pass belongs to the Nekrasovets Evfim Andreev and allows him to fish on the bays of the Danube without facing obstacles at the border points. On return to Izmail he is required to undergo full quarantine. This Nekrasovets has the following characteristics: 31 years old, average height, light brown hair, gray eyes, ordinary nose and mouth. In confirmation of this, the pass has been issued for a period of six months with the signature and stamp from the city of Izmail on the 15th of February 1833. General Lieutenant, Izmail City Administrator Tuchkov (Turkish text and stamp) (Russian stamp)

All fishing took place directly on the Turkish-Russian border. This situation provoked constant worry about the reliability of fishermen even though it was impossible to control their movements. These worries were not unfounded and are reflected in many documents. It was fishermen in particular who maintained connections between their fellow believers and supporters of a single church (edinovertsy) on both sides of the border. In addition to the exchange of information, they sometimes disseminated literature and transported individuals fleeing the authorities. The Nekrasovtsy from Russian territories continued to be involved in sea fishing as well as fishing in coastal estuaries (limany). The Ottoman administration did not oppose these “intrusions” of Old Believers on Ottoman territory. Yet representatives of Russian bureaucrats sometimes put up obstacles to their finish activity upon their return. For example, from a collective apology by the Nekrasovtsy (written by their atamans Osip Honcharev, Iakov Shashkin, and Konstantin Dmitriev) on 23 October 1833, we learn that the Commandant Balashev of Sulina revoked 38 passes from Old Believer fishermen, while at the same time he allowed 500 Turks to fish.4 Moreover, fishermen were perceived as potential carriers of disease who could provoke epidemics. The ecological conditions of the delta sometimes gave rise to diseases such as smallpox, typhus, the plague, etc.

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These epidemics took many lives. For example, the plague epidemic in 1813 halted the settlement of Nekrasovtsy and in some cases led to their being sent back to the right bank of the Danube (Sviniin, 1867). The 1850 plague flare up took the lives of every 10th resident of Vilkovo.5 In order to prevent such disasters, border services required fishermen to observe a two-week quarantine period (although, during fishing season, no one observed this), to limit their contact with foreigners, and not bring ashore the any objects that floated in the Danube.6 Fishing was an “otkupnoi” industry. In this system, all water bodies belonged to the state while one individual bought the rights to a particular body of water. This individual, a khoziain (roughly equivalent to “owner”), subsequently rented out fishing rights. In exchange for the right to fish, all fishermen gave the khoziain 10 percent of their catch, based on their purchased passes.7 Interrelations between the khoziain and the fishermen were regulated by the norms of customary law. On Ottoman territories, the Nekrasovtsy paid a dezhmu (Moldovan word for the fee) of 10 percent. The resettled Nekrasovtsy perceived all water areas as holding fish catching potential. This traditional attitude was in place during the transition of the administration to more regulated forms of fishing and sometimes produced conflicts. For example, the owners Petr Fadeev and Karp Iablochnikov complained about the Nekrasvotvsy of Kugurlui in 1831: Osip Goncharev, Iakov Shisko, Feodosii Topalo, Kozmo Batrachov, and Lukian Kubanki, with their 14 boats and 28 people, were fishing in an uncontrolled manner without seeking permission from the owner of the water body and without paying the 10% dezhmu. This occurred despite the fact that the Head of the Office of Colonists bans this kind of activity, having already rented it out on a contractual basis.8

Thus, the owners (khoziaeva) complained to the head of the Office of the Colonists because they could not control the access to the water body. I. N. Inzov, the administrator of foreign colonists in Southern Russia subsequently ordered the fishermen to pay and to stop fishing on this water body.9 However, the Nekrastovtsy were not willing to accept this decision and turned to C. A. Tuchkov, the head of the Izmail City Administration. In their letter they wrote: After the declaration of the Russian Monarch, we came to Bessarabia from Turkish lands and are under your protection. We left our homes and our holdings and came here to the village of Kogurliu, near the town of Izmail. However, we have not been allocated our own land. Under these conditions, in order to support ourselves and our families, we began fishing on the Kartalskiy Estuary (liman) in the Colonial Department (vedomstvo) so that we could use the



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fish caught to pay the 10%, which the residents of this region also agreed to. We spent the last of our money to buy boats and nets with which we caught 120 large carps and other small fish. However, then a certain Petr Ivanov, who we had never seen before and who lives in Izmail, confronted us with a group of other unknown people who buy fish from him. He announced that the estuary and the fish belong to him and so all the fish we caught did so, too. When Uliana Honcharenko disputed this unfair claim, they tried to drown him. For this reason, we are requesting your help as a protector to command Petr Ivanov to stop this violent behavior, to act according to the law, to return our fish, and to allow us to fish without obstacle in one liman.10

In the first half of the nineteenth century, the “owners” of the Danube’s water areas were sometimes wealthy Old Believers. Of note is the fact that the income attracted residents from other centres of the old faith. For example, it is common knowledge that a part of the Kilia arm was owned by the merchant (meshchanin—one of the Russian estates referring to towns people primarily engaged in trade) Fedor Shyrokov of the town Klinitsy in the 1840s.11 Fishermen gave the “owners” one tenth of their catch (Dzhim{a}).12 For several years this buyer tried to organize his fishing cooperatives along the example of those found in Astrakhan (Antsupov, 1996). However, he then returned to the traditional way of exploiting water resources. Fishermen continued to give him a part of their catch, and independently dealt with marketing their share of the catch. Between 1834–1835, over 200 Nekrasovtsy received documentation and passes for catching fish in the mouth of the Danube.13 The administration occasionally issued similar documents for travel and fishing in creeks and limans that were located beyond the Russian border. According to one report,14 “all the residents of Vilkovo” fished in 1836 (with the exception of 250 young people) including 80 from Zheribrian, 20 from Karachova, 400 from Kilia and Izmail. The number of fishermen who signed the oath before the Quarantine Service in 1838–1841 gives a more precise picture of the situation. According to this body of documents (the Old Believers took an oath before Vilkovo’s administrator separately), each year the following numbers took part in the catch in the Danube Delta15: 170 Old Believers from Vilkovo; 70 from Zhebryanski; 60 from Izmail and 60 from Kilia; 5 from Akkerman, 30 from Old Nekrasovka; 20 from Karachova; and 20 from Chichma, Muravlevka, and Pokrovka. Old Believers predominated in fishing over other peoples such as Ukrainians, Moldovans, Bulgarians, etc. It was also typical that Lipovani and Nekrasovtsy from settlements relatively far away from the Danube traveled to this region to take part in seasonal fishing. Within the Ottoman territories, fishing was completely in the hands of Old Believers. This fact and the incomplete control over them meant that they

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had full freedom in fishing around Dobrogea. Here the scale was clearly even larger than along the Russian shore of the Danube. It is also known that a certain Sarikei sent out 250–300 fishing cooperatives to sea, estuaries, and the Danube (Czajkowski 1857). There was frequent cooperation between different settlements of Nekrasovtsy including the Anatolian community of the Southern Black Sea Coast (Ivanov-Zhedlukov 1866, 443). Our nineteenth century sources refer to fishing as the basis of subsistence for practically all Nekrasov villages in the region. For example, intelligence agents in 1826 noted that “for the residents of Kuchugolskie [an Old Believer village near Silistra] the main forms of making a living are fishing and cultivating orchards and vineyards, while there is very little cultivation of grain” (Liparandi 1827). The Ottoman Nekrasovtsy can be distinguished by their system for redistributing the fish catch. The division or distribution (delezh or duvan) of the catch took place once the fisher returned to their native village: On return, one third went to the military officer, one third to the church, and one third was divided amongst the fishermen who had taken part in the catch (Kelsiev 1875). An elected ataman was the guarantor of this kind of redistribution. He had complete power over where fish was to be caught and on the sale of the fish to a merchant. No state had special laws regulating fishing on the Danube in the nineteenth century. However, there were legal stipulations that the waters were state property and were to be controlled by local officials (i.e. the Izmail city administrator (gradonachalnik), the General-Governors of New Russia and Bessarabia). They gave merchants the rights to trade fish on these territories at the price of a “desiatyna” (10 percent of the catch). However, in practice, they could not control this. The merchants monopolized the trade. They bought up the fish and sold it to others. It was impossible for an outsider to enter this trade. The fish buyers did not allow them into the market. It was not profitable for the fishermen to sell their fish themselves. There was a similar situation in the Ottoman Empire. The main difference was that the waters were much more expansive and, therefore, the number of entrepreneurs involved in the buying and selling of fish was also greater. Fishermen closely followed the market from their particular fish-trading sites (kirgany). On a number of occasions, Russian officials indicated that should the price of fish be higher on the Ottoman side, they would give their catch to a fellow Russian to sell there. The reverse occurred, as well. Ottoman Nekrasovtsy gave their catch to Russians to sell in Vilkovo. The authorities were unable to deal with this kind of contraband in the nineteenth century. This was particularly the case in the delta itself and on the Black Sea. In addition, there is hardly any mention of regulations concerning the size of certain catches or prohibitions on certain species of fish. The fishing equipment was



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then also of such a basic nature that humans did not present an ecological threat to the fishing stocks. The commercial character of different species was determined by the seasonality of their movements, rather than out of concern for the reproduction of the fish. The Catch Various kinds of fish were caught on the Danube. In one description from 1836, the following kinds were identified: beluga, sheatfish, sterlet, carp, pikeperch, pike, which were caught in the summer; herring, which was caught in the Danube and at the mouth near the sea in the spring, and occasionally in the Fall, when more made their way from the sea.16 In 1810, the following species of fish were caught near the Nekrasov monastery near Izmail (a location far from the sea): European carp (karp), pike (shchuka), pikeperch (sudak), perch (okun), crucian carp (karas) and others17 up to 16 poods (1 pood is equal to 16.38 kg) a day. The expansive fishing geography was determined by the large variety of fish, both river and sea, that the Nekrasovtsy caught for the purpose of trade. The most popular resources were various species of goby (bychok); Atlantic mackerel (skumbria); Atlantic horse mackerel (stavrida), herring (seledka; also called dunaika or seledets), Black Sea Sprat (tiulka), European plaice (kambala or kalkan), red mullet (sultanka or barabol’ka), mullet (kefal), European anchovy (khamsa), flounder (ryba-iazyk), common carp (sazan or sharan), pike-perch (sudak), garfish (sargan), pike (shchuka, zherik), perch (okun), rudd (krasnoperka, baboshka), common roach (taran), sheatfish (som), roach (plotva), and others. Sturgeon or “red fish” (beluga, starry sturgeon, and sterlet) were of particular economic importance. The main interest was in their caviar, which was one of the most profitable commodities in the 19th centuries—just as much as it is today. More exotic species were also caught such as dolphins, crabs, crayfish, and sea urchins. Fishing Technique We are able to reconstruct the system used to catch fish from a number of contemporary descriptions. The stability of the system is testified in both sources from the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th centuries (Krusevana, 1913; Berg, 1918). For example, one traveller pointed out the use of the weirs or tyr and kotsy (tyr is the barrier and kotets is the net-basket used) (Kraszewskiego,

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1845, 40–41). In these cases, a branch of the river was partitioned off using reeds, vines, and branches leaving open a small passage to one side. During fishing, these passages were closed off with nets and baskets and the fish were “gathered.” Linguists argue that this way of catching fish was very archaic because the term “gard” has been preserved from the ancient composition “vowel + consonant blend” (Dzendelivskii, 1955). This technique was used widely across the whole Mediterranean (see, for example the legendary weir (gard) on the Southern Bug). Kotsy (kotets, singular) was the term used for nets (Motuzenko, 2006). The snare-net (siet-lovushka) was the most commonly used way of catching fish. One of the descriptions of this technique of catching fish from the 1830s mentions that drag nets were set in the estuaries by a group of Nekrasovtsy fishermen. One official wrote that fishermen “set up their nets and use drums called ava to make a noise that will drive the fish into the nets.”18 In fact, ava is the name of a two or three walled net, not the name of a drum (Gritsenko, s.d.). This type of net is still used among various groups in the Danube Delta, Ukrainians, Moldovans, Russians, etc. (Motuzenko 2006). Philologists suggest that this form of gear was borrowed from Turks in the Middle Ages. A description of fishing equipment archived by the Izmail city administration is particularly revealing 19: 145 “hook factories” (kruichkovyi zavod, see chart below); eight dragnets; 60 stationary nets; 132 large boats; 80 small boats. There were five or six people on a large boat and two or three on a small one. According to one observer, “fishermen do not have major expenditures. They receive a half of the sale of the fish they catch while the owners (khozaeva) are responsible for paying half of fishermen’s maintenance costs.”20 These descriptions of the word “net” do not include a widespread commercial form of fishing equipment known as a venter—a kind of net trap. These round nets are a clever adaptation of the snare trap. The fish enter a narrow passage to the net but are unable to leave. The sizes of this form of net can be up to tens of meters. They were traditionally set up in small creeks and backwaters and were checked twice a day. In addition, there were other traditional stationary methods of catching fish, including various forms of traps made from nets (vershi) or from vines and branches (mordy, kubari, boboshki, etc.). Similarly, the construction of the drag net (also called a motula) has not changed. It consists of two wings and a sac for catching the fish (mania). This adaptation requires the active involvement of fishermen in the process of catching the fish. Depending on the size of the net, a couple of boats will drag the wings and bring it to a particular area. Then they join the ends of the wings and remove fish that have been caught.



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A “hook factory” (kriuchkovyi zavod) is a set consisting of one large boat and a number of small ones along with the necessary set of gear, including a line of hooks. Between three and six people were involved in this activity. A “drag net factory” (nevodarnyi zavod) operated in a similar fashion. However, more boats and people (up to 20) were required. Boats lasted between five and ten years and cost from 150 to 600 rubles. A hook factory without a boat cost 500 rubles, a drag net circa 200 rubles, and nets around 100 rubles. The gear lasted one season, including repairs. Around 40,000 rubles a year was spent on maintaining a boat and equipment. There is a description of the gear of such a boat in one of the documents from 1833: “one old sail, one new [sail], two oars, one anchor, one bucket.”21 In addition, rods and smaller throw-nets were used as individual forms of catching fish. However, they were not used for commercial purposes.

The size of the catch In 1835, according to incomplete official data, there were more than 1200 people involved in this industry.22 The following table presents the geography of the industry. Data from 1836 confirms the annual size of the catch. Fish caught from the Danube included the following species: sturgeon or “red fish” (beluga and starry sturgeon), in value of 13,500 poods (one pood equals 16.38 kg) worth a total of 53,000 rubles; sterlet—100 poods worth a total of 2,000 rubles; white fish (sheatfish, carp, pike-perch, pike, and others) 10,800 poods worth a total of 21,600 rubles; 532 poods of caviar from beluga and starry sturgeon worth 10,600 rubles; 130,000 poods of herring worth 4,500 rubles; 50,000 poods of white herring and mackerel from Zhebryanski spit worth 5,000 rubles. The overall income totaled 97,900 rubles. It is additionally pointed out that fishermen consumed 2,000 poods themselves. Moreover, the report states that “last summer the catch was not abundant and in years past there have been more fish.”23 In this report, there is evidence of other areas for catching fish such as internal estuaries (limans). On the Kitai, 1,000 poods of small

Table 9.1  The Structure of Fishing Cooperatives on the Danube in 1835 Near the village of Vilkovo In the Zheribriansky estuary In the Kitai estuary Total

“factories”

Boats

194 24 8 266

294 37 16 347

Fishermen

Source:  National Archive of the Republic of Moldova, File 2, List 1, Affair 2970, sheets 18–20.

966 191 104 1283

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fish were caught. Carp, carp bream, pike, sheatfish, and others, amounting to 40,000 poods were caught on the Katlabug. Usually local merchants marketed the fish. Salted fish were transported mostly to Bessarabia, but also to Moldova and Austria. Beluga Caviar was supplied to Warsaw, while sturgeon was supplied to Iassy and also Odessa. During the winter, fishermen were actively involved in harvesting reeds. The expansion of this industry was so significant that in 1833, when there was a poor harvest, the authorities in Izmail and Kilya utilized reeds to cover their expenses for the military post and a series of other needs.24 Thus, the harvesting reads in the delta can be considered a very traditional activity for the Lipovani. Over and over again, official documents note that the residents of Vilkovo lived entirely off fishing. Moreover, residents from other settlements moved to the area seasonally to take part in fishing. By the mid-nineteenth century, a number of Lipovani and Nekrasovtsy from Izmail, Zherebriany, Kilia had fully resettled to Vilkovo (a posad, or town) where they made up nearly a quarter of the local population.25 There was one other community of Old Believers whose members lived entirely from fishing. They resided in Yalpukhskaia Spit (or simply “Spit,” as it was known). The Bulgarian Cheshma-Varuit colony did not possess land, with the exception of small plots on the short of the Ialpukh Estuary (liman). They fished by renting from an owner who held the rights to the water body,26 and gave up a sixth of their catch to him.27 The colony’s Bulgarian population had the fishing rights but transferred them to a small community of 32 families in the 1840s.28 This group consisted of settlers from the Podolskaia Gubernia. A grouping of other sources provides evidence on the role of fishing in the livelihoods of the Old Believer communities. For example, the Russians of Kilia were roughly equally involved in agriculture (14 families, or nearly a quarter of the population), fishing (16 families), trade (17 families) and other industries (12 families) in 1808. Two families made their living from trades (tailor and carpenter). This structure of activities was characteristic of other ethnic groups in the town, particularly the Moldovans (Bachinska and Prigarin, 2001, 70–71; Bachinska, 2001, 231.). This reveals the transitional quality of Kilia at that time; the development of the features of a modern city (such as commerce and trades) coexisted with the remains of rural livelihoods (such as grain cultivation). A somewhat different situation existed in Tuchkov (Izmail) in 1820.29 A great deal of the Russian residents made their living from urban occupations, trades, commerce, and hired labour. The activities of the Nekrasovtsy, thus, appear as an exception. A large portion of the Nekrasov community was made up of farmers (26 families) and fishermen (10 families). For the Russians of Tuchkov, grain cultivation was also important



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(32.3 percent, or 134 families). Fishing played a more important role in the livelihoods of communities further down along the Danube. Conclusions On the basis of this overview of Old Believers’ fishing traditions on the Danube throughout the nineteenth century, we can draw a number of conclusions. The period under scrutiny marked the transition from an extensive and labor intensive form of stationary fishing to a more intensive model of mobile fishing expeditions. This change in ecological models employed for the use of the Danube resources was connected to external factors, namely the political and military instability generated by the recurrent Russian-Ottoman military conficts in the region. It was in response to political upheaval that a new system of fishing emerged and spread across the Danube Delta. Experienced Nekrasov fishermen were not only skilled in a technological sense but also organized in an effective social structure, regarded by the community as “just” and “God-worthy.” They adapted well to this state of affairs. Alongside Ukrainian Cossacks and the Moldovan-Wallachian populations, Nekrasovtsy fishermen should be recognized as creators of traditional practices of fishing in the region. Their cooperatives became the main users of fishing resources in the branches of the lower Danube, in the nearby estuaries, and along the coastal areas of the Black Sea. Both the Russian and the Ottoman imperial authorities tried to regulate and control the fishing process. However, they were only partially able to achieve their aims. The intermediary role played by the fish buyers diverted a significant part of the profits from the state treasury. The evolution of the system of administrative management regulating fishing concentrated profits in the hands of large merchants. These merchants acquired control over the management of fishing, deciding on issues such as the timing, the season, the size and composition of the catch. However, they used economic demand for the fishing products in their activities more than abstract conceptions of expediency. Nekrasovtsy fishermen brought from their former places of residence traditional means and forms of fishing and organization and adapted them to the natural conditions of the Danube region. As in other places along the Black Sea coast, Nekrasovtsy fishermen actively used both stationary and mobile forms of fishing. Depending on the movement of fishing resources, they could carry out their activity not only in the Delta itself but also outside this region. Similarly, fishing cooperatives from other Black Sea regions could come to the area for seasonal fishing. The Lipovani’s ability to combine their confessional adherence to fishing (as a Christian activity) with economic pragmatism, relating to the value and

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marketability of this commodity, should be noted. This enabled the development of a livelihood that conformed not only to expedience but also to a worldview based on a particular religious faith. Many elements of the economic structure of Lipovani’s communities were sustainable and continued to be used throughout the modern period. Their adaptation to the natural conditions of the region affected only the external attributes of fishing, while the organization of the catch has continued without significant changes. Given the nature of inter-ethnic interactions in the Danube Delta, words from different local languages (Russian, Turkish, Greek, Romanian, Ukrainian) have become part of a shared local lexicon. In this way, fishing has become a practice that was not distinctly ethnic in form but, having been shared across a wide range of ethnic groups, it has become, in effect, a trans-cultural practice.

Notes 1. Military-Statistical Overview of the Russian Empire, vol. XI, Part 3, Bessarabia Oblast., St. Petersburg, 1849, 128. Военно-статистическое обозрение Российской империи. Т. XI., Ч.3, Бессарабская область, СПб, 1849 С.128. 2. КУ «Измаильский архив» (Izmail Archive, I. A.), file 51, list 1, affair 1, sheet 208. 3. I. A., file 56, list.1, affair 223, sheet 25. 4. I. A., file 56, list 1, affair 223, sheet 12. 5. I. A., file 56, list 1, affair 608, sheets 229–252. 6. I. A, file 136, list 1, affair 82, sheets 1–2. 7. I. A, file 419, list 1, affair 15, sheets 3–6. 8. I. A, file 514, list 1, affair 77, sheet 2. 9. I. A, file 514, list1, affair 77, sheet 2 (reverse). 10. I. A, file 514, list 1, affair 77, sheets 3–4. 11. State Archive of Odesa Oblast (SAOO), file 1, list 215/1844, affair 4, sheets 1–3. 12. SAOO, file 1, list 214/1833, affair 10, sheets 229–230; National Archive of the Republic of Moldova (NARM), Нациоанльный архив Ресублики Молдова (НАРМ), file 6, list 10, affair 149, sheets 1–159. 13. Calculated on the basis of: NARM, file 2, list 1, affair 2116, sheets 1–292. 14. I. A, file 56, list 1, affair 256, sheet 1. 15. I. A, file 136, list 1, affair 82, sheets 1–6. 16. I. A, file 56, list 1, affair 256, sheet 1. 17. I. A, file 514, list 1, affair 12, sheet 3. 18. I. A, file 56, list 1, affair 223, sheets 51–51. 19. I. A, file 56, list 1, affair 256, sheet 1. 20. I. A, file 56, list 1, affair 256, sheet 1. 21. I. A, file 56, list 1, affair 223, sheet 40. 22. NARM, file 2, list 1, affair 2970, sheets 18–20; SAOO, file 3, list 1, affair 50, sheet 20.



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23. I. A, file 56, list 1, affair 256, sheets 12–16. 24. I. A, file 56, list 1, affair 206, sheets 17, 34 and others. 25. I. A, file 56, list 1, affair 608, sheet 260. 26. I. A, file 56, list 1, affair 608, sheets 224, 261. 27. SAOO, file 1, list 214/1833, affair 10, sheets 229–230; NARM, file 6, list 10, affair 149, sheets 1–159. 28. I. A, file 514, list 1, affair 282, sheet 18. 29. I. A, file 514, list 1, affair 33, sheets 1–220.

Bibliography Archival Sources Izmail Archive [КУ «Измаильский архив» (ИА)], Files: 51, 56, 136, 419, 514. State Archive of Odesa Oblast (ГАОО), File: 1. National Archive of the Republic of Moldova [Нациоанльный архив Ресублики Молдова], Files: 2, 6. Russian State Military Archive [Российский государственный военноисторический архив, РГВИА], File 430.

Books and Articles Antsupov, I. A. (1966). The State Village of Bessarabia in the 19th Century (1812– 1870). Kishenev: Moldoveniaske. Bachinska, O. A. (2002). Українське населення Придунайських земель. XVIII – початок ХХ ст. (Заселення й економічне освоєння) [Ukrainian Population of the Lands Adjacent to the Danube from the 18th to the early 20th Centuries (Settlement and Economic Development)]. Odessa: Astroprint. Bachinska, O. A., Prigarin, A. (2001). “Етнокультурна характеристика населення міст Нижнього Подунав’я на початку ХІХ ст. (за матеріалами “Опису Кілії” 1808 р.)” [A. Ethnocultural Characteristics of the Population of the Towns of the Lower Danube at the Beginning of the 19th Century (using material from «A Description of Kilia» 1808)] in Південна України ХVІІІ - ХІХ століття: записки науково-дослідної лабораторії історії Південної України ЗДУ [Southern Ukraine in the 18th and 19th Centuries: Writings of the Academic-Research Laboratory of the History of Southern Ukraine Zaporizhzhia State University] Issue 6. Zaporizhzhia: «Tandem-U». Bachinskii, A. D. (1994). Задунайська. 1775–1828: Іст. - документальний нарис [The Dunai Sich. 1775–1828: Historical-Documentary Overview]. Odesa: Hermes. Bachinskii, A. D. (1995). Дунайські некрасівці і задунайські запорожці [Danube Nekrasivtsy and the Danube Zaporozhians]. Історичне краєзнавство Одещини. - Вип.6. З історії та етнографії росіян Одещини [Regional History of Odesa Oblast – Issue 6: On the History and Ethnography of Russians of the Odesa Oblast] (Odesa), 7–23. Berg, L. S. (1918). Бессарабия: страна-люди-хозяйство [Bessarabia: CountryPeople-Economy]. St. Petersburg: Ogni.

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Czajkowski, M. (1857). Kazaczyzna w Turcyi [Cossacks in Turkey]. Paris: L. Martinet. De Benua, Alain (2008). “Defining Tradition.” Almanakh “Polius,” 1: 3–4. Dzendelivskii, I. O. (1955). “Спостереження над лексикою українськихговірок Нижнього Подністров’я” [Observations on the Lexicon of the Ukrainian Villagers of the Lower Dniester Region] Наукові записки Ужгородського державного університету [Academic Writings of Uzhgorod State University]. Lviv, vol. 13. Evarnitskii, D. I. (1888). Эварницкий Д.И. Запорожье в остатках старины и преданиях народа [Zaporozhie in the Material Ruins and Traditions of a People]. Volume 1. St. Petersburg, L. F. Panteleeva. Evlia Chelebi (1968). Книга путешествий. (Извлечения из сочинения турецкого путешественника XVII  века.) [A Book of Travels Excerpts from the Writings of a Turkish Traveller in the 17th Century] Вып.1: Земли Молдавии и Украины [Issue 1: Lands of Moldova and Ukraine]. Moscow: Nauka. Evseev, Ivan (2005). Gândurile şi tristeţile unui rus lipovean. Bucharest: CRLR. Gordlevskiy, V. A. (1913). Уголок России в Турции. Старообрядческая деревня под Ак-шехиром [A Corner of Russia in Turkey. An Old Believer Village in AkShekhirom]. Мoscow. Gritsenko, I. D. (s.d) “Спостереження над рыболовецкой лексикой г. Вилково (УССР)” [Observations on the Fishing Lexicon in Vilkovo (Ukrainian SSR)]. Ученные записки Кишиневского государственного университета [Academic Writings of the Kishenev State University], vol. 47, no. 1, 103–109. Ivanov-Zheludkov, V. (V. Kelsiev) (1866). “Русское село в Малой Азии” [The Russian Village in Asia Minor], Русский вестник [Russian Bulletin], Vol. 63, no. 6, 413–451. Klionova, Ie. (1999). The Secret Notebook of the Merchant Ie. About The Danube Branch And The Possibility Of Returning the Danube Cossacks In The Event that They Are Given Land Near Odesa. Khadjibei – Odesa and Ukrainian Cossacks. Odesa. Kelsiev, V. I. (1875). “Notes on the History of Old Believers in Dobrogea,” Slavic Anthology, Vol. 1, 605–620. Korolenko, P. P. (1900). “Некрасовские казаки The Nekrasov Cossacks], Известия об­щества любителей изучения Кубанской области” [Historical Description Collected from Printed and Archival Sources. News from the Society of Enthusiasts of the Study of Kuban Oblast]. Yekaterinodar: Kuban. Oblast Administration, no. II, 1–74. Kraszewski, Józef II. (1844–1846, 1845). Wspomnienia Odessy, Jedysanu I Budżaku: Dziennik Przejażdżki W Roku 1843 Od 22 Czerwca Do 11 Września. 3 vols. Wilno: Nakład i druk T. Glücksberga, 1844–1846. New ed.: Warszawa: Państwowy Instytut Wydawniczy, 1985. Krushevana, Pavel A. (1903). Бессарабия: географический, исторический, статистический, экономический, этнографический, литературный и справочный сборник [Bessarabia. Geography, History, Statistics, Economy, Ethnography. Literary and Reference Compilation]. Moscow: Bessarabets. Liparandi, I. P. (1827). Некоторые сведения о правом береге Дуная, собранные в 1827 году [Some Accounts of the Right Bank of the Danube, gathered in 1827]. St. Petersburg: Printing House of the Military Headquarters.



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Lupulesku (1889). “Русские колонии в Добрудже: историко-этнографический очерк” [Russian Colonies in Dobrogea: Historical and Ethnographic Notes] Kievskaia Starina, vol. 24, no. 1, 117–154; vol. 24, no. 2, 314–336; vol. 24, no. 3, 685–703. Motuzenko, E. M. (2006). Этимология и семантика [Etymology and Semantics]. Kisheniev: Vector. Palamarchuk, S. V. (2008). Забытая земля: историческая область Бессарабия [Forgotten Lands: The Historical Oblast of Bessarabia]. Odessa: Astroprint, Prigarin, Alexander (2000). “Козаки-некрасівці на Дунаї. Кінець XVIII - перша третина XIX ст.” [Nekrasov Cossacks on the Danube From the Late 18th Century to the First Half of the 19th Century] in V. A. Smoliy, ed., Козацтво на Півдні України. Кінець XVIII-XIX ст. [Cossacks in Southern Ukraine. Late 18th–early 19th century]. Odesa: Druk, 29–41. Romanska, Tsvetana (1960). “Риболовът на русите-некрасовци от с.Казашко, Варненско (принос към етнографското проучване на черноморския ни риболов)” [Fishing Among the Russian Nekrastovtsy in the Village of Kazashko, Varnenska District (towards an Ethnographic Study of Black Sea Fishing)], Годишник на Софиския университет (Филологически факултет) [Annual of Sofia University (Faculty of Philology)], 54 (1960) 1, 353–446. Sen’ D. V. (2002). “«Войско Кубанское Игнатово Кавказское»: исторические пути казаков-некрасовцев (1708 г. – конец 1920-х гг.) [«The Host of the Kuban Ignatov Cossacks»: Historical Routes of the Nekrasv Cossacks. (1708–end of the 1920s)]. Krasnodar: Kubankino. Sereda, Aleksandr (2009). Silistrensko-Ochakovskiy District from the 18th to the Beginning of the 19th Century. Administrative-Territorial Organization, Settlements, and Population in the Northwestern Black Sea Region, Sofia (X). Silantieva-Skrobogatova, V., G. Kasim, E. Minkevich, (1996). Вилково: город в дельте Дуная: К 250-летию основания [Vilkovo: A Town in the Danube Delta. 250 years of History]. Odessa: Black Sea Press. Skalkovskii, A. A. (1853). Опыт статистического описания Новороссийского края и Бессарабии [The Statistical Description of New Russia and Bessarabia]. Vol. 2. Odessa: Л. Нитче. Skalkovvskii, A. А. (1846). “Древнее и нынешнее рыболоовство в Нововроссийском крае” [Archaic and Contemporary Fishing in New Russia] ЖМВД [Journal of the Minister of Interior Affairs], no. 15, 412–483. Sviniin, P. A. (1867). Описание Бессарабской области. Составлено ведомства государственной коллегии иностранных дел надворным советником Павлом Свиньиным, 1816 года, 1-го июня [Description of Bessarabian Oblast. Assembled for the Department of State Collegium on Foreign Affairs by the Court Councellor Pavel Sviniin, 1816, July 1] ЗООИД [Writings of the Odessa Society of History and Antiquity], vol. 6. Vigel, F. F. (1893). Записки [Writings], Vol. 7. Мoscow: Russkogo Arhiva.

Chapter 10

Romanians and Lippovans in Sulina Prismatic Identifications and Contexts for Generating Cultural Comparison Cosmina Timoce

The research presented here focuses on the relationship between the two confessional-ethnic groups who represent the majority population of Sulina, Tulcea County, Romania: Orthodox Romanians, and Lippovans. More precisely, we aim to delineate modalities for comparing and contrasting the two group identities locally, following the observation of two community celebrations: Hram (the feast day of the patron saint of the local church) and Paştele morţilor (the community’s most important collective ritual practice of remembering the dead). There are many reasons we choose these two events: firstly, both events are situated on the border between the formal (the Hram, which is regulated by the church unfolds according to a religious code, and Paştele morţilor (Easter of the Dead), a post-burial practice, are both highly codified) and the informal (as they both have stages preceding and following the official cult ceremonies). Secondly, the two celebrations both take place separately, for Romanians and Lippovans, and in both cases involve the whole internal community; nonetheless, they also imply interactions with “the other” as well, viewed in its group hypostasis, most of the times together with its formal leaders. Finally, these scenarios are perfect contexts in which individuals can produce life-stories, narratives in the first person, through which they manage, in fact, to structure an alterity; one is, at the same time, religious, habitual/customary, linguistic, and behavioral. In the case of the town of Sulina, these behavior and contexts under our observation seem to

I wish to express my gratitude for the financial support provided to the program co-financed by THE SECTORAL OPERATIONAL PROGRAM FOR HUMAN RESOURCES DEVELOPMENT, Contract POSDRU 6/1.5/S/3 – “Doctoral studies, a major factor in the development of socio-economic and humanistic studies.” 243

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have determined the emergence, crystallization, then disappearance, then again emergence, of new forms of prismatic identification (in the sense that self-attributions and individual attributions are being playing off of the same types of processes that occur at superior grouping levels, lending new meaning to the individual level, through a game of continuous configuration and reformation). This study was developed out of fieldwork lasting several weeks throughout successive years (2006, 2007, 2008, 2009) in Sulina. The fieldwork focused on, among other things, the relationship between the two ethnicconfessional groups living there, namely Orthodox Romanian and Lippovans. The first sources to mention Sulina are Byzantine from the tenth century. For the whole of the Middle Ages, it seems it was a locality of small dimensions, often under different reigns; hence, the puzzling make up of the population, less visible socially today, is still salient in the epitaphs at the local cemetery. From the second half of the nineteenth century (just as the European Danube Commission began its activity), Sulina saw steady development, reaching its peak by the start of World War I, when it had around 10,000 inhabitants. Romanians and Greeks being in the majority (Covacef, 2003, 193). According to the latest census, there are now about 4,601 inhabitants in the town: 3,842 (or 85.2 percent of the total population) are Romanians, and 545 (or 10.6 percent of the total) are Russian Lipoveni. In the current historical context, the degree of representation of other ethnical groups is irrelevant (Ukrainians, Greeks, Turks, Italians, Armenians, and Bulgarians together total 5 percent). During the interwar period, the community of Lipoveni Russians might have been smaller, counting only 138 members. However, the present-day raise in numbers is due to migration from the villages situated around Letea, especially from Sfistofca and C. A. Rosetti. If the literature devoted to ethnicity and self-identity mechanisms (topics we shall focus on later) is vast and rich, the material on the Lippovans is poorly represented, both in terms of quantity and quality. There are two categories: on the one hand, we have books and articles which discuss themes like religious criteria for the formation of this ethnic group and its confessional evolution (Nistor, 1947; David, 1997; Ipatiov, 2001), the context of emigration and settlement on Romanian territory (Ipatiov, 2001; Budis, 2007), linguistic particularities (Venteler, 1977; Vascenco, 2003), cultural-identification processes (Popescu, 1999; Coatu, 2007; Capoţi, Cătană, Culescu, Evanghelie, Sădean, 2009) etc. On the other hand, we have fairly up-to-date information from the official sites of the Russian Lipoveni community (institutional frameworks formed in 1990 for the purpose of preservation and valorization of this ethnic group (www.crlr.ro, www.lipoveni.ro, www.aerr.ro). The latter discusses the abovementioned themes with a special rhetoric and in reference to certain common places. Here, we should emphasize that there are at least



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a few ethno-anthropological studies dedicated to the locality under investigation (Teampău, Van Assche, 2007; Van Assche, Devlieger, Teampău, Suciu, 2008; Van Assche, Devlieger, Teampău, Verschraegen, 2009). In the past, Sulina has sporadically caught the attention of historians, geographers, and biologists—due to the presence of the European Danube Commission at one point and due to its situation along the Danube Delta. Yet, Sulina has never been the focus of a Romanian institutionalized ethnographic enquiry because, at least officially, it is an urban area, not a rural one. In fact, in this case, (as in many others in the Romanian reality) the urban-rural dichotomy proves inoperable for several reasons. Firstly, at present, the main quantitative and qualitative indicators for defining urban areas are no longer satisfied. Secondly, most of the current population is originally from rural areas (from villages in Moldavia and along the Danube Delta). Thirdly, and most important for our research, the mentality towards and the frequency of ritual performances does not differ significantly from levels of use in Romanian villages. In some ways, they even exceed them. In response to this bibliographic scarcity, we choose to employee direct observation over the different intra-community and inter-community events, both formally and informally, recording and analyzing the narratives that came out of these events as well as a number of life stories, opinions, and individual convictions which were shared during these events. Before presenting our analysis, we would like to define a conceptual tool, designed in reference to an extensive bibliography of ethnicity and identity mechanisms, namely the key analytical category defined as identity. The term has had an impressive career in the social sciences, being used as a perfect and transparent instrument, despite its ambiguities. As Philip Gleason would note already in 1983: Today we could hardly do without the word identity in talking about immigration and ethnicity. Those who write on these matters use it casually; they assume the reader will know what they mean. And readers seem to feel that they do – at least, there has been no clamor for clarification of the term. But if pinned down, most of us would find it difficult to explain just what we do mean by identity. Its very obviousness seems to defy elucidation: identity is what a thing is! How is one supposed to go beyond explaining it? (Gleason 1983, 910)

Identity comes from the Latin term “idem,” which means “the same”; it has a technical meaning in algebra and logic and, in philosophy, it is linked to Locke and Hume’s empiricism. Widespread use in analytical and public discourse has only occurred recently and can in fact be pinned down: The word came into circulation once Erik Erikson coined the phrase identity crisis. The experience he gained both working as a psychoanalyst with children and in being a refugee in U.S, played a part in the development in his particular

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theory of identity, which he conceived as “a process” located in the core of the individual and yet also in the core of his communal culture. According to Erikson, this process establishes, in fact, the presence of two “identities” (Gleason, 1983, 914). This based concept was then linked to ethnicity (by Gordon Allport) and also to role theory and the idea of reference groups (Nelson Foote). The notion was then popularized by Ervin Goffman (who worked mostly on symbolic interaction) and Peter Berger (who worked on social construction and phenomenological traditions). Rogers Brubaker (Brubaker, 2001, 66–85) analyzed the proliferation of this term (by the seventh decade of the last century) and considered the following features as relevant to this process: the prestige enjoyed by social sciences in that period, which induced its rapid acquisition in the journalistic as well as in the academic lexicon both for in the language of social and political practice as well as in that of social and political analysis; the criticism of the concept of “mass society” by the Frankfurt School; generational revolts, protests of all sorts, and identity movements in the United States that were facilitated by the institutional weakness of leftist politics. Already in the middle of the next decade, W. J. Mackenzie (as quoted by Brubaker) had said that identity is a word that “atteint de la folie, à force d’avoir été utilize” and Robert Coles observed that the notions of “identity” and “identity crisis” became “de purs clichés.” Since the 1980s, identity has been the main concept for cultural studies, religious studies, political studies. It is a subject also becoming key in philosophy, literary criticism, and literary theory. Although the term has undergone many critiques (often some very relevant ones), it continues to be used and even to be placed at the core of cultural anthropology debates, trying to recover it. For example, Stuart Hall, published a volume entitled Questions of Cultural Identity with Paul du Gay in 1996 designed to answer the (title) question from the introductory chapter Who needs ‘identity’? through the assertion that identity “is such a concept—operating ‘under erasure’ in the interval between reversal and emergence; an idea which cannot be thought in the old way, but without which certain key questions cannot be thought at all” (Hall 1996, 2). The scholars, from which we will again quote Rogers Brubaker’s article Au-delà de l’ (2001), distinguishes between two types of understandings of identity: first is the “strong” (primordialist) concept, where identity as a given, immutable and fixed (in other words, “identity is deep, internal and permanent”) (Gleason, 1983, 920). All these theories entail a series of problematic assumptions: “strong notions of collective identity imply strong notions of group attachment and homogeneity. They imply high degrees of group connectivity, an ‘identity’ or sameness held amongst group members, a sharp distinctiveness from nonmembers, a clear boundary between inside and outside” (Brubaker, 2001, 74; cf. Hall, 1996, 4). The second category is that of weak understandings (constructivist, historicist, interactive) in which identity



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is multiple, fluid, unstable, contingent (in other words, “identity is shallow, external, and evanescent”) (Gleason, 1983, 920). In this case, we are not talking about identity, but multiple identities. However, definitions that are developed still remain in some way about identity. In addition, says Brubaker: tandis qu’elles prolifèrent, le terme perd ses facultés analytiques. Si l’identité est partout, elle n’est nulle part. Si elle est fluid, comment expliquer la manière dont les autocompréhensions peuvent se durcir, se solidifier et se cristalliser? Si elle est multiple, comment expliquer la terrible singularité qui est si souvent recherchée—et parfois obtenu—par les politiciens qui essaient de transformer de simples catégories en groupes unitaires et exclusifs? Comment expliquer le pouvoir et le pathos de la politique identitaire? (Brubaker, 2001, 66)

Despite these classifications of the “strong” and “weak” understandings of identity, most scholars use “un amalgame instabile de langage constructiviste et d’argumentation essentialiste” ( Bourdieu, 1980, 63–72). Also, another problem is that the concept of identity involves reification and is both a category of practice and a category of analysis and its use may allow political fictions to become real, as Pierre Bourdieu argued: “les classements pratiques sont toujours subordonnés à des fonctions pratiques et orientés vers la production d’effets sociaux; et aussi que les répresentations pratiques les plus exposées à la critique scientifique (. . .) peuvent contribuer à produire ce qu’apparemment elles décrivent ou désignent, c’est à dire la realité objective à laquelle la critique objectiviste les réfère pour en faire apparaître les illusions ou les incohérences” (Bourdeau, ibidem). Given these problems and the observation according to which identity “a tendence à signifier trop (quand on l’entend au sens fort), trop peu (quand on l’entend au sens faible) ou à ne rien signifier du tout (à cause de son ambiguïté intrinsèque).” Rogers Brubaker believes that the use of this term is not essential and suggested a new strategy: distributing the meanings that have accumulated around the term “identity” to a number of terminological groups whose use depends on the context: a) identifications and categorization; b) self-understanding and social location, c) commonality, connectedness, group cohesion. (Brubaker, 2001, 75–84). From these terminology groups, we insist only on identifications, because, with some nuances that are necessary, that is most suitable for our analysis. The concept was introduced into psychoanalysis first by Sigmund Freud as a way to designate the process by which a child assimilates external objects and persons to the self. (Gleason, 1983, 915–917) Its significance was extended upon by Gordon Allport, who believed that: “identification is involved in the process by which a person comes to realize what groups are significant for him, what attitudes concerning them he should form, and what kind of behavior is appropriate.” Later, Nelson Foote proposed identification as the basis for a theory of motivation in social interaction, and he defined it as “appropriation of and commitment to a

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particular identity or series of identities” (Gleason 1983, 915). Thus, as both definitions emphasize, the great advantage of identifying is that it denotes not a state but a continuous configuration or, in the words of Stuart Hall, it is “always in the ‘process’” (Hall, 1996, 2). In this way, “identifications” lack the reifying connotations of “identity”; additionally, if the first is intrinsic to social life, the second is not. Living in society, individuals identify themselves and are identified because, argues Rogers Brubaker, “l’autoidentification et l’identification de l’autre sont fondamentalment des actes situationnels et contextuels” (Brubaker, 2001, 75). The same author distinguishes between relational modes of identifications (depending on position in a relational web—e. g. kinship, friendship, or acquaintanceship) and categorical modes of identification (by membership in a class of persons sharing some categorical attribute—e. g. race, language, ethnicity, gender, etc.). For instance, can we talk about selfidentification (anyone considering him/herself in a certain way), about external identification (in the flow of social life, people identify and categorize others or themselves) and about the formalized, codified, objectified systems of categorization developed by powerful, authoritative institutions? (Brubaker, 2001, 75; on important “identifiers” such as state, institutions etc., and the symbolic power of their enterprise, but also on the identification made through public discourses and public narratives, see Bourdieu 1980). Returning to the subject of our current body of work, we hereby note that the institution with the most power of categorization, for Lippovans even more so than the Romanians, is the religious institution. Researchers place the genesis of the Lippovans community on account of the religious factor: “it is from religion that their behavior is deriving and it is religion again what ‘filters’ entrances within community, giving it for a long time the aspect of a closed community. If religion had been a ‘fraction’ factor with the Russian people, it later evolved in the binding element of the Lippovan Russian community” (Ipatiov 2001, 13). By including the identification category of “Russian-Lippovan,” the ethnic absorbed the religious: “Lippovans are of Russian origin, but not all Russians established in Romania are Lippovans. Those who are Lippovans, in the strict sense of the word, are the Russians who came from Russia and who belong to the Orthodox Christian faith, specifically a member of the old rite.” (F. Chirilă, apud Ipatiov 2001, 16). Given that the religious register is the coagulating register for the community, membership is—as interviewed subjects stated—based on church attendance. If less then 10 percent of the Orthodox Romanians in Sulina consistently attend worship services, then for the Lippovan community the proportion will exceed 10 percent, due to the internal regulations of the church. According to our interviews, to be absent from church for three Sundays means losing the right to participate in the Eucharist sacrament. When one is absent from liturgical services for a longer time, or when one crosses other canonical prescriptions,



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the priest may also exclude you from the community, going as far as the refusing to bury your corpses. According to the interviews I personally conducted in Sulina, there have been such cases in the last 15 years when Lippovans had been buried by a Romanian Orthodox priests. Perhaps that is why, in this case, there is a fine balance in the frequency of church attendance. Further, if we consider gender, we see that—in contrast, the presence of Romanian men in liturgy is almost insignificant and mostly men of an older average age. Thus, although Orthodox Christian men hold a religious monopoly from an institutional standpoint, women’s presence in the church is overwhelming. Of course, this is mainly due to the fact that they are more diligent in keeping their ancestors’ religious customs and that they play an important role in the intergenerational transmission of those customs. Experts who have studied the topic in other areas conclude the following: “de la persistence des différences, mais pour des raisons liées ni à la nature, ni à la sensibilité, mais à la construction des rôles de sexe” (Campische, 1996, 69–94). Another aspect of note is that the Orthodox Christian religion in Sulina is somehow legitimized at the local administrative level and, further, the majority of official community holidays (City Days, Navy Day, inauguration of public institution, and various commemorations; on the recent proliferation of community festivals and the role played by religious factions, see Morlet 1990, pp. 167–185) are attended by two Romanian clergymen, but not the Lippovan priests. This can be explained by the fact that the New Rite Orthodox Christianity is the official state religion, but also by the fact that religious holidays (e.g. Epiphany) from the old rite can not take place at a community level because the old rite does not overlap with the community’s official calendar. If until now we have referred to what Brubaker called categorical modes of identification, and we insist on using relational modes of identifications, then from all the facts observed in Sulina, it is best that our study select the hram (Hram, the feast of the patron saint of the local church) and the Easter of the Dead (the community’s most important collective ritual practice) as a sort of bird’s eye view at the lives of the inhabitants of the town. There are multiple reasons to this choice: • Firstly, these are both events situated at the border between the formal and the informal (as described earlier in the paper). • Secondly, both celebrations take place separately and involve in the whole internal community; nonetheless implying interactions with “the other” (as described earlier). • Finally, both these are perfect contexts for individuals to produce lifestories and/or narratives in the first person, through which they manage, in fact, to structure an alterity, which is at the same time religious, habitual/ customary, linguistic, and behavioral.

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In Sulina, there are two Orthodox Romanian parishes and two churches (one with Saints Nicholas and Alexander as patrons, and the other with St Nicholas). The old style Orthodox church (Lipoveneasca), built between 1991 and 1994, is dedicated to the Apostles Peter and Paul, honored in celebration every July 12th. We shall now proceed to schematically describe hram ritual within the two communities. The Lippovan Saint Peter and Paul Church—(29 June/12 July 2006) On the week before the feast, people take food and money to the church (for the hram meal) and clean the church and the churchyard. The parochial office sends invitations to other clergy, as well as to the local hierarch. Believers prepare their houses for receiving guests including relatives and friends from the villages nearby or from as far away as the towns of Tulcea and Brăila. On the eve of the day, they begin the preparation of the fasting food, which is to be consumed in the evening, as well as of a part of the meal for the next day. The final arrangements are made in the church, too, and large wooden tables and benches are put in the churchyard, where the meal is to be served the next day. Once all this settled, those having fulfilled their duties go home, clean up, and dress for the evening mass. By six o’clock in the evening, the bells toll, calling believers to the evening mass (called vecernie in or vesnoşanie), which is held by the parish priest and by some other invited clergy. Believers of all ages are present. At the end of the mass, a few women from the community serve the meal to the invited clergy, while the congregation heads to their houses in order to start receiving their guests. On the day of the Hram, at nine o’clock in the morning, the utrenie mass begins, followed by the liturgical service, celebrated by Metropolitan Leontâi from Fântâna Albă (vlădîca, as believers call him) and by the present clergymen. Believers come successively, dressed for the feast (trousers and rubaska secured with a belt for men, long skirts, long sleeved shirts, belts and a kicka covered with a head cloth for women . . . the elderly tend to wear lestovca—a string of mătănii—too). Before the liturgy, no food is consumed. Even those who (only excused for totally extreme reasons) do not make it to the church keep the “black” fasting until sanctified bread is delivered to them by those who have attended the religious service. In the church, the placement of believers is the following: the men who sing in the mass stay right in front, forming the strana. They leave a half-circle free in front of the altar. Then come the men from the community who only are present that will not sing. Here, is where the Orthodox priest stands alongside a few Romanian Orthodox men accompanying him. According to interviews, the former Romanian parish, which engaged in



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friendlier relations with the Lippovans, used to stand inside the altar during divine service (without officiating though). A one-meter wall on which icons are displayed separates the space dedicated to men from the space dedicated to women. Romanian women and children stay right at the back or on the steps of the church. On the year of our visit, a merchant with crosses, headdresses and belts also stayed on the steps, too. After the liturgy, a procession starts complete with religious flags, icons, and holy relics (including a hand said to have belonged to Saint Parascheva) around the church. Throughout this, The Akatistos of Saints Peter and Paul is read, hymns to their glory are sung, and four stops are made—one at each side of the church. At these points, gospels are being chanted and the present party is sprinkled with holy water (flicked in the sign of the cross). The aim of the procession is to break the dry spell and bring rain1 and as part of this the second stop, the stop corresponding to the placement of altar inside, water is blessed by submersing the hand of the Saint in the water and by washing it. Each believer tries to get a drink of the liquid and to take some home for storage throughout the year. Once the procession has ended, the cortege returns to the church in order to finish the cultic service. Next comes the meal. It is served according to certain etiquette: clergymen in front along with salient members of the Russian Lipovan community. Congregation guests come next, followed by rest of their family members and neighboring relations— men on one side and women in front of them. After prayers for blessing, three dishes are served, predominantly fish, sweets, and drinks. At the end of the meal, participants give prayers of thanks and return to their houses, where they continue to feast together with their guests. According to interviews with locals, the Lipoveni have another religious services to re-sanctifying their church on the day following the hram, since people of another faith (especially Orthodox Romanians) have stepped inside it during the ceremony. Romanian Saint Hierarchs Nicholas and Alexander Orthodox Church – (30 August 2008) One month before the event, the priest announces the beginning of the money and food collection (for the hram). Up until the hram, people bring and store at the church products like fish, meat, vegetables, flour, oil, rice, sugar, fruits, and drinks. The week before, the church is cleaned thoroughly and the stoves are put in order and storage spaces are prepared for keeping food. The parish invites clergy from the surrounding area and the Bishop from Tulcea (at least in this year of observation, once the eparchy was founded). In the morning, wooden tables and benches are arranged, which will be placed in

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the courtyard in such a way as they form the letter U. Also, part of the food for the next day is cooked (some of fish dishes, pie, and sweets). Always on this day, a skilled woman bakes the big ritual breads (colaci and cozonaci), which are to be blessed on the day. She also prepares the wheat for the ritual coliva. At six in the evening, the parish celebrates vecernia. It is mostly the women who attend it, but not in such great numbers as in the Lippovan community. Most of the participants do no belong to the parish that is holding the feast, so only those who do come together for the preparations. After vecernie there is litia. Then alms are blessed and shared (bread, cozonaci, and fruits that believers bring for the health of the bringer). On the day of Hram, up until the beginning of the liturgy, the most skilled women decorate coliva-s. Inside the church, two tables have been prepared. On one of them coliva-s are placed together with alms (fruit, pastry, and sweets) and the names of the dead intended for remembrance written down (pomelnice). On the other table, lye the big colaci, the cozonaci, and the coliva-s of fruit for the living. At around nine o’clock in the morning, invited clergymen arrive and they all begin to concelebrate the liturgy. As this proceeds, the labor in the churchyard does not dwindle. This makes participation in the religious service less prominent, being sustained especially by those belonging to the other Orthodox Romanian parish in the vicinity. Contrary to the situation of the Lippovans community, Romanians in this area do not keep a spatial regulation within the church nor a certain dressing code. On the year of our visit, the Lippovans church parish was not there because he had not been invited. Some Lippovans were present, however. After the mass, the two tables with alms are blessed and the alms are handed out to the people present there. Those present sit at the table in the following order: First clergymen and town officials on the sides and then invited local guests and a few others from the neighboring villages including friends or people who simply “held” the seat from before the end of the mass. After the prayers for blessing at the table, the first thing consumed is the coliva, then the entry, a vegetable soup, roasted meat, and fish, then cozonac and fruit. After the end of the meal, all participants leave for home. They are replaced at the table by all those who had had logistic duties until then, who eats what is left. If there is any food left after this, it is given to the poor. The remaining portions are cooked for another common meal on the next Sunday. Interviews with locals suggest that this unfolding of the hram in the Romanian church dates back only two decades and is due to the parish having received it current status in 1984. It seems the current priest is from a village in Moldavia where such things have special amplitude. At the beginning, he had proposed to his congregation a simplified version: each family participating to the mass would bring a basket with cooked food, as they pleased, which would be consumed in communion the church service



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was over. Then they decided to collect food and do the hram in the way we saw during our visit. The idea of organizing the hram was quickly adapted, unopposed, and embraced by the community for at least two reasons. Firstly, the local Lippovans had a very similar celebration, and they are perceived as more faithful and correct than Romanians: “they are better, more faithful than us . . . they have greater faith” (M.U., 76 years). Therefore, there was reason to establish a differential identification from them. The second and the most important reason—as a matter of fact—is that most of locals are from the Moldavian countryside or from the villages around the Danube Delta (Letea, C.A.Rosetti, Chilia, Caraorman etc.). These are people who have secured their new place of residence as result of industrialization (fish canning factory workers or in naval construction). Most of them recall the size of the hram feast in their native villages, an occasion that brought together young and old from all the surrounding villages. The feast after the liturgy—the ball—lasted three days and was organized by the village group of lads,2 they were also responsible for the first dance of the girls (băgatul fetelor în horă), and for the mediation of friendships with young local girls in neighboring localities: Rosetti would come to Letea . . . they would come . . . And Sulina was coming, and Chilia was coming, and the Crisan was coming . . . Tulcea was . . . who had relatives, would come in great numbers. To us, when there was hram, the courtyard was full of people. We had a very large courtyard in Letea and it was all full with carts. And from Chilia, they would come with carts. They would come in advance, too, and they would rest and then, look, lads and girls . . . they would all come to the ball and I was not allowed to the ball . . .  And by then my brother would still not be in the army, he was taking boys at our place . . . my mother would cook for them all . . . there were great meals. She would cook food, roasted meat . . . and all the boys from Chilia . . . by the table . . . my brother had been to the hram in Chilia. And while they were coming to eat: come on, Ioana, come to the ball . . . you dance from noon . . . dance until evening. The evening . . . you are careful that the sun is not down, and you have to come home, to . . . feed the cattle . . . but what about parents attending dancing! Till the evening! . . . Indeed . . . you see, in Letea, first the girl goes to the hram with another girl, girl with girl, the girl . . . and the boys stay on the sides. And then: “which one would you like to take?” “I want to take that girl.” And you want to take the other girl . . . One dance, I believe, it takes . . . So it was the custom in those days. And there was also the swing . . . oh, it was really beautiful! And if you were to refuse, they would take you out, and there you stay outside. They are taking you out! The lad is taking you and . . . with music! A march! And he is taking you out. For the boys were the ones to pay the music. Yes. They take you out and you stay . . . a whole year you stay there outside. Or however long they decide: three months, two months, you stay outside and dance no more. You stay there! (I. S., 73 years).

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Returning to the organization of the hram in Sulina, we must make mention that this event already functions as a framework for interaction between the two groups (Romanians and Lippovans) and that each occasion implies the possible presence and meeting of their formal (religious) leaders, this special situation being an exception from the day to day interdiction against entering one another’s church. In this case, we are on the way to another identification of a locality type, surpassing the ethnic-religious level of the community, though surely with some clear boundaries. Asked individually about attending the Lippovan church, Romanians agree there is a certain taboo about it: a mostly a verbal response using hearsay (“so I hear” or “it is said that”) where the main point is that someone’s transgression leads to the person’s exclusion from one’s own community. This exclusion takes place as a ban from Eucharist (“So I heard, if you enter a Lipovean church, I don’t know for how many years after you are not given Eucharist” [M.U., 76 years]). You can also be banned through profanation of one’s own cultic symbols (“they have a cross buried under the entrance and you step on the cross and then enter the place” [E. M., 47 years]). For Romanians, individual transgression of such religious prescriptions can occur, conscious and self-assumed, when it comes to the traditional ritual structures, especially the burial ceremony (like the Easter of the Dead), the nuptial ceremonials, and (only much less) during christenings. We shall now proceed to describing schematically the procession of the Easter of the Dead in both communities. For these two communities, the Easter of the Dead is the largest collective celebration dedicated to the commemoration of the departed. It is held every year on the Monday morning after Bright Week (i.e. 8 days after Easter) in parish cemeteries.3 Preparations start a week before (or just before) Easter: the graves are cleared, the flowers are watered, and the graves’ fences, crosses, tables and benches are looked after. Two days before, food is cooked that will be distributed and consumed on this occasion. On the day of the feast, the order of operations is as follows: Romanian Orthodox families start arriving at the cemetery around six o’clock in the evening with baskets of food and with flowers. When they arrive at the graves of relatives, a family member—usually a woman—begins arranging food on the small tables near each tomb. People bring sweets—cake, coliva, and bapca (a ritual food, like a pudding of noodles)—as well as red eggs and beverages—wine, water, and juice—while some people bring steak, fish, cheese, vegetables etc. Meanwhile, another family member (usually a man) goes to buy embers from a fire made by the gravedigger at the cemetery gate as part of the ritual gesture. The waste from wooden crosses is burned to embers, which are then used by women to burn incense near the tomb, which they burning surrounding the tomb three times counterclockwise.



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After completing these operations, they wait for one of the two Romanian priests to arrive4 in order to officiate the commemorations (namely parastas) and to bless the food. After parastas, part of the food is given to neighbors, relatives, children, strangers, or to the poor (i.e. alms for the dead) and the rest is consumed in the cemetery, during the next three hours or so. At midnight, a requiem for heroes is conducted, which is attended by local officials and the very few Romanians who have not yet gone home. Colaci, cozonaci and wine is bought and distributed with money from the local council. The Lippovans consecrate the food (cakes, coliva, red eggs, fruits, and wine) the day before at church, on Thomas’s Sunday, after the Liturgy. They arrive at the cemetery at eight o’clock in the evening. One representative from each family will go to the priest, who sits at a table in the center of the cemetery, dictating the name of dead relatives. During this time, as is the custom with Orthodox Romanians, the Lippovans burn incense by the graves. At nine o’clock in the night, everyone gathers at the center of the cemetery where the priest conducts, for one hour, a special service: the Canon of Pascha, followed by a general memorial to all the dead. When the priest reads the names of the dead, family members begin to share alms packages, including cozonac, red egg, a fruit, with each other. They give them specifically first to children, then the poor, and then the elderly people. Children also receive money (about 1 EUR). After Mass, people retreat to the graves of their relatives to eat. If some people so desire, the priest may officiate individual memorial services, lasting about 10 minutes each. After concluding the celebration, Lippovans who have relatives buried in the Romanian cemetery will go there to commemorate them. For this, they turn to the liturgical services of the Romanian priests, being one of the occasions of where they can break the religious prescriptions in their own community: the relationship they have with ancestors proves stronger than their present belonging to a particular religious group. If now (on Easter of the Dead), a breach of religious code is made for the good of a somewhat wider community vision, and with the tacit agreement of its religious leaders, and if it is one’s duty to hang on to those who are his/her kin (family, relatives), then attendance to the other church is dictated by a higher duty. This is, as we mentioned before, the case with traditional ritual structures: both funeral and nuptial ceremonials. Narratives on these themes are each time structured on oppositions: by us vs. by them, here vs. there, this way vs. the other way—each time, the subject emphasizing the factual difference. Take, for example, the following: So we have it from our elders: it is a shame. That you go into their church. I have . . . when this neighbor of mine died. This neighbor was Lipoveanca. And they gave me a load to carry it through. Aye!!! I say “Iarina” – Iarina was the post-woman, you know? No you don’t, she was the post-woman. I say:

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“what have you given me to carry?” “Well yes, since you two were so good together . . . She . . . like my mother she had been. Me, when we . . . left with Grigore for the resort, she would take care of Jeni, of Gelu, of poultry, she! She in the courtyard, she . . . would water flowers, all over the place. She was in the courtyard . . . and with her, the daughter . . . for we were not having . . . for she stopped walking through the gateway. And she was just like mom!” “And so, you were close together, and you hesitate to carry auntie?! . . .” Me: “me, to . . . carry? enter the church? let me tell the priest, cause maybe I could catch a sin!” Fool I’ve been, for there can be no sin to enter the church. But they say that . . . I don’t know! You know, they put it with the feet . . . First, with the feet . . . she enters the church first . . . Ooh, when I entered the church . . . it is different in their church, different! The arrangement . . . I stepped into the church . . . they don’t bend in their church, don’t lean for ‘metanii’, don’t have candles, I don’t know what . . . I . . . grew so puzzled . . . “tell me then, what is it I have to do here, cause I don’t know what to do here . . . ” So I stayed, and then I went out and left! That was it, with my entering their church.’ . . . My son wedded the son of the old woman. So, let’s go . . . and they have the . . . kicka. They sew some little hats hung on the back . . . beautiful, silky. Maybe you’ve seen some somewhere. . . . Auntie says: “Ioana, sew I kicka for you at the wedding?” I say: “sew not, for I’m not wearing that kicka of yours on my head; I don’t know to wear it!” “Well, but you are going to the church, aren’t you?” “I’m not going to the church either.” “What, not going to the church?” Well, I left for the church, to see how they wed. They were wedding, wedding, and then a glass . . . “prepare the hammer,” says one. Ohh, but what is he doing with the hammer? Err . . . and he puts the bride and the groom on knees, glass on the head, and boom! the hammer. Well, say I, this is good! And then they rose, and you have to fall down to him, to the groom, as a bride, and ask him forgiveness, for you are not going to do anything at all, for I don’t know what, for he be forgiving to you, for he never hit you, never . . . and me: look at her: what a fool, she falls to ask him forgiveness! What forgiveness was she asking I do not know. Comic, really comic, this other way, else way . . . and then they . . . begin to sing, so that the two kiss! They sing, they kiss and kiss and kiss, sing a song, yell, shout, ‘horcaia – horcaia!’ What’s that: horcaia, I really don’t know, they kept kissing. I didn’t like that at all . . . By the grave, there, when we were to bury old Axiuta, it went on, reading . . . and by us too they put the cross by the head, but by them, they put the cross by the feet. When . . . when there is going to be Resurrection, she grasps right on the cross. But how are you people grasping the cross? Like that! [laughter] I say: “why are you putting the cross by the feet? Well, yes, it’s meaningful, so that, when we rise, we cling on the cross quickly. But you? How are you clinging the cross?” Stay I and watch . . . what do I know? By the back I guess. [laughter] (I.S., 73 years).

Although Romanians acknowledge the re-blessing of the Lippovan Church, subsequent to the hram, they all speak about the great joy Lippovans express when receiving them inside their religious dwelling, a joy which they explain



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based on another shortcoming of the Lippovans old style cult, namely the lack of the blessed and holy oil mir: You see, they don’t have mir! You see the cleanness! It is clean, yet somehow  .  .  .  in our houses . . . perhaps you haven’t repainted the walls, maybe . . . but by us, it is not like in theirs, it doesn’t smell at all! But they have no mir! We have mir! This is why we are clean, because we have the mir!  . . . they like us going to their church, because mir, we do have it! (M.U., 76 years)

This idea of the pronounced smell which the Lippovans have, despite their bodily cleanliness, is so spread, that in some scientific papers the word Lippovans comes to be translated as “the stinky ones” (David, 1997, 313). As for the particular situations in which the Lippovans frequent the Romanian church, these are due primarily to the absence of certain mysteria and prayers from the old style cult (Sfântul Maslu, prayers of unraveling curses, reading dead and living memorials, recitation in a loud voice), so that the Lippovans do make appeals to them, especially in the case of familial and professional problems, when the criterion of deep personal belief is preeminent to the coercion of the religious code: “They do come to us. They do, because by them, there are no sacred gifts; no one comes out; nor do they read prayers of unraveling . . . nor do they have the Holy Maslu . . . they do come, and also to leave name remembrances” (E.M., 47 years). Another cause more frequently invoked of late is the linguistic element: the language of the old cult being Slavonic, it surpasses the capacity of comprehension for most practicing believers. In this regard, a Lipovanca of 72 years told us: I understand, but very little. Those books are not even Russian or Romanian . . . Slavonic! They are heavy! And when I go to a dead service in Romanian . . . I would eat and I would sleep three days and three nights to hear the Gospel in Romanian! . . . So clear . . . and I understand everything! But by us, it cannot be understood! (M., 72 years)

When the Lippovans feel the need to pray outside the church, most of them use Romanian Orthodox books: They come to us, the Lippovans! Lots of them are and . . . look, Iarina, when she comes, comes to us, lights all candles and only then leaves for their church! They do come a lot. For . . . even Iarina reads books mostly from . . . bought from our church, and reads them and so she said, that “I understand!” That she, the Slavonic . . . I don’t know how, on Russian but she understands no thing: “I understand no thing from what our father-priest is reading to us. I am coming to you so I may understand.” And she reads our books, she, our books . . . at their place . . . and, look, this neighbor on the street, the one of Sapca . . . she is Lipoveanca. And she, the machine . . . sets the TV on the mass. She is listening

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to the mass. She is listening, takes a seat, sits only for the mass by the TV. She says: “I do understand. But in the . . . I am uncomfortable . . . only Our Father I know saying. Otce nasi.”

Beside what we have listed above, the most enduring contexts in which representatives from the two communities interact are mixed marriages, the number of which grew significantly lately, even if only in the last three or four decades. Before, these were seemingly impossible: any contact with the “other” was simply considered impure: Before not! Before . . . you know what? It is, was . . . if I am going to the Lipovean; and I take the cup and fetch water and drink, she is throwing away the cup . . . just because we drank from it. She is throwing it away or makes cross over it, or crosses water in the bucket. Water in the bucket is covered! With the towel, with something . . . But not anymore . . . Romanian marrying Lipovean, Lipovean taking Romanian . . . Before they were tough, really tough . . . By the entrance in Sfistofca . . . in Sfistofca there are Lipoveni . . . there used to be a well, there, by the entrance . . . and if you were coming with the cart and were taking water out of the well, for you or for the oxen, they would re-bless the well and only drink afterwards! . . . Now, it is over . . .  (M.U., 76 years)

Rendering such an exogamic relationship official involves the passage from one law to the other: in most cases, the girl is adopting the religious status of the boy but there are a number of reverse examples, when there is a social/ material inferior status of the latter. Even so, because of linguistic inaccessibility, for many people the process is reversible: “there are many, who, after realizing he or she cannot understand a thing and . . . another religion, other . . . then they come back to Romanians” (E.M., 47 years). Moreover, some of the subjects of our research make speak of inherent tensions that confront the two opposite attitudes, religious codes, or different customs: It passes, passes, but . . . you must know that . . . life isn’t pretty! No . . . when one marries a . . . one of one kind, one of the other. For he says you are a filthy Lipoveanca, he says that . . . she says that you are a filthy Romanian, and so, the quarrel is ready. And she wants to have the children christened in her church, he wants it to his, and quarrel they do, and scandal they make, scandal never ceases. Do you imagine they live well? No! Neither by us they don’t live so happy, but . . . in this nation . . . look, the Catholic, we . . . we are rather close, aren’t we? Yes, but with the Lipoveni not! I prayed so hard to God to prevent . . . that Jeni is taking a Lipovean or Gelu a Lipovanca . . . cause . . . Easter is not the same . . .  (I.S., 73 years)

Analyzing the information presented here and the narratives collected, it seems that each of the two communities has structured a religious alterity



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on the customary, linguistic and behavioral level. In the case of the town of Sulina, the contexts under our observation (the hram and the Easter of the Dead) determine the emergence, then crystallization, then disappearance, then again emergence, of new forms of prismatic identification in terms of self-attributions and individual attributions that are being formed with same types of processes at occur the level of superior groupings; which then lend new meanings to the individual level, through a continuous game of configuration and reformation. However, beyond this narrative game of alterity and identity, and beyond the ethnic categories applied by the researcher, we have to deal, in Sulina—as well as everywhere—with people who do not live separately or alongside each other, but together with one another and, therefore, their lives can only be looked at in relation to each other. English translation by I. Benga

Notes 1. According to the present congregation, dryness was the result of a magical “tying” of rains made by the vidme (living female ghosts). Their spell was made to protect those who had not yet collected all their hay and who would be threatened by any precipitation. 2. I suggest here, without too much insistence, the parallel between these types of relationships and the laturenit specific to Transylvania. 3. The Lippovan and the Romanian Orthodox cemeteries in Sulina are in the same complex, together with the Muslim cemetery, the Hebrew, the Greek, the Anglican and the Catholic, as well as the famous “maritime cemetery,” a tourist attraction. 4. Graves are not blessed in a certain order, it depends on the clergy preferences, on the material benefits arising from the performance of service, and on the relationships they have with participants. Moreover, the Easter of the Dead is always a source of conflict, on the one hand between the two parishes of Sulina, and, on the other hand, between the priest and the congregation. In some years, these conflicts take interesting shapes and are highly publicized. For example, at the end of 2007, on the site www.hoinari.ro, there was a debate between two “fanatics” from parishes in Sulina, in which one of them, a recent arrival in Sulina, is accused by “the other side” of trying to move the celebration date from Monday to Sunday, arguing that “it is in this way in the big cities.” (http://www.hoinari.ro/index. php?cu=22461820030727).

Bibliography Bourdieu, Pierre (1980). “L’ identité et la représentation. Eléments pour une réflexion critique sur l’idée de région.” Actes de la recherche en Sciences Sociales, 35(1): 63–72.

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Brubaker, Rogers (2001). “Au-delà de l’«identité».” Actes de la Recherche en Sciences Sociales, 139(1): 66–85. Bucurescu, Adrian (2007). “Cel mai estic punct al Uniunii Europene.” România liberă, 2 noiembrie. Budiş, Monica (2007). “Rituri de construcţie în comunitatea lipovenilor tulceni.” Anuar I.E.F, 18: 97–104. Campische, Roland J (1996). “Religion, statut social et identité féminine.” Archives de Sciences Sociales des Religions, 95(1): 69–94. Capoţi, I., O. Cătană, M. Culescu, R. Evanghelie and I. Sădean (2009). Cracaliu – sat de vacanţă, Dobrogea. Identităţi şi crize. Coord. Bogdan Iancu, Bucureşti: Paideia, 79–93. Coatu, Nicoleta (2007). ‘Procese cultural-identitare în comunităţi lipoveneşti din Dobrogea,’ Anuar I.E.F, serie nouă, tom 18: 87–95. Covacef, Petre (2003). Cimitirul viu de la Sulina. Constanţa: Ex Ponto. David, P. I (1997). Invazia sectelor, volume I: De la erezii vechi la secte religioase ale timpului nostru, Bucureşti, Editura “Crist-1.” Gleason, Philip (1983). “Identifying Identity: A Semantic History.” The Journal of American History, 69(4): 910–931. Hall, Stuart (1996). “Introduction: Who needs ‘Identity’?” Questions of Cultural Identity, Stuart Hall and Paul du Gay, eds., London: Sage, 1–18. Ipatiov, Filip (2001). Ruşii lipoveni din România. [Studiu de geografie umană], Cluj: Presa Universitară Clujeană. Morlet, Joël (1990). “Anciennes et nouvelles pratiques religieuses des ruraux.”  Archives de Sciences Sociales des Religions, 72(1): 167–185. Popescu, Ioana (1999). “Ethnicité et imaginaire dans le Delta du Danube.” Yearbook of the Romanian Society of Cultural Anthropology/ Annuaire de la Société d’anthropologie culturelle de Roumanie, 124–130. Tatu, Tudose (2004). Cărţi vechi, corăbii, reisi, neguţători şi diplomaţi. Dunărea de Jos 1745–1856, Bucharest: Istru. Teampău, P. and K. Van Assche (2007). “Sulina – The dying city in a vital region. Social memory and nostalgia for the European future.” Ethnologia Balkanica, 13(1): 257–78. Van Assche, K., P. Devlieger, P. Teampău, C. Suciu (2008). “Liquid boundaries in marginal marshes. Reconstructions of identity in the Romanian Danube Delta.” Studia Sociologia, 53(1): 115–138. Van Assche, K., P. Devlieger, P. Teampău, and G. Verschraegen (2009). “Forgetting and remembering in the margins: Constructing past and future in the Romanian Danube Delta.” Memory Studies, 2(2): 211–234.

Chapter 11

Traditional Medicine and its Evolution in Southern Bessarabia Natalia Serebriannikova

Introduction In many transitional countries, research into traditional folk medicine has intensified recently. Folk medicine is interwoven into the local communities’ everyday life and immediately reacts to changing economic, social, ethical, and ecological conditions. Rapid transition to a market economy triggered many social problems, in many cases crisis phenomena, and widespread insecurity and poverty spurred a revival of traditional medicine practices. Many people turned to folk medicine; methods used by former generations and are remembered by only a few people in the community. For these people, folk medicine has a new practical purpose, however, it is worth studying for other reasons, as it sheds a fascinating light on worldviews, ethnic stereotypes, and the rituals of every day life. Folk medicine is a significant domain of folk knowledge, and as such is part of a spiritual culture that shows traces of ancient syncretistic beliefs, magic practices, and important information about past stages of societal development. Folk medicine can also be studied as a source of enrichment for modern medicine and one can easily note the possibilities it offers in terms of deepening the understanding of the relationship between illness, patient, and doctor. The increased public interest in folk medicine can be attributed to a revival of the more spiritual features of folk culture in an age of insecurity as well as to the practical needs mentioned before. Unfortunately, charlatans operate in this market, as in others. Then, in other cases, some uses can be considered more of a fashion than a genuine practice; present-day magicians and witch doctors invoke a romantic age of occultism and mysticism. For anthropology, the study of folk medicine becomes all the more interesting where many ethnicities coexist, and where interethnic contact is intense. 261

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Southern Ukraine is such an area and Southern Bessarabia, comprising the Ukrainian Danube Delta, is an extreme case. This chapter develops a perspective on folk medicine highlighting this area, in the light of its history of interethnic interaction and a complex use and signification of natural resources. Sources and Methods Many sources were used for the research presented here. We can divide the sources into three groups, according to the period of observation and publication. I used ethnographic sources from the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries, secondly a set of ethnographies from the 1920s and 1930s, and lastly I present material obtained during my own research expeditions, occurring from 1990 to 2009. The authors of the first collection of materials were ethnographers, specialists in folklore, and other members of the intelligentsia (such as teachers, doctors, and priests). Some of their investigations were sponsored by various governmental and scientific organizations. One of these remarkable researchers was V. Jastrebov, whose works investigated the spiritual cultural of Ukrainians within the Kherson region at the end of the nineteenth century. This work contains fascinating information on the peculiarities of the worldview of these people. In particular, the author describes popular beliefs on health, on the origin of diseases, medical precautions, and omens. Some of these beliefs are currently more associated with other Ukrainian regions. Some beliefs can still be traced today, but in simplified form; such as the belief that whirlwinds cause diseases. Jastrebov’s work include a treatise entitled “The Folk Medicine,” where he presents a systematic overview of diseases and their treatment, in alphabetical order. He seems mainly interested in ritual practice; still, this is described in minute detail. In his description, the author, rather remarkably, does not separate word and action in the ritual. Some rituals are no longer in practice, while some are still widespread. Jastrebov covers both common rituals and more esoteric ones that could only be performed by insiders (i.e. professional sorcerers). Data on traditional medicine (Nestorovsky, 1905; Bessaraba, 1916; Sikirinsky, 1924) is scattered and fragmented. Here, we can find some information on traditional medical practice, views on some diseases and their treatment, as well as preventive measures. Studies on the folklore of Southern Ukraine have been conducted (Komarov, 1980) but do not include much material on medical practice and associated rituals. Other research contains interesting empirical data on the folk medicine of the Bulgarians in the area (Zaderatsky, 1845; Levitsky, 1845; Kochubinsky, 1889; Derdzavin 1898, 1914). This data mainly concerns prevention of



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diseases (see the parts on calendar rites, clothing), ethnically specific ideas about household hygiene, and observations on a few other issues and diseases. We also used a dated collection of historical, ethnographic, and statistical descriptions of Ukrainian and Russian settlements within the region. These stem from a program approved by the Ministry of Internal Affairs in 1885, which is later continued by the zemstvoes (the rural local governments). The descriptions always follow the same plan: a general description of the sub-region, with villages and ethnic groups; a more detailed description per village; family relations and other social relations; beliefs and holidays. For our present purposes, the latter is of the most interest to us. A specifically useful source is the descriptions made by local priests (notably Bakhtalovsky, 1882; Bogoslavsky, 1873; Burjanov, 1877; Grosul, 1877; Kazanaklij, 1877). Mostly dating from the 1870s and 1880s, these are part of a concerted effort to uproot superstitions. The apparently motto was that the enemy should be studied in order to be eradicated fully and efficiently. Sorcery but also folk medicine was included. The data clearly reveal the position of the Orthodox Church on folk medicine. The documents refer to Ukrainian, Russian, Bulgarian, and Moldavian (or Romanian) villages in the area. The second group of materials studied, dating from the 1920s and 1930s, is considerably richer than the first group. As a result of a new methodology and coordinated research efforts initiated by the Ethnographic Commission of the Ukrainian Academy of Sciences, the data is more comprehensive and more systematic. Participants used standardized questionnaires and well-designed studies to investigate traditional culture, aiming to unveil its organic unity and spiritual qualities. The commission was also interested in folk medicine. The interviewers working for the commission were also active in the southern regions. Unfortunately, they did not publish their planned volume on folk medicine (a collection of articles under the working title “The Body of Folk Medicine”). However, even in this period, the bulk of available material did not come from research professionals, but again from local doctors, teachers, and priests. These materials are not so systematic and their quality is uneven, but they contain invaluable insights. For example, in the document entitled “Beliefs Written Down in the Odessa Region,” (anonymous) the authors describe all the beliefs in their village connected with fire. Some of those beliefs are quite interesting for the student of folk medicine (descriptions of illnesses caused by the inappropriate or illegal use of fire, use in treatments). These descriptions, provided throughout scattered documents, often correct the image produced by older academic research. For example, the document entitled “A Folk Calendar, Customs, Beliefs, Superstitions, Divinations, Omens” gives information about omens and spells related to health (e.g. spells against bleeding, toothache, and perepug,

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a mental disease in which the subject is petrified by something). During the same period, the activities of individual ethnographers also increased. Interesting data on folk medicine can be found in Tsvetko’s works (1932). He investigated the medical practices of Bessarabian Bulgarians and their conceptions on the origin of diseases and treatment as well as on sorcerers and their characteristics. He compared the beliefs of Bessarabian Bulgarians and the Bulgarians further south (in present-day Bulgaria) as well as the beliefs of the local Bulgarians and other ethnic groups in the area. Tsvetko investigated each aspect of folk medicine in depth, including their associations with magic. Finally, we arrive at our third group of data, that I collected myself in ethnographic expeditions conducted for the Odessa National University History Department between the years 1995–2009. These expeditions brought our research team to Russian, Ukrainian, Bulgarian, and Moldavian villages in the Odessa region. Data was collected by means of observation and interviews. Interviews were recorded and transcribed. The information we obtained during these ventures provides a picture of the period starting in the 1930s. Our intention was to identify different periods in folk medicine, as marked by unique characteristics, and the changing role of folk medicine in the community. This ends our overview of the sources used in this current chapter. In summary, I can say that, for the most part, my colleagues and myself used primary sources as well as direct observation and interviews and that our sources roughly span the period from 1850 to the present day. This diversity of material allows me to now reconstruct the content, character, origin, and diversity of folk medicine in the region, as well as its complex modes of transformation. Traditional Medical Practice The function, conservation, and transformation of folk medicine in a given community, at a given time, depended on a series of factors including government policy regarding the autonomy of a certain ethnic group at a given moment, the position of the church, the zeal of modern medicine, and the toleration of diversity in general (One might add economic conditions, ethnic assimilation processes, and migration patterns, too.). 1850 to 1920 In 1894, the Russian Empire, then in control of present-day southwestern Ukraine, enacted a reform of local government (zemstvo). Simultaneously, regional governments (uprava) were established. The new regional



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governments were charged with trade, communications, education, and also (a real novelty) public health. At the local level, zemstvoes provided the rural population with medical care. The quality of services varied, but the local governments’ best medics within progressive communities did their best to raise the standards of medical care in the countryside. The building of hospitals began in the 1860s. The results of the reform can be appreciated positively. Vaccination contained epidemics (Svinjin, 1867), a most notable instance of success being eradication of smallpox. Many locals were suspicious of the vaccinations, however, efforts appear successful enough, since written sources starting from the late nineteenth century never mention the disease. However, resources were scarce and the sparse number of doctors that were assigned to the region simply could not see to all the local medical needs. In the Kherson region during the late nineteenth century, there was one doctor for 10,000 people (Boltarovich, 1990). The situation in Bessarabia was described thus: In other towns, except for the Izmailsky and Skuljansky quarters, there is a lack of regular doctors; that is why people have to consult charlatans, sorceresses. (Svinjin, 1867)

Statistics also inform us of the poor hygienic conditions in the villages. Typhus and cholera epidemics still plagued the area towards the end of the nineteenth century. So, the “modern” medical treatment that could be observed in the area was not the best, and this aggravated the distrust of many local people towards modern medicine, which was perceived as a strange practice. They still chose the traditional treatment and sought help from sorcerers (a baba in the case of an old woman; a male sorcerer was a ded). Again, we have to mention the importance of clergymen and their attitudes. Folk rituals, including folk medicine, were regarded as remnants of pagan times and many priests actively opposed their practice. For decades, the church fought folk ritual and folk medicine. On the other hand, interestingly, members of the church also contributed significantly to the study of folklore. One example is the “Kishinev Eparchy Bulletin,” a religious magazine publishing information on ethnic cultures and folk medicine. The following quote from the “Kishinev Eparchy Bulletin” in 1878 expresses the church’s attitude: Real success for the Christian sermon is hardly possible if the preacher does not understand clearly the people he should persuade by word; without that understanding, he can only declare that some belief or rite is not Christian, but doesn’t know what these beliefs and rites are in fact, why they are so firmly entrenched in people’s minds, and it is hard to understand why people show real and deep devotion to the Church but meanwhile keep ancient non-Christian beliefs and habits (500).

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From the clerical point of view at the time, diseases were provoked by sinful behavior and, therefore, can be attributed to God’s will. Sermons in the second half of the nineteenth century show that priests tried to popularize the idea of illness as punishment. This suggests that this idea was not widespread before that or at least had not been very persuasive in many local communities. Priests also tried to convince villagers that only God could send disease, not other people, ill-wishers, or sorcerers. Prayer was promoted as the treatment, rather than engagement in the game of spell verses counter-spell. In folk beliefs of that time, some explanations of diseases and their origins called for the intervention of specialists (traditional doctors, witches, sorcerers). Illness could be regarded as a punishment for sins, but also as caused by evil spirits. In both cases, priests could be requested, since priests were considered powerful and because they had a connection with God, which could be useful in dealing with evil spirits as well. Communication with God could, thus, override the game of evil eyes and sorcery (“Kishinev Diocesan Bulletin,” 1886). However, accounts given by priests provide the impression that sick people first sought help from traditional experts and turned to the priest and the church only after that for prayer, especially public prayer, to which they attributed real curing power. Modern medicine came up only as a third option, if at all. Thus, we can say that towards the end of the nineteenth century, both modern medicine and a reinvigorated Orthodox church transformed the practice of folk medicine in the region. Transformation in the Years 1920–1940 After the Russian Revolution, the territory of present-day southwestern Ukraine was divided between two political entities: the kingdom of Romania, which included the territory of Bessarabia (including the Danube Delta), and the newly established Soviet Union. The dramatic changes that occurred in the region during that period triggered many changes in content, practice, and distribution of folk ritual—including folk medicine. Between December 1917 and January 1918, Soviet power was established in Izmail, Kilia, Vilkovo, and Artsiz (in other words, the area demarcating the Ukrainian Danube Delta). Local soviets were formed. From January to March, the areas were occupied by Romania. During 1918 and 1919, the Soviet Union tried to conquer all the territories that used to belong to the Russian Empire, but was not successful in the case of Bessarabia. Thus, southwestern Ukraine was divided in two parts, belonging to two states. That difference proved influential.



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In the Ukrainian territories belonging to the USSR, reforms were carried out quickly. Soviet power aimed not only at establishing a new economic and political order, but also claimed ideological authority and a monopoly. The new power initiated a campaign against, not only the church, but also against other superstitions, folk beliefs, and mysticism. Yet, in practice, the quality of villages’ health services did not improve much, at least not in the beginning, and people were still resorted to folk healers. Matters worsened during the Great Famine of the 1930s, starting with the horrible years of 1932 and 1933. Local populations, weakened by malnutrition, were struck by many diseases including typhus, pediculosis, and a host of gastrointestinal diseases. The first victims of the famine and its associated diseases were children and the elderly. This obviously had many consequences. One significant detail that arises here is that some of the elderly possessed knowledge of folk traditions, which were not available to the younger generations. Regional dispossession occurred, as many people were forced to leave their villages. Families were separated. Most families in the village of Gaika, for example, settled there during the 1933 famine. Our elderly respondents in Zlatoustove say that, in those times, nobody even thought of diseases, doctors, or sorcerers. Apparently, and paradoxically, survival was not linked to disease and medicine. On the other side of the new border, Romanian authorities did not have the reform zeal of their Soviet counterparts and they usually left church and folk rituals alone, allowing ethnic and religious traditions to coexist as before. Bessarabia remained part of Romania until 1940. In August 1940, a decree was promulgated to include the districts of Akkerman and Izmail into the USSR. In late July 1941, Romania took the area back. It is notable also that many of older respondents consider World War II an organic continuation of the period they call “under the Romanians,” or “the Romanian time.” In southern parts of Bessarabia, we still see the traces of that “Romanian time,” even in spiritual culture. For example, during our research in Suvorovo and Vasilevka, we encountered incantations in Romanian. Sometimes respondents took care to point out that women of Romanian origin were especially engaged in folk medicine. In August 1944, the Soviet army came back and annexed Bessarabia again to the USSR. When the military operations were over, the reforms that took place in the USSR in the 1920s and 1930s were replicated in the new territories. Most policies continued the pre-war policies, and the anti-religious attitude of the new empire did not change. Because of the later annexation of Southern Bessarabia by the USSR, ethnic traditions and folk medicine survived much longer in those southern districts—including the Danube Delta. As we have seen, this can be attributed

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to different policies, more tolerant policies in Romania, but also to the horrible famine that wiped out so many people and their traditions and knowledge.

Folk Medicine in the Second Half of the TWENTIETH Century In the period from 1950 to 1980, the USSR Ministry of Health held a monopoly on the definition and distribution of medical practice, or at least it aspired to. Every deviation from modern and officially recognized medicine was condemned and persecuted. Other approaches were cornered, but did survive. The official viewpoint was not accidental. It was in line not only with the high modernist Soviet ideology, but also with trends in most European countries, where folk medicine had been eradicated earlier and modern medicine had acquired a monopoly position much earlier (albeit without the same level of state persecution of the alternatives). Positivism and rationalism were the larger intellectual movements behind these state policies. Modern medicine operated on a different concept of knowledge and accepted only “facts” that were observed and verified in laboratories and hospitals, within the frame of clearly delineated disciplines such as physiology, anatomy, and pharmacy. All these disciplines were developing rapidly and this contributed to their association with modernity and progress. A respondent relates the following about a visit to the doctor at that time: I went to the doctor with my son who had the disease rodimchick. Now I can tell to the doctor that it is rodimchick. But, at that time, nobody was (openly) Christian, everybody was a communist, and they did not recognize it as a real disease. (Ukrainian, Larzanka village)

However, despite all this, folk medicine did not disappear. Yet, the social role of folk healers did change. Midwives lost a lot of work to the newly established hospitals and their maternity wards. Feldshersko-akusherskiy punkti (little clinics) were opened in villages, providing people with basic medical care. Village sorcerers increasingly shared their work with doctors. Antibiotics had a significant effect on village life and enhanced the prestige of modern medicine. Folk healers were left dealing with illnesses that were not easily treatable by modern medicine and were largely relegated to the domain of nervous diseases and mental illness (uroki, pereliak, nespliachki, beshiha, etc.). Several respondents claimed that even civil servants and party members came to the sorcerers for treatment. Since the 1980s, magical practices and folk medicine were no longer taboo and research into these topics was no longer forbidden. This brought to the



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surface not only the hidden potential and the positive aspects of folk medicine, but also its inherent limitations and its abuses in closed communities. It is well known that, in times of crisis, people try to look for their roots as a way to ground themselves and to survive the tumult. Thus, in the 1980s and 1990s such a folk medicine revival could be observed. Folk medicine was officially accepted and acknowledged and became mixed and hybridized with recently imported oriental forms of alternative medicine (e.g. Chi Kung). The folk medicine that came to the surface again in Bessarabia turned out to be heavily influenced by religion (both by the Orthodox Church and the Baptists) and, more surprisingly, the mass media. Still, despite the Church’s strong influence on folk medicine, the official stance of the Orthodox Church was much harsher than before; the old coexistence was forgotten. Mass media had an influence in several ways, most naotably the frequent appearance of articles on traditional healing and self-treatment. So, what often came to the surface as “traditional” practices in the villages was already thoroughly mixed with the interpretations of folk medicine encountered in the media. There were also more pragmatic reasons for the revival: in the meantime, the public health system had collapsed and people were forced, once again, to resort to other forms of medicine. Midwifes became prominent again in many villages and folk healers and sorcerers returned. Thus, the transformation of folk medicine in this period is linked to changes in government policy, to economic decline, to hegemonic scientific discourse in decline, and to changing positions of the Church. Though it certainly had a turbulent history in this area, folk medicine is still present and still changing. Looking back over the last 150 years, that the obvious turning points were the establishment of modern village (zemstvo) medicine in the late nineteenth century and the establishment of hospitals under the Soviets.

Folk Medicine and Ecological Conditions Ecological Conditions Southern Bessarabia is a steppe region on the fringe of the marshlands. There is the lower Danube and its Kilia Delta, there are freshwater lakes—Kagul, Yalpug, Katlabug, Kitai—and salty lakes—Sasyk, Shagany, Alibej, Burnas. The local flora is typical for steppe landscapes, with herbage adapted to moderate humidity or drought. The vegetation is marked by the following common plants and plant groups: asters (Asteraceae L.), grasses (Gramineae L.), leguminous plants (Fabáceae L.), sedges (Cyperáceae L.), cruciferae (Brassicaceae, or Cruciferae L.), carnations (Caryophylláceae L.), buckwheats (Polygonaceae L.), and umbellates (Umbelliferae L.). The marsh flora (reed)

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is typical for the riverine and lacustral marshes of the Danube Delta. The salt-marsh flora is uncommon. Many other water plants adorn those marshes. The fauna is varied. Many birds, mammals, and amphibious creatures populate the landscapes of steppes and marshes. The fish fauna is diverse. We do not intend to give an overview of the ecology of the region, but want to point out some relations between folk medicine and the local landscape. There is, evidently, this aspect of resource use: certain and specific plants and animals are used in folk treatments (and even some places, or types of places, are attributed healing power in folk tradition). We elaborate on this in the following section. Folk Medicine and Resource Use People from different regions of Bulgaria, Russia, and Ukraine began to settle in the region covered in our study in the early nineteenth century. They met with complicated and very dynamic ecological conditions. Immigrants, in many cases attracted by Russian imperial settlement policies, had to adapt themselves to the new economic, cultural and political environment, but also to the new ecological environment. People could often not replicate their old lifestyle in the new territories and many aspects of their traditional cultures changed, ranging from building techniques and distribution of labor to clothing and power supply systems. Also medical practices changed under the new conditions. In most cases, immigrants arrived from less harsh regions, places with a more lush and varied vegetation and with more hunting and foraging possibilities. Some of our elderly sources mention that this was a real issue for the new arrivals and that they, at first, always selected the medical resources they recognized from their old environment. Or they chose things that resembled what they knew, searching for similar grasses, minerals, and animals. However, the problem of practical adaptation was not the only problem. Also the cultural environment differed, and for most it had become more complex. Thus, this posed the problem of ethnic identity in a more urgent way, as confrontation with different customs and behavior in everyday life, as well as competing resource use, forced a reflection on ethnic identity, on differences and similarities. While in some cases ethnic boundaries were apparently not important, for most ethnic groups those boundaries were important and folk medicine was one of the ways they could distinguish themselves from other groups. Therefore, even more so than in the old country, folk medicine became ritualized—acting as a distinguishable ethnic marker, rather than a repository of pragmatic adaptations to a given environment. Because they shared their environment with a mix of other groups now, convergence itself was a threat (since some folk medicine still depended on producing



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some real effect, all groups had to rely largely on the same natural resources for the recipes, which made maintaining the difference with other groups difficult. (For instance, the same grasses and animal fats were used.) What allowed for greater differentiation was the combination of natural resources and ritual, since the same resources could still generate a variety of different rituals. Ritual and resource were closely intertwined within the experience of the people themselves. We will, therefore, describe medical praxis without separating them. In the following section, we outline several features of the folk medicines of the region, while establishing a series of linkages with the natural environment along the way. According to our research, folk medicine in this region exhibits the following common features: • Treatment and prevention depended on the understanding and the categorization of the disease. For example, “visible” diseases (cold, fracture, hemorrhage, etc.) were treated by methods and medications considered “rational” or, where possible, “modern.” Magical treatments (relying more on ritual) were also widely used but they were always accompanied by rational ones, where the substance itself was supposed to be a sufficient agent of causality. Diseases of unknown origin or mental diseases were to be treated by means of ritual, magic, and the complex of ritual and substance. • In case of “rational” treatment, the selection of the right plant, mineral, or animal (substance) had to be guided by the symbolic meaning of creatures and substances. So, the most widely used plant to exorcise or scare evil spirits is garlic (Allium sativum) which has a strong smell. Also wormwood (Arthemisia absinthium), another plant with strong smell, is used to handle evil spirits. • The present-day ethnographic sources (from the end of the nineteenth century up to today) don’t provide sufficient information on treatment by natural substances. However, ethnographic field studies recently reveal changes in the correlation between rational and irrational elements of treatment. Folk medicine and modern medicine have different spheres of influence. In the case that people are not resorting to folk medicine based on a lack of other resources, it is usually in the sphere of mental health. The sphere of influence of folk medicine has shrunk, since scientific explanation of an increasing number of diseases has marginalized folk explanations. This said, part of modern treatment can include the use of certain plant and animal substances found locally—here and there, science and folk belief do overlap. • There is another distinction we should make. Some diseases or physical problems can be dealt with easily, without intervention of either traditional healer or a modern doctor. The knowledge applied then can derive from

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modern medicine, traditional medicine, or it can be a very localized knowledge, restricted to village, clan, or family. It does not seem like this type of knowledge is very rich, and only a few species of steppe plants were mentioned, as well as substances like honey, dung, pollen, propolis, and animal fats (for ointments). Everything fragrant seems to have a positive force, and bees and their products are a source of healing. In addition, codliver oil and clay are used. We will now elaborate on the traditional treatments for some diseases. We do include here a mix of conditions that would require both professional (traditional) intervention alongside layman’s treatments made at home, since the boundary is not always clear, and because we are attempting here, most of all, to establish links with resource use and local ecology. The examples of folk treatments include: • Zolotukha (measles). Treated by covering the spots with a mixture of charred haricots and sour cream or liquid “chalk” (slaked lime). • Sukhoty (consumption). Treated by anointing the patient (child) with honey and putting them into the warm oven in which the bread was just baked. • Gynecologic illnesses. Treated with a chamomile concoction (Matricaria chamomilla L.). • Various stomach diseases. Treated with knot-grass (Polygonum aviculare L.), tincture of fruits or young nuts (Juglans regia L.), seeds of sorrel (Rumex confertus Willd L.), etc. • Toothaches. Treated with warm sand, cornflower (Centaurea cyanus L.), wormwood (Artemisia absinthium L.), chamomile, thyme (Thymus serpyllum L.). These are boiled in water together with salt and garlic. • Aching feet. Treated with burdock (Arctium lappa L.). • Foot diseases. Treated by applying plantain (Plantago major L.) to the feet (a Bulgarian recipe). • Backaches. Treated by applying hot sand or cow dung wrapped in fabric. • Flu/cold. Treated with garlic, hot wine with pepper, sheep fat, and chamomile (Chamomilla recutita L.). Also steam baths were used (by Russians), or placing the patient in the oven, after cooling it down of course (Ukrainians, Bulgarians). The celandine (Chelidonium majus L.) should be boiled all night long and, before sunrise, this concoction should be poured over the patient in an uninhabited place (Ukrainians). The patient should be rubbed with kerosene or lard (Bulgarians). • Pneumonia. Treated with a mix of the following herbs: coltsfoot (Tussilago farfara L.), thyme (Thymus serpyllum L.), St John’s wort (Hypericum L.), yarrow (Achillea millefoluim L.), and centaury (Astragalus dasyanthus L.). • Headaches. Treated with mint (Menta piperita L.) or other herbs.



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• Herpes. Treated by applying euphorbia sap (Euphorbium pallasii L.), blood of a small sparrow (Ukrainians), garlic (Allium sativum L.), or aloe sap (Aloe arborescens L.) (Bulgarians). • Skin burns. Treated by anointing the patient with cod-liver oil (Oleum Jecoris Asellitill L.). • Various skin diseases. Treated with celandine (Chelidonium majus L.) and hay tea. • General pain. Soothed with thorn apple (Datura starmonium L.). • Other diseases. Treated with sunflower (Helianthus annus L.) blossoms. Alcohol was poured over the petals and heaped in a jar. After a few days, when the petals turned white, the tincture was ready to use. It was considered especially useful for treating asthma and tuberculosis (Bulgarians). Different Slavic peoples believe that the most powerful, most healing herbs were the ones hallowed and/or blessed on Makovey Day (August 14). People would make a bouquet of different herbs: sunflower (Helianthus annus L.), poppy (Papaver rhoeas L.), calendula (Calendula officinalis L.), wormwood (Artemisia absinthium L.), cornflower (Centaurea cyanus L.), ears of wheat (Triticum L.), immortelle (Xeranthemum annuum L.), and yarrow (Achillea millefoluim L.). After having it blessed at a church, it was kept at home behind the house icon. In case of disease, one could pick the most useful herb from the bouquet and use it for tea or tincture. So, the effectiveness of the brew was determined not only by the properties of the plant, be it chemical or symbolic, but also and most importantly by the fact that the herbs were blessed at a specific day and at a specific place. These herbs also could be used for banishing evil spirits from the house. Places were also important. Places could be good, bad, or ambiguous. Certain places were needed for certain rituals, or to collect certain herbs. Churches are positively signified. However, maybe the most significant spots were on the borders between the human world and the natural world. At the smallest scale, this could mean entrances or exits of the home—such as doors, windows, fences, stoves, Russian baths. Healthy places, or places for health-related rituals are not restricted to these border crossings. For example, on Ivan Kupala (June 7, a pagan holiday) there exists a ritual requiring participants to jump over a fire to burn off the illness; the fire had to be located close to a river, lake, or pond. Water is the cleansing element, and a watery site means a healthy one. On Epiphany (January 19), the ritual was to bath in a cross-shaped ice hole in a lake, to secure sound health for the coming year (an act in reference to Jesus being baptized in the river Jordan that same day). Some rituals were found in many communities, while others remained tied to a speciic ethnic group. Rubbing children with salt to prevent skin diseases

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remained a Bulgarian remedy. The Bulgarians also kept treatments, such as the symbolic measuring of patients. Russian Old Believers are the only ones to “bury” a disease at night in a cemetery. Ukrainians have a rite in which they “siphon” a disease off their body, into a container with wax. A type of ritual more commonly held by a range of ethnic groups, is any one where uroki were treated by means of burning pieces of coal, matches, and consecrated water, with special incantations during the rite. Conclusion The territory of Southern Bessarabia began to be settled in the early nineteenth century. Immigrants from various regions of Russia, Ukraine, Bulgaria, and Romania brought their own culture and traditions, including their folk medicine. The ethnic specificity of the newcomers’ spiritual culture becomes more important as a distinguishing feature in the presence of all the other groups. Whereas folk medicine had grown as a body of knowledge and rituals, in adaptation to the landscape and the ecology of their place of origin, in the new place it became an ethnic marker. This made it more difficult to adapt to the new environment and to the resources available there. Thus, with folk medicine becoming more a sign of difference, it acquired an even more symbolic character. Traditions then started to further diverge. On one other hand, folk medicine cannot be purely symbolic. It needs to have some positive effect on the health of people treated. This limited its total transition to symbolism and it forced people to look toward each other and toward the local environment for new resources useful in healing practice. People could not afford to completely ignore the ecology of their new place or to ignore each other. This, we could call a mechanism of convergence. The result of divergence and convergence was a collective exploration of the new environment as well as a combination of ethnically specific and more commonly held recipes and rituals. Folk remedies generally consisted of two elements, a rational side and a magical one. Many common illnesses were treated at home, without the intervention of a specialist, but others required a specialist—either for their rational knowledge or for their role in magical rituals. It can be said that some of the knowledge that might be described as rational was rendered more symbolic, more magical, with the move to a new place and within new ecological conditions—They might still work, but for different reasons. Transference of secret and sacred knowledge was difficult in this area, with people moving in and out, the Great Famine, Soviet-forced modernization, and the ambiguous attitude of the Church. Since many rituals required the intervention of a specialist, one initiated in the sacred rites and with a deeper



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knowledge of plant and other substances, and since those specialists were scarce and could only learn from other specialists, it is easy to understand why many of the related practices have disappeared. Sorcerers nowadays are very hard to find and the ones that are available might be recent converts, influenced by both new spiritualism and the mass media. On the other hand, some “secret” wisdom did not remain entirely secret, as other people were always able to observe some of the rituals, so, some of the observers’ knowledge managed to seep into the social memory. As a result of the political and ethnic transformations of the area, and of the forced and voluntary move to modern medicine, sorcerers’ activities became restricted to the domain of mental illness. In a broader sense, folk medicine retreated following confrontation with institutionalized medicine and yet always managed to survive in poorer, more rural areas until, during a period of social chaos and economic depression, it emerged in the mainstream, for practical reasons as well as for spiritual ones. Bibliography Anon. (1878). “Research into the Common Life of the Parish Pastors.” Kishinev Diocesan Bulletin, 13: 500. Anon. (1886). “Pastors’ Notes.” Kishinev Diocesan Bulletin, 1: 4–11. Anon. (1889). A Trial Program for Ethnographic Research into the Kherson Region.” Collected articles on Kherson Zemstvo, 3: 68–75. Anon. (1890). “Dmitrovka Town (Historic, Statistical, Ethnographical Essay).” Collected articles on Kherson Zemstvo, 7: 22–55. Anon. (1891). “Scherbanovskaja volost. Historic, Ethnographic, Economic, Statistic Descriptions.” Collected articles on Kherson Zemstvo, 7: 62–81. Bakhtalovsky, A. (1882). “Vilkov Posad.” Kishinev Diocesan Bulletin, 21: 1160–1171. Bessaraba, I. (1916). Ethnographic data on Kherson province. Petrograd. Bogoslavsky, S. (1873). “Historic and Statistic Descriptions of Church and Parish in Shabo village, Akkerman district.” Kishinev Diocesan Bulletin, 3: 120–129. Boltarovich, Z. (1990). Folk Medicine of the Ukrainians, Кiev: Naukova Dumka. Burjanov, A. (1877). “Historic and Statistic Descriptions of Church and Parish in Volonterovka village, the former Cossack stanitsa of Akkerman district.” Kishinev Diocesan Bulletin, 17: 736–740. Derdzavin, N. (1898). “Studies on Common Life of the South-Russian Bulgarians. The Folk Beliefs.” Ethnographic Survey, 4: 113–125. Derdzavin, N. (1914). The Bulgarian settlements in Russia (Tavrija, Kherson, Bessarabija regions). Derdzavin, N. (1914). The Collection of The Folk Beliefs. Grosul, A. (YEAR). “Some Historic and Statistic Data on Church and Parish in Bardar village Kishnev district.” Kishinev Diocesan Bulletin, 1: 23–31. Jastrebov, V. (1894). Data on the ethnography of Novorossijsky region. Odessa.

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Jastrebov, V. (1895). “Coming from the country folk.” Ethnographic Survey, 2: 146–150. Kazanaklij, P. (1877). “Tvarditsa.” Kishinev Diocesan Bulletin, 19: 692–702. Kochubinsky, A. (1889). “Data on the ethnography of the Bulgarians.” Proceedings of Odessa Historical Studies Society, 15: 828–840. Komarov, M. (1890). The New Collection of Folk Ukrainian Proverbs, Sayings, Riddles and Incantations [Комаров М. “Нова збірка народних малоруських прислів’їв, помовок, загадок і замовлянь]. Odessa. Levitsky, A. (1845). “Customs and Traditions of the Bulgarians that live in Bessarabia’s settlements.” Proceedings of Odessa Historical Studies Society, 4: 450–464. Nestorovsky, P. (1905). The Rusins of Bessarabija. Warsaw. Sikyrynsky, O. (1924). “Traditions and rituals of the Juriy’s Day in Glybojar village (Baderevo), Odessa region.” Bulletin of Odessa Regional Studies Committee, 1: 23–24. Svinjin, P. (1867). “Bessarabia District Description.” Proceedings of Odessa Historical Studies Society, 6: 175–320. Tsvetko, S. (1932). “The ‘Urama’ decease and its treatment in Bulgarian folk medicine.” Ethnographic Survey, 10: 107–122. Zaderatsky, P. (1845). “The Bulgarians as the settlers of Novorossijsky region and Bessarabia.” The Muscovite, 12: 159–187.

Chapter 12

Birds, Fish and the Traumatic Nature of the Swamp Concepts of Nature in Regards to the Romanian Danube Delta Kristof Van Assche, Sandra Bell, and Petruţa Teampău

Introduction In the Danube Delta as elsewhere, “nature” is many things to many people. By default, nature is a socially constructed term, as human beings access to the idea of nature through cultural processes involving reciprocally negotiated concepts and images (Descola and Palsson, 1996; Latour, 2004). This immediately implies a multiplicity of concepts and images and an inherent dynamism in the construction of nature; discursive constructions of nature never stand still (Descola, 2005; Glacken, 1967). These ideas concerning the socially constructed features of nature and their ensuing spatial and temporal relativity now appear as common-place assumptions in the social science literature on biodiversity conservation (Ellen and Fukui, 1996; Soule and Lease, 1995; Descola and Palsson, 1996). The acceptance of these assumptions led to assertions that feasible conservation policies depend on an awareness of local people’s evaluation of the natural environment and argues for a more inclusive approach (O’Riordan, 2002; Stringer et al, 2006, 2009; Keulartz et al, 2000; Turnhout, 2004; Buijs, 2009). In other words, the contemporary ecological, scientific biodiversity conservation project has taken what might be termed a “participatory turn” (for an overview, see Stringer et al, 2006, and O’ Riordan, 2002). Over the past two decades, the results of schemes recommended, and in some cases actually implemented, under the banner of participation have been mixed (Fischer, 2000; Latour, 2004; Stringer et al, 2006; Kepe, 1997). Mannigel represents them schematically as ideal types positioned along a continuum stretching “from a simple 277

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information sharing to transfer of power and responsibilities” [from authorities to stakeholders] (Mannigel, 2008: 400). Ways and means, and even the desirability, of establishing participatory regimes have been the subject of much debate (Keulartz et al, 2004; Beunen, 2009; Mannigel, 2008; Galatchi, 2009). It certainly would be naïve to underestimate the obstacles to successful implementation of “deliberative democracy and participatory biodiversity,” as convincingly demonstrated in an exposition by O’Riordan and Stoll-Kleeman (2002). Their list of potential impediments includes: process-dependent outcomes engendering disillusion and disengagement; difficulties faced by people who are not experts or accustomed to civil participation; failure to find a common language; diversity of interests diluting the original objectives; failure to include the most disadvantaged groups; unacceptable levels of investment into timeconsuming processes and resources; the necessity for compromise and the danger of participation fatigue (ibid 99–109). Our research on the Danube Delta confirms everything on this list is a factor. However, we also detected another obstacle, a particularly awkward one that resides in features of the constructionist theory on which participatory approaches were founded. Examples from the Danube Delta reveal that the wide range of diversity in terms of the local populations’ place-specific perceptions and their historically contingent experiences of nature entwine with a variety of (often contradictory) features from the modern, scientific conservation discourse (Bell and Rienert, 2009). This discovery suggests a need for reconciliation between a myriad of alternative perspectives—ecological, political, economic, and cultural— but it also points to the seriousness of chronic disjunctions and intractable entanglements arising from so great a multiplicity of constructions. Any wellintentioned intervention, intending to install the beginnings of deliberative democracy for biodiversity governance in the Danube Delta or the like, must be fully informed of the extreme heterogeneity of definitions present for the term “nature,” as well as these different definitions’ interrelations and consequences. We assert that elements of scientific discourse are appropriated and/or inverted by locals, following their association with unfair governance or with oppressive actors using scientific arguments. In a broader sense, the governance context, including its use of science, should be considered as a realm where various natures are not just contested, but also constructed. A complicating factor is the diffuse presence of what we have dubbed “traumatic nature,” a term we have coined to encapsulate how environmental perceptions and experiences have been shaped by the impact of disempowerment, marginalization, and stigmatization. We argue that traumatic nature is marked by greater instability and the increased polarization of varying concepts of nature and this creates specific challenges for the governance of



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nature. Social memory plays a crucial role in the reproduction of traumatic memories, as well as to the transmission of those attitudes and concepts indirectly linked to that trauma. Methods Data Collection Probing into the local knowledge of nature in the Danube Delta is not an easy task. The terrain is vast and much of the Delta is inaccessible. This paper is based on extensive fieldwork that took place in several waves: In 2001–2003, 51 interviews and 15 focus groups (conducted under the framework of the Integrated Management of European Wetlands (IMEW) project, coordinated by Sandra Bell, with various stakeholders in the Romanian Delta). In 2006–2008, Van Assche and Teampău conducted 70 additional interviews in Tulcea and Sulina (interviewing various stakeholders including fishermen, ecological experts, civil servants, NGO’s, ecotourism companies, and others). More detailed ethnographic observations on Sulina are available in Teampău and Van Assche’s 2007–2009 fieldwork. To provide some context to this, the authors also carried out observations and interviews in Vilkovo and Reni, on the Ukrainian side of the delta, in 2009. In addition, we lean on fieldwork (including interviews and observations) undertaken by the Stockholm Environmental Institute (Apostol et al, 2005) literary review and the analysis of documents and plans reflecting the emergence of policies for the Danube Delta. Analysis The analysis of interviews, documents, and plans within this discourse is decidedly Foucauldian in inspiration (Foucault, 1968, 1975) in the sense that power and knowledge are considered to be mutually constitutive. Knowledge is produced during conflicts and conflicts are shaped by pre-existing knowledge (Latour, 2004; Fischer, 2000). This also applies to conceptualization and image-building around the concept of nature in cases where the local constructs usually imply valuations and preferred uses of these environments, lead to clashes with other actors, and are marked by varying appreciations and goals (Van Assche, 2001; Turnhout, 2004). Simultaneously, the dynamics of the conflicts themselves generate new images, concepts, and positions (Latour, 2004; Fischer, 2000; Van Assche et al, 2009). Actors might not be aware they hold a certain concept of nature until confronted with another one, or until they are challenged by competing claims to the environment (Ingold, 2000; Descola, 2005; Descola and Palsson, 1996).

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Many locals, when asked about nature, plants, and animals, insist they have nothing to say. A common response is: “What can I tell you, I’m not an ecologist.” Even those who clearly possess vast ecological knowledge are either not moved to reflect upon it or deem their knowledge uninteresting or unworthy, stating: “You probably know this already” or “I cannot help you.” Longer conversations, return visits, and triangulation of interviews demonstrate that some hold a deep suspicion towards scientists. People express disappointment with previous research for yielding no practical results—yet another example of the research fatigue noted by O’Riordan and StollKleeman (2002). One Tulcea County administrator has this to say, “People, visitors, and researchers took thousands of pictures in Sulina and wrote a lot of books and articles and still the people of Sulina have seen no change, no improvement. Now they think, ‘let’s ask money for every damn picture they take here.’” While the present research is no different in its inability to directly benefit the local population, we hope that some of our general observations will be useful in informing future processes relating to decisionmaking and management of the delta. Concepts of Nature and Place What is nature? What is valuable or interesting about nature? For most locals in the delta, these questions are difficult to answer, eliciting mostly generic responses, until one speaks about places (Ingold, 2000; Nelson, 2005; Tamou, 2004). “The Delta” is itself a place concept and its relevance for locals, when attempting to establish the unity of the area, is variable. Younger respondents are more familiar with reference to “the Delta” and link this perceived unity of the region with high ecological value: “The delta is a bird’s paradise” or “The delta has the best nature in Europe, people come here from all over the place, even Japan.” Among older respondents, especially those with a multigenerational family history in the area, the picture is often more complex. They, too, are aware of “the Danube Delta,” but more often perceive it as a trope originating in the discourse of “the ecologists,” (i.e. the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority (DDBRA) and the local actors thought to be in league with them). Since its foundation in 1990, the DDBRA and its userestrictions have impacted the livelihoods of locals, so, “the Delta” as a place concept generates negative connotations for many respondents. The village is a more relevant place concept than “the Delta” for many older residents. “I am from Sulina” or “I am from Mila 23, lived there all my life” are much more common introductions than “I live in the delta.” A more commonly accepted term is that of the balta, the swamp; a concept with mostly negative connotations. One goes to the balta primarily for resource use—fishing, reed harvest, occasional medicinal plant gathering, and hunting. For many delta



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villages, economic survival requires the gathering of resources scattered over many places (one cuts a reed here, fishes over there, cultivates a garden plot on an island or levy further on, and so on.) (Pons, 1986). Respondents imply these spots are useful (and positively signified) islands in an otherwise largely useless swamp. An older man in the Ukrainian Delta explains: “I have to work hard to maintain my garden. Once I turn my back, the balta takes over.” A fisherman on the Romanian side reflects how the swamp is perceived: “we had to cut our way through the balta.” Still, even amongst older respondents, positive meanings of both “delta” and “balta” can be discerned. For instance, a decline in fish catch (also reflected in scientific studies, e.g. Navodaru et al, 2001, 1998, Schiemer, 2006) is often linked with a decline in landscape beauty: “The balta used to be wonderful, beautiful.” “The delta was a paradise on earth, the birds were everywhere; you could hear the splashing of the fish.” Oftentimes these are linked to childhood memories: “We used to play in the balta, go out, fish a bit, collect water lilies,” says one fisherman from Chilia. Yet, images of the future are also connected to a positive appreciation of “the Delta”: “Yes, the delta will last, and will bring tourists.” When asking about the features of the delta or balta that are most appreciated, the richness of resources recurred very often: “so many fish [to eat], so many fowl.” Sometimes a mere reference to the “beauty” of the landscape was all that could be elicited. Frequently, quasi-religious references emerged calling it “paradise on earth,” “just like heaven,” or “the way God intended Earth to be.” Paradise, the most common topos, is commonly associated with not needing to work hard for a living. The tropes of paradise, leisure, and resource richness are often connected: “a paradise, where you can just stick your hand in the water, and catch a fish,” say the older generation from Sulina. Even amongst young people (and particularly those who complain about the decline of fisheries), the image of a vast swamp persists, one whose size is hard to grasp; a swamp, moreover, that cannot be depleted. In other words, a swamp transcending the scale of human action and intervention, with “endless reeds, as far as you can see” and “a place where you can get lost, even if you know it.” A terminology that seems to warrant unrestricted resource use: “Who cares? Who will notice? Did you see how big this place is?” This, in turn, links to the perceived harmlessness of poaching. All generations are now well aware of fishing and hunting regulations as well as all hard pressed to talk about poaching. However, longer conversations make it clear that it is still widespread and perceived as innocent (well, not in all cases—as will be explained later). In addition to the idea of an unlimited pool of resources, the perception of restrictions as unfair and imposed by corrupt institutions clearly contributes to this attitude. Members of the fishermen’s

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focus group asked, “Why do they call them poachers? They’re just trying to survive. Why don’t they catch the big guys?” When asked directly about “nature,” many responders gave generic references to the landscape’s beauty, again often with a religious connotation, especially the Lipovan fishermen, calling it: “the beauty of the Earth as God created it” or “the beautiful delta favored by God.” The variegated wetland types distinguished by ecologists (Apostol et al, 2002; Schneider, 1990; Marin and Schneider, 1997) are generally not distinguishable in the categories of nature as deployed by the villagers, who generally define fewer kinds of wetland. People tend towards a distinction between the marsh and the wet meadows, reflecting the use of hay-meadows as a resource rather than stressing any ecological difference. “Nature” is not necessarily wild, but appears in many conversations as referring to any type of place and landscape that is green and not associated with heavy labor. Meadows are “nature,” as are orchards and ornamental gardens, but rarely vegetable plots or fields. “It’s good to dwell in nature. As a kid, we watched the cows, or cow, and just sat in the grass; but, we also had to work, tend the garden, or gardens,” remarked an older woman from Sulina. The lower delta’s floating reed beds, plaur/plav (for a cultural geography, see Matless and Cameron, 2003), appear as a separate category in stories and conversations—especially when respondents are asked directly: “Oh, yes, of course. My uncles used to go there. I know it, too. You can walk on it. It moves a bit; some plants only want to grow there,” a fisherman from Chilia recollects. Many locals are aware—through family stories and through education and media—that the plaur is a special landscape and a specific place. People do not venture there too often, but the floating reed beds are acknowledged and appreciated. Sometimes, plaur is perceived as annoying since fragments of floating reed islands break off and clog the channels, creating obstacles for fishing and navigation. The channel leading to Letea Village is a case in point. “It takes hard work to move these things, just to get to the village,” locals complain. People usually display ignorance to present hunting practices, but everyone knows about the plaur is the habitat of the wild boar, a gaming favorite. “Yes, people went there for boar hunting, maybe they still do . . . I don’t know,” says one professional from Tulcea. Nature, in its positive manifestations, is conceived in terms of productivity and beauty as well as in terms of size and splendor. Rarely, is the criteria of wildness evoked as relevant and very rarely is nature referred to as a force in and of itself. Nature as the web of relations between creatures (an ecosystem) is referred to only occasionally. This is exemplified by the remarks of a woman from Letea, who comments on all the birds and the fish and how all of them live together there. Nature, in its positive form, was conceived as a place, or a collection of places, of great beauty. This idea, however, cannot be



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reduced to a mere image (of place) because no concept can be reduced to an image, or vice versa (Eco, 1976; Ingold, 2000). Rather, it is the richness of the sensory experience in the swamps that captures the attention of many locals, particularly when recollecting childhood memories. Image, sound, and smell, are combined in a synesthetic concept of place (and nature) that is overwhelming to the individual. Such sublime experiences of subjective smallness in the face of natural grandeur is reminiscent of concepts of sublime nature prevalent in eighteenth century Europe (Dixon-Hunt, 1992; Glacken, 1967) and recurs often in the local people’s place-based nature narratives about the delta, such as in the example of the woman from Sulina who rhapsodizes “the sounds of the birds, the frogs, the smell of the mint, the movement of reeds in the wind; wonderful” or the observer who imagines “how you can just disappear there, just listen and watch.” Several variations on this sensorial richness can be found in our interviews and they are often effortlessly linked with one’s appetite: “How beautiful the carp are, how wonderful their splashing sounds, how sweet the taste of the carp meat is,” declares a fisherman from Chilia. Locals are well aware that nature attracts tourists to the delta and that tourism can bring economic development, as opposed to the negative experiences associated with almost all the other economic options: “nothing works here. Agriculture doesn’t work, they tried factories, those are all gone now; why stay here?” Ecotourism can be characterized specifically as an interest in bird watching. Tourists “want to see the pelicans.” Yet, in many cases, ecotourism is interpreted as an interest in the landscape of the delta. “They come to see our beautiful delta, a paradise on earth.” In this way, the landscape, birds, and nature in general, instead of being obstacles to income generation (fish-eating birds, isolation), can be transformed into potential income. It is clear that in the villages most affected by tourism—e.g. Mila 23 and Sulina—processes of commodification have reshaped villagers’ concepts of nature. Here, perceptions of certain landscapes and species have altered in manners replete with internal contradictions. For example, birds previously perceived as either “good food” or “fish-stealing competitors” are now a lure for tourists and reminders of the conservation bureaucracy that regulates and imposes bird protection measures. With this, we arrive to a different category of nature concept: Nature as a collection of species (Van Assche, 2001; Turnhout, 2004; Beunen et al, 2009). Some species stand more for nature than others (Walpole and LeaderWilliams, 2002). Appreciations of nature—and of the species symbolizing nature—are due to be correlated. In the Danube Delta, the richest birding area in Europe (Langeveld and Grimmett, 1990; IUCN, 1991; Grimmett and Jones, 1989; Harengerd et al, 1990)—and promoted as such for tourists, birds are as symbolically important as fish, an internationally recognized symbol of sustenance (Stiuca and Nichersu, 2006; Baboianu and Goriup, 1995; Turnock, 1993).

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Birds For many locals, a dialogue about nature means a discussion about birds, that is, fish-eating birds and their protection: “Nature? Ah, you want to talk about birds,” declared a youngster from Sulina. Conflicts between locals and governmental actors frequently revolve around the protection of species of fish-eating birds (for a broader discussion, see Baboianu and Goriup, 1995; Knight, 2000), mainly pelicans (two species) and cormorants (two species). “Cormorants destroy the fish; they should be shot! What’s this, we protect them, but punish people to starve to death?,” commented members of the fishermen’s focus group. Sometimes, these species also came to mean “nature as a contested concept” for the locals—a fabrication of the ecologists. While, for others, nature means something very different and the birds symbolize much less nature and much more economic competition. In the case of the cormorants, pygmy cormorants (Phalacrocorax pygmeus), the smaller and more rare species by far, are rarely distinguished from the common cormorants. A few respondents do distinguish a difference: “The little ones look better. They don’t bother us so much; they look nicer, too,” says one fisherman from Chilia. A more common response is typified by a quote from a fisherman from Sulina, who asserts: “they should all be shot. What difference does it make?” “Good birds are birds you can eat,” is a typical comment (mind you, this functional approach to bird species does not necessarily exclude a positive symbolic value as part of the local nature). Even some competing fish-eating birds can be appreciated for “their beauty” and because “they belong to the delta, like all the other birds.” Cormorants are almost overwhelmingly described as nasty competitors that “should be shot” or “their eggs should be destroyed.” They are called “ugly” (black) but a little later referenced by the same people, as “beautiful, since all birds are beautiful.” Pelicans, feared even more as skilled fishing birds, are nevertheless widely appreciated because of their beauty: “the way they fly, in the evening light . . . the way they fish in circles,” is admired by women in Letea, mainly “because the tourists want to see them.” The pelican is also widely recognized among locals as “the symbol of the delta,” thereby signaling at least a semiotic success on the part of the Biosphere Reserve in featuring a pelican as its logo. It can be noted that the deep ambiguity about the pelican (very negative and very positive imagery) and the overall negative image of the cormorant, are not just a consequence of resource competition. Many other birds (some of them present in even larger numbers) consume fish (gulls, egrets, herons, terns, for instance). Herons and gulls usually get a good press and are perceived as “sanitary birds” that “clear out the sickly fish,” while egrets are beautiful and elegant: “I just like the way it stands there . . . Egrets are



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beautiful, white, slender, and they don’t bother us,” says a woman from Sulina. Terns seldom appear on the list of important or interesting birds for the locals, but are popular with tourists. Apart from pelicans and cormorants, the bird fauna is generally positively signified. Most of the black bird species have some negative connotation. The (black) coot, however, is considered positive because people find it “sweet” or “funny” and because “it tastes good and is easy to catch,” say respondents from Maliuc, demonstrating again how practical and aesthetic considerations are intertwined. Owls “bring bad luck” and “announce death,” but are also “wise birds.” Swans are “beautiful” and “elegant” and are “eaten only by gypsies” (here, the negative stereotype of the gypsy and the positive stereotype of the swan reinforce each other). A feature of the bird fauna that usually draws the attention of bird watchers is the variation found amongst heron and egret species—a diversity that is hard to escape, given their numbers, size, and the relative ease in distinguishing them. Nevertheless, in our research, few local people apparently take notice of them. Possibly, they are associated with the egret and heron categories (translation might be a problem here, too). Similarly, the conspicuous rollers and bee-eaters, brightly colored birds that are more attractive to visiting bird watchers, draw little attention from locals. However, both young and old are aware of the richness and diversity of the bird fauna. People report learning to recognize birds from their own observations, from older relatives, and from schoolteachers. “Yes, we had to study the birds in class. I didn’t like it so much, but I liked it when my grandfather told stories about the birds and showed me,” said one resident from Sulina. In descriptions of the area, be it “balta,” “delta,” or the “the village surroundings,” birds are the most common feature of nature considered a background to human activities. The idea of “sharing the landscape with the birds” recurs a number of times, sometimes with the latent assumption of birds as guardians of the delta. “I think they are watching us, seeing how we treat the place,” remarked one fisherman from Chilia. We should be cautious to read too much tradition into the narrative construction of bird’s roles. Birds feature in so many stories, both conversational narratives and folk stories, partly because of the richness of the bird fauna and partly due to the prominence of birds in the discussion on conservation measures and management strategies. Young and old are acutely aware of the impact of conservation policies on the Danube Delta and interpret the actions of “the ecologists” as, first and foremost, the protection of birds. “They care more about the pelicans, about the birds, than about anything else, and they certainly don’t give a damn about what we think,” one respondent from Sulina told us. The broader goals of DDBRA and DDNI (the associated research institute in Tulcea), their ecosystem approach, and attempts to

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protect, restore, and diversify fish-stocks (Navodaru et al, 2001; Stiuca and Nichersu, 2006; Schiemer, 2006) are acknowledged noted by locals. Fish More than trade, fishing has been the economic engine of the Danube Delta for centuries (East, 1932). Villages were established because of their proximity to fishing grounds and refugee communities were established and survived on the delta because of the abundance of fish (Gastescu 1993, 1996). With all its ambitions in terms of agricultural development, fish were still considered the delta’s major asset during the communist regime. In 1972, Panighiant stated that the Danube Delta “provides around 50 percent of the total amount of fresh water fish of Romania.” Under communism, fish polders and fish farms were built with the intention of doubling fish production. Ultimately the aquacultural operations were not a big success, due to oversized ponds, inefficient management, and poor infrastructure. (Turnock, 1986; Goriup, 1992; Pons, 1987; Pons-Ghitulescu, 1990). Sulina had a fish cannery, mostly for mackerel (Scomber scombrus). Yet, according to the accounts of local Lipovan fishermen, overfishing of that species led to its disappearance in the 1980s. Given the continuous significance of the fresh water fishery, it comes as no surprise that numerous species of fish are familiar to local residents of all ages, with many inhabitants demonstrating prodigious knowledge of them. Parents, grandparents, school, and also the media were cited as sources of knowledge acquisition (Bell, 2005). Fish species are seen foremost as resources, rather than considered nature. Simultaneously, the observed decline in diversity and quantity of fish (an observation shared by virtually all locals) is commonly linked with environmental changes. “It used to be more natural. So many fish, everywhere . . . the delta was beautiful; fish were everywhere.” Conservation efforts, such as catch restrictions, are not usually regarded as part of the solution. The natural state of the delta is nostalgically constructed as one of unlimited fish supply and no regulation. The fish were “a gift of god,” that is, part of the natural order, and taking these fish without regulation was part of that ordination. Whether a species is indigenous or not, or whether an exotic species is out-competing native fish, is not considered important—as long as it is tasty, cheap, and fertile. A beautiful fish is often a tasty fish, while abundant fish are easily found to be tasty. In other words, the use value overrides anything else in this harsh environment. For instance, the gibel carp (see Navodaru et al, 2001; Goriup, 1992), an exotic introduced in the seventies, caused a rapid depletion of the native carp species, leading to a significant decline in fish diversity. However, few locals—even if they remember the fish’s introduction and the former abundance—deplore this situation. Economic discourse



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dominates. A fisherman from Chilia opined: “Yes, it’s new, it did not used to be here. And I still think sturgeon or zander tastes better, but I like the taste of the gibel carp too; it’s sweet, and easy to catch.” In remembering the lost riches of the delta, the construction of the past is, as always, selective. Very few locals mention the communist fish polders, even when their presence must have been quite obvious (and, in their dilapidated state, remain so today). Some mention of “lakes full of fish” in the old days, clearly refer to the artificial ponds once stocked by fish farms. Abundance tends to be closely associated with the “paradise on earth” metaphor (Buttimer, 1982; Glacken, 1967). Older regulation regimes are also routinely ignored in these images of the past. Even if the central governments’ grip on the delta was usually modest (Van Assche et al, 2008), rules did exist and, in some cases, local figures (agents) assumed control over trade and prices (Navodaru, 1998; Gastescu, 1993). The extensive history of management of fisheries in the delta is a blind spot in local memory. Every now and then, when prodded, fragments of that history of regulation and control arise—usually in contrast to the present regime. An older man in Sulina recalls: “There was the famous agent Shova Macov. The fishermen used to curse him, but now they say where are you, Macov?” Another older fisherman in Mila 23 says, “The waters are not protected anymore; I mean the spawning grounds of the fish.” Another blind spot is noted in regards to the current management system, where complaining fishermen are barely protected against their bosses (concession-holders who rent large tracts of the delta). Throughout several stages of the research, very few people dared to speak frankly about the concession system and the behavior of the concession-holders. The concession system was introduced in 2000 and updated in 2005 (after legal changes in 1998 and 1999; Belacurencu, 2007) ostensibly to reduce poaching and protect/restore biodiversity. However, while the monitoring of minor poachers has become more effective, the usually well-connected concessionaires are not so consistently supervised and their contribution to biodiversity conservation is doubtful. “They can get away with anything! If a small guy catches a fish he’s a poacher . . . and the bosses don’t have to worry about the rules; the good fish disappear so fast that we don’t even know what’s left,” complain fishermen from Chilia and Maliuc. Most respondents are extremely guarded when it comes to this topic, but it is clear that their narratives about the freedom, plenty, and “naturalness” of the past are partly inspired by the anxieties and feelings of disempowerment under the present regime. Other Creatures and Plants Fish and birds are the main actors on the decline in the local story of a delta, which is losing its “natural character,” as they are the main factors in the

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parallel story of overprotection, too. Other animals are peripheral to these main concerns. Mammals (otters, boars) show up in answer to direct questions, otherwise rarely. The same goes for insects and reptiles. Snakes, not surprisingly, have a negative connotation, as do mosquitoes, which annoy the locals and are viewed as a hindrance to developing tourism. Important plants are usually referred to as the dominant species in clearly recognizable landscape types, like the willow in the river forest and the reeds and cattails (Typha) in the marsh. Medicinal plants receive special attention and are regularly mentioned as “good plants” growing in “good places.” Hence chamomile, achillea, dandelion, water mint, water lily and hypericum are often mentioned, as are many others (Hanganu et al, 2002; and scattered contributions in the DDNI Scientific Annals). Reed was a cash crop under communism and a traditional building material for the Lipovans. Like the birds, reed is inextricably part of the scenery in narratives about the delta. The most common image of the delta is one of reeds, birds in song, and people fishing. That many birds were (and are still) eaten, is scarcely acknowledged, and does not show up in nostalgic depictions of the place. Scapegoating and Tradition Local residents see a general decline in the health of the delta environment as measured in fish, birds, and in the deteriorating beauty of the landscape, but they find these changes hard to vocalize. There is a tendency for our informants to fall back on simple explanations. In the attempt to reduce complex patterns of causality to a single culprit, scapegoating is common practice (see also Bell, 2005; Knight, 2000). Since certain actors cannot be blamed openly (concessionaires, other locals), locals turn either to “the ecologists” (DDBRA and its wardens; Boja et al, 2000), “Bucharest,” meaning all larger interests that squander the resources of the delta, or, more usually, fish-eating birds like pelicans and cormorants. In this simplified scenario, removing the obvious culprits is seen as providing ready solutions (Girard, 1989). “The ecologists screwed up everything for us. I see more ecologists than normal people here,” says one older gentleman from Chilia. “Bucharest never paid attention, they just take what they can,” bemoans a younger resident from Sulina. “If we could just get rid of those $#%ing cormorants,” is another common response. Poaching (still widespread) is rarely mentioned as a threat to nature or the economy. Pollution and water management decisions upstream are likewise ignored as serious problems (cf. Turnock, 1979; Pons, 1987, 1990), much like the history of communist projects locally. Fishermen who feel powerless in relation to the concessionaires (their employers) sometimes have reason to



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be silent about their own behavior and this makes scapegoating certain bird species all the more attractive. “Well, I know the rules, how to keep the right fish and fish at the right times, but, not everyone cares. The big ones don’t care . . . some small ones don’t care either,” states one Sulina fisherman. Land use and resource use on the delta (in other words, the livelihood of the locals), has changed often and dramatically throughout the last century (IUCN, 1992; Gastescu, 1993; Teampău and Van Assche, 2009; Van Assche et al, 2009). Reed culture, aquaculture, land reclamation projects, as well as industrial and residential development altered the landscape significantly. Semi-nomadic shepherds from Transylvania no longer pass through these parts (Gastescu, 1993), long distance Lipovan fishing expeditions have ceased (Prigarin in Iordachi and Van Assche, 2011), while the influx of non-Romanian cultural groups has also come to a halt (Iordachi, 2002; Van Assche and Teampău, 2009). Extended fishing trips in the delta made by inhabitants of the neighboring Dobrogean villages have decreased. In the delta, people have begun moving out of relatively recently established communities to settle in Sulina or Tulcea (Van Assche et al, 2009). In this cultural landscape, memories usually do not stretch that back far into the past, as emphasized by a guide from Tulcea: “Memory? They can’t even remember what happened last week . . . or, some mornings, where their $%# is.” Traditions that might transmit memories are rare, too. Whereas Sulina is an extreme case of reduced ethnic/cultural diversity, diversity has actually decreased in most villages and the networks represented by the vanished or assimilated groups have essentially been shattered (Van Assche and Teampău, 2009; Van Assche et al, 2009). In the villages, one can note a trend towards pursuing more visibly sedentary livelihoods as older, semi-nomadic use patterns become increasingly rare and the aforementioned networks breakdown. Simultaneously, there is a clear influence of globalization, bringing in images and information about far away places. In Lipovan villages, Spanish is more popular in schools than Russian and many youngsters work stints abroad. Young people seem less familiar with other places in the delta and their inhabitants, compared to the older generations. An administrator in Tulcea confided, “They [the Lipovans] are often not proud of their language [Russian] and they consider it not useful anyway. They already speak Romanian, so Spanish is pretty easy, and then they can move [away]. They don’t care about the delta either, they don’t see any future there.” Traditions can still be important in this environment (for example, certain religious traditions amongst Lipovans), but for our purposes, extreme caution is warranted. Traditional stories about animals and plants and traditional images of nature do float around the community, however, their impact has a minimal effect on public discourse and/or private behavior. Given the

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dramatic changes in the physical landscape and the social fabric, one should take care not to weave the remnants of older plant and animal lore into “the nature concept” of the Danube Delta. The relative unimportance of traditional concepts of nature and place (and, by extension, of ethnic differentiation there) is illustrated not just by the scarcity of materials unearthed, but, more poignantly, by the discursive weight of recent events. Local residents routinely shift gears between various narratives on the delta and between different concepts of nature. The individual memories of older people reveal the importance of collective fish culture (Teampău and Van Assche, 2009) and collective agriculture. Yet, when these same people are asked about “the delta,” a narrative emerges that erases the fish polders and reed cultures, emphasizing instead the abundant fish and animal life, and the beauty of the “waving seas of reed.” For such oscillation between memory selections, several motives could be discerned: commodification of nature with the eye on touristic development, a desire to forget the traumatic history of communism, and adaptation to the recent history of changing governance. That last motive, relating specifically to the history of conflicts over the governance of the delta, emerges as dominate. We frequently observed how people moved quickly between different sets of place/nature concepts, when crossing into the domain of controversy. People can fulminate against the “damn cormorants,” then about the “damn ecologists” protecting them and, right after that, declare the delta a paradise on earth and whisper that “the cormorant is also kind of beautiful, because all birds are beautiful,” as one fisherman from Chilia did during his interview. Conflict, Trauma and Nature In the Danube Delta, environmental perceptions and experiences have been shaped by a sense of disempowerment, marginalization, and stigmatization. For nature concepts produced in such a situation, we use the term “traumatic nature.” Powerlessness versus the forces of nature, and certainly versus governmental and commercial actors, pervades any negative perception of the present and nostalgia for the past. Very few people have the feeling (or the belief) that they can do anything that would improve the situation; very few believe that taking initiative or organizing him or herself would make a real difference (as discovered in our interviews and the IMEW surveys; Bell, 2005). “Why even talk about this? What difference does it make? Just go to the villages and take a look. Talk to people and you’ll see that nothing’s going to change,” asserts one entrepreneur in Tulcea vigorously, echoing the sentiment of youngsters in Sulina, “no use staying here. No, things will not improve, we have to get out, find a way to get out, have a plan.”



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Under communism, the image of the delta in the rest of Romania was tainted to such an extent that the totalitarian regime had great difficulty in recruiting people, both workers and engineers, for its land reclamation projects. Only the poorest faction of Romanian society was willing to migrate to the delta for work on reed cultivation projects (Bell, 2005). An unforgiving environment, a prevailing imagery of “the end of the world,” as well as the existence of large prison camps in the vicinity (some of our respondents recalled these existed in the 1960s and 1970s), and a contested border, made it unattractive to most Romanians. A Romanian researcher in Holland recalls, “The delta was a scary place for Romanians. This was not a place you wanted to end up, unless you were desperate” (though, she herself appreciated the natural beauty despite this). The multiethnic character of the delta (and neighboring Dobrogea) rendered it suspicious to all Romanian regimes since independence (Iordachi, 2002). For the inhabitants of the delta, distance from the infrastructure deprived them of certain benefits (i.e., public utilities), but it also granted them a degree of freedom that was appreciated (Van Assche et al, 2009; Teampău and Van Assche, 2009). Even now, people are often proud to ignore the existing rules and pretend ignorance of various regulations. In Sulina, the image of the pirate is proudly embraced: “Yeah, we’re the pirates,” they say, “Of course, nobody here is paying taxes (Van Assche and Teampău, 2009). Conversely, the marginality of the locals was, and is, firmly embedded in the minds of regional and national elites and policy-makers. “Bring booze; you don’t need money there,” several Tulcea respondents counseled us. Feigned ignorance of rules goes hand in hand with real ignorance, since nobody cares to explain: “They wanted us to come to Tulcea, to the DDBRA, to learn about the rules. Mr. X went, lost two days, and he still did not understand,” Sulina respondents explained. Such marginality could also be seen in the gross lack of local participation in politics and a barely inclusive conception of the green (regional) policies now governing the area (Bell, 2005; Baboianu and Goriup, 1995). So, the opportunism inherent in the government system (and the rule of law) is not fully taken advantage of locally, but, when it is, the government does not seem terribly interested in fulfilling the desires of locals. Since the inception of the DDBRA and the transformation of DDNI (the research institute) in 1990, a lack of attention to the interests of locals in the delta has been criticized. Despite a long list of affirmations that locals should/ will benefit from all new plans and policies enacted by the regional and national government (presented by the DDBRA) scientific observers, as well as donor organizations return to the issue over and over again, and not without reason (Apostol et al, 2005; Bell et al, 2001, 2005; IUCN, 1991, 1992; Baboianu and Goriup, 1995; Stiuca and Nichersu, 2006). Ultimately, secrecy, hierarchy, and passivity pervaded Romanian society during communism

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(Turnock, 1986; Verdery, 2003) and the legacies of that brand of communism still create difficulties for participatory governance (Stringer et al, 2009; Van Assche et al, 2009; Verdery, 2003). In the landscape of the Danube Delta, local histories and mentalities make it even harder. The result is that ongoing confrontations with governmental actors, who are seen as non-representative, shape much of the local imagery of the delta and its nature. Both the overly vague and positive images of the “Paradise on Earth,” and the overly negative and reductive visions of the natural world as threatening fish-eating birds, are the product of this pressure-cooker situation. A general perception is that all valuable fish (zander, pike, sturgeon) are channeled quickly out of the region via the black market (la negru) by well-connected concessionaires, while the locals are punished for catching a meager carp with the wrong net. “They came and took my nets! Can you imagine?” Lamented a fisherman from Chilia. Most people feel that they are not important to Romania, or “Bucharest,” even to Tulcea County, their regional center. Most fishermen are against “ecologists” for protecting cormorants and pelicans, for closing some important fishing channels and for not allowing locals to burn reeds: “If the reed is not burnt it does not regenerate. Plus, then, it rests in the water and it rots. The reed is not like a tree,” explained one older lady. An older fisherman from Sulina also said, “Before, the fishermen were free, now there are more ecologists than fishermen.” Locals feel discriminated by prohibition and by the granting of concessions: “We eat fish, we will starve otherwise. You know permission on the Danube is being granted as if it belonged to someone’s father or mother. The government didn’t think about the local people at all. The Danube crosses our village and we are not allowed to fish there. This is absurd, don’t you see that?” exclaimed members of the fishermen’s focus group. Whatever the real motivations behind the choice for a concession system, the perception in the villages is that of an unholy alliance between corrupt capitalists (becoming their employers as concessionaires) and corrupt ecologists (becoming police and judge), with the official functions of government somewhere far in the background (See Boja and Popescu, 2000). Many locals feel that their livelihoods, rendered difficult under communism, are now virtually impossible to maintain. They also feel that their traditional knowledge is not taken into account: in the old days people were directly interested in taking care of fish and the fishing grounds. “You have to give nature a chance to revive. In the old times, the fishermen used to clean the swamp by themselves; it was their job at stake. They were ecologists without even knowing it,” noted the Chilia fishermen. Fishermen re-appropriate and redefine the image of the ecologist. Using the borrowed rhetoric of sustainability and the concept of ecosystem



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interdependence, an image of nature and self is created where traditional resource use is the best guarantee of ecological quality. Local residents, often accused of a lack of long-term perspective, strike back and present the concessionaires (and, by implication, those ecologists they see upholding their position of power) as short-sighted. “Some employers, in their desire to get rich, could destroy the delta and then it would be too late . . . the delta is not for those who want to get rich, but for those who want to survive in this environment. The locals are the only ones who are directly interested in protecting it, as their own life depends on it,” plead the fishermen’s focus group. It is not surprising then to find proposals on how to turn the clock back, under the banner of ecological policies: “I would propose a return to the former state of the delta and the former way of exploiting it, as when the natives first inhabited it. Why should X or Y take advantage of the resources, rather than the villagers? It is unfair! The elderly tell us that the delta used to be full of birds and fish! In spring fish came up to the porches of the houses to find warm and clean water,” said an older lady from Sulina. Conclusions: Implications for Participatory Governance? Concepts of nature and concepts of place cannot be separated in terms of the Danube Delta. Concepts and images of “the Delta,” and “balta” (marshland) trigger different associations, concepts, and valuations of nature from local residents. Concepts of nature consistently feature in narratives of the delta, its people, its past, and its future. Respondents switch effortlessly between different narratives and concepts, without any sense of inconsistency. Cues to switch to a different story can be internal (“This brings me to . . .”) or external, a product of the communication situation, (“Yes, the birds. You are interested in the birds. Of course, they have to be protected”). “Nature” can be positively and negatively associated. Positive constructions of nature may be tied to the place, to the natural landscape (nature as the endless marsh), or even the cultural landscape (nature as a collection of green locations that do not demand too much hard work). “Nature” as a network of relations, an ecosystem, emerges rarely in local narratives. More commonly, nature is a collection of species—either a subset of iconic species or all of them together, including ones not observed. Sometimes, one species stands for all nature, either positively (egrets), negatively (cormorants), or both (pelicans). Fish are part of nature and culture, an inextricable part of the delta landscape perceived as natural, but readily available for the people living there.

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Nostalgia for communism still exists, as documented the opinions of many locals: “We all had work, there were factories here, and we could fish,” commented Sulina residents. But it also exists for a glamorized traditional lifestyle, “Things used to be easier when our ancestors arrived here; life was hard then, too, but now it’s worse,” said an older man from Sulina. Local trauma, together with communism, has shaped many narratives. More than this, however, and more than remnants of traditional images of nature (paradise), the recent history of conflict over natural resource governance has marked the concepts of nature and the strategic deployment of concepts and narratives. In other words, the context of governance and the conflicts over governance have contributed, more than any other factor, to the existing diversity in terminology and deployment of “nature.” This being the case, governance, whether it includes a potentially more inclusive participatory governance of the Danube Delta, simply can not be conceived as a neutral framework, where various concepts of nature and narratives for the delta (some of them traditional) can be easily compared in order to identify common ground and build consensus (Hajer and Wagenaar, 2003; Stringer et al, 2006). One should not start from an assumption that governance is a series of neutral sites, where an inventory of pre-existing images can be made. Previous changes in, and conflicts over, governance created a strategic situation where none of the agents involved in the change (including science) can be trusted. Moreover, it should be highlighted that any reworked policy process is destined to produce new concepts of nature. Further, it is virtually impossible to separate the “conflict-born” concepts of nature from older and more “authentic” ones. This might be highly inconvenient information for institution builders, but it must be acknowledged and factored into the anticipated process. In the Danube Delta, with its history of marginality and disempowerment (Van Assche et al, 2008), the recent struggles over conservation produced what we call “traumatic nature.” Every discussion of and every probe into the concepts and experiences of nature will be unavoidably pervaded by this unfortunate legacy. Traumatic nature is marked by a great deal of instability and polarization of nature concepts. New, polarized, and unstable constructs of nature emerge swiftly once the speed of communication is intensified, as players search for better governance (even in cases where the quality of communication between locals and bureaucrats is problematic). Stable differences between a limited number of well-defined nature concepts (as observed by Buijs, 2009; Koppen, 2000; Stamou, 2004) are largely cancelled out when set against the tumultuous history of the swamp. Due to the specific function of social memory (for more on keeping the effects of trauma alive see Antze and Lambek, 1996) and due to a specific governance context that bestowed a great deal of strategic value upon “nature,” discourse on nature will be



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structured by a history of power struggles, suspicion of interlocutors, and strategic calculation. What are the implications of participatory governance of the delta? As always, it is impossible to indicate a priori what the role of the locals ought to be. It is clear that there is a problem and that, under the current regime, the residents of the villages in the delta are not considered full partners in the decision making. For instance, let us assume that the concession system can be reconsidered and local residents can be given more opportunities to participate in resource use, more clarity about their rights, and more responsibilities. Let’s also assume further that DDBRA can open up to include some local participation and that the villages in the delta can tackle their internal representation issues. In such a case, it still seems desirable to structure the institutional process in such a way that various concepts of nature and narratives about the delta can be brought to the table. Given the specific challenges posed by conflict-born and traumatic nature concepts, one cannot resort to a naïve interpretation of the participatory turn and simply let all voices be heard and all versions of nature be presented and compared (For critiques, see Keulartz et al, 2004; O’Riordan, 2002, and Stringer et al, 2006). A high degree of reflexivity is required, a deep awareness of historical legacies, a recognition of power and strategy as inscribed in every story about local nature and the delta (Latour, 2004; Van Assche, 2001). A mere repetition of the rhetoric already used in the past (e.g. hiding behind the scientific value of birds and fish) will not be effective (Galatchi, 2009). Things will take time and need, very possibly, mediation by a party not yet involved in the picture. Above all, it seems that a gradual increase in representation, the transparent transfer of power from voters to political persons and then to the administration, is a sine qua non for the establishment of meaningful participatory governance of natural resources. Power by participation can only be a complement to a traditional line of democratic power, not a substitute (Hajer and Wagenaar, 2003). In such an improved institutional environment, trust levels should slowly be raised and transparency will improve, creating the conditions for participatory governance (North, 2005; Mannigel, 2008; Turnhout, 2004). Then, a deliberative approach to competing narratives on nature and place will be less crippled by old trauma and recent histories of conflict. In other words, a separation of power would be more than helpful in the search for the separation of process and content as well as the separation of governance structure and the concepts of nature circulating there. Different concepts of nature can then be evaluated as reflections of genuinely different values and sensibilities, rather than products of a shaky governance structure, perceived by locals from the distorted viewpoint of collective trauma.

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Ingold, T. (2000). The perception of the environment: Essays on dwelling, livelihood and skill, London: Routledge. Iordachi, C. (2002). Citizenship, Nation and State-Building: The Integration of Northern Dobrogea in Romania, 1878–1913. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press IUCN (1986). MAB Information System Biosphere Reserves Compilation October 1986. Prepared for UNESCO, Gland: IUCN. IUCN (1991). World Heritage Nomination – IUCN Summary. Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve, Gland: IUCN. IUCN (L. Pons, ed) (1992). The Danube Delta. Conservation status report, Gland: IUCN. Kepe, T. (1997). Communities, entitlements and nature reserves: the case of the wild coast, South Africa, IDS Bulletin, 1–13. Keulartz, J., H. Van der Windt, J. Swart (2004). ‘Concepts of nature as communicative devices: The case of Dutch nature policy,’ Environmental Values 13(1): 81–99. Knight (2000). Natural enemies. People- wildlife conflicts in anthropological perspective, London: Routledge. Koppen, C. (2000). ‘Resource, Arcadia, lifeworld. Nature concepts in environmental sociology,’ Sociologia Ruralis, 40(3): 300–318. Langeveld, M., R. Grimmett, eds. (1990). Important Bird Areas in Europe. Wetlands for the Shadow List of Ramsar Sites, Cambridge: International Waterfowl and Wetlands Research Bureau. Latour, N. (2004). The politics of nature: How to bring the sciences into democracy?, Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Mannigel (2008). ‘Integrating Parks and People: How Does Participation Work in Protected Area Management?,’ Society & Natural Resources. An International Journal, 21(6): 498–511. Marin, G., E. Schneider (1997). Ecological restoration in the Danube delta biosphere reserve, Romania, Tulcea: DDBRA/WWF. Marquardt, D., J. Möllers, G. Buchenrieder (2009). ‘Eu- wide networking: an instrumental valuable for European rural development policies in Romania?, European Countryside, 4: 210–226. Munteanu, V. (2002). Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve, Tulcea: DDBRA. Navodaru, I. (1998). ‘Transition in the Danube Delta fisheries management,’ World Bank/ WBI’s CBRNM Workshop. [online: http://srdis.ciesin.columbia.edu/cases/ romania-002.html] Navodaru, I., M. Staras (1998). ‘Conservation of fish stocks in the Danube Delta, Romania: Present status, constraints, and recommendation,’ Italian Journal for Zoology, 65(1): 369–371. Navodaru, I., M. Staraş, I. Cernisencu (2001). ‘The challenge of sustainable use of the Danube Delta Fisheries, Romania,’ Fisheries Management and Ecology, 8(4–5): 323–332. Nelson, V. (2005). ‘Representation and images of people, place and nature in Grenada’s tourism,’ Geografiska Annaler B, 87(2): 131–143. North, D. (2005). Understanding the process of economic change, Princeton: Princeton University Press.



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O’Riordan, T. (2002). ‘Protecting beyond the protected,’ in T. O’Riordan, S. StollKleemann, eds., Biodiversity, Human Livelihoods and Sustainability. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 3–32. Panighiant, E. (1972). Le Delta du Danube, Bucharest: Editions Touristiques. Pons, L. (1987). Recent Information about the Present Ecological State of the Danube Delta and Future Threats by Agricultural Developments. Report (n.p.) Pons, L. (1988). A Visit to the Danube Delta (19th–22nd October 1988). Report (n.p.). Pons, L., M. Pons-Ghitulescu (1990) The Recent Developments Around the Danube. Report, (n.p.). Pringle, C. (1991). ‘U.S.-Romanian Environmental Reconnaissance of the Danube Delta,’ Conservation Biology, 5(4): 442–445. Rank, M. (1990). Wild Danube saved by Ceauşescu overthrow. Reuters, 19 February. Roman, R. (1990). S.O.S. Danube Delta! An Open letter to Prime Minister Petre Roman. June,1990. Schiemer, F. (2006). Ecological status and problems of the Danube and its fish fauna, Proceedings of the 36th IAD Conference, Vienna: IAD. Schneider, E. (1990). ‘The Wet Grasslands in the Catchment Area of the Lower Danube,’ Proceedings of the International Wet-Pasture Symposium, Rastatt: WWF Auen Institute. Soule, M., G. Lease (1995). Reinventing nature? Responses to postmodern deconstruction, Washington: Island Press. Stamou, A. (2004). ‘Images of Nature by Tourism and Environmentalist Discourses in Visitors Books: A Critical Discourse Analysis of Ecotourism,’ Discourse & Society, 15(1): 115–129. Stiuca, R., I. Nichersu (2006). ‘Master Plan- support for sustainable development in Danube Delta Bioshpere Reserve/Tulcea county (Romania) Logical Framework Analysis (LFA), Proceedings of the 36th IAD conference, Vienna: IAD. Stringer, L., A. Dougill, E. Fraser, K. Hubacek, C. Prell, M. Reed (2006). ‘Unpacking “participation” in the adaptive management of social ecological systems: A critical review,’ Ecology and society, 11 (2): art. 39, available online at the link: http:// www.ecologyandsociety.org/vol11/iss2/art39/ Stringer, L. C., S. S. Scrieciu, M. Reed (2009). Biodiversity, land degradation, and climate change: Participatory planning in Romania, Applied Geography, 29(1): 77–90. Teampău, P., K. Van Assche (2009). ‘Sulina, Sulina, when there’s water, there’s no light. Memory and autobiography in a Romanian town,’ Identities, 7(1–2): 33–70. Turnhout, E. (2004). ‘The role of views of nature in Dutch nature conservation: The case of the creation of a drift sand area in the Hoge Veluwe National Park,’ Environmental Values, 13(2): 187–198. Turnock, D. (1979). ‘Water resource management problems in Romania,’ GeoJournal, 3(6); 609–622. Turnock, D. (1986). The Romanian economy in the 20th century, New York: St Martin’s Press. Turnock, D. (2006). ‘Alternative tourisms in Romania: The role of culture and ecology,’ Geographica Pannonica, 10: 56–72.

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Part IV

Policy/Planning Landscape

Chapter 13

Some Aspects of Water Management and Land Reclamation in the Danube Delta Bart Schultz

The Danube Delta in Romania is one of the remaining more-or-less virgin deltas in the world. Human habitation is very limited there and the Delta is rich in natural values. Starting in the 1970s, under the regime of Nicolae Ceauşescu, there were plans to reclaim a significant part of the Delta for agricultural production. At that time, the Netherlands was considered to be a good example for land reclamation, due to the success of agriculture in the Dutch polders. However, the Dutch model did not work well in Romania, as most of the soils in the Danube Delta were unsuitable for agricultural development. The truth is that the Delta is probably best left as a nature reserve. Some areas of the floodplain upstream from the Delta were reclaimed with polders, and they could be more productive for agriculture, but not with the technology used in Romania at the time. Unfortunately, the political atmosphere in Communist Romania was such that it was impossible for the government’s engineers to tell their politicians that the Delta would be better off left alone. In the period from 1980–1986, the author was involved in a joint research program with counterparts of various Romanian research and development institutes, in particular the Institute of Studies and Design for Land Reclamation Projects (ISPIF). In describing the author’s experience with the project, the following chapter provides a history of plans that were never realized, along with an explanation of what went wrong. The chapter begins with some background information on the Danube Delta, followed by the data and plans that were available back in 1980–1986. Then there will be a review of the main issues involved in the research cooperation and a presentation of relevant aspects with respect to water management and land reclamation in the Delta. A comparison will be made between agriculture development in the Danube Delta and in the floodplain of the Romanian part of the Danube River. The chapter concludes with a 303

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brief evaluation of the planning process that occurred in the 1980s and its relevance for the Delta today. Background Somewhere around the end of the 1960s, then-Romanian President Nicolae Ceauşescu visited the Netherlands. At that time, Ceauşescu was quite popular in the Netherlands, and so his visit took place in a good atmosphere. He took a flight over the country and saw the prosperous delta there. Ceauşescu conclusion was that the Danube Delta (shown in Figure 13.1) had to be developed in a similar way. He pushed for this development and successfully promoted research cooperation between Romanian and Dutch institutions to support his plans. This cooperation was based on the “mutual benefit” principle, which at the time was a common rationale for cooperation among government institutions. Main institutions that were involved in this cooperation included: • From Romania: primarily the Institute for Studies and Design of Land Reclamation Projects (ISPIF), which was part of the Ministry of Agriculture. It was and still is responsible for generally large-scale rural development projects in Romania. Other Romanian institutes involved included the Research Institute for Soil Science and Agronomy (ICPA) and the Research Institute of Irrigation and Drainage (ICITID). The overall responsibility on the Romanian side was with the Ministry of Agriculture, and there was an involvement of the Danube Delta National Institute for Research and Development in Tulcea, located more or less at the apex of the Delta. • From the Netherlands: primarily the Scientific Division of the IJsselmeerpolders Development Authority (RIJP), which was part of the Ministry of Transport, Public Works and Water Management,was responsible for the reclamation and initial development of newly reclaimed land in the Netherlands (De Bruin and Schultz, 2003; Van de Ven, 2004). In the Netherlands, the RIJP was primarily responsible for handling reclamation and initial development work in the IJsselmeerpolders, a group of four polders in central Netherlands that were reclaimed from Lake IJsselmeer (Figure 13.2). In the context of this project in the Netherlands, about 165,000 hectares of former sea bottom was reclaimed and developed (Van Duin and De Kaste, 2002). Between 1980 and 1986, the author was coordinating the joint research on the Danube Delta on behalf of the RIJP. The focus of the joint research was cooperation related to development of the Danube Delta. The research was



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Figure 13.1  The Danube Delta

basically implemented through workshops, visits and the development of a representative pilot area for agricultural exploitation. The first area would be located in or near the Pardina Polder. Existing Data and Plans in 1980 In 1980, it was very difficult to get insight into existing plans and available data on Romania. Almost any map of the area was kept secret, and presentations by Romanian specialists generally did not contain much quantified information. In all our meetings and field trips in Romania, we were accompanied by a representative of the Communist Party. When a Romanian group of specialists came to the Netherlands, they were also accompanied by a representative of the party. It was always easy to identify the party representative, because they were always the people who clearly did not show any interest in the technical presentations. However, after many discussions and several visits, we obtained some more substantial information and were permitted to make pictures of some of the maps. Based on this information, we found out that, in general terms, the following plans and data on the development of the Danube Delta were available:

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Figure 13.2  The Enclosing Dam and the Ijsselmeerpolders. Source: Van Duin and De Kaste, 2002



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• The Danube Delta’s area included 460,000 hectares in Romania and 100,000 hectares in the former Soviet Union (now Ukraine). The border between these two countries followed the northern branch of the Danube River for a substantial part of its length; • The Danube Delta was a virgin delta, with only about 6,000 inhabitants, most of whom lived off fishing, hunting and some small-scale agriculture; • The average annual rainfall was 350 millimeters and reference evapotranspiration was 800 millimeters; • There is almost no tidal fluctuation where the Danube meets the Black Sea; • The discharge of the Danube River was 1,500–20,000 cubic meters per second, with a peak period in April and May that coincided with the early phase of the growing season. Most of the discharge went through the northern branch of the Danube. Over the years, this discharge pattern may have changed, due to the construction of the two “Iron Gates” upstream in the Danube River; • A soil map was made available (Figure 13.3); • There was a Delta Development Plan from 1975 that was also made available (Figure 13.4). In 1980, the Delta was dominated by natural land and lakes, and most of the area was designated for nature conservation. As far as commercial activities were concerned, there was reed cultivation for the celluloses factory in Tulcea and fishponds. Arable land and meadows covered only about 10 percent of the area. Land use in the Delta in 1980 is shown in Table 13.1. Due to the high river discharges in April and May, a substantial part of the Delta was flooded every spring, and in wet years. Most of the Delta’s arable land and sites for reed cultivation were located in polders. A polder is a level area, which is subject to high water in its original state either permanently or seasonally, from groundwater or surface water but which has been separated from its surrounding hydrological regime through impoldering, which allows for a certain level of independent control of its water table (Segeren, 1983). Table 13.2 shows the areas of the Danube Delta polders that existed in 1980. The Development Plan of 1975 consisted of the following components: • Extension of agricultural land by impoldering and land reclamation of 100,000 hectares on soils that were considered as suitable; • Construction of 50,000 hectares of new fish farms; • Extension of the nature conservation area with 110,000 hectares; • Improvement of reed cultivation; • Forestry; • Development of a national park; • Development of new settlements.

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Figure 13.3  Soil map of the Danube Delta. Source: Jong, J. de en E. Schultz. De ontwikkeling van de Donau-delta. Cultuurtechnisch Tijdschrift, jaargang 22 nr. 2. augustus/ september 1982 (in Dutch)



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Figure 13.4  Delta Development Plan for the Danube Delta of 1975. Source: Jong, J. de en E. Schultz. De ontwikkeling van de Donau-delta. Cultuurtechnisch Tijdschrift, jaargang 22 nr. 2. augustus/september 1982 (in Dutch)

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Area in hectares 140,000 130,000 50,000 40,000 40,000 15,000 15,000 10,000 440,000

Source:  Jong, J. de en E. Schultz. De ontwikkeling van de Donau-delta. Cultuurtechnisch Tijdschrift, jaargang 22 nr. 2. augustus/september 1982 (in Dutch).

Table 13.2  Areas of the existing polders in 1980 Name Ada Marinescu Carasuhat (reed cultivation) Maliuc Pardina (reed cultivation) Tartaru Murigiol Dunavat (under construction) Total

Area in hectares 3,400 3,000 3,000 28,000 2,500 3,500 43,400

Source:  Jong, J. de en E. Schultz. De ontwikkeling van de Donau-delta. Cultuurtechnisch Tijdschrift, jaargang 22 nr. 2. augustus/september 1982 (in Dutch).

As far as we could derive from the maps and the mainly oral information that we received about the plan, the information on soils and hydrology was quite solid. However, the ideas for land use, especially with respect to agriculture and the development of settlements, envisaged by the plan were questionable. When the Development Plan for the Danube Delta of 1975 was presented to us, we therefore gave the following main comments: • We strongly doubted that there would indeed be 100,000 hectares of land suitable for agriculture because of the soil there. The coastal zone had saline sandy soils that were completely unsuitable for commercial cultivation. Meanwhile, the more inland areas had coarse peat soils that would also cause problems. In the climate conditions of the Danube Delta, soil reclamation efforts on such soil would cause a process of land subsidence and oxidation of the peat. Eventually the remaining peat would become flooded and swampy and unsuitable for agricultural exploitation. On top of this, such soils cause all kinds of problems with the stability of any construction;



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• It was questionable whether people would like to settle in the Danube Delta, which was considered a remote area and not very popular among the Romanian population; • Although the plan set aside a substantial area for nature conservation and the development of a National Park, the focus of the actual activities was clearly on the development of agriculture areas; • The cost-benefit analysis of the plan carried a large risk of being inaccurate. Because of all the complications that we thought would be encountered during the reclamation, the analysis assumed an unrealistically large area that could be cultivated; it appeared to underestimate the cost for the development of infrastructure; and it appeared to underestimate the length of the development period. Regarding agriculture development, we recommended that a pilot area be used to test the various measures that would have to be taken and to give a better idea of the crop yields that could be obtained. Our comments resulted in a great deal of discussion, and these made it clear to us that, although our counterparts were quite skilled, they also had all kinds of hidden agendas that were difficult for us to understand. It became clear that full decision-making power was in the hands of the party and the politicians, who generally had very ambitious plans, and it was almost impossible for an engineer or a specialist to object to such plans. The experts were simply expected to implement these plans according to the politician’s schedule, which was generally impossible. Developments in the Floodplain of the Danube Delta Before describing several items of the research cooperation with respect to the development of the Danube Delta, it is useful to explain the situation in the Romanian section of the Danube River floodplain. Over the years, 56 polders with a total area of 474,000 hectares were built in the Romanian section of the floodplain (See Figures 13.5 and 13.6) This was about the same area as the total area of the Romanian section of the Danube Delta. The floodplain contains very fertile, heavy clay soils. However, these clays are of the so-called montmorillonite (swelling) variety. Montmorillonite clays tend to crack and become very permeable when they dry out, but when they become wet, the cracks close and they become more or less impermeable. Good exploitation of this kind of soil is only possible through the use of open field drains (trenches) and careful soil treatment. However, during the Ceauşescu regime, open field drains were considered unacceptable, as it was believed they would hamper the operation of large agricultural

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Figure 13.5  Polder Area in the Floodplain of Danube River

Figure 13.6  Movable Pumps to Pump Irrigation Water from Danube River to the Polders in the Floodplain during Low Flow Periods



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equipment—tractors, combines, etc. Romanian drainage engineers, who were generally very good specialists and probably knew better, were only permitted to design sub-surface pipe drainage systems, which were installed about one meter below the surface. These drains did not function at all when they were needed, especially in April and May. The resultant waterlogging of soils destroyed top layers and created low yields. Although the clay soils in the IJsselmeerpolders of the Netherlands (Figure 13.2) had a significantly different texture because it was mostly illite clay, we were familiar with the careful treatment of such soils because of our reclamation work on the former sea bottom (Verhoeven and Schultz, 1987; Schultz, 1988) We therefore knew very well that only open field drains would work in this situation, and we wrote as much in our reports. Our Romanian counterparts used our reports to try to convince decision makers, but the proposal was never accepted and the low yields continued. As a result, the huge potential for food production in the polders of the Danube River floodplain was wasted, and efforts to try to reclaim marginally useful or totally unsuitable soils in the Danube Delta continued. Since the end of the Ceaușescu regime, the political situation in Romania has improved, and good decision making is easier. But now there is a movement to cut open at least some of the dikes in the Danube floodplain and allow for river restoration. Research Cooperation As said, the research cooperation focused on transforming the Pardina Polder from a polder suitable for reed cultivation to an agricultural polder. This cooperation was implemented through workshops, research visits and the design of the pilot area, which was supposed to provide a test for the development of the Pardina Polder, and later, other projected polders in the Danube Delta. Figure 13.7 shows the Pardina Polder and Figure 13.8 shows the pumping station on the north side of this polder. This pumping station was quite interesting, as it could pump water into and out of the polder. The option to pump water in was for irrigation during the dry periods and the ability to pump water out was used during wet periods, especially during April and May. The Development Plan of 1980 distinguished three phases of development for the Pardina Polder (Figure 13.9): • The first phase would have to include the following measures: deepening of the main drains and lowering of the preferred polder water level, to enable the creation of good arable land; construction of secondary drains and additional pumping stations; removal of the reed and, where required, deep plowing and fertilization;

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Figure 13.7  View of the Pardina Polder with the Dike and Seepage Spots

Figure 13.8  Pumping Station on the North Side of the Pardina Polder



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Figure 13.9  Development Plan of the Pardina Polder. Source: Jong, J. de en E. Schultz. De ontwikkeling van de Donau-delta. Cultuurtechnisch Tijdschrift, jaargang 22 nr. 2. augustus/september 1982 (in Dutch)

• During the second phase, the following further improvement work would have to be undertaken: construction of tertiary (collector) drains; installation of an irrigation system and construction of roads; raising the existing ring dike to a higher level of safety; and establishment of State Farms; • In the last development phase, it was envisaged that, where required, subsurface pipe drains would be installed. The purpose of establishing the pilot area in Pardina Polder was primarily to: • Test methods of soil improvement for peat and sandy soils; • Test potentially possible irrigation methods;

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• Investigate the need for, and possible methods of, drainage; • Investigate possible yields under different soil conditions; • Investigate the bearing capacity of the soils in relation to agricultural machines; • Analyze the effects of wind erosion and possible measures to prevent it. There were many discussions and several visits, and eventually we achieved joint development of a full design for the pilot area. But despite full agreement on the plan for the pilot area, the plan was never implemented. It was impossible to find out why the pilot was not implemented, as we had no insight into internal discussions between Romanian specialists and the politicians. Nonetheless, when it became clear there would be no pilot, I chose to end my cooperation in 1986. My authority continued the cooperation and other colleagues have taken over. Evaluation One of the things that I learned during this cooperation was that, to establish agriculture and get a good harvest in a polder requires a chain of coherent activities. This was never apparent in our IJsselmeerpolders. The chain includes a good physical environment (especially soil and water) and good agricultural practices, from sowing, to treatments, to harvesting and postharvest processing. At that time in Romania there was always something missing: There would be no fuel or spare parts for the combines, the irrigation systems would malfunction, or the use of overweight machinery destroyed the top layers of the Danube floodplain’s heavy clay soils. When we saw the television in the evening, we always saw documentaries with beautiful wheat harvested by combines. We never understood where they made those documentaries, because during our trips we only saw harvesting by school children and soldiers. Another interesting observation was that, when politicians don’t listen to the engineers and specialists while preparing their plans, the plans will sooner or later fail, which is also not good for the politician. On every visit to Romania we were received by the Vice Minister of Agriculture, who presented grand plans for the coming years. The first time I was impressed. However, the second time there, the Vice Minister of Agriculture had been replaced because his objectives were not achieved, and the new person in the position was doing the same as his predecessor: presenting ambitious plans. This ceremony was repeated almost annually, and we became less and less impressed by the plans we heard. The same was true of the specific plans with respect to the Danube Delta: The politicians had ideas, they overruled the engineers



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and specialists and the implementation encountered all kinds of problems and was unsuccessful. Although the situation of the communist period in Romania is quite extreme, similar situations can be found throughout Central and Eastern Europe. For example, after the transition, most of the irrigation systems in these countries have collapsed. Irrigated agriculture as developed under the plan economy in these countries became to a large extent unfeasible under market-based conditions (Zhovtonog et al, 2005; Dirksen and Huppert, 2006). Years have passed and the envisaged large-scale agricultural development has fortunately not been implemented. To a certain extent we played a role in preventing this work by preparing reports stating that the soils were unsuitable. As mentioned, the Romanian engineers and specialists could not state this simple fact because it would have been the end of their careers. Real research cooperation has not been possible, though we have had many interesting discussions and were always well received in Romania. In fact, natureoriented development of the Danube Delta is by far preferable to agricultural development. As has been noted, the polders in the floodplain of the Danube River offer much better possibilities for agricultural development. Focusing on such areas can bring Romania back to its past position of a wheat exporting country. Although the Delta will remain mostly in its natural state, it may be expected that some features will gradually change. Due to the construction of the “Iron Gates,” the regime of the Danube downstream has changed, resulting in less extreme floods and generally higher flows during the low-water season. Meanwhile, the supply of fertile silt from the river to the Delta has been reduced. Such changes will in due time result in gradual changes in the flora and fauna of the Delta. Bibliography Bruin, D., de and B. Schultz (2003). “A simple start with far reaching consequences.” Irrigation and Drainage, 52(1): 51–63. Dirksen, W., W. Huppert (2006). Irrigation sector reform in Central and Eastern European Countries. With contributions from the ICID National Committees of Bulgaria, Czech Republic, Germany, Hungary, Macedonia, Poland, Romania, Russia, Slovenia and Ukraine. Deutsche Gesellschaft für Technische Zusammenarbeit (GTZ) GmbH, Eschborn, Germany. Duin, R.H.A. van and G. de Kaste (2002). Getting to the Bottom of Flevoland – The Pocket Guide to the Zuiderzee Project. Province of Flevoland, Lelystad, the Netherlands. Jong, J. De and E. Schultz (1982). “De ontwikkeling van de Donau-delta.” [The development of the Danube Delta]. Cultuurtechnisch Tijdschrift, 22(2) (in Dutch).

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Schultz, B. (1988). “Drainage measures and soil ripening during the reclamation of the former sea bed in the IJsselmeerpolders.” Proceedings 15th ICID European regional conference on Agricultural Water Management, International Commission on Irrigation and Drainage (ICID), Dubrovnik, Yugoslavia: pp. 197–214. Segeren, W.A. (1983). “Introduction to the keynotes of the international symposium Polders of the World.” Final report of the international symposium ‘Polders of the World,’ International Institute for Land Reclamation and Improvement (ILRI), Wageningen, the Netherlands: 7–15. Ven, G.P. van de, ed. (2004). Man-made lowlands. History of water management and land reclamation in the Netherlands. 4th edition, Utrecht, the Netherlands: Matrijs. Verhoeven, B., B. Schultz (1987). “Drainage works in the Zuiderzee project.” ICID Bulletin, 36(2): 1. Zhovtonog, O., W. Dirksen, K. Roest (2005). “Comparative assessment of irrigation sector reforms in Central and Eastern European countries of transition.” Irrigation and Drainage, 54(5): 487–500.

Chapter 14

Evolution of Policies and Institutions for Conservation of the Ukrainian Danube Delta Paul Goriup and Natasha Goriup

Ukraine has a long history of nature conservation. Even under the Soviet system, a few of the country’s precious habitats in the Danube Delta received some protection. But Soviet-era attempts at economic development in the Ukrainian section of the Delta also caused extensive damage to the region’s environment. Efforts to protect the area, and undo some of the past damage, have been advancing over the last 20 years, though more needs to be done. Furthermore, the region, which includes Romania and Moldova, needs a better-coordinated international strategy for protecting the shared environment. This chapter looks at Ukraine’s efforts to protect the Delta, reviewing the initial human threats to the area and tracing the evolution of protection efforts, during the Soviet era and after. As the chapter notes, there is important nature in the region that needs protection. A survey of the environment reveals a wide range of habitats and species within the Delta. The largest and most natural wetland complex in Western Europe, the Delta harbours biodiversity that is considered to be of global importance. Much damage was caused by developments that took place after 1950, including the building of embankments and efforts to control the waters of the Delta and use them for irrigating farmland. Unfortunately, the work not only destroyed a huge area of pristine wetland and meadows, it also failed agriculturally. Meanwhile, the isolation of bodies of water kept out migratory fish populations, causing the catch rates of certain types of fish to plummet and the overall number of fish in the area to decrease. Conservation efforts gained new life after 1991, when Ukraine became an independent country and developed state institutions to safeguard the environment. New environmental laws were passed, and new conservation 319

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initiatives were undertaken within the country. Ukraine’s framework for environmental protection was based on international conventions and programs, like the “Agreement on the Establishment and Joint Management of a Transfrontier Protected Area in the Danube Delta and the Lower River Prut,” signed by the governments of Moldova, Romania and Ukraine in 2000. But a 2004 dredging project in the Delta showed that authorities in Ukraine were ready to “unprotect” protected areas when it suited economic goals. Since that time, lobbying by environmentalists in the country, a change in government, international pressure, and the need for international financing have helped encourage Ukraine to do more for the environment. The country is now cooperating through international channels and initiatives, such as a UNESCO conference held in Odessa in 2006. While Ukraine has not been able to put its money where its mouth is as far as supporting these initiatives, it is hoped that EU funding will allow for spending that does more to protect the Ukrianian section of the Danube Delta. Introduction The tradition of nature protection on Ukrainian territory dates back hundreds of years. More than a century ago—following Ukraine’s inclusion in the Russian empire—Friedrich Falz-Fein of Austria set up a botanical reserve for virgin steppe within his estate at Askania Nova near Kherson in 1898. The reserve, which now encompasses 33,300 hectares, was declared a national reserve by the new Soviet government in 1919—one of the first in Europe. It has been managed as a protected area ever since and was designated as a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve on February 15, 1985. This earlier gesture notwithstanding, the subsequent development of nature protection—and more latterly efforts toward sustainable use of natural resources—in Ukraine was not particularly inspiring while the country was a member of the Soviet Union. (See e.g. Cerovsky, 1988; Komarov, 1981; Pryde, 1972; Davydova and Koshevoi, 1989.) Under the Soviet system, all land, water and associated resources were state owned, and the whole economy was centrally planned. This meant that land-use policy was set exclusively by the elite, but there was severely limited scope for public awareness of, or participation in, decisions about natural resource conservation. During this time, scientific academies and institutions essentially led the establishment of a system of strictly protected areas (zapovedniks). These areas were chosen because they represented the range of biogeographical zones found in the USSR and/or because they contained threatened species and unique geological features. The zapovedniks were (and remain) protected from economic use, and they are devoted entirely to research and education.



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Public access to these zones was strictly controlled or prohibited, and there was little or no management intervention. The first zapovedniks were designated in 1919, and by 1990 there were some 161 such locations covering a total area of 20.4 million hectares—roughly 1 percent of the USSR’s territory. Various other types of protected areas were also established, including national parks, supervised areas (often for hunting) called zakazniks, regional landscape parks and national monuments. But they did not provide the kind of protection of the environment that was needed: either nature conservation was not their main aim, or they were so weakly administered as to be little more than “paper parks.” Meanwhile, the rest of the territory in the USSR was zoned for various economic uses and managed by sectoral authorities, such as the ministries of Agriculture, Forestry and Water and Fisheries. There was no Ministry of Environment to regulate the environmental impact of the activities promoted by the economic ministries, or to hold them accountable for damage to the environment. The Soviet-era economic ministries were powerful institutions, which forged much of the landscape seen today. They had a nominal duty to care for the environment, but it was not a high priority compared with economic growth and improved productivity (especially in agriculture). For example, Article 9 of the “Model Charter for Collective Farms” adopted in 1969 states: The collective farm is obliged to make the fullest and most correct utilization of the land allotted to it, to constantly improve this land, to increase its fertility; to bring unused land into agricultural production; to carry out measures for land irrigation and drainage, for combating soil erosion, and for creating field shelter-belt plantings; to care for collective farm land and strictly protect it from wasteful use; to observe the established regulations for protection of nature and for the use of forests, sources of water and useful minerals.

In studying the exploitation of natural resources in the lower Danube Delta, this chapter reveals, on a small scale, the “man over nature” approach taken in the former Soviet Union as a whole, especially in the post-war period from the 1950s onwards. It was only after Ukraine became independent in 1991 that a cabinet-level environmental protection ministry was established and a more contemporary ecosystem approach was gradually adopted by state authorities. Over the last two decades, Ukraine has not only been attempting to achieve the transition to a market economy with a private sector, but also seeking to transition to a new model of environmental management. Before the collapse of the USSR, the environmental movement was as much about a form of political protest against central authority as it was about protecting nature. Today, the role of government criticism is now largely played by non-governmental organizations and a relatively free media. Environmental protection activities in Ukraine has therefore been able to shift from promoting traditional

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science-based principles for nature protection to integrated resource management. This transition has involved a period of almost continuous institutional reorganization, legislative reforms and establishment of new national and international coordination mechanisms. The process is often untidy, confusing, and contradictory—but it basically appears to be heading in the right direction. The Lower Danube Region in Ukraine and the importance of conservation there In this chapter, the Lower Danube region is considered to comprise an area of about 6,970 km2, which includes three main geographical sections (see Figure 14.1): 1. The deltaic islands, lakes, sand dunes, river channels and river mouths east of Tulcea and Izmail, between the main northern Kilia branch to the Sfintu Gheorghe branch and southern lagoons. This area has a coastline of almost 240 km, of which about 75 km are in the Ukraine. Today, the Kilia lobe in Ukraine is the most actively growing part of the Delta: when Vilkovo was founded in 1775, it was actually situated on the shoreline marked by the course of Zhebryanski Grida; now it is 18 km inland. However, following the construction of numerous reservoirs in the Danube basin, the amount of sediment coming to the delta has decreased significantly, reducing the Delta’s rate of growth. 2. The Danube floodplain upstream of Tulcea and Izmail to the “pinch point” between Reni (Ukraine) and the Macin Mountains in Romania. A series of five large floodplain waterbodies ranges along the northern (left) bank of the Danube in Ukraine. Although commonly called lakes, they are actually limans (river valleys flooded by the Danube) with one or more rivers flowing into them. Consequently, they have a characteristically conical or palm-like shape and are relatively shallow. Listed from west to east, the lakes are: Kagul, Kugurlui, Yalpug, Katlabug and Kitai. With a volume of 600 million cubic meters and a surface area of 15,000 hectares, Lake Yalpug is the largest natural freshwater body in Ukraine. 3. The Razim-Sinoie coastal lagoon system in Romania has a sand bar, formed from the deposition of river and marine sediments, that runs along the coast and closed off a former bay. This area is not part of the Danube River floodplain proper, but is now linked to it by various man-made channels. The Lower Danube region comprises the largest and most natural wetland complex in Western Europe. It is considered globally important because of its biodiversity—in terms of species richness, populations and



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Figure 14.1  Lower Danube region: Ukraine, Romania and Moldova. Source: Goriup, 2003

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communities—particularly of aquatic plants, fish and birds. The area’s biodiversity is not only important because of the existence of relatively large, interconnected and ecologically intact areas of many different habitat types, but also because the region is located on the 45th parallel, at the junction of the Mediterranean, Pontic and Eurasian sub-zones of the Palearctic faunal realm. Vegetation and Habitats The chief natural habitat types in the Lower Danube region are the main river channel and its branches, river islands, lakes, limans, marshes, steppes and meadows, broadleaf riverine forests, salt flats, lagoons, dune systems, and the foreshore. However, the region’s environment is also intensively used by humans for farming (mainly cereals, sunflowers and legumes, with some areas of rice paddies), forestry (including growth of poplar hybrids, false acacia and conifers) and fish production (in natural waterbodies as well as artificial ponds). Much of the vegetation in the deltaic zone is dominated by common reed Phragmites australis, though patches of other emergent aquatic plants, such as Reedmace (Typha angustifolia) and Sedge (Carex elata) occur frequently. In the freshwater lakes, canals and secondary streams, a wide range of aquatic plants, such as Hornwort (Ceratophyllum demersum), Pondweed (Potamogeton pectinatus) and various charophytes, form submerged beds, while floating mats of white water lily (Nymphaea alba) and yellow water lily (Nuphar lutea) occur in still waters. Along with providing vegetable matter, these marshes support myriad types of insects, fish and frogs, which in turn sustain millions of waterbirds. On the river levees, there are narrow belts of riverine forest consisting of White willow (Salix alba), Grey willow (S. cinerea), Crack willow (S. fragilis) and Almond-leaved willow (S. triandra). Steppic grassland areas were once found on most of the drier parts of the Delta, but these are now pretty much confined to lakeside banks, dunes, road verges—and rocky slopes where the plough cannot go. These patches still have a very rich complement of flowering plants and grasses, including the feather-grass Stipa species that characterize them. In areas with saline soils, there are species such as glasswort Salicornia herbacea, sea blite Suaeda maritima and Gmelin’s sea-lavender Limonium gmelini. In all, the Ukrainian part of the Lower Danube region holds more than 1,400 plant species (Dubyna, 1990). The prevailing plants families are Asteraceae, Poaceae, Brassicaceae, Apiaceae, Caryophyllaceae, Fabaceae, Urticaceae and Cyperaceae. The areas with the greatest number of higher plant species are Zhebriyanski dunes (656 species) and the coastal zone of the Kilia Delta (651 species).



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Fish The variety of fish in the Lower Danube is very diverse: there are 97 species belonging to 30 families. Unfortunately, many of them are now listed in the European Red Data Book of endangered species, including: beluga H. huso, sturgeon Acipenser sturio, Black Sea salmon Salmo labrax, mud minnow Umbra krameri and Danube streber Zingel streber. The most significant commercial wild species are the sturgeon, common carp Cyprinus carpio and Danube shad Alosa pontica. The fish population of the Lower Danube lakes, which once comprised more than 80 species, has suffered greatly from large-scale drainage of the floodplain, an activity that led to a large reduction in type of fish species found. According to the most recent surveys, only 54 species of 13 families still occur in the Ukrainian Delta (Goriup, 2003). Birds Some 320 species of birds have been recorded in the region as a whole, but it is the sheer numbers of birds which is most remarkable. There are more than 200 waterbird colonies holding almost 40,000 breeding pairs of 13 species (Platteeuw et al, 2004). Out of 93 species of European conservation concern (Heath and Evans, 2000), no less than 12 globally threatened or near-threatened types of bird breed, migrate through or winter in the region, namely: pygmy cormorant (Phalacrocorax pygmaeus), Dalmatian pelican (Pelecanus crispus), lesser white-fronted goose (Anser erythropus), redbreasted goose (Branta ruficollis), ferruginous duck (Aythya nyroca), whitetailed eagle (Haliaeetus albicilla), pallid harrier (Circus macrourus), spotted eagle (Aquila clanga), imperial eagle (Aquila heliaca), corncrake (Crex crex), great snipe (Gallinago media), and (though now perhaps extinct) slenderbilled curlew (Numenius tenuirostris). In addition, 42 bird species from the Delta are listed in the Red Data Book of Ukraine and thus strictly protected by Ukrainian law. Within the Lower Danube region of Ukraine, five Important Bird Areas have been identified by Birdlife International (Heath and Evans, 2000). Together, they cover more than 44,000 hectares (Table 14.1). Of these, Lake Kartal, Lake Kugurlui and the Danube Delta are included in the Ramsar List of Wetlands of International Importance. In winter, the region as a whole can host more than a million waterbirds, though their actual numbers and distribution vary widely depending on the extent of ice and snow cover in the winter. Populations typically build up from late November and reach a peak during mid-January to mid-February.

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Table 14.1  Important Bird Areas (IBA) in the Lower Danube Region of Ukraine IBA Ref. No. UA UA UA UA UA

080 081 082 083 084

Site name

Area (ha)*

Criteria1

Lake Kagul 10,500 A4iii Kugurlui and Kartal lakes* 19,200 (24,000) A1, A4i, A4iii, B1i, B2 River Danube at Kilia 2,500 A4i, A4iii, B1i Kitai lake* 5,000 (5,900) A4i, A4iii, B1i Stentsovsko-Zhebryanski plavni 6,800 A1, A4i, A4iii, B1i, B2, B3

Source:  Heath and Evans, 2000. *Figures in brackets indicate the area of the site as a whole (after Goriup, 2003). 1 Key. A1 The site regularly holds significant numbers of a globally threatened species, or other species of global conservation concern. A4i The site is known or thought to hold, on a regular basis, at least 1 percent of a biogeographic population of a congregatory waterbird species. A4ii The site is known or thought to hold, on a regular basis, at least 1 percent of the global population of a congregatory seabird or terrestrial species. A4iii The site is known or thought to hold, on a regular basis, 20,000 waterbirds or 10,000 pairs of seabird of one or more species. B1i The site is known or thought to hold at least 1 percent of a flyway or other distinct population of a waterbird species. B1iii The site is known or thought to hold at least 1 percent of a flyway or other distinct population of other congregatory species. B2 The site is one of the most important in the country for a SPEC 2 or 3 species and for which the siteprotection approach is thought to be appropriate. B3 The site is one of the most important in the country for a SPEC 4 species and for which the siteprotection approach is thought to be appropriate.

However, if the shallow lakes freeze and fields are covered with snow, many birds move further south, to Bulgaria and Turkey. The region hosts significant wintering populations of, among others, white-fronted goose (Anser albifrons), smew (Mergus albellus), whooper swan (Cygnus cygnus), and, at times, almost the entire world population of red-breasted goose. Environmental Developments during the Soviet Period: 1944–1991 The present-day Lower Danube region in Ukraine was retaken from Romania by the Soviet Union in 1944—the latest in a sequence of switches of territorial power in the region. These border changes also caused immigration of fugitive groups like Lipovans and Cossacks, and left behind a legacy of a highly multiethnic local population. By the early 1950s, the state authorities had constructed embankments along stretches the Danube from Reni to Kilia. The work was meant to reinforce the border of the USSR, and included an electrified fence, watch-towers and patrol tracks, to prevent informal crossing of the river. As a border area, the region was designated a closed zone, and movement in and out of it was strictly controlled, increasing the sense of



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isolation among local communities. The embankment also effectively separated the Danube from the floodplain hinterland—at four meters in height, it exceeds the maximum river flood level. This separation had far-reaching consequences for the steppe and wetland areas, which became subject to intensive economic development. Irrigation Arrives In the early 1960s, various small-scale irrigation systems were introduced to bolster cereal production in the region. These initiatives gathered pace, and by 1966, work had started on a grand scheme for a Danube-Dniester irrigation system, which was comprised of canals and storage reservoirs and was intended to turn the drought-prone area between the two rivers into arable farmland (Marples, 1985). The work undertaken as part of this project included the 1974 construction of a huge canal—from the Danube, across the Stentsovsko-Zhebryanski marshes north of the Delta, to Sasyk Liman. The plan was to introduce fresh water to an erstwhile coastal lagoon by damming the connection with the sea. Unfortunately, the work not only destroyed a huge area of pristine wetland and meadow, but it also failed agriculturally: because the soils in the region are highly vulnerable to mineralization, the area was soon beset by soil salinization and loss of productivity. By the late 1970s, cereal production on irrigated land had started to fall behind that of non-irrigated land. By 1984, the situation was so bad that the scheme was severely criticised by Nikolai Tikhonov, chairman of the USSR Council of Ministers (Marples, 1985). The large Lower Danube floodplain lakes were of course incorporated in the irrigation system, and they were converted, in effect, from natural systems to something like managed reservoirs. Channels and pumping stations were built across the embankment to link them to the Danube, as well as to each other (Figure 14.2). The system remains intact to the present day—though a large canal and two pumping stations constructed to lift water more than 35 km, from the top of Lake Yalpug to a reservoir at Teraclea in Moldova, has ceased to operate. During the high-water period for the Danube, from late March to early June, sluices are opened and river water flows into lakes Kagul and Kugurlui (and from the latter to Yalpug), so they can be filled. Thereafter, the channels are closed, and until the early 1990s, the stored water was used for irrigation. Again, problems arose with mineralization, which was exacerbated by eutrophication and pollution in the lakes: fertilizers and pesticides leached into these water bodies from the surrounding basins, and the evaporation from the shallow water bodies in the hot summers concentrated the compounds. As part of an effort to reduce the declining water quality, the

Figure 14.2  Water Management System for Lakes Kagul, Kartal, Kugurlui and Yalpug. Source: Goriup, 2003

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channels were opened from mid-September until November, to draw down the lakes, sometimes to the dead-storage level. From mid-December, when the Danube begins to rise again, the lakes are partially filled for the winter, in order to ensure there is a sufficient depth of water below the winter ice for fish to survive. However, this procedure became less effective over time, as sediments accumulated in the channels and choked them off. More than half of all the irrigated land of Odessa Oblast lies in the Lower Danube lakes area, where some 97,40 hectares are irrigated. This area represents almost 38 percent of the Oblast’s arable land. A large part of the irrigated land is now subject to secondary salinization, particularly in the rice paddies of the Kilia District, where the proportion of such land reaches 39 percent. In the districts of Izmail, Bolgrad and Reni, the proportion of salinized land reaches 9 percent, 11 percent and 6 percent respectively. Fisheries Case Study A vivid account of the impact of the irrigation schemes on the ecology of the lakes is told through an analysis of fishery statistics carried out by Gertjan de Graaf for an EU-funded Danube environmental management project, which is reported in Goriup (2003). The original aquatic ecosystem of the Danube floodplain wetlands, which existed before the 1950s, was a “clear water system” with low nutrient loads and transparent water (Moss et al, 1996). The wetlands provided ideal spawning conditions for migratory native carp (the dominant fish species) as well as non-migratory species such as pike (Esox lusius), rudd (Scardinus erythropthalmus), tench (T. tinca), bream (Abramis brama) and roach (R. rutilus). The streams and lakes also supported large populations of crayfish, which reached a considerable size and offered a significant fishery in their own right. The first attempts at commercial fishing in the Lower Danube region were made in 1947 by the local fishery authorities, when fish breeding stations were established for bream, tench and common carp. The incubation stations were established at Katlabug (Kislitsy), 200 meters from the Danube—as well as at sites called Bogatoye, Repida and Novo Nekrasovsky, which are around Kugurlui. At that time, the lakes were not separated from the Danube by dykes. The annual catches in the lakes during the 1950s reached 1,200 tons. These ecosystems suffered considerable alteration following the embankment of the Danube described above. As a result, the natural floodplains dried up, and by the end of 1959, more then 28,000 hectares of floodplain (especially near the Danube lakes) were converted into farmland. Consequently, the abundance of the “wild form” of common carp—which has migratory

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reproductive behaviour, going from the Danube River towards the lakes and floodplains for spawning—was seriously reduced. Catches of this major species dropped dramatically, almost to zero (Figure 14.3). The decrease in wild carp catches between 1960–1973 attracted the attention of officials, who attempted to change the situation. The Institute of Hydrobiology of the Ukraine Academy of Science developed and implemented a plan to maintain normal water exchange and high lake-water levels until late autumn. This change improved the situation for the non-migratory species, such as pike, bream, roach, rudd and others. But it did not permit the restoration of the migratory routes of the wild carp, and they gradually disappeared. Consequently, from the late 1960s, large numbers of native goldfish (Carassius auratus) and domesticated common carp were stocked,

Figure 14.3  Composition of Total Fish Catches and Yield in Lakes Yalpug, Kugurlui and Katlabug from 1953 to 1997, Related to Main Impacts and Development of Stocking. Source: Goriup, 2003; data from Odessa Fisheries Protection Department. Figure based on data in de Graaf, G., Rybalko, V., Zamorov, V., Matskul, N., Oleinik, Y., and Tolokonikof, G. (2002) Fish kills in the Lower Danube Delta Lake: Final report. Unpublished report prepared for EU TACIS Project WW/SCRE1/No1on Lower Danube Lakes, Ukraine: Sustainable Restoration and protection of Habitats and Ecosystems. Accessed from http://www.nefisco.org/Ukraine.htm



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to enhance the production of the lakes. From the beginning of the 1970s, the results of this stocking became apparent, as the catch increased and the main species caught were stocked carp. Meanwhile, between 1973 and 1979, the catch of other wild fish, such as pike, perch and roach, gradually decreased, as the nutrient loads in the Danube River and the lakes increased rapidly and the waters became more turbid because of the increased growth of phytoplankton. This change had a tremendous impact on the native species of flora, fish and other fauna. The typical “clear water” fish were replaced by those of eutrophic murky waters, especially bream. During the 1970s, in effort to help the fishing industry adapt to this change, authorities introduced the silver carp (Hypothalmichthys molitrix), a large fish from Asia that feeds on algae and tolerates highly eutrophic waters. It requires artificial rearing and stocking, and has become the mainstay of the commercial fisheries sector. However, sudden and significant mortalities of mature silver carp (mainly females), especially in Lake Kugurlui, were a feature of the mid-1980s and early 1990s. Subsequent investigations suggested that, under some conditions of water flow and temperature, mature female fish would embark on a spawning run and congregate in the sluice channel where they die, most likely from deoxygenation of the water and/or physiological stress. Such events caused severe economic losses and, combined with increased operating costs after 1991, they led to a reduced level of stocking for silver carp. Environmental Developments in the Post-Independence Period: 1991 to 2009 When the Soviet Socialist Republic of Ukraine declared independence from the USSR in August 1991—dropping references to soviet, socialist and republic in the process—the country inherited a catastrophic economic and environmental legacy. With its current borders, Ukraine had become the largest country in Western Europe, though it had never previously existed for long as an independent state. Ukraine began building the institutions of an independent state from scratch, quickly putting in place such vital components as the constitution, the presidency, parliament, the government, the national bank and the national currency. At the same time, hyperinflation was fuelling an economic collapse and widespread poverty, and industrial assets were misappropriated. Moreover, among all the other environmental problems, there was still the actual and political fall-out from the Chernobyl nuclear explosion in 1986 to address, which is why the first ministry dealing with environmental issues was called the Ministry for Environmental Protection and Nuclear Safety.

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With respect to the Lower Danube region, the list of environmental issues needing attention at the time of independence was almost endless. They included: • wetland, woodland and steppe destruction due to the expansion and intensification of agriculture through such actions as construction of polders and rice paddies; • localised soil contamination—due to agrichemical dumps, cattle burial pits, slurry heaps, industrial plants and industrial and municipal waste dumps and landfills—posing threats to human health as well as the overall environment; • diffuse sources of soil pollution from agricultural activities that leave behind nutrients, heavy metals and pesticides; • eutrophy and high mineralization of the Lower Danube lakes reduced their potential for biodiversity and rendered the water unfit for potable water supply; • strong sedimentation processes reducing lake volume, especially in Lake Kugurlui; • a high level of river impoundment through construction of artificial lakes and reservoirs in the upper catchments of the steppe rivers; these bodies of water could deliver sudden loads of pollutants to the lakes if breached; • large arable fields and windbreaks planted with exotic species that obscured the natural character of the landscape; • important natural areas that lacked protected status; • the spread of invasive non-indigenous species of plants, invertebrates and fish; • poaching of game animals and birds, illegal shooting/poisoning of predators, cutting of forests for fuel, collecting wild flowers and other activities with direct negative impacts on biodiversity. These pressures on the natural environment were alleviated to a certain extent when the economy that had produced them began to collapse. Central state planning called for the expansion of agricultural production regardless of the actual costs of production—planners just set ever-increasing targets. The USSR was left vunlerable by its planned system of separating and concentrating specialized production sectors—such as agrichemicals, cement making, machine building, seed growing, etc. When the union dissolved, new countries found themselves over- or under-supplied with key inputs. After 1991, farms in Ukraine, which were still organised as communal “kholkoses,” could not pay for agrichemicals, electricity for pumping water, tractors or much else. At the same time, the farm workers had little alternative but to slaughter animals for food and take implements from the farm



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cooperative to grow crops in their gardens. More organised gangs removed metal pipes, copper cables and other materials from the irrigation systems. The landscape was, and to some extent still is, strewn with decaying barns, livestock units, and disused farm machinery yards. Less-productive fields were left fallow. As farm activity slowed, ongoing chemical pollution of soils and waters rapidly declined and the abandoned fields provided new habitats for wildlife. Plans to extend irrigation systems and further intensify agriculture were stopped. A window of opportunity for a new, more environmentally friendly low-input and smaller-scale land use system opened up, encouraged by the collapse of the old style of farming and the coincidental rise of markets in Western Europe for organic produce. Meanwhile, the country was putting in place the institutional and legal framework needed to update its environmental protection activities. This included adhering to a number of multilateral conventions and harmonizing Ukraine’s conservation efforts with those of the European Union and the Council of Europe. National Institutional Structures for Environmental Protection Today Ukraine has a number of state bodies involved in environmental protection activities. The principal one is the Ministry of Environment and Natural Resources (MENR), which was established in its current form in 2002. It is responsible for developing national policies and legislation on conservation and sustainable use of natural resources. MENR’s mandate covers the general management and regulation of land, minerals, surface and underground waters, atmosphere, forests, flora, fauna, and the marine natural resources of the continental shelf and exclusive economic zone. It also supervises control of pollution and nuclear and radioactive safety. In addition, MENR publishes the Red Data Book of Ukraine and also funds some specialized research bodies, such as the Ukrainian Scientific Centre for the Ecology of the Sea. MENR works with the regional “oblast” administrations, which oversee the relevant local experts and inspectors. Under the current legal framework, MENR has responsibility for protection of natural resources of national importance, while oblast administrations take the lead on locally important resources. MENR’s duties cover a range of administrative and economic mechanisms such as: • setting ecological standards (norms); • issuing permits and charges for water, irrigation and drainage;

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• overseeing licenses and charges for land and natural resource use; • setting and monitoring limits for discharge of pollutants and disposal of waste and imposing fines on offenders. The ministries of education, defence, agriculture and emergency situations are also concerned with issues related to environmental conservation, including: environmental research and monitoring, land management and nature protection. Meanwhile, the National Academy of Science of Ukraine (NASU) has maintained the role it had during the Soviet period, which included managing some strictly protected areas that are primarily set aside for research and education, such as the Danube Biosphere Reserve. Legal and Policy Framework for Environmental Protection The Constitution of Ukraine refers in detail to the state’s responsibility to ensure ecological safety and maintaining ecological stability and equilibrium. These responsibilities are expressed in major sectoral legislation—such as the Land Code, Water Code and Forestry Code—which are designed to prevent pollution and to regulate the use of natural resources in Ukraine. The framework for environment and nature protection in Ukraine is chiefly based on the country’s participation in a number of international treaties, agreements and strategies, which are implemented through various national programs. These instruments include: International Agreements • Council of Europe European Landscape Convention (Florence, 2000) • Danube River Protection Convention (Sofia, 1994) • UN Convention on Biological Diversity (Rio de Janeiro, 1992) • Convention on Protection of the Black Sea Against Pollution (Bucharest, 1992) • Convention on Environmental Impact Assessment in a Transboundary Context (UN/ECE, Espoo, 1991) • Council of Europe Convention on the Conservation of European Wildlife and Natural Habitats (Bern, 1979) • Convention on the Conservation of Migratory Species of Wild Animals (Bonn, 1979) • Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (Washington, 1973) • Convention Concerning the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage (UNESCO, Paris, 1972)



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• Convention on Wetlands of International Importance especially as Waterfowl Habitat (Ramsar, 1971) • Convention on protection and use of cross border water bodies (Helsinki, 1992) National Legislation • Law on Environmental Protection (1991) • Law on Natural Protection Fund (1992) • Law on Flora (1999) • Law on Fauna (2001) • Law on Red Book of Ukraine (2002) National Policy Acts • Strategy for Conservation of Biodiversity of Ukraine (Decree of Cabinet of Ministers of Ukraine, 1997) • Main Direction of State Policy of Ukraine in the Field of Environmental Protection, Rational Use of Natural Resources and Ecological Safety (Resolution of Parliament of Ukraine, 1998) • Strategy for the National Environmental Policy of Ukraine until 2020 (Decree of Cabinet of Ministers of Ukraine, 2007) • National Environmental Policy of Ukraine: Strategic Assessment and Recommendations (MENR and UNDP, 2007) National Programs • Program for the Long-term Development of Protected Areas in Ukraine (1994) • State Program for the National Environmental Network Development in Ukraine (2000–2015) • National Program for the Protection and Rehabilitation of the Azov and Black Seas (2001) The National Program for the Establishment of a National Ecological Network of Ukraine (2000–2015) is perhaps the most important instrument for nature protection in the country, since it integrates other acts and policies to link together natural wilderness areas with natural corridors and buffer zones (Figure 14.4). The key elements of the planned ecological network include the establishment of a protected areas system, which features nature and biosphere reserves, national parks and regional landscape parks. In addition, the program addresses protection and management of:

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Figure 14.4  European Ecological Corridors in Ukraine; National Ecological Network of Ukraine. Source: European Centre for Nature Conservation

• special reserves; monuments; botanical gardens, arboretums; zoological gardens; landscape parks; • water bodies (marine areas, lakes, reservoirs, rivers); establishment of protected water areas; riparian protecting belts; coastal zones of watercourses and sanitary areas, forming corresponding basin systems; • designated forest areas; • resorts and spas with their natural resources; • public recreation areas; • other territories with natural sites; • habitats of endangered flora and fauna; • agricultural lands of extensive use (pastures, meadows, hayfields); • lands affected by radioactivity, which are idle and subject to special conservation (natural regions with specific status). Lower Danube Region Environmental Initiatives Because the Danube Delta functions as a single hydrological system that has an impact on several countries, Ukraine has joined a number of cross border



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initiatives to achieve integrated management of the region’s natural resources. The prime platform for regional collaboration has been through the establishment of a “Lower Danube Euroregion.” Ukriane has several Euroregions, which were established as a means of assisting the process of integration into the European economy and broadening the opportunities of the regions in the economic, ecological, social and cultural spheres. The Lower Danube Euroregion was established on August 14, 1998 under guidelines from the Council of Europe. It covers Odessa Oblast in Ukraine; the Cahul, Vulcanesti and Cantemir raions of Moldova; and the Brăila, Galaţi and Tulcea judete in Romania. The Lower Danube Euroregion agreement covers cooperation in seven specific fields that include environmental issues, namely: • coordinating programs for environmental protection within the lower basin of the Danube, the Prut, the Siret and the Dniester rivers, the Danube Delta, the Danube lakes and reed beds; • elaborating joint programs concerning protection of fish resources, both in the Danube and the Dniester; • elaborating and carrying out joint measures to set up new nature and landscape reserves and to enlarge those already existing; • solving the issues of sustainable use of the resources from the Danube, the Dniester and the Black Sea, as well as addressing the ecological protection of these bodies of water; • coordinating joint efforts to improve the quality of the drinking water supply for the local population; • coordinating joint activities for soil and air protection. Building upon the establishment of the Euroregion, on June 5, 2000, World Environment Day, Bulgaria, Moldova, Romania and Ukraine signed the “Declaration on Co-operation for the Establishment of the Lower Danube Green Corridor.” The objective of this declaration is to assist in the conservation and restoration of the landscape and biological diversity of the Lower Danube. The Green Corridor is composed of some 773,000 hectares of existing protected areas; 160,000 hectares of proposed additional protected areas; and at least 230,000 hectares within existing or proposed protected areas that are recommended for restoration, so they can regain their former ecological services as natural flood plains. Along with agreeing on protected areas, the signatories to the declaration decided to create an action plan and set up a monitoring system, to facilitate the regular exchange of information and experiences in wetland conservation, restoration and pollution reduction. At the same meeting, the governments of Moldova, Romania and Ukraine separately signed the “Agreement on the Establishment and Joint Management of a Transfrontier Protected Area in the Danube Delta and the Lower

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River Prut.” This agreement recognized a complex of protected areas that comprises some 580,000 hectares in Romania; 46,000 hectares in Ukraine and 1,900 hectares in Moldova. The contracting parties agreed to harmonize their methods of management and to coordinate all development projects or improvements by means of a comprehensive action program. The goal of this cooperation was ultimately to establish joint management of the protected area based on a joint management plan, and a Joint Commission was established to supervise the implementation of the agreement. Funding was provided by the EU in 2003 for a project to develop a joint Lower Danube Protected Areas management plan (Baboianu et al, 2005). Despite these agreements, Ukraine in 2004 allowed construction to begin on a deep-water navigable channel—which could cause major ecological damage—through the Bystroye river branch in the core zone of the Danube Biosphere Reserve. In order to allow the work, President Leonid Kuchma rezoned the reserve, excluding the waterways from the core zone, thus setting a precedent that no protected area in the country would be truly safe from “economic improvement.” The channel construction caused an international outcry from the European Union, World Heritage Convention, Ramsar Convention, Commission for the Protection of the Danube River and UNESCO, among others—but not from the Black Sea Protection Convention, where Ukraine has a powerful influence. The first phase of the channel construction, mainly dredging to deepen the channel, was completed in 2005. After the change in government in Ukraine, via the “Orange Revolution,” the Ukrainian leadership began to engage more actively with the international community. In February 2006 in Odessa, Ukraine hosted an international gathering convened by UNESCO to discuss the conservation and sustainable development of the Danube Delta. The conference brought together government experts from Moldova, Romania and Ukraine; governmental and non-governmental representatives; and international governmental and non-governmental organizations. These parties exchanged views and sought to work towards a shared vision for transboundary socioeconomic development in the region. Conference participants agreed to: 1. Support the establishment of an expert group under the leadership of the ICPDR to prepare and implement a river basin management plan for the Danube Delta sub-basin, based upon the approach and methodologies of the EU Water Framework Directive, including coordinating with existing mechanisms to reduce upstream pollution from other Danubian countries; ensure public access to information on water management and appropriate public participation mechanisms; develop a common mechanism for monitoring of water quality, availability, distribution, and the impact of human activities.



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2. Elaborate and implement a single methodology for assessing the environmental impact in a transboundary context of projects planned and carried out in the Danube Delta, based on the Espoo Convention and other appropriate methodologies. 3. Request that participating countries fully utilize existing legal and institutional tools for strengthening cooperation in the field of conservation and sustainable development of the cultural, natural and landscape heritage in the Danube Delta, including the establishment of a trilateral transboundary biosphere reserve under the UNESCO Man and the Biosphere Programme. The Conference also underlined the need for human activities to be based on the Ecosystem Approach as adopted by the UN Convention on Biological Diversity, with special attention to: • securing drinking water supply and waste water treatment for human settlements; • mitigating the impacts of floods on human settlements; • developing communication networks and public infrastructure; • developing alternative sustainable economic activities; • ensuring natural habitat and rural landscape conservation and restoration; • securing renewable energy sources for local use. After this conference, Ukraine submitted an environmental impact assessment for Phase II of the Bystroye channel works to the Espoo secretariat, but it did not receive international approval (Espoo Secretariat, 2006). In any case, lack of funds for continuing the work, and other issues, caused delays which allowed the channel to silt up again, so even now it is not being used for maritime shipping as intended. Nevertheless, the project has not yet been definitively withdrawn, and the election of President Viktor Yanukovych in February 2010 may lead to its revival. Protected Areas in the Lower Danube Region of Ukraine The Lower Danube region holds a range of protected areas including steppe, forest and wetland areas (Figure 14.5). The most significant is the Danube Biosphere Reserve (46,403 hectares) including the channels, inner water bodies, and a 2-kilometer belt of the Black Sea offshore zone, followed by the “Isles of Izmail” Regional Landscape Park (14,000 hectares) comprising the Danube River islands of Large Daller, Small Daller and Tătaru.

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The remaining areas are mostly small fragments of Pontic steppe, surviving on steep slopes and lake margins. The Danube Biosphere Reserve is overseen by the National Academy of Sciences of Ukraine, which approves the administrative structure, appoints a dedicated staff and sets the budget. The Reserve was established by a presidential decree on August 10, 1998. When the Biosphere Reserve was established, the original, much-smaller protected area was extended to include the Stentsovsko-Zhebryanski wetlands and Yermakov Island. Currently, the biosphere reserve has four zones: (i) strictly protected areas (14,900 hectares); (ii) regulated protected areas (7,800 hectares); (iii) buffer zones (19,600 hectares); and (iv) anthropological landscape zones (4,100 hectares). Based on the Odessa Oblast Council Decree of October 1, 1993, No. 496– XXI, a list of valuable natural territories was approved. These territories were to be set aside for future conservation and extension of the protected area network. They comprise the following areas: • Artsiz district: 240 hectares of steppe sites, ranging from 20 to 100 hectares each in size; • Bolgrad district: 2,000 hectares of protected water area in Lake Yalpug; • Izmail district: Nekrasovskiye reed beds (2,400 hectares) and Lake Kitai (3,000 hectares); • Izmail and Reni districts: Lake Kugurlui (1,200 hectares); • Reni district: 200 hectares of riverine forest between Viketa and Repida canals, Repida islands (10,000 hectares) and Lake Kagul (2,000 hectares). By Decree of the President of Ukraine of March 10, 1994, No. 79/94, an additional 34,000 hectares was set aside for extension of the existing nature reserves, national parks, game reserves and monuments of nature of national importance in the country. For the Lower Danube region, the following areas were listed for future protection: • Lake Kagul—both the upper (1,650 hectare) and lower (2,800 hectare) parts; • Lake Kartal (1,550 hectares); • Lake Yalpug—upper (1,050 hectare) and lower (700 hectare) parts; • Lake Kugurlui (7,700 hectares); • Nekrasovsko—Bagatyanskiye reed beds (2,000 hectares); • Lake Kitai—upper (800 hectare) and lower (800 hectare) parts. None of these areas has actually been established to date.

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Figure 14.5  Protected Areas in the Ukrainian Part of the Lower Danube Region. Source: Goriup, 2003

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Conclusion The Lower Danube region in Ukraine encompasses a large variety of habitats and species populations many of which are recognized as being of European, and even global, significance. It also provides a livelihood for about 430,000 people who live there. However, flood protection embankments, the construction of canals and sluices, and land conversion programs have led to a fundamental change in the natural landscape causing erosion of biodiversity through loss and reduction of species populations, and their habitats. Continued habitat fragmentation and loss of ecosystem integrity is making the remaining natural habitats ever more vulnerable to degradation, which in turn leads to reduced economic potential and increased costs for environmental management. At present, an integrated approach to natural resource management, especially for water, the dominant resource and principal ecosystem driver, is not in place. Indeed, to a large extent the current water management regime is driven by circumstances that are no longer feasible—namely the supply of water for irrigation, intensive fish production and human use—since the water quality is and will remain poor for the foreseeable future. Water quality may be compromised even further if the principal damaging impacts are not addressed: • lack of natural fluctuations in lake water levels; • lack of floodplain functions that trap sediments and nutrients before they enter the lakes; • discharge of pollution from farms and villages around the shore and in nearby valleys; • cultivation of steep slopes in the adjacent catchment area as well as the lake margins. The challenge is to maintain and conserve the rich biodiversity and fundamental ecological processes in a region that is dominated by human use. Remnants of the former natural floodplain landscape still exist in the Ukrainian part of the Lower Danube region. The need for ecological linkages between such areas is widely recognized as a fundamental element in landuse planning and land management. A prescription for such an approach was adopted at a UNESCO Conference held in Odessa in 2006 but unfortunately very little has been done to implement the approach internally, mainly due to a lack of political will and the persistence of a Soviet-era mentality towards natural resources. On the other hand, the new EU Neighbourhood Programme for the region stresses the importance of sustainable development and environmental protection, backed up by (albeit modest) funding. This external



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policy driver is likely to be the main stimulus for environmental improvement in the region over the medium term. Bibliography Aksu, A. E., P. J. Mudie, A. Rochon, M. Kaminski, T. Abrajano, Y. and Dogan (2002). “Persistent Holocene Outflow from the Black Sea to the Eastern Mediterranean Contradicts Noah’s Flood Hypothesis.” GSA Today, 12(5): 4–10. Baboianu, G. and P. Goriup (1995). Management objectives for biodiversity conservation and sustainable development in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve, Romania. Tulcea: Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority. Baboianu, G., A. Voloshkevych, I. Munteanu, A. Nebunu, M Zhmud, V. Fedorenko, A. Munteanu, and P. Goriup (2005). Transboundary Cooperation in the Nature Protected Areas in the Danube Delta and Lower Prut. Management Objectives for Biodiversity Conservation and Sustainable Development. Tulcea, Romania: Editura Dobrogea. Burfield, Ian, and Frans von Bommel, eds. (2004). Birds in Europe: Population Estimates, Trends and Conservation Status. Birdlife Conservation Series 12, Cambridge: BirdLife International. Cerovsky, J. (1988). Nature Conservation in the Socialist Countries of East Europe. 2 edition, Pragua, Czech Socialist Republic: Ministry of Culture. Davydova, M., V. Koshevoi (1989). Nature Reserves in the USSR. Moscow: Progress Publishers. Dragomir, N., M. Staras (1992). “The dynamics of stocks of some important birds inthe Danube Delta and the biological impact on fishery during period 1945–1989.” Ocrotirea naturii şi a mediului înconjurător [The protection of nature and the environment], 36(2): 97–104. Dubyna, D. (1990). “Structural and comparative analysis of flora of the Soviet part of the Danube valley.” Ukrainian Botanical Journal, 47(4): 16–20. [In Ukrainian] Espoo Inquiry Commission (2006). Report on the likely significant adverse transboundary impacts of the Danube – Black Sea navigation route at the border of Romania and Ukraine, available online at the address: http://www.unece.org/env/ eia/documents/inquiry/Final%20report%20%20OConnell.pdf Fesenko, G. V. and A. A. Bokotey (2002). Bird Fauna of Ukraine. Kiev: Ukrainian Society for the Protection of Birds. [In Ukrainian]. Goriup, P. D. ed. (2003). Environmental Management Programme and Action Plan for Habitat Restoration and Sustainable Management of the Lower Danube Lakes area, report of EU Tacis Project Ref. WW/SCRE1/No. 1– CBC 1998. Heath, M.F., M.I. and Evans, eds. (2000). Important Bird Areas in Europe: Priority sites for conservation, vol. 2: Southern Europe, BirdlLife Conservation Series 8. Cambridge: BirdLife International. International Commission for the Protection of the Danube River (ICPDR) (2005). Danube Basin Analysis, WFD Roof Report 2004, ICPDR Document IC/084, Vienna. [Online: http://www.icpdr.org/DANUBIS].

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Komarov, B. (1981). The Destruction of Nature in the Soviet Union. London: Pluto Press. Marples, D. (1985). “Problems persist in Ukraine’s Land Improvement Program.” The Ukrainian Weekly, 18(May 5): 7 and 14. Moss, B., G. Phillips, J. Madgwick (1996). A Guide to the Restoration of Nutrientenriched Shallow Lakes. Norwich: The Broads Authority. Platteeuw, M., J. B. Kiss, M. Y. Zhmud, N. Sadoul (2004). Colonial waterbirds and their habitat use in the Danube Delta as an example of a large-scale natural wetland, RIZA report 2004.002. Lelystad, the Netherlands: Institute for Inland Water Management and Waste Water Treatment (RIZA). Pryde, P. R. (1972). Conservation in the Soviet Union. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Chapter 15

Towards a Master Plan Support for Sustainable Development in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Iulian Nicherşu

Development has not always been kind to the Danube Delta region. Overexploitation and misguided government policies have damaged the environment, threatening unique habitats that shelter rare species. Meanwhile, residents of the economically depressed region, where the poverty level is higher than average, require improvements in the infrastructure and other changes to support growth. Ensuring development that is good for the natural environment and the local population requires a detailed plan. Traditionally, regional development plans in Romania address land-use and such physical concerns as the scale, nature and location of housing and other community facilities, or the zoning of recreation areas. But the Danube Delta Regional Master Plan had to address a much broader range of concerns in pursuit of a more sophisticated goal: achieving accelerated growth and improvements in the quality of life in an environmentally sustainable way. This meant addressing economic and cultural concerns as well as environmental ones. This chapter explains the genesis of the Romanian government’s Danube Delta Master Plan and describes some of its recommendations. As the first part of the chapter explains, in order to maintain an integrated approach, the planners had to address geographical, institutional and sectoral considerations. They also had to make sure to identify and involve the broad range of stakeholders who are concerned about the Delta. The second half of this chapter details the findings of the planning process, findings which shaped the actual Master Plan. These findings describe the challenges facing the Danube Delta’s people and its environment: a need for changes in the institutional structure, a need to reduce poverty and inequity and a need to prevent unsustainable development. Once the challenges were 345

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identified, the plan went on to recommend solutions to address those problems. It also offered a prioritization of the recommended solutions. Introduction The Danube Delta Regional Master Plan is a part of a larger process of establishing a consensus on the correct approach and solutions regarding sustainable development and environmental conservation in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. Since the Reserve was founded, there have been calls for a general plan that integrates actions targeting environmental protection with those targeting the local communities’ development needs. The Danube Delta Regional Master Plan focuses on an appropriately broad definition of development: Managing the process of regional and local change to allow for accelerated growth and improvements in the local quality of life in a way that is sustainable. The plan not only covers physical infrastructure development but also all the other elements that have a bearing on the well-being and welfare of the people of the Danube Delta. It takes into account social, cultural, community and environmental concerns. All these issues are integral parts of the complex concept of sustainable development. The Master Plan adheres to the principles of sustainable development, using the definition put forward by the United Nations and subscribed to by most national governments worldwide. Expressed in its most basic form, this definition of sustainable development involves support for: “. . . development which meets the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs” (WCED 1987, DDBRA 2005). The Existing Development Planning Framework The change in the Romanian government after December 1989—and the joint action of scientific, political and environmental protection organizations— made it possible to halt some potentially damaging work in the Danube Delta and to prepare the documentation necessary for establishing a biosphere reserve in the area. The first document produced was the Decision of the Romanian Government No. 983 of August 1990. This document stipulated the organization of the Ministry of Environment, and, in Article 5, the creation of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve, with its own administration and scientific board. Around the same time, Romania’s Parliament ratified the International Convention Concerning the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural



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Heritage, and the Danube Delta was included as one place to be protected under that convention in the initial list sent to UNESCO in September 1990. On September 21, 1991, Romania signed UNESCO’s Ramsar Convention on Wetlands of International Importance, especially as Waterfowl Habitat. The third important agreement covering the Danube Delta is UNESCO’s International Network of Biosphere Reserves. Two conferences on the Danube Delta, held in 1990 and 1991, began the work of putting the goals of these conventions into practice. The conferences were organized by the Administration of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve and specialists from the Romanian Parliament’s Scientific Board, with assistance from a variety of international experts and organizations, including UNESCO MAB (Man and Biosphere), IUCN (International Union for the Conservation of Nature), WWF (World Wildlife Fund) and the World Bank. These conferences helped elaborate the legal background for the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve, which was approved by the Romanian Parliament with the passage of Law No. 82/7 of December, 1993. On May 27, 1994, the adoption of Government Decision No. 248 spelled out some additional measures regarding the reserve law and the working statute, the scientific board, the administration board, the guard and control body (Carley and Christie 1993). Under Law No. 82/1993, the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve is an important national and international ecological zone, consisting of the Danube Delta, Saraturile Murighiol-Plopu, the Razim-Sinoie lagoonal complex area, the maritime Danube as far as Cotul Pisicii, Isaccea-Tulcea sector and its flood zone, the Black Sea coast from the Chilia Branch to Capul Midia, the inland marine waters and the territorial sea as far out as 20 metres depth. The continental boundary of the reserve is represented by the meeting point of the Dobrogean Plateau and the humid and swamp zones—5,800 km2 in all. Within these boundaries, the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve surface includes zones with complete protection (strictly protected), buffer zones and transition or economic zones—some of which were recommended as sites for ecological reconstruction (See Figure 15.1). The Delta’s 18 strictly protected zones have a total surface of 506 km2, or 8.7 percent of the Reserve. Economic activities are forbidden in these zones. They range in size, from 50 hectares in the Erenciuc zone to 21,410 hectares in the Sacalin-Zatoane zone. These zones, scattered throughout the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve, were set aside as a way to preserve and protect birds, unique indigenous forests, salinized areas and other landscapes unique to the Delta. The buffer zones where limited human activity is allowed cover an area of 2,233 km2—38.5 percent of the Reserve—and they generally surround the strictly protected zones as a cushion against anthropic pressure. For instance, even though there are no strictly protected areas in territorial marine waters,

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Figure 15.1  The Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve

buffer zones have been set up in these areas as a way of diminishing fishing that jeopardizes some species. The transition zones set aside for economic activities cover the majority of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve—3,061 km2 representing 52.8 percent of the Reserve’s area. Some areas in the transition zone, often areas where dams were built, are undergoing ecological reconstruction, and more reclamation work is planned. Some of these areas have been abandoned as inefficient, others were set aside for protection as a way to maintain an ecological balance (DDBRA 2005). The Danube Delta’s susceptibility to inundation, and the area’s complex hydrologic processes, are essential to the dynamics of evolution of natural components there. The frequent flooding in the Delta supports alluvial



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processes and the water supply of lacustrian depressions. The periodic nature of the floods ensures proper circulation and frequent water renewal, which is essential to the normal evolution of terrestrial and aquatic ecosystems in this area (Ionescu-Siseşti 1935). The flooding process in the Delta restricts the areas where it is possible to construct dwellings and other human-made infrastructure. The level of flooding in the Delta is conditioned by the area’s hypsometric characteristics and the amplitude and frequency of high water levels in the Danube—but also by human restrictions on flooding that result from some damming processes (see Figure 15.2). Past construction of dams, which kept 103,000 hectares of mostly low-altitude areas cut off from the effects of periodic flooding, has caused a 30 percent reduction in the volume of water stored in these areas. This translates to a loss of 1.86 billion cubic metres of water, i.e., water now flowing directly to the sea, without contributing first to the hydrological and geomorphological systems of the delta proper. Under such conditions, a greater amount of Danube water is transported into the areas where water is allowed to flow freely, due to the fulfillment of two conditions: a faster flowing speed—which has positive effects by increasing water renewal and negative effects on alluvial and erosion growth—and an increase in the inner Delta water levels (Botzan 1991). As it is difficult to clearly define the various factors involved in conserving biodiversity and maintaining conditions for sustainable development, the plan sought to address these issues in a way that does not isolate the area’s natural capital from other activities and motivations.

The Development of the Danube Delta Regional Master Plan Integrated Development Planning The socioeconomic, cultural, environmental and physical development of the Danube Delta region involves a complex set of relationships that needs to be fully understood before the nature of any intervention can be determined. For example, it is important to appreciate how a change in one aspect, such as increasing employment in the fishing industry, affects changes in other aspects, such as pressure on the fish stock, pressure on biodiversity and the elimination of sustainable practices that can allow the next generation to have enough fish to eat. Plans that are meant to intervene independently on the operation of one single component of the Danube Delta equation are likely to be ineffective or have an undesirable impact on other factors. Clearly, most effective interventions in a regional system must involve a package of cross-sectoral, mutually supportive measures. This is why the Danube Delta

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Figure 15.2  Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Flood Map



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Regional Master Plan employs an “integrated,” “holistic” approach: The plan’s creators were determined to understand and take into account the relationships between different sectors and between different agencies and other stakeholders. The plan seeks to involve everyone concerned into the planning process and to create a shared view amongst diverse stakeholders while mapping out coordinated programs of change. Because it was created with the participation of stakeholders and it includes monitoring and evaluation procedures, the Danube Delta Regional Master plan introduces a high degree of transparency and accountability. This openness contributes to the goals of value re-orientation and encouraging the battle against pollution. To maintain an integrated approach, the planners had to address geographical, institutional and sectoral considerations: Geographical considerations: Economic and social activities are not confined to administrative boundaries, as can be seen by observing the travel patterns of people in the Delta, whether they are traveling for commercial, employment, tourism or family purposes. An effort to understand the special attributes of geographic areas and the inter-relationships between areas was a key facet in the preparation of the Master Plan. Institutional considerations: Current conditions in the Delta region and future changes are affected by decisions taken at the central, regional and local government levels. Other public and private sector organizations, including NGOs, can sometimes be involved in these decisions. These bodies do not have identical agendas or expertise and the people involved in them experience conflicts of interest, conflicts through competition, and conflicts over authority. To make sure all these diverse interests could agree on coordinated action in the Danube Delta, planners took care to share information and perceptions of problems—and to allow everyone to consider together the implications of alternative solutions. Sectoral considerations: The different sectors with a stake in the Danube Delta, such as business, government and civil society, were studied separately to make sure that their interests were considered. The final moulding of the Master Plan involved integrating the interests of these diverse sectors. The analysis of interrelationships between various sectors can serve to highlight the range of options available to address the different effects, positive and negative, that any particular action may trigger. Preparation The Regional Master Plan is a framework and strategy for future development. It is based on the evaluation of different scenarios and the choice of

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a preferred scenario. The plan describes the general shape and structure of things to come, and sets out in greater depth a recommended course of future action for all the stakeholders in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. To achieve the desired combination of wealth creation and reduction of pollution, the Master Plan had to address many spheres of activity (see Figure 15.3). These activities involve active stakeholders in the private sector—such as large corporations, would-be entrepreneurs, fishermen, boatsmen, guides, building contractors, developers, etc.—as well as members of the public sector, including health and education officials and those involved in cleanup activities. The Regional Master Plan is meant to address both short- and long-term needs. Long-term activities include infrastructure projects and legislative changes that have a long lead-time. The plan uses two mechanisms, phasing and monitoring, to make sure that both the immediate and longer-term time frames are considered. (I) Phasing: The Regional Plan will be implemented in dtwo phases. The first phase includes short-term actions and is detailed in the form of an “action plan,” naming specific targets, resources and delivery mechanisms. This phase covers implementation of changes that require immediate results,

Figure 15.3  Main components of the Regional Master Plan



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such as improvements to legislation that targets overexploitation of resources and integrated waste management facilities. The short-term is also the period to initiate projects that inherently require a long lead-time, such as road construction. Long-term plans are needed to accommodate the progressive and cumulative nature of socioeconomic development. (II) Monitoring: The Master Plan includes a mechanism for monitoring, review and evaluation. The monitoring assesses not only the performance and outputs of implementation, but also its outcomes. It is not enough to, for example, to change the output of agricultural production without determining if that change improved the welfare of the many or the profits of the few. Monitoring allows the people implementing the plan to identify and address unintended consequences. Equally important, the plan’s original assumptions are monitored and assessed periodically. It is important to ask, for example, if anticipated financial resources materialized or if the sea level changed as predicted. The Region’s Institutional Framework Elaboration of the Master Plan began with identifying the institutional framework impacting on the territory of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. The complex arrangement of institutions involved in Danube Delta management was divided into two types: entities with regional-level interests and entities with local-level interests, such as fish receiving points, private commercial societies, local councils etc. There are several governmental institutions involved in the territory, including: • Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority, including its International Projects Bureau, Ecological Inspection and Protection Service, Regulations and Authorizations Department; • National Environment Guard by the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority Commissariat; • Administration and National Affaires Ministry by the County Frontier Police Inspectorate—Tulcea; • Agriculture, Forests and Rural Development Ministry, by: Agriculture and Rural Development Department—Tulcea; • Tulcea County Council, by: Rural Development Department (RDD)— Tulcea Implementation Unity, Urbanism, Prognosis and Territory Fitting out, Rural Development and European Integration Department; • Tulcea Mayority by: European Integration Compartiment; • Local Councils;

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• County Association for Sport Hunting and Fishing (CASHF), by CASHF—Tulcea Branch; • National Administration “Romanian Waters,” Dobrogea—Litoral Waters Department by: Waters Management System—Tulcea; • National Department for Tourism; • Forests National Department—ROMSILVA by Forest Administration— Tulcea; • Romanian Shipping Authority by Territorial Shipping Authority—Tulcea; • Tulcea Health Deparment. Stakeholder Participation and Involvement “Active” and “Passive/Reactive” Stakeholders As noted in subchapter 3.1, complex relationships exist between different interests in the Delta. Most of these relationships involve two kinds of people: “active stakeholders”—such as politicians, administrators, service providers, investors and consumers—and “passive/reactive stakeholders,” who experience the outcomes of the others’ decisions or actions and benefit or suffer as a result. Understanding the motivations and constraints of the various people who are stakeholders is essential to good planning. And this is the approach taken by the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority throughout the planning process. Process From the outset, even before prepartation of the Master Plan, the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority has sought the involvement of as wide a range of stakeholders as possible. Local councils, DDNI (Danube Delta National Institute), the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority and county council representatives were involved in a discussion forum, which was followed by a series of working meetings with development agencies, practitioners, NGOs and community leaders. The forum and the meetings that followed confirmed the need for a Master Plan for the Danube Delta and helped identify the sectors and issues that the plan should address. Subsequently, thematic seminars were held with government representatives. During the public participation process, activities covered five core areas: Executive level briefings: The aim of these briefings was to ensure that the trends and hopes for development in the Danube Delta were fully recognized in the Master Plan. Needs assessment: This study aimed to identify the needs of the people of the Delta.



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Participatory rural appraisal: The exercise was designed to alert rural communities to the purpose of the Master Plan and to identify their needs and priorities. It was also intended to assess the capacities of the rural communities to help prepare community development plans. Capacity building: This is necessary to help develop stakeholders’ abilities to contribute to the evolution and implementation of the Master Plan in the longer term. Stakeholder involvement: This involvement highlighted stakeholders’ preferred development scenarios—and helped to develop a strategic path for addressing the needs identified in each senatorial district. Existing Programs and Projects A lot of projects and programs are being implemented via the participation of local councils and different specialized agents—including work on local technical infrastructure and on programs financed by the European Investment Bank, the Romanian Government or the EU’s PHARE and/or SAPARD programmes. Recent years have seen the initiation of programs aimed at the water supply, transport infrastructure, road modernization, hydrological construction, such as dams to defend against flooding, unblocking canals, an activity that facilitates tourism. Certain priority projects for development in Danube Delta localities were identified on the basis of European requirements and local needs. Thus, at Tulcea County level, the existing programs and projects for Danube Delta localities were as follows: • Projects in the framework of Tulcea County Council include: • pumping station rehabilitation for the water supply system of the municipality of Sfântu Gheorghe; • developing an access road and moorings for Sfântu Gheorghe pumping station rehabilitation and extension of the public water supply • main road work in rehabilitation of the road that links the localities of C.A. Rosetti and Letea. • The National Administration for Romanian Waters, Dobrogea—Litoral Water Directorate, Tulcea Water Administration is responsible for projects, such as: • protecting the suburb of Tudor Vladimirescu a water supply program for several Danube Delta localities: Gorgova, Partizani, Tudor Vladimirescu, Ceatalchioi-Pătlăgeanca and Caraorman, Periprava. • Projects in the framework of the Office for Economic Development and European Integration, Tulcea Municipality, include work on Plopilor Street

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in the Tudor Vladimirescu suburb; the project involves covering 15 km of road with asphalt. • ROMASILVA (Forest Authority’s Tulcea office), the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority and the Local Council of C.A. Rosetti initiated a project to have protected areas, such as Letea Forest and Caraorman Forest, declared “Natura 2000” sites. The project was under development as of this writing and was expected to see some modification before it was transmitted to the European Community (EC) for approval. • RSA, Territorial Shipping Authority (TSA)—Tulcea is involved in: • a PHARE project—supervision system for Danube traffic—VTMIS on Danube; • Tulcea Public Health Department and other organisations oversaw several health-related projects: equipping Danube Delta clinics with medical equipment and furniture—financed by the World Bank; equipping Maliuc and Crisan medical clinics with motorized boats, financed by the United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA); • equipping C.A.Rosetti medical clinic with two cars from the Special State Reserve of the Health Ministry; the Tulcea Public Health Department and City Council are currently seeking a way to ensure the needed fuel quota; • educating locals regarding reproduction and promoting contraception, financed by the UNFPA; • providing vaccines for babies and children against hepatitis A, financed by the US Embassy (2003–2004 and also in 2005); • hiring medical assistants—eight working in assisting primary care, four working in community assistance—and funding medical supplies, two unique projects funded by the Romanian national budget; In addition to this work, the existing general urban plans of each locality in the Danube Delta were studied to identify unsatisfactory plans, environmental problems, development priorities and measures to address natural risks in each administrative unit. The Regional Master Plan’s Areas of Intervention The Master Plan was, theoretically speaking, created through a succession of evaluation operations and the elaboration of predictive development models. As a starting point, it was necessary to evaluate the state of the system by looking at environmental indicators and identifying problems. Next, planners had to decide which problems should be taken into consideration for the action plan. Then they had to establish technically feasible measures for solving these problems.



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Planners established priorities for action based on a rational package of criteria. They estimated the costs of measures needed to address these priorities, and used these estimates to establish which of the identified priorities can be addressed with the available financial resources. Once the actions that can be taken are identified, these measures are structured in a work program. Then there is an evaluation of the way in which the initial plan is being implemented—and this information is used to determine how the work should evolve. This is just a general description of the process. Of course, there are many details that determine the way in which these basic principles are applied, and these have an impact on the identified problems. The Master Plan aimed to integrate all actions for each identified problem into a global strategy, which had to ensure synergy in the accomplishment of the plan. The success of the Master Plan depends on the successful implementation of the actions proposed. Ensuring this success is the main challenge for all stakeholders in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. Local, regional and national administrations, and other institutions, face many difficulties in implementation, including finding enough funds to finance environmental and social investments and ensuring that each institution fulfills its responsibilities and respects the accord (see Figure 15.4). The Master Plan elaboration process corresponds, essentially, to the strategic management system for the biosphere reserve, but the plan outlines the goals of this system and gives it a direction through strategic planning. The Master Plan’s proposed action to promote biodiversity alongside sustainable development was mostly handled by two departments of the Danube Delta Reserve Authority. Their professional coordination of this work, which impacts many sectors, helped to improve the efficient management of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. Problem Identification The main sources of information for identifying problems—and the main means for addressing those problems—include: • national and international law regarding regional development, EU integration of Romania and biosphere reserves; • international conventions regarding wetlands, coastal zones and habitats; • the recommendations of international scientific forums and organizations; • government strategies and programs; • action plans for environmental protection and for local, regional, national sustainable development;

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Figure 15.4  Elaboration and Integration of Decisions at Different Levels

• investments plans based on general urban plans; • national and international projects; • local communities’ definition of infrastructure investments and options, as well as local communities mechanism for public participation in the decision-making process; • the mass-media. Once problems were recognized, it was also necessary to look for potential sources of support in addressing those problems. These sources of support include: • Law no. 82/1993 regarding the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve founding and its functioning plan, with all norms of adhering to this law; • EU Directives regarding the Water Framework and Natura 2000; • Romanian Government Ordinance no. 125/2000 regarding the municipality of Sulina and Tulcea County surroundings’ declaration as sites of national interest; • Wetlands Ramsar Convention; • European Council ministers committee recommendations from ResDip Resolution (2005);



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• Recommendations for protected European areas Diploma award—expertise report of the EU specialists’ group; • Global Environment Facility presidential declaration; • 2005–2010 Government Program, Chapter 18—Environment protection policy; • MEWM-national plan for environment protection action; • Sectorial and operational program for environment infrastructure; Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve management objectives; general urban plans; • 2002–2006 Rural Development project; • Problems for which investments have already been identified or proposed; • The Public Awareness Strategy for the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve (2000); • Studies and research for biodiversity preservation, ecological rehabilitation and sustainable development in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. Practical concerns raised by actors familiar with working conditions in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve pointed to the need for: • institutional capacity development and better administrative coordination at the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve; • improving coordination of the public administration system of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve; • integrated management of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. As mentioned above, planners sought to address the complex problems of conserving biodiversity and maintaining sustainable development with a holistic approach does not isolate natural capital from all other concerns. The problems that were identified where characterized according to their impact on: • human health—including stress factors that could create a range of health problems; • ecological health—including adverse effects on ecological systems and species; • quality of life—including adverse effects on social and economical values, such as reductions in opportunities for entertainment or pleasure, or reductions in natural resources. The negative effects of different types of impacts have been evaluated according to: • scale—defined by magnitude and or area of impact; • severity—the intensity of the impact;

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• persistence/reversibility—the impact may have lasted a couple of years, or for centuries. The objectives of the Master Plan’s process for evaluating problems are as follows: • to supply a clear analysis of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve local communities’ problems; • to supply information regarding the impact on ecosystems caused by actions of public and private institutions or individuals; • to determine the initial state of systems in the Danube, as a means of establishing a reference point for measuring the efficiency of efforts to make improvements; • to gauge public awareness about environmental problems; • to facilitate a partnership relationships between stakeholders; • to select the identified problems evaluation methodology: participative and expert type. There was a participative evaluation, based on public involvement. It consisted of identifying and analyzing investments that are designed to achieve the following objectives: • improving monitoring systems for Danube Delta ecosystems using satellite technology; • improving the infrastructure of public utilities, transport and communications to reduce pollution and isolation of human communities—and to increase the living standards of Danube Delta settlements; • supporting traditional alternative economic activities to reduce pressure on fish resources; • supporting the preservation of local traditions to preserve natural resources and supporting local traditions of construction, to promote use of nonconventional energy—windmills, solar cells, etc.; • rebuilding natural ecosystem functions and habitats for endangered species in the Danube. Expert evaluations of the Master Plan used statistical and scientific analyses to look at key aspects of the plan. Due to resource limits, and the short time allowed for elaboration, it was not possible to use expert evaluations of all the problems identified in the Master Plan.



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Conclusions and Recommendations of the Master Plan The Regional Master Plan for the Danube Delta is focused on a specific definition of development: administrating the process of local and regional changes to accelerate economic development and to improve the quality of life in a sustainable way. This definition incorporates the ecological aspects of preservation and other elements that have an impact on locals’ welfare, including infrastructure development and social and cultural considerations. The Master Plan for the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve seeks to identify problems caused by changes in the Danube Delta, to develop solutions for these problems and to establish priorities for these solutions. This process was realized with cooperation of local authorities, including the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority and Tulcea County Council. Planners also had direct meetings with the local mayors, representatives of the environmental sector and representatives of different economic sectors. Major Challenges Facing the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve The challenges facing the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve are different and complex. Development of the master plan revealed that many of these challenges could be grouped in three categories: institutional structure; poverty and equity; and unsustainable development with increasing pressure on the environment. These subjects share many common strands. Institutional Structure Shortcomings in the institutional structure must be resolved in order to facilitate effective administration of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. A Logical Framework Analysis made during the period of consultations with stakeholders, found that many of the problems facing the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve stem from a lack of cooperation and coordination among different institutions and important actors in the region. Part of the problem, the analysis found, was caused by the lack of a clear division of responsibilities and low capacity for coordination among interested governmental authorities. Another problem was a need for better channels of communication between government institutions and the local people, so that the citizenry could express their thoughts about administration in the region. Examples of the challenges posed by the institutional structure include the lack of a strategy in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve in connection with land use and changes in land use. Changes in land use can mean that traditional access to natural resources is blocked. This brings up a variety of

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potential conflicts between different groups of stakeholders—or even people and animals—such as: • hunting and sport fishing associations vs. fishing companies and ecologists; • local people vs. concessionaires; • fishermen vs. fish eating birds; • biodiversity conservation vs. economic development camps The potential subjects of conflict for these different groups include disagreements over: • the right to exploitation under different land use categories;the right to exploit the Delta’s natural resources; • access to different locations in the region;the duties and responsibilities of different institutions, and their right to apply legislation impacting the Delta; • the distribution of taxes from exploitation of natural resources in the Delta. Public participation sessions with mayors from the Delta’s villages revealed potential conflicts caused by the different needs of the variety of stakeholders and different economical interests in the region. While some of the proposed measures below gained near unanimous support, others are considered hostile to the interests of some of the stakeholders: • dykes to defend against flooding, modernization and rehabilitation of navigation routes, modernization and new construction of systems for drinkingwater supply and waste-water removal, building transfer ramps/platforms for household waste, and building a water cleaning station; • development of ecotourism; • development of traditional handicrafts; • construction of an installation for smoking fish; • opening shops to commercialize fish sales; • reducing isolation of settlements by developing land transport; • rehabilitation of the Pardina area, using studies to distinguish the modalities needed to realize this rehabilitation; • construction of shelters for the elderly, with a side benefit of jobs creation; • change of juridical status for land that could increase access for local people (Maliuc); • preparation for development of water links between villages and wetlands to facilitate ecotourism; • establishment of a centralised system to collect waste;



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• rehabilitation of abandoned fish ponds; • extension of the power supply; • construction of telephonic networks; • improvement of roads within villages; • improvement of roads connecting villages: Chilia-Tulcea, Malic-Tulcea; • ecological reclamation of Lake Ciuperca; • rehabilitation of Zaghen Lake; • biodiversity preservation through land-use reform (e.g. Sulina beach); • biodiversity preservation through infrastructure investment (e.g. TulceaSulina route). 4.1.2. Poverty and Equity Reduction of poverty and inequities are critical elements for achieving sustainable development and sustainable management of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. Poverty in the Danube Delta manifests itself in many negative ways, including: • A low level of health and low life expectancy: heart disease, poor diets and problems with the water cleaning system, are factors contributing to poorer health and a median life expectancy of 69 years. • Low incomes: The average income in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve is EUR 1,570 per year, while the average income in Romania overall is EUR 2,600 per year. In the last four years, the average income in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve increased 2.3 percent per year, while the overall Romanian average was an increase of 4.5 percent per year. • Poor access to education: There is limited educational infrastructure available for locals. Most children must either move to Tulcea or commute there regularly—either option is difficult for families with low incomes to afford. • Lack of professional representation: There are no official channels of representation or mass media outlets that would allow local people to express their fears or points of view regarding Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve preservation. Concrete problems caused by this poverty include the following: • Most local people see no economic benefit in living in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. • Local fishermen sell fish at subsistence prices. • Local fishermen are not organized into “producer organizations,” as defined by the EU, so they are shut out from EU funding.

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• Many economic activities in the Delta have low value added. • Economic development does not include local people. • There is a lack of mobility and transport infrastructure. • There are insufficiencies in such important infrastructure as access to water supply, health services and management of solid wastes. 4.1.3. Unsustainable Development and Increasing Pressure on the Environment Efforts to increase living standards of Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve residents must be balanced with efforts aimed at nature preservation. Many economic activities that promise financial benefits in the long or short term are threatening the Reserve’s existence. Some specific threats are: • over-fishing; • intensive agriculture and aquaculture; • pollution of water resources with heavy metals (especially cadmium); • pollution effects on flora, fauna and human health; • lack of sufficient waste management; • an increasing rate of economic development, based on activities like tourism and construction of handicrafts. 4.2 Recommendations to Address the Objectives Proposed in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Obviously, dealing with the problems mentioned above requires weighing costs and benefits of every action for various stakeholders in a transparent process. The recommendations outlined below are the result of collaboration between stakeholders at the local level—including private associations, village mayors, the county council and the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority—and on the national level, including the Ministry of Environment and Water Management. The recommendations are presented below in accordance with their priority: • Improving institutional organization: developing the local authorities’ capacity to manage the increased administrative requirements involved in managing the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve and in implementing the Master Plan’s recommendations. • Infrastructure changes: improving local residents’ access to drinking water, clean waste disposal, etc. These services are necessary to increase locals’ living standards.



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• Strategies to improve the economy and promote social development: Locals, governmental authorities and businesses need to work together in an integrated approach to manage the economy, the ecosystem, and economical aspects of the ecosystem. The long term objective is managing development of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. Specific recommendations for each priority level are presented below. Specific Recommendations for Developing and Coordinating Institutional Capacity The problems facing institutional capacity are the direct result of weak coordination and cooperation between authorities and weak institutional capacity. One key area that needs to be addressed is cooperation between Tulcea County Council and the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority on matters of changes in land use. For example, the County Council has given concessions, to people involved in low-production activities, such as using poorly maintained fish ponds—or converting old fishponds to pumpkin fields or sites for sport fishing instead of fish farming. If properly restored, these old fish ponds, and other land in the Delta, can give much greater benefits to the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve’s economy and environment. To improve this situation, the recommendation is to involve participation at all levels of government—from the local to the national. A democratic and transparent solution is the only one that will have credibility, and it will be much easier to implement. Aside from facilitating land-use decisions, better cooperation will assist in any actions undertaken in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. When it comes to building the institutional capacity of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve authorities, the following strategies are recommended: • Developing operational capacity of various departments of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve administration, as these must be able to suggest solutions and undertake actions to improve the Delta’s ecosystems. • Improving the management of human resources by offering increased training and instruction for key members of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve administration’s staff. 4.2.3. Specific Recommendations for Organization and Execution of Activities In order to make sure the activities involved in executing the Master Plan are well-organized and well-prepared, it is important to consider the following points:

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1. The need to set up an implementing unit at the level of the environment ministry’s Division of Biodiversity Preservation and Biosecurity (M.M.G.A.) and to establish the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority, Tulcea as a project leader. The implementing unit can bring together the main state entities involved in elaborating laws for the Master Plan. The implementing unit should be led by an executive committee to ensure good management of its activities. 2. The need to set up a management office for investment within the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority. This office would be responsible for the preparation and implementing of the authority’s actions, especially those actions targeting ecological rehabilitation. 3. Infrastructure work should be coordinated and implemented by the County Board of Tulcea, through its specialized offices. Following the approval of the Danube Delta Master Plan, it is important to establish a “Programme of Measures,” which details the following aspects: 4. Documenting topographical, geotechnical, hydrological, ecological, and other conditions, so that it is possible to assess the worth and impact of various plans. This program has to consider hydro-meteorological conditions in the Delta and the real capacity to carry out recommended studies and projects. These elements affect the real time necessary for the elaboration of substantiation studies and the implementation of projects—some of which could take up to two years before achieving their objectives. 5. The means for settling legal problems concerning ownership, administrative rights and private concessions that impact on property in the area. 6. Problems and special conditions that have an impact on legal agreements and approval of actions. 7. The possibilities for implementation of projects; a consideration that involves weighing physical realities and the abilities of builders who are trained to work in the Delta. 8. The adjustment of the laws regulating bidding on study and design work, so that state organizations specializing in this area are involved in the process. 9. Working proposals, particularly those aimed at developing tourism, should be phased in over time, with a schedule that takes into account the interests of local communities. 10. For the substantiation of ecological reconstruction work in the second phase, it is necessary to conduct certain extended studies and research of specific influences, so that the solutions adopted positively influence the Delta’s ecosystems and communities.



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Through this Master Plan, various local works and utilities were established, and these were afferent to administrative units inside the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve—an area that included 14,966 inhabitants. For the next phase, we are proposing the extension of the Master Plan to communities bordering on the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve—an area that includes 150,000 inhabitants and covers the Danube riverbed between Garvăn and Isaccea, the Danube Holm between Isaccea and Tulcea and the Razim-Sinoe lacustrine area. Development Using the concept of socio-ecological development, economic and social sectors will be included in an integrated management system that brings together local residents, government authorities and businesses in an effort to come up with sustainable solutions to the area’s concerns. Ecotourism Planning sustainable tourism development—at the national, regional or local level, using norms of tourism and visitor management—is a relatively new technique developed by researchers as a way to support the processes of planning for, and managing, protected areas. Toward this end, the following studies are necessary to assure that tourism development and tourist infrastructure won’t affect the sustainability of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve: 1. a study to evaluate the area’s optimum support capacity; 2. a study to evaluate the impact of tourist activity on the Delta’s ecosystems; 3. a study on processing of measures to reduce the negative impact of tourist activity. Cultural Development Conservation of cultural heritage can be achieved through sustainable development of socioeconomic systems on the local and regional levels. The challenge is to obtain the most favorable balance between socioeconomic activities and their effects. It is also important to consider maintenance of natural elements and to understand the level of intervention that can be supported by the environment. Determining the relative “values” of various activities requires an assessment of objective data as well as an evaluation of the interaction between the people and the environment. Decisions about cultural use of the land require weighing a set of alternatives that may arise from conflicting values. These conflicts must be solved in the social domain.

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Some organizational models were created to help encourage culturally sensitive l development planning for the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve: Model I: Fiscal management of cultural heritage preservation and socioeconomic development on the local administrative level. This plan describes the financial sources and the destination of the funds. Model II: Investments in the tourist industry based on cultural heritage. If economic activity is centered around cultural heritage, then this heritage will receive greater value. Social and economic interests can be combined with a desire for conservation of cultural heritage in the Danube Delta Biosphere reserve. Model III: Providing specialized education in cultural heritage conservation and tourism, with a focus on providing opportunities for young people and women. Proper organization of human resources requires investment in specialization. For example, it would be useful to implement Enterprise Resource Planning systems or complex systems for education and human capital database administration. Indicators regarding investments in human capital provide telling information about the economical and social situation of society as a whole. Model IV: Cooperation between different stakeholders and sectors involved in cultural heritage conservation in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. Development of Regional Infrastructure Work to facilitate transportation, by land and water, accounts for the majority of the proposed regional infrastructure improvements, so it is important to monitor transportation’s impact on Danube Delta ecosystems. Therefore, when discussing transportation infrastructure in the region, it is vital to promote a system of rules for development that require planners to consider the evolution of ecosystems and the Danube River’s dynamic. Better transportation infrastructure is not only needed to support economic development in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve, it is also important to provide an opportunity for local people to travel within the Danube Delta. Currently a long-term system of rules regulating transportation infrastructure and setting restrictions on navigation is under development. These plans, which are designed to ensure sustainable development and maintain equilibrium between economic and environmental concerns, promise to help maintain the functioning of the Delta’s ecosystems. These rules will help to decrease human pressure on the Delta’s ecosystems, allow for development of ecotourism activities in the area bordering on



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the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve and assure the principle of connectivity in the Natura 2000 protected areas (including the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve and the Macin Mountains). One important project that is needed is construction of a bridge over the Danube River in Smardan. This will provide an important connection for locals while also assuring easy connections with ecotourist areas. Improvement of county roads around the borders of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve could enhance the development of ecotourist activities in Danube River islands and also in the Razim-Sinoie lake complex. Health Health-related problems for the Danube Delta are complex. There is a general need to better serve the local populace by financing clinics and family doctors. It is also important to address the Delta’s larger social health issues, which are reflected in statistical data indicating the earlier death rate and lower birth rate as compared to the general population. The following actions are recommended to address the health needs of the Danube Delta: 1. conducting epidemiological studies for the entire food chain; 2. ensuring a permanent supply of medicine for each village in the Danube Delta; 3. increasing the stock of emergency drugs; 4. increasing pay for medical personnel in all Danube Delta settlements, to make physicians stay in the region; 5. improving ambulance services, including specialized ambulance boats and additional medical materials for emergencies; 6. finishing modernisation of Sulina Hospital and endowing it with good equipment; 7. building flats for physicians from Sulina; 8. ensuring flats for all medical personnel, with assistance from loal councils; 9. renovating clinics and regulating them to ensure they are in a basic state of repair; 10. involving the Ministry of Health and Family and Tulcea County health authorities in financing and elaborating health programs; 11. paying medical personnel from the budget of the Ministry of Health and Family; 12. providing every village with a dental clinic staffed by qualified personnel and financed by the Ministry of Health and Family; 13. ensuring the appropriate fiscal facilities to allow for sponsorship, donations and other types of contribution to support health care;

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14. creating the appropriate legal framework for inviting medical personnel into the Danube Delta. Education Local communities in the Delta are seeking improvement of the local educational offering, but these communities are often physically isolated. In view of this challenge, the following changes are recommended: 1. rehabilitating schools in Delta villages; 2. improving educational staff by increasing the number of trained teachers; 3. working to include modern educational equipment in rural school in programmes, ensuring for example that students have access to computers and the internet; 4. encouraging local communities to assure comfortable living and other facilities to attract trained teachers to the Delta; 5. providing scholarships for students who wish to work in rural locations after graduation; 6. improving school curricula with optional classes—on subjects like environment protection—that provide career opportunities and a helpful workforce; 7. funding vocational schools to promote traditional trades in villages with a high number of lower secondary school graduates; 8. conducting an analysis and developing a strategy regarding the education need for young people. Also ecological education and ecological awareness-raising activities, organized by the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority, must be sustained in the long term and integrated in special programs regarding ecological education. Sustaining, starting, encouraging other institutions to develop such activities, especially in long term, could be the basis for ecological education of Danube Delta inhabitants. Improving Access to Electric Power Services The Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve provides the potential for producing wind and solar energy. It also could be a source of hydroelectricity—perhaps a less efficient option but still worth considering. Some suitable locations for setting up power generation plants were identified on unused agricultural land in the Danube Delta—including in inland delta areas along levees and canals and along the nearby Black Sea seacoast. These sites could support facilities to generate about 1,200–1,500 MWe. Still,



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this would not represent true renewable energy, something that was supported by locals in the past but has been completely neglected. One logical proposal for the situation would see studies and pilot projects aimed at promoting renewable sources of energy in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. This would involve establishing an information office to promote ecological solutions for developing buildings and transport in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve. The project would ensure the continuation of the information office for three years, providing technical equipment, connections on necessary networks and salaries for the staff involved. Bibliography Botzan, M. (1991). Valorificarea hidroameliorativă a Luncii Dunării româneşti şi a Deltei [Capitalizing on the water resources of the Romanian Danube’s floodplain and of the Danube Delta]. Băneasa-Giurgiu (Romania): Institutul de Cercetare şi Inginerie Tehnologică pentru Irigaţii şi Drenaje. Carley, M. I. Christie (1993). Managing Sustainable Development. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. DDBRA (2005). Master Plan pentru dezvoltare durabilă în R.B.D.D. judeţul Tulcea/ România [Master Plan for sustainable development in R.B.D.D. Tulcea county/ Romania]. LogicalFramework Analyse (LFA). Tulcea: Danube Delta Reserve Administration Ionescu-Siseşti, Gh. (1935). Lunca Dunării şi punerea ei în valoare [The Danube’s Meadow and its Exploitation]. Bukarest: Conferinţă radio, Administraţia PARID. WCED (1987). Our common future. Report of the World Commission on Environment and Development. Oslo: World Commission on Environment and Development.

Chapter 16

Integrated Management of the Lower Danube River Experiences with the Application of Dutch Policy Concepts and Interactive Planning Methods Joanne Vinke-de Kruijf, Hans Th. A. Bressers, and Denie C. M. Augustijn Introduction Romania and the Netherlands are both located in the delta of a large international river basin (the Danube and the Rhine, respectively). In these delta areas, issues related to safety, economic development, and nature protection are closely connected. Water management problems in these areas are increasingly intertwined with other development issues and socioeconomic, political, and environmental aspects at various scales. In order to contribute to sustainable development, these water problems should be assessed, analyzed, and solved within their overall societal context. They have to be dealt with in an integrated manner, involving various sectors and disciplines (Biswas, 2004). In this chapter, we elaborate on integrated management from a policy-planning perspective. For this, the project “Room for the River in Cat’s Bend, Romania” is used as a case study. The project area (Cat’s bend) is named after a bend in the lower Danube River located just upstream of the Danube Delta (see Figure 16.1). Most of this region used to be part of the Danube floodplain. However, during the last few decades, lakes and wetlands in the area were gradually drained in favor of agriculture. In recent years, the region has been flooded several times (Groot and Termes, 2009). Romania’s latest national strategy for flood risk management includes combining flood mitigation with wetland restoration and socioeconomic development. The project aims at implement this strategy, by developing integrated regional 373

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Figure 16.1  The location of Cat’s Bend in the Danube River Basin. Source:© 2007 WWF (panda.org). Some rights reserved. Adapted after Wong et al, 2007

Box 16.1  Background to the Room for the River concept

High water levels in 1993 and 1995 forced the Dutch government to reconsider their flood protection strategy. Further heightening of dikes was no longer regarded as a sustainable solution in the long-term, as climate change is expected to further increase flood risks. Therefore, it was decided to adopt a new policy that aims at creating more space for the river. In 2006, the Dutch government approved the “Room for the River” programme. The basic concept is to combine flood protection with environmental quality improvement and adaptation to anticipate climate change. This is realized through, for example, the removal of dikes, the creation of flood channels, and the adjustment of flood plains. The programme was implemented in the form of a “Spatial Planning Key Decision.” This decision includes the implementation of certain short-term safety measures and the reservation of the extra space that rivers are expected to need in the coming decades (Min. V&W, 2006). Similar measures for flood protection are currently taken in other European countries (e.g. “Freude am Fluss” in Germany). The European Flood Directive (2007/60/EC) also promotes such measures. Preamble 14 reads: “Flood risk management plans should focus on prevention, protection, and preparedness. With a view to giving rivers more space, they should consider where possible the maintenance and/or restoration of floodplains. . .”



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Box 16.2  Concept of the Sketch Match method

“Sketch Match” is an interactive planning method developed by the Dutch Government for Land and Water Management (DLG). In the Netherlands, the method is frequently used to support the involvement of various actors (e.g. policymakers, managers, or local stakeholders) in collectively analyzing, defining, and solving a spatial problem. “Sketch” refers to the idea that all ideas are visualized by sketching them out on maps. This sketching – quick conceptual drawing – is done by one or more landscape architects. “Match” refers to the idea that a “Sketch Match” combines and integrates various user functions, interests, and objectives. The method is just one of the methods used to support “interactive governance” or “interactive decision-making” in the Netherlands. In the past decade in particular, there has been lots of experimentation with the active involvement of stakeholders in early stages of the policy-planning process (Edelenbos & Klijn, 2005). What characterizes this method is that it is extremely visual and intensive. Design workshops are usually spread over a few days in which participants work intensively on the development of spatial plans. spatial plans in an interactive process with stakeholders from the area. The project was implemented with the assistance of Dutch experts and consulted the “Room for the River” concept and an interactive planning method called the “Sketch Match” (see Box 16.1 and Box 16.2). This case study project was among the first regional water projects in Romania that actively involved stakeholders and took a range of issues into account. This chapter presents some of the implications of applying such an integrated approach at the project level (content, process, and expertise) and at the policy-planning level (the direct context in which an integrated project develops). Before presenting our case study, we introduce the theoretical concepts underlying this chapter. Next we present the policy landscape surrounding the case study project and the experiences of the project itself. Then, the consequences of an integrated project approach at the project level and for policy development in general are discussed. The last section presents our main conclusions regarding the implementation of integrated and participatory management approaches in the lower Danube River region. Development and Implementation of Integrated Water Management This section introduces the basic theoretical concepts underlying our case study. These concepts all assume a shift from government to governance

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and recognize the importance of public participation. They are rooted in the social-constructivist perspective on environmental problems, which regards problems—not as being objective givens—rather as social constructs. This implies that actors may disagree upon the values and knowledge that are relevant to deal with the problem. If this is the case, a problem is called “wicked” or “unstructured.” The most effective way to deal with these types of problems is by organizing learning-oriented policy processes (Rittel and Webber, 1973; Arentsen et al, 2000; Hisschemöller, 2005). In such processes, stakeholders should interact with each other and knowledge from experts and stakeholders should be integrated (Vinke-de Kruijf et al, under publication). A social-constructivist perspective acknowledges that a variety of expertise exists and that different social groups have specific kinds of expertise (Bijker, 2001). All theoretical concepts used throughout this section are related to the development of integrated water management. The first subsection introduces the meaning of this concept and how it is interpreted in this chapter. The second subsection elaborates on the importance of stakeholder involvement in water management. The third subsection explains how a multi-actor setting affects the outcome of a water project. The last section concentrates on the types and areas of expertise needed to successfully complete integrated projects. Introduction to Integrated Water Management Countries around the world face a variety of water-related challenges (e.g. food security, risk management, ecosystem protection, as well as crossterritorial and trans-boundary cooperation). Following the International Conference on Water and Environment in Dublin (1992), it is widely recognized that the only way to deal with these challenges in a sustainable manner is the adoption of integrated and participatory management practices (Agarwal et al, 2000). Up to the point of this international conversation, water had mainly been regarded as a resource to be exploited for human benefit. Water management typically focused only on certain sectors and there was a lack of coordination between these sectors (Savenije and Van der Zaag, 2008). Water management was largely dominated by an engineering approach, which means that regulatory authorities would solve problems by implementing technical solutions based on experts’ advice. It was often taken for granted that technology is just one part of a complex environment-technology-human system (Pahl-Wostl, 2002). As has been since recognised: “presently there is a growing awareness, in particular in developed countries, of the need for integrated approaches that simultaneously take a whole range of trade-offs



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into account and that involve stakeholders in the whole management process” (Pahl-Wostl et al, 2008: 484). This shift in paradigm is, for example, reflected in the Netherlands where a philosophy of “fighting against the water” has been replaced by the paradigm of “coping with floods and creating more space for the river” (Pahl-Wostl, 2006). The most often quoted definition of Integrated Water Resources Management (IWRM) is the one developed by the Global Water Partnership. It defines IWRM as “a process which promotes the coordinated development and management of water, land and related resources, in order to maximize the resultant economic and social welfare in an equitable manner without compromising the sustainability of vital ecosystems” (Agarwal et al, 2000: 22). This definition has been criticized for not being a strong enough concept in the sense that it does not assist water managers in solving their real-life problems. Besides this, it is very unlikely that one single concept equally applies to all countries around the world (Biswas, 2004). IWRM functions differently in different countries as it always emerges in a specific context and reflects political values (Mostert, 2006). The concept and method that are central in the case study (see Box 16.1 and 16.2) were both developed in a Dutch IWRM context. In the Netherlands, it is currently recognized that human intervention (intended to protect low-lying lands from the rivers and the sea) did not result in a sustainable water system. Still, pressure on the water system is increasing due to economic development, population growth, and lifestyle changes. At the same time, flood risks have further increased as a result of soil subsidence, the rise in sea level, and a decreased capacity to retain the water. In order to cope with the consequences (for example, of social developments and climate change), the prevailing approach to water management also has had to change. The dominant technocratic approach has been gradually replaced by an integrated and participatory water management style (Van der Brugge et al, 2005). Nowadays, Dutch government policy emphasizes the need to develop an “integrated water policy.” This means that water projects also pay attention to other fields such as energy, housing, agriculture, nature and recreation. For this purpose, so-called “integrated area development” processes are often organized (Min. V&W, 2007). What characterizes these processes is the active involvement of stakeholders in the early stages of the planning process (cf. Vinke-de Kruijf et al, accepted). The trend emphasises that water managers must not only be in continuous interaction with the water system itself, but also with different actors in society. This is referred to as “interactive water management” (Van Ast, 1999). From a Dutch perspective, IWRM thus refers to the integration of the water system with various functions and the active involvement of relevant stakeholders.

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Stakeholder involvement in water management There is no shortage of international declarations, conventions, and regulations emphasizing the importance of public participation. In regards to water management, the European Water Framework Directive (2000/60/EC) sets several requirements for public information and consultation. It states that: (1) information supply has to be ensured during the whole planning process; (2) consultation has to be ensured by making documents available for written comments; and (3) active involvement of interested parties in planning and implementation should be encouraged. Moreover, the guidance document recommends member states to develop a learning approach towards public participation. It states that authorities and stakeholders will benefit from increased communication and interaction and advises to regard stakeholders as “partners in water management.” The guidance document also clarifies what distinguishes a stakeholder (or interested party) from the public. Public refers to any person, group, organization or association. A stakeholder refers to “any person, group or organization with an interest or ‘stake’ in an issue either because they will be affected or may have some influence on its outcome” (European Commission, 2003). The guidelines of the Water Framework Directive are also relevant for the implementation of the European Directive on the assessment and management of flood risks (2007/60/ EC). Public information and consultation for this directive has to be applied in coordination with the Water Framework Directive. For the implementation of individual measures with significant effects on the environment, the Directive on Environmental Assessments (2001/42/EC) prescribes that during the preparation phase the opinion of the public should be taken into account. Public participation may take different forms. Based on the “ladder of citizen participation” (Arnstein, 1969) and the “public participation levels” (Mostert, 2003), Hare and Krywkow (2005) developed a classification of participation in local water projects. Their classification includes four levels of participation (see Table 16.1). The level of participation represents the intensity of interaction between actors involved. The lowest level of participation is “information provision.” This refers to a one-way communication process in which planners inform the public or stakeholders. Strictly speaking, it is not a form of participation, as it does not include any interaction. The second level is “consultation,” which means that the public and main stakeholders are all duly informed and that their responses are taken into account. These two levels are the only forms of participation that are required in various European directives. At the next level, called “active involvement,” the public and main stakeholders have an active role in a planning process. The highest level of participation is referred to as “social learning.”



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Table 16.1  Levels of Participation in Water Projects Level of participation

Role of participants

Information provision Provided with information about the planning process (e.g. through brochures, flyers, websites, and/or other media) Consultation Asked for their opinion and expertise, which is gathered and processed by the official planners Active involvement Invited to actively participate/cooperate in the designing and/or implementation of the project Social Learning Brought in during phase one and given a say in officially defining the problem as well as the agreement to the appropriate, required action Source: Based on Hare & Krywkow (2005).

This may be seen as a process in which stakeholders collectively examine and analyze a problem situation. This is expected to result in an agreement about the preferred actions and the necessary changed behaviour. This level of participation is often not reached—as it requires significant resources, time, and advanced facilitation (and mediation) skills. It is also worth noting that, within one project, different levels of participation may be used in different project phases (Krywkow, 2009). The dynamic content of participatory projects Water projects, like engineering projects in general, are mostly designed to solve a concrete problem (Beroggi, 2000). A problem occurs if there is a gap between a desired situation and an existing or expected situation. If this gap is supposed to be bridged by collective (government) action, it is called a policy problem. How actors formulate a problem is based on their perceptions about the existing and desired situation, their causes and consequences, their future developments and potential solutions (Dunn, 1994; Hisschemöller and Hoppe, 1995). Involving an increasing number and/or a variety of actors in a policy process increases the number of perspectives and perceptions. This may add more complexity and uncertainty to a project, but it may also enrich the policy process (Krywkow, 2009). Van de Riet (2003) explains this by introducing single-actor complexity and multi-actor complexity (see Figure 16.2). Complexity refers to the number of elements involved and their interdependencies. Single-actor complexity applies to a single-actor setting, which is the case if one actor or a group of actors can make an authoritative decision regarding a problem. It means that complexity is only caused by unclear objectives and system complexity, the latter resulting in uncertainties about the effects of solutions. As for water problems, resources are generally

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Figure 16.2  Policy Development in a Single-actor Setting versus a Multi-actor Setting. Source: Van de Riet (2003).

distributed across the field of actors. This means that actors depend on each other, and that policy can only be realized by means of cooperation. In such a multi-actor setting, complexity also arises from the involvement of multiple actors with diverging interests and various perceptions of reality (Van de Riet, 2003). Water management issues thus arise in a multi-actor setting that is characterized by uncertainty, complexity, and disagreement. Consequently, they are often examples of complex, unstructured (or wicked) problems (Hommes et al, 2009). For such problems, it is often hard to define what should be taken into account, as they are interconnected to other problems. What also complicates the process of problem-solving is that problem formulations are dynamic; they tend to change over time as a result of new information, interactions, or external developments (De Bruijn et al, 2002). This highlights an additional form of complexity in multi-actor processes. If actors are involved in processes of social interaction, their motivations, cognitions, and resources are in dynamic interaction with each other. These characteristics, which each actor involved possesses, shape the resulting interactive process, but in turn are also shaped by the process (Bressers, 2009). Dealing with this complexity, implies accepting that actors behold diverging perceptions. Therefore, instead of striving for consensus, one should strive for “negotiated knowledge” (i.e. an agreed upon and validated knowledge base). Negotiated knowledge emerges as a result of a process in which actors contribute their own information set as well as describe and express their values with each other (De Bruijn et al, 2002; Koppenjan and Klijn, 2004).



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The basis and areas of expertise in regards to water projects Water problems occur at the interface of natural and human systems. For this reason, much of the relevant knowledge may come from the natural sciences (hydrology, morphology, meteorology, ecology and geography) and from social sciences (spatial planning, economics, sociology, and policy sciences) (Karstens, 2009). Furthermore, it may come in the form of expert (scientific) knowledge or stakeholder (laymen; non-scientific or practical) knowledge (Eshuis and Stuiver, 2005; Rinaudo and Garin, 2005; Hommes et al, 2009). Unlike others (cf. Rinaudo and Garin, 2005; Krywkow, 2009), we prefer not to refer to stakeholders as “laymen.” In fact, there are many fields in which local stakeholders behold very relevant expertise, in particular, when it comes to the creation of a context-specific knowledge base (Eshuis and Stuiver, 2005; Hommes et al, 2009). They gained this expertise by virtue of experience, which makes them uncertified “experience-based experts” (Collins and Evans, 2002). Another alternative distinction could be to distinguish between “insiders” versus “outsiders.” Insiders refer to people with expertise related to the specific context, i.e. local stakeholders. Outsiders are, for example, the external facilitators or scientists involved in the particular project (Leeuwis and Van den Ban, 2004). As this distinction still includes a distinct grey area and may shift during the project, we prefer to distinguish mainly between: (1) experts as persons employed to conduct or support the planning activities, only due to their specific expertise; and (2) stakeholders as persons invited to contribute to the planning process. We prefer to use the term “expertise” rather than “knowledge” as the former is also referring to skills. Knowledge refers exclusively to information acquired by study or research; expertise includes the skills needed to use, understand, or translate knowledge within a specific context (Wesselink et al, 2009). The above description shows that substantive expertise in water projects may be contributed by various sources and in different forms. This means that, in addition to so-called “contributory expertise,” there is also a need to involve actors with “interactive expertise” (i.e. actors who are able to combine various forms of contributory expertise (Collins and Evans, 2002; Carolan, 2006). The application of participatory methods, especially sophisticated ones, require specific expertise in participatory management. This discipline has not really been developed yet. However, it really should be developed into an area of expertise in its own right, not unlike engineering or ecology (Krywkow, 2009). In addition, specific expertise is needed to create a proper connection between the participatory process and the formal decision-making process (Vinke-de Kruijf et al, under publication). Thus, water projects require three areas of

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expertise: (1) substantive expertise, which includes specific knowledge about the problems and potential solutions; (2) procedural expertise, dealing with the organization and management of the process (e.g. the facilitation of meetings); and (3) political expertise, dealing with the policy network (e.g. acting as a liaison between relevant social groups and negotiating power relations) (Leeuwis and Van den Ban, 2004; Wesselink et al, 2009). Experiences with Integrated Management of the Lower Danube River This section presents the project “Room for the River in Cat’s Bend, Romania” using the theoretical concepts presented in the previous section. Material for this case study has been gathered through observations by the first author and a co-observer throughout all participatory activities and project team meetings, analysis of documents, and interviews with stakeholders/participants and project team members. The aim of this case study is to present a concrete example of the practical implementation of IWRM in Romania. The case study is not representative of water projects in Romania; it is rather an example of an extremely integrated and participatory approach. This means that it is an excellent example in terms of drawing lessons about the implementation of such approaches in Romania and observing the associated difficulties. This section starts with a description of the background and policy-landscape of the case study. Subsequently, the section elaborates on the following aspects of the case study itself: the interactive process, the project content, and the use of expertise. Background and policy-landscape The case study region is located in the lower part of the Danube River Basin (see Figure 16.1). Water management in the basin is coordinated by the International Commission for the Protection of the Danube River (ICPDR). As flooding is one of the recurring issues in the Danube River Basin, the contracting parties of the Danube River Basin Convention (DRBC) decided to initiate a joint Flood Action Programme. The programme was signed in December 2004 and associated flood action plans were published in December 2009. In recent years, the Romanian side of the lower Danube River Basin has been specifically and seriously effected by floods (especially in 2005, 2006, and 2008). Following the floods of 2005, the Romanian government approved and initiated a National Plan for the Prevention, Protection, and Mitigation of Floods (Governmental Ordinance No. 1309/2005) and a short-term



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National Strategy for Flood Risk Management (Governmental Ordinance No. 1854/2005). The developed strategy is in line with the ICPDR Flood Action Programme and serves as a framework for specific action and measures to be taken. It pays attention—among others things—to sustainability (from a social, economic, and ecological perspective) from an integrated approach and involving public participation. The strategy includes the development of flood risk plans for every river basin, as required by the EU Flood Directive. These plans are prepared at the national level by the National Administration Romanian Waters (NARW), the executive body for water management. This body has drafted a strategy and action plan for both the mid- and long term. One of the studies initiated following the 2005 floods is called the “Ecological and Economic Restoration of the Danube floodplains in the Romanian sector”—the so-called REELD study (Governmental Ordinance No. 1208/2006). The study was commissioned by the Ministry of Environment’s (MoE) National Committee for Emergency Situations. The first two phases of the study were executed by the Danube Delta National Institute (DDNI) and published in mid-2008. The study focused on flood mitigation in relation to wetland restoration and socioeconomic development. Wetland restoration is controversial in Romania and the results of the study were never officially approved by the government. Romania and the Netherlands have already been cooperating on water management issues for years now. Within this context, in 2006, experts from the Dutch National Service for Land and Water Management (DLG) visited the Romanian MoE to discuss potential opportunities for cooperation. Romania’s Deputy Minister for the Environment at the time suggested initiating a project that would further elaborate on REELD-project, in this case for a specific area in Romania. Cat’s Bend was selected for the pilot project. However, following legislative elections in November 2008, this Deputy Minister was succeeded by someone who had not been actively involved in the project. In October 2009, about one month before the presidential elections, the Romanian government collapsed. By the end of 2009, a new government had formed. Yet, officials had not yet been appointed by the time the final meetings on the case study project were organized. In Romania, IWRM was recently put in place at a strategic level and, to a certain extent, also at operational level. However, in practice, there are still several issues that need to be overcome. There is a lack of legislation concerning the organizational aspects of IWRM. There is also a lack of true participatory approaches as well as a lack of programmes that stimulate stakeholder cooperation and participation (Teodosiu, 2007). Public participation is mostly organized in the form of public hearings. This often leads to unsatisfactory results for both organizers and participants. On one hand, organizers are often faced with low attendance or (in their opinion) aggressive behaviour by participants. On the

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other hand, participants often have the feeling that they are not well informed and that their opinion is not actually taken into account. Currently, various projects are being implemented that intend to improve this situation. One example is a project led by the World Wide Fund for Nature’s (WWF) Danube Carpathian Programme that aims at strengthening the role of non-governmental organizations (NGOs) in river basin management. Another example is a DutchRomanian joint project that aims to enhance public dialogue in regards to the creation of environmental assessments. Both projects focus on the improvement of formal public consultation procedures. While the case study herein rather aims at observing active stakeholder involvement in general. Substantively, this case study is similar to the project carried out as part of preparation for the implementation of the “Lower Danube Green Corridor.” Just like in that case study, this programme is facilitated by the World Wide Fund for Nature (WWF) and also aims at the protection and restoration of the lower Danube River’s wetlands and floodplains. The current case study also shares some similarity to the recent “Danube Floodrisk,” a project approved in March 2009. The goal of the Danube Floodrisk project is to produce a stakeholder-oriented assessment of the flood risks across the whole of the Danube River Basin. However, what distinguishes this current case study from these others projects is, among others, that it involves stakeholders much earlier in the planning process—even prior to the implementation of a feasibility study. The process: activities and stakeholder involvement The project can be regarded as an interactive process consisting of the following phases: (1) preparation; (2) inception, including the initial start-up meeting; (3) core process, including the series of tailored workshops focused around the design of the resulting project; (4) completion, including an evaluation meeting and the presentation of results (see Figure 16.3). The intensity of stakeholder involvement varied from information and consultation, to active involvement (see Table 16.1). In particular, it focused on the involvement of stakeholders as co-designers by involving them in workshops tailored to address the specific circumstantial needs (Mostert, 2003). Although the project area is located in the administrative territories of the counties Gala i, Br ila, and Tulcea (see Figure 16.4), local and regional participation was limited to the counties of Tulcea and Gala i. The water system in these counties is administered by the Prut Branch and the Dobrogea— Litoral Branch of NARW, respectively. The remainder of this section further elaborates on activities and stakeholder involvement in various project phases.



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Figure 16.3  Overview of Stakeholder Involvement and Activities in Various Project Phases.

Figure 16.4  Location of the Project Area (based on the map used during the project).

Preparation In the period between August 2006 and March 2007, the Dutch organization DLG paid several visits to Romania to formulate the project. Together with the MoE’s Water Department—the project’s commissioner and main beneficiary—an exact project was formulated and a project team was formed.

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DLG also submitted a proposal for financial support to the Dutch programme “Partners for Water,” which was then approved. The project team that formed consisted of the Dutch organizations DLG and HKV as well as the Romanian organizations DDNI, Alma-Ro, Eco-Counselling Centre Gala i (ECCG) and WWF (the latter three being NGOs). The role and responsibilities of various organizations are summarized in Table 16.2. Inception In the inception phase, stakeholders were involved at an “information provision” level and “consultation” level (see Table 16.1). The first interactive activity was organized in the form of a start-up meeting in which national, regional, and local stakeholders were invited to discuss the programme, content, and meet the participants in the design workshops. Along with the invitation letter, they also received information about the project itself. All invited stakeholders (around twenty in total) attended the meeting or sent official representation. The counties of Gala i and Tulcea were represented by several civil servants. Six local communities (all located in Gala i County) were represented by a mayor and/or civil servants. Furthermore, various stakeholders with a specific role in flood protection, environmental protection, or inland navigation attended the meeting. The national water authority was represented by the Prut Branch of NARW. Following the start-up meeting, preparations were made for the design workshops. DDNI conducted interviews with fourteen local stakeholders and asked six local stakeholders to fill out a questionnaire in order to elicit Table 16.2  Composition of the Dutch-Romanian Project Team Organization Dutch National Service for Land and Water Management (DLG) HKV Consultancy firm Danube Delta National Institute (DDNI) Alma-Ro Eco-Counselling Centre Gala i (ECCG) World Wide Fund for Nature’s (WWF) Danube-Carpathian Programme

Roles and responsibilities during the project Project management, supervision of interactive activities, facilitation of design workshops, development of project brochure Hydraulic modelling, data gathering Project management (for Romanian side), data gathering (technical and social), assistance with hydraulic modelling Supervision and facilitation of interactive activities Regional advisory on relevant stakeholders, policy, and problems Advisory on environmental policy and interests



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historical knowledge and local problem perceptions. In addition, maps were prepared, practical arrangements made, hydraulic data collected and analyzed, and some preparatory modelling was completed. Core process The core of the project was a three-day workshop (a “Sketch Match” organized in June 2009 in the town of M cin) in which landscape architects and stakeholders worked on the development of integrated spatial plans. Workshop activities included a visit to the project area, plenary sessions for sharing expectations and presentations, and three design workshops. Around twenty-five local and regional stakeholders confirmed their participation. Eventually, only fourteen persons participated in all activities; the remainder either participated partly or did not participate at all. A few of the participants also attended the start-up meeting or were interviewed before. Participants represented the following stakeholder groups: local farmers, local businesses (fishery and agriculture), local councils (five communities located in Tulcea County and Tulucesti), county councils (Tulcea and Gala i), a local interest group (related to a local nature area), government agencies (land improvement, state domains, environmental protection, agriculture, and the border police) and water managers (Prut Branch of NARW). Environmental NGOs were represented by the Romanian project team members. In the design workshops, participants worked in groups of five to ten people on a certain topic, under the supervision of a landscape architect. The results of each workshop were presented and discussed in a plenary session. During the design workshops, HKV calculated the costs of each suggested measure using a hydraulic model and providing the costs estimates to the participants. Completion The final project phase focused around three meetings: one with the project team members, one with local and regional stakeholders, and one with national stakeholders. During each of these meetings, the project outcomes and its continuation were discussed. For this, DLG prepared and distributed a project brochure summarizing the project (context, process, and outcomes) and presenting some of the recommendations. Twenty people attended the regional meeting (eight of whom had also participated in the design workshops). The local communities and Gala i County were well represented. However other important stakeholders, such as NARW and Tulcea County,

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were not represented. The national meeting was organized by MoE, who invited representatives from sixteen national authorities (ministries, institutes, and agencies with responsibilities in the field of financing, environment, water, agriculture and transportation). Due in part to the political crisis, only six organizations were represented at the meeting. Content: development of substantive outcomes This subsection presents how the project’s content, the formulation of the problem, and possible solutions have developed throughout the course of the project. This development is, just like in the previous subsection, described in the order of the project phases (see Figure 16.3). Preparation Concrete substantive outputs during the preparation phase were a project proposal and a work plan. Both were prepared by the Dutch partners, in consultation with the project commissioner (MoE). In these plans, the problem was framed as follows. In 2004, 2005, and 2006, large parts of the Cat’s Bend region were flooded and large-scale evacuations were required. These floods were caused by a lack of discharge capacity (space) to cope with peak flows of the Danube. This relates to recent canalization and the construction of dikes to protect agricultural land that replaced the natural environmental system. In addition, deforestation and climate change result in higher and more frequent peak flows. It was determined that Romania should come up “with a new and different water policy” in order to deal with these floods that focuses on providing more space for the river and nature instead of raising and reinforcing dikes. In conclusion, floods were perceived as spatial planning issues for which “Room for the River” measures were expected to offer a solution. Inception During the first project team meeting, it appeared that the Romanian project team members did not regard floods as the most pressing problem in the area. Since the floods in 2006, dikes were already improved and only one area close to the town of Galati was still flood-prone. In their opinion, the main issues in the area were rather: (1) landownership, especially the fact that most land is owned by large, powerful landowners and inhabitants do not have



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access to enough of the resources to ensure a living, resulting in poverty; and (2) the consequences of hydro-morphological changes in the river designed to improve navigation. Based on the input of various project team members, the main problems in the area were reformulated as: (1) an environmental problem, the climate has been changing (more extreme weather-related events), increasing the number and frequency of floods and droughts; and (2) an economic problem, this is that short-term profit has prevailed, resulting in misuse of land (e.g. deforestation and drainage) and poverty (as a result of unequal access to resources). During the start-up meeting, local stakeholders confirmed that landownership, access to resources, and a poor socioeconomic situation were among the main issues in the area. Issues concerning the previous decision-making processes were also raised. Stakeholders were disappointed, for example, about their lack of ability to influence the implementation of the EU directives for birds and habitats (Natura, 2000) and that the results of previous planning processes were never implemented. The interviews with local stakeholders revealed a contrast in the views of local inhabitants versus landowners from outside the area as well as between the ecology versus economy. As a result, there have been conflicts about irrigation and land use. Core process Based on the results of the preparation and inception phase, the project team decided to broaden the problem formulation. At the beginning of the workshop sessions, they presented the project as being a combination of water quantity issues (floods and droughts) and of socioeconomic issues (land use and poverty). Participants’ expectations for the process varied. Some expected that it would result in concrete solutions for nature or agribusiness; others had more abstract expectations, for example, concerning sustainable development or improvement of socioeconomic conditions. Participants’ perceptions diverged and resulted in intense discussions throughout the field visit. Participants disagreed, for example, about the profitability of agriculture versus fishery and about the necessity and effectiveness of flood lands. In the design workshops, each group approached the area from a different perspective (see the topics listed in Figure 16.5). The first workshop provided many new insights related to the problems of and potentials for the area. In addition to the problems that were already mentioned, participants also mentioned landslides, a lack of fish, and poor use and performance of irrigation systems. Within the sessions, facilitating landscape architects worked to steer discussions towards possible “Room for the River”

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Figure 16.5  Overview of Topics Discussed during the Design Workshops.

measures. This resulted in suggestions to build channels and lakes that could benefit the socioeconomic situation by improving irrigation, the microclimate, fishery, nature, and the areas’ recreational uses. Participants did not agree on whether these measures would also contribute to reducing flood risks. When hydraulic experts presented the results of their cost analyses, they informed participants that creating more space for water would result in a reduction of the peak discharge. This raised many questions among participants. During the second workshop, each group further developed one of the topics that emerged during the first workshop. The first and the second workshop both focused on the area located along the south-bank of the Danube. The third workshop resulted in ideas for two areas along the north-bank of the Danube. On the last day, the landscape architects integrated the plans developed within the groups. In a plenary presentation, the landscape architects highlighted three design concepts that emerged during the second day (see Figure 16.6): 1. Restoration of an old channel: By connecting the old Danube creeks and wetlands with the current Danube, a new navigable channel can be created in the area. This channel stimulates the microclimate, economic development, and assures reduced water levels for the Danube in times of high discharge. 2. Improvement of agriculture: By improving and connecting the existing irrigation system, local agriculture activity and the area’s micro-climate can be improved. 3. Creating more “Room for the River”: By replacing the dike north of Grindu village and creating a flood channel south of the village, it is possible to reduce water levels on the Danube. The plenary results also showed that the three design concepts could be integrated into one “integrated plan.” All participants confirmed that the presented results represented what was actually discussed during the workshops.



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Figure 16.6  The Three Design Concepts Represented in One ‘integrated plan.’ Source: (DLG 2009).

Completion The most concrete substantive output of the project is the project brochure (DLG, 2009). This brochure highlights the shift of the project focus from flood protection to integrated water management (including economic, ecological, and hydraulic aspects). This shift is also reflected in the title of the project brochure, “Room for the River and People in Cat’s Bend Romania.” The brochure also presents the three design concepts and the results of the hydraulic study (Groot and Termes, 2009). It is concluded that the third design concept (Room for the River) results in the largest reduction of the water level in case of peak discharges. However, a combination of the three design concepts would be most effective. The last meetings focused on “who should take the project to the next stage and how.” In order to continue the project, DLG recommended regional and national authorities indicate with which elements of the design concepts they would like to continue and how they are going to involve stakeholders in subsequent steps. It is also recommended to connect this project to upstream areas in order to develop a coherent set of measures along the whole Danube. The project team and stakeholders from the area supported the idea to continue the planning process and came up with several suggestions for project continuation. Support from national authorities was, however, regarded as being indispensible for continuation as funds are distributed through them.

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However, this request for support was not confirmed by government participants during the last meeting due in part to the unstable political situation. As a result, the meetings did not led to a concrete agreement concerning the continuation of the project. Expertise: contributions by experts and stakeholders This section focuses on the expertises that have contributed to the project. This includes both experts (members of the project team, paid to contribute their expertise) and stakeholders (persons invited for their local interests and expertise). Amongst the experts, a further distinction is made between Dutch and Romanian experts, as the former are relatively considered “outsiders.” Dutch experts DLG led the organization in terms of preparing and executing the project. Experts from DLG initiated the project in cooperation with the Ministry, providing the project leader, the process supervisor, and landscape architects. The role of HKV was mainly to gather and analyze hydraulic data and assess the hydraulic effects of the proposed measures. Eventually, they also played an important role in preparing area maps. The DLG experts were the only persons involved in the project who had any experience in applying the interactive planning method and, thus, the only ones that knew what to expect from the design workshops. Therefore, they played a crucial role in the design workshops, also steering the sessions—as they did not only sketch the ideas of participants, but also raised questions, translated ideas into design concepts, and integrated the results. They were all very experienced in the facilitation of design workshops and had dealt with similar problems in the Netherlands. In order to prepare for this specific workshop, the Dutch project team also organized a small preparatory workshop in the Netherlands in which maps of the project area were studied and ideas for potential solutions were developed. Amongst these ideas were already some of the final design concepts, such as the restoration of the old channel and the replacement of dikes close to the village of Grindu. As was agreed—also with the funding agency and the MoE—the project would focus on flooding in the area. This was also the reason for involving HKV in hydraulic modelling. At the same time, DLG experts also wanted to define the assignment together with stakeholders. This is why the scope of the project was broadened, but still included flood risk problems. Based on their experience, Dutch experts provided general



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substantive and procedural expertise related, for example, to hydraulic modelling, spatial planning and stakeholder involvement. They used their expertise also to steer the discussion in order to comply with the initial assignment. Romanian experts The commissioner and main beneficiary of the project was the water division of the MoE. One of their advisors actively participated in all the meetings and even organized the last project meeting. So far, MoE did not associate this project with one of their other ongoing projects or programmes. The leading project organization in Romania was the DDNI. This institute is located in Tulcea and has been involved as project leader in the REELD-study and in other environmental projects along the Danube River and the Danube Delta. Experts at the DDNI have extensive knowledge of the area, both of the natural system and the people living there. They, therefore, played an important role in providing area-specific knowledge and in organizing local meetings and workshops. Another organization with region-specific expertise was the ECCG. Experts from the ECCG assisted in preparing the list of stakeholders, translation, and relating the project to ongoing developments across the whole Danube River Basin. An advisor from the WWF provided expertise in the field of water management, nature conservation, and wetland restoration. Experts from the ECCG and WWF advised on environmental aspects of the project. Experts from Alma-Ro were involved in the facilitation of the interactive process. They brought with them extensive experience in the facilitation of meetings, conflict resolution, and the establishment of networks. In this project, they closely cooperated with the process supervisor from DLG. Most of the Romanian experts involved had experience with international cooperation and stakeholder participation. Together, they provided a range of substantive procedural and political expertise. This expertise was generally more context-specific than the expertise provided by Dutch experts. However, as they were not familiar with the interactive design method, it was difficult for them to anticipate the outcomes. In the end, the Romanian project partners came up with several ideas for project follow-up, including using the project as a pilot in the Danube flood risk project. Stakeholders A wide variety of national, regional, and local stakeholders participated in one or more project activities. Their expertise was especially used to formulate the spatial plans during the design workshops. The majority of people that

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participated in the workshops live and work in the area—mostly as politicians, civil servants or businessman (agriculture or fishery). They contributed specific substantive expertise on a variety of topics, including changed land use (the drainage of lakes and wetlands in favor of agriculture), the consequences of various land uses (e.g. cattle-breeding, cultivation of rice, vegetables, and fishery), current land use (i.e. location of farms, industry, and nature areas), socioeconomic issues (e.g. unemployment, population decline, poverty, and isolation) and infrastructure (e.g. roads, irrigation channels, or pumping stations). Stakeholders also contributed political expertise, especially at the stakeholder meeting held during the completion phase. One of the participants raised the need to establish an Inter-communal Development Association. This association would allow local communities to contribute to implementation and give them a sense of ownership. Another participant added that such an association already existed and that only one more community needed to be included. They also mentioned that project follow-up would be impossible without support from the national government. At the beginning of the design workshop, participants were generally sceptical about their role and Dutch expertise. One of the participants said afterwards that he expected Dutch experts to enforce their ideas without taking participants’ contributions into account. According to him, in the end this was not the case and the project results reflected the participants’ ideas. Other participants emphasized that they felt all participants had the opportunity to express their opinion and that they had all been taken into account. The input of Dutch experts was then highly valued. Participants appreciated their extensive experience, process management skills, and calm attitude. Reflection on the Application of an Integrated Approach in Romania This section reflects on the integrated approach that was applied in the case study project. This reflection concentrates on the project itself and its policy context. The first subsection reflects on the project process, its content and the role of various sources of expertise. The second subsection pays attention to the consequences of such integrated projects for the Romanian governance structure. Project level: process, content and expertise Stakeholder participation was one of the central objectives of this case study. It included information, consultation, and the active involvement of various stakeholders. Feedback from participants reveals that the design workshop



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also offered them new perspectives on problems and possible solutions. This confirms that creating interaction and communication between stakeholders with diverging perceptions contributes to learning processes (Hommes et al, 2009). This means that the project also contributed to the highest level of participation (see Table 16.1), known as “social learning.” In a water management context, social learning refers to the “growing capacity of social entities to perform common tasks related to a river basin. It refers to both the learning process and its outcome” (Pahl-Wostl et al, 2008: 485). Social learning is argued to be of major importance when it comes to sustainable water management. It contributes to effective stakeholder participation by increasing the capacity of stakeholders to manage their water resources (Pahl-Wostl et al, 2007). Interactive processes, such as this case study, often involve actors with diverging objectives and dynamic processes. Evaluating the effects of such processes in terms of goal achievement would be insufficient. Two processoriented criteria that make sense in evaluating such projects are actor contentment and actor enrichment (Edelenbos and Klijn, 2005). The first criterion refers to the extent to which actors involved are satisfied with the outcomes. In this case study, all project team members and participants have proven very positive about the method used and its outcomes thus far. In particular, participants appreciated that the method allowed all participants to contribute to the spatial plans. The project team was also satisfied with the process, especially because of the concrete results and the enthusiasm and openness of participants. What was less satisfactory for the project team and the stakeholders was that no concrete agreements were made about the projects’ continuation during the final meetings. Interviewees also doubt whether this will change in the near future. The second criterion concerns the substance of the process, this is that new ideas were generated and included in the outcomes. While the project initially focused on flood risk management, the project eventually paid attention to a variety of water management issues (such as floods, water scarcity, and climate change adaptation), as well as to regional economic development and improvement of the micro-climate. Some of the participants doubted whether the proposed measures would also really contribute to flood risk reduction. However, given the socioeconomic benefits of the measures, they were still widely supported. The reason for the project team to stick to flood risk management is that this was also agreed upon with the funding agency and the MoE. In conclusion, the project itself has been a very successful process, but less successful in terms of implementation. This case study shows that experts and stakeholders were both important sources of expertise. Involving stakeholders for their expertise was important for two reasons. Firstly, stakeholders provided lots of area-specific knowledge, so that a context-specific knowledge base could be created (Hommes et al, 2009). Secondly, if stakeholders are able to contribute with their own

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information and values, the resulting knowledge base is more likely to be “negotiated knowledge” (De Bruijn et al, 2002). In this case study, “outsiders” (i.e. Dutch experts) played a crucial and steering role, especially during the design workshops. The advantage of involving these “outsiders” was that they had experience with similar processes in the Netherlands and had no interest in any of the solutions. The independence of process facilitators is very relevant as participants should trust them in connecting various knowledge sources (Hommes et al, 2009). Both advantages were also a potential disadvantage. None of the Romanian actors involved had any experience with the method used, which means that they had to trust the competence and intentions of the Dutch experts. Some of the participants doubted their intentions, also because of their own negative experiences with participatory processes in the past. This distrust in the Dutch experts faded away when participants saw that their contributions were really included in the final result. In the end, all participants felt that the final results truly represented their own contributions. However, if these results will not be implemented, it has the potential to make stakeholders more wary of participating in future processes. This confirms the crucial importance of political expertise in the planning processes, along with substantive and procedural expertise. Policy level: management of a multi-actor, multi-level setting Water projects do not take place in isolation. They are part of a broader institutional context. This context is highly dynamic and may strongly influence a project. Process managers should, therefore, not just pay attention to the management of “internal processes,” but also to the linkage between the participatory process and the policy-planning landscape (Vinke-de Kruijf et al, accepted). The case study presented here was developed in close cooperation with MoE. Due to the upcoming legislative elections and political instability MoE did not promise any concrete support for the continuation of this agenda. And although the project is in line with Romania’s national flood risk management strategy, creating more space for the rivers is still a controversial issue. Local stakeholders expressed that they support project continuation, but strongly depend on the support of national authorities as their link to financial resources. This reveals that even though a planning project fits within the prevailing policy, this is no guarantee of its implementation. The above example demonstrates that the project and its continuation should be placed in the context of a multi-actor setting in which multiple actors of multiple levels are involved (see Figure 16.2). Decision making in a multi-actor setting results from a series of decisions taken by different groups



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of actors in “rounds of interaction.” Actors can contribute to these “rounds” in terms of problem formulations and preferred solutions (Teisman, 2000). From this perspective, the case study should be regarded as one “round” of interaction. New rounds of interaction are, therefore, to be expected. Managing a multi-actor setting asks for, among other things, interaction, cooperation, and support as well as a flexible problem formulation and linkages between institutions (Koppenjan and Klijn, 2004). In this multi-actor setting, policies are developed through the interaction between many different actors at various levels. The consequence of this interplay is also referred to as “governance.” A governance structure can be described in terms of five interrelated elements: levels, actors, perceptions, strategies, and resources. It is observed that water governance structures in Europe tend to be more complex in the sense that more elements are generally involved. This tends to result in a less consistent governance structure in which fragmentation, and not integration, prevails (Bressers and Kuks, 2004). This incoherence was also found in Romania’s governance structure for drinking water and wastewater. One of the main problems identified was the lack of coherence between responsibilities and resources (Vinke-de Kruijf et al, 2009). A lack of resources and access to resources at the local level now also seems to prevent this project from continuation. Several ongoing projects are currently trying to improve public participation in water projects. What distinguishes this case study, for example, from “green corridor” projects is that it involves stakeholders in early planning phases. Furthermore, the implemented method was extremely interactive and visual in comparison to “normal” participatory methods used in Romania. However, generally speaking, stakeholder participation is still in its infancy in Romania and civil society in general is not well-developed (Stringer et al, 2009). To encourage the practice of integrated water management, there is a strong need for improved cooperation, communication, and interaction among stakeholders (Teodosiu, 2007). Continuation of this case study would be less difficult if Romania’s governance structure would be more collaborative and communicative. A change in governance structure is difficult and takes time, especially as it is embedded in an overall cultural and socioeconomic environment. However, from a governance perspective, innovative projects, such as the case study presented here, may contribute to these changes (Pahl-Wostl et al, 2007). Conclusions Water problems arise in a complex natural and human system and are often interconnected with other developmental-related issues. It is widely

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recognized that, in order to contribute to sustainable development, water problems should be approached from an integrated and participatory perspective. Although the law only requires developers to inform and/or consult stakeholders, it is highly recommended they actively involve relevant stakeholders. This is believed to contribute to social learning, i.e. a growing capacity of the society as a whole to deal with water management issues. Although, stakeholder involvement adds to the complexity of a project, it also enriches a project as stakeholders may have specific expertise that adds to the expertise offered by the professional experts. The project “Room for the River in Cat’s Bend, Romania” is a concrete example of how integrated planning has been put in practice in Romania. The case study presented here is not representative of water projects in Romania, but is rather unique and highlights several challenges related to the implementation of integrated, participatory approaches in Romania. The project objective was to develop integrated plans for an area that used to be part of the Danube floodplain. For this, the project made use of the “Room for the River” concept and an interactive planning method, called the “Sketch Match.” Initially, the project was expected to focus on flood risk reduction. When water scarcity and socioeconomic problems appeared to be equally important, the problem formulation was broadened in order to incorporate these issues as well. The project itself was very successful in the sense that actors were satisfied with the outcomes and new ideas were generated. This was not a straightforward process; participants were generally sceptical in the beginning about the competence and intentions of the project and the project team. This gradually changed during the process. It is concluded that the active involvement of stakeholders contributed to the learning processes, resulting in the development of a context-specific knowledge base and assisting in arriving at agreed upon directions in terms of solutions. However, so far, the project did not result in any concrete agreement about its continuation. It is crucial the project sees further elaboration, so that participants do not loose their trust in this and other participatory processes. This highlights the importance of political expertise in water projects, in addition to the necessary substantive expertise and procedural expertise. The policy-planning landscape, which provided the background for this case study, can be viewed as a dynamic setting in which multiple actors and multiple levels are involved. From a governance perspective, this case study should be regarded as an actual step in the decision-making process. Properly tying this case study to its policy-planning landscape is crucial for its continuation. The collaborative governance structure needed for elaboration of this project has simply not yet developed in Romania and the project team doubts whether the conclusions of the case study will be followed up on. At the



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same time, projects like the case study presented here are the prerequisites to further development of a more collaborative and communicative governance structure in Romania. Acknowledgements The authors would like to thank all the members of the project team and participants in the project “Room for the River in Cat’s Bend, Romania” for their support and cooperation. We also would like to thank Gytha van der Veer from DLG, Petruta Moise from ECCG, Camelia Ionescu from WWF-DCP, Ad Sannen from Royal Haskoning and the editors for their helpful comments on earlier drafts of this chapter.

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Chapter 17

Circumscribing Locals Transformations of Knowledge/Power and the Governance of the Danube Delta Kristof Van Assche, Martijn Duineveld, Raoul Beunen, and Petruţa Teampău

The development of post-communist policy in the Romanian section of the Danube Delta has been marked by ineffective efforts to include the voices of local people. Residents of the area have been treated as subjects of policies, rather than as participants in the shaping of policies, and this attitude continues. The result has been less efficient governance, because policies do not benefit from local knowledge and because locals, who feel left out of the process, are less willing to accept those policies. In this paper, we investigate the development of policy for the Romanian Danube Delta. We argue that a better understanding of the potential for citizen participation in environmental governance can be obtained from a careful analysis of the past pathways of emergence, enactment and implementation of policies affecting the area. The work of Michel Foucault frames our analysis, and we adopt his perspective on knowledge/power interactions in the development of policies. Policies are seen as temporary conceptual structures, which coordinate knowledge and power and are in constant transmutation because of the confrontation with other knowledge/power configurations. For the Danube Delta, it is argued that policies originating at various levels of government co-create the image of a “local” who is both scrutinized and silenced, both exoticized and marginalized. Based on our analysis, we argue that—despite path-dependencies that limit its scope and depth—participatory governance, specifically participatory planning, is the best way to integrate policies, forms of knowledge and interests in this environment. Governance that includes the participation of locals provides the best opportunity for organizational learning and, in the long run, sustainable management of this unique area. 403

404 Kristof Van Assche, Martijn Duineveld, Raoul Beunen, and Petruţa Teampău

Introduction The Danube Delta is a complicated place. Geographically and socioeconomically marginalized, it is inhabited by a shrinking population of heterogeneous provenance who share space with endangered species, in a landscape that is naturally highly dynamic (Van Assche, Teampău et al. 2008; Van Assche, Devlieger et al. 2009; Teampău and Van Assche 2009; Van Assche and Teampău 2010) After the Romanian revolution in 1989, and Ukraine’s achieving independence in 1991, the international community became acutely aware of the ecological problems of the area. The Danube Delta is routinely presented as one of Europe’s prime birding areas and one of its most important wetlands (Langeveld and Grimmett 1990; Harengerd et al. 1990; IUCN, 1990; Green 1990). Governmental and non-governmental organizations in Europe became more aware of the area’s value, and of the threats posed by: collapsing government in remote areas, increased poverty, the spread of desperate survival tactics, short-term thinking and hit-and-run strategies (IUCN 1986, 1991, 1992; Pons 1987, 1988; EBRD, 1993, World bank 1994; Schneider 1990; Roman 1990). The International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) had already sent delegations to the Delta in 1963 and 1969, and the WWF visited in 1969 (IUCN 1991; Curry-Lindahl 1969). The findings of the delegations originally caused grave concern, but by 1991, in its nomination of the Danube Delta for UNESCO World Heritage status, IUCN judged the damage was not irreversible and that “it was not too late to bring it back to the natural state.” The collapse of the communist regimes in the region led to increased marginalization of the area and to population shifts from the villages in the Delta to other Romanian cities and to other European countries (Van Assche, Teampău et al. 2008). Social disorganization and general chaos were so intense that survival was a first priority for most. For the new elite, some of whom had emerged out of the old elite, pillaging the remains of the communist infrastructure was the priority (Pusca 2009; Derluguian 2005; Verdery 2003). We will investigate the post-communist changes in political power and public cooperation in the Delta region, focusing especially on the Romanian part of the Delta. Since the revolution in 1989, all international organizations involved, all treaties signed, all plans and policies adopted, underscored the importance of local participation in the governance of the Delta. (IUCN 1991, 1992, 1994; World Bank 1994, 2000, 2005; Euroconsult and IUCN, 1993; Baboianu and Goriup 1995; DDBRA, ICPDR, WWF 1997; Drost et al. 2002) Twenty years later, some progress has been made, but significant issues remain. Rather than labeling the problem as a quantifiable lack of participation, to be measured on a one-dimensional scale (Glenn 2001; CSDF 2005), we intend to investigate how, when and where locals



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are present and absent in decision making, and to what extent that situation is the product of policies (Goodwin 1998; Lewis 2002). The ways in which locals are framed or conceptually constructed at higher levels of policy-making, it is assumed, will affect the resources and the powers available to local citizens (Dean 1994; Cruikshank 1999; Foucault 1982). The concept of the “local” is constructed in and by policies, but these policies are themselves in constant transformation and interaction. We see implementation of policies as an evolutionary process, so that grasping their real effects entails reconstructing a process of adaptation to changing environments (Majone and Wildavsky 1979; Beunen, Knaap and Biesbroek 2009; also Luhmann 1995; Van Assche 2007). It will be argued later that recent practices, as well as the communist legacy, did introduce rigidities—pathdependencies that make new roles for the locals harder to envision and harder to implement—but that such new roles are democratically desirable and theoretically imaginable (compare Pusca 2009; Verdery 2003; Van Assche, Devlieger et al. 2009). Methodology For our analysis of local participation in decision making, we rely on fieldwork that was conducted in the Romanian Delta in 2006, 2007 and 2008, and conducted in the Ukrainian Delta in 2009. In Romania, the fieldwork was carried out mostly in Sulina, on the eastern edge of the Delta, and in Tulcea, on its western edge. The towns Mila 23, Letea and Maliuc were also visited. Interviews with experts and officials mostly took place in Tulcea, while interviews with locals less involved in politics were conducted in Sulina for the most part. Interviews were conducted in English, in Romanian translated to English, and in a few cases, in French; they took from one to three hours, and were briefly introduced with a short topics list. The observations and interviews on the Ukrainian side served largely to contextualize the Romanian analyses. In addition, we relied on the fieldwork conducted by Sandra Bell (Durham University) and associates in 2002–2005, in the context of the IMEW project (Integrated Management of European Wetlands). To understand the emergence, transformation and implementation of policies for and in the Delta, we used discourse analysis to investigate documents (studies, proposals, plans) pertaining to the Delta and its issues originating with various organizations (WWF, IUCN, ICPDR, World Bank, DDNI, DDBRA, Tulcea County Council, Sulina Municipality, RIZA and others). This was combined with expert interviews in 2008 and 2009, conducted over the phone and face-to-face, in the Netherlands and Germany. These expert interviews sought to map the network of international actors involved directly

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or indirectly in decision making for the Danube Delta. Interviews and documents were coded for emerging narratives and competing discourses. Insights gained from this analysis of policies—using discourse analysis of documents and expert interviews (Hajer 2005)—were triangulated with observations and interviews in the Delta. This gave us a perspective on the role that was carved out for locals in the game of policy formation and implementation. It also shed a light on the path dependencies that exist in decision-making practices over different spatial scales and hierarchical levels, and the expected effects of these rigidities on future reform. Theoretical framework Our conceptual framework is mostly inspired by Michel Foucault (1926–1984). From his works, we derive a perspective on policy formation and implementation that revolves around knowledge/power interactions in governance. The state was never a closed system for Foucault, and the more recent concept of “governance”—Foucault also used the term “governmentality”—seamlessly fits his perspective on politics as continuously shifting networks of both governmental and non governmental agents and strategies of knowledge/power (Foucault 2003b; Foucault 2007; Foucault 1994a). Foucault analyzed in great detail how policies, governmental institutions and scientific institutions coevolved as mutually defining elements in knowledge/power arrangements. Foucault’s earlier works reveal a strong emphasis on the creation of the modern individual (the subject) out of a knowledge configuration utilized by the state to concentrate and legitimize power (Foucault 1973; Foucault 1997; Foucault 1994b). The new scientific disciplines created an overview and categorization of society that was quintessential in the development of state power since the Renaissance; almost as a by-product, modern man emerged (Foucault 1966). In his later years, Foucault elaborated a theory of politics that dissolved the boundaries of government more explicitly, attributing agency, power and transformative potential to individuals and civil society organizations—and attributing more importance to a plurality of organizational cultures within the state (Foucault 1994a; Foucault 2007; Foucault 1980). This dynamic view on forms of governance is made very explicit in Foucault’s conceptualization of power, which he says should be understood “as the multiplicity of force relations immanent in the sphere in which they operate and which constitute their own organization; as the process which, through ceaseless struggles and confrontations, transforms, strengthens, or reverses them; as the support which these force relations find one another, thus forming a chain or a system, or on the contrary, the disjunctions and contradictions which isolate



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them from one another” (Foucault 1998). Power is operative everywhere and is exerted from various positions (Foucault 1998). Foucault’s later ideas on politics and governance are largely compatible with his older ideas on knowledge: He sees discourses as a set of practices or strategic games within which realities are produced. The discourses both open and close reality for us, because of the necessity of selection and simplification. (Foucault 1994a) Each discourse, each perspective on a part of reality, creates that reality for us, but the choices implied simultaneously veil alternative constructions of reality, alternative delineations of objects, subjects, backgrounds and relationships. In a similar fashion, politics can create and uphold social realities, while making alternatives less visible and less likely to happen. This is not surprising, because politics for Foucault is a configuration of knowledge and power. Power and knowledge shape each other: Power conflicts imply or give rise to conflicting versions of reality, and vice versa (Flyvbjerg 1998). From this general theoretical frame, we derive our concept of policy. We consider a policy as a tool of coordination in the strategies of governmental and non-governmental actors. Policies are seen as temporary conceptual structures that coordinate knowledge and power and are in constant transmutation because of their confrontation with other knowledge/power configurations. We are primarily interested in the fate of policies, as configurations of knowledge/power, from emergence to application. We want to understand how various arenas of knowledge/power, on several levels, crystallize policies that consequently impact those arenas. In an environment with shifting knowledge/power, policies are opposed, ignored, reinterpreted, repackaged, forgotten, selectively enforced or selectively implemented (Van Dijk and Beunen 2009; Hill and Hupe 2009; Van Assche 2007; Foucault 2003b). In these ongoing transformations of policies, various discourses create competing constructions of “the local” (Goodwin 1998). Based on Foucault’s studies on the constitution of subjects in various discourses, practices and in institutions—such as hospitals, military institutions and schools—the “local” is the product of “subjectivation” (Foucault 1979; Foucault 2003a). These processes, procedures and technologies constitute the delinquent, the soldier, the student, the madman, the homosexual, and in our case, the “local,” as a specific subject (Foucault 1998; Hacking 1999). In governance practices, subjects are created in a continuously shifting game of policy formation and implementation that simultaneously and necessarily includes and excludes (Foucault 2003b). Locals are created and delineated, enabled and disabled, by a web of organizations that is in constant flux. Roles for citizens emerge within that network, and once created, these roles contribute to its transformation. Governmental and non-governmental organizations utilize knowledge to reinforce their own positions of power while de-legitimizing the knowledge of

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competing organizations—and, directly or indirectly, the citizens (Scott 1998; Verdery 2003; Fischer 2000; White 1996; Burns et al. 1994). When considering the implications of this theoretical perspective for participatory governance, we will have to bear in mind that, for Foucault, reform of a policy system by including new actors is no trivial endeavor. It is in the process of policy formation and implementation that “actors” are designated, and their roles become crystallized. Nature does not tell us who the subjects are and whether they should be included; these are decisions resulting from interactions between knowledge/power formations already in place. The Danube Delta and its issues: Communism Let us now examine the governance context in which the locals of the Delta were delineated and constructed. Under the communist regime, the Danube Delta was not unknown to Romanians and to the rest of Europe (IUCN 1986; Curry-Lindahl 1969; Panighiant 1972). As mentioned above, the area featured prominently in the national imagination of Romanians, as an unspoiled fringe, inhabited by a variety of small and exotic ethnic groups (Teampău and Van Assche 2009; Van Assche and Teampău 2009). Outside Romania, the area was mostly known to people with an ecological interest, especially among bird lovers. The ecological problems of the Delta were also well-known, even if they could not always be confirmed with reliable scientific evidence: Pons (1987, 1988, 1990) and his students, had to struggle continuously to find basic information. Communist industries in Romania, Bulgaria, Serbia and Hungary created pollution that flowed downstream to collect in the Delta. Nutrients from fertilizer and sewage, flowing from all riparian countries, considerably changed ecosystems in the Delta. The Iron Gates dam, opened in 1972, reduced the flow of sediment, and as a result, the growth of the Delta decreased. Canalization of several stretches further altered river dynamics, bringing higher peak volumes to the river mouth more quickly. Small tributaries and backwaters were separated from the main branch of the Danube River (Goriup 1994; World Bank 1994; IUCN 1992; DDBRA, ICPDR, WWF 1997; Schneider 1990). In the Delta, infrastructural work like canalization, reclamation and water regulation, which started in the nineteenth century under the European Danube Commission (CED) and its chief engineer Sir Charles Hartley, were stepped up under communism (Van Assche et al. 2009). The middle branch of the Danube in the Delta, the so-called Sulina branch, continued to be the focus of economic development, and Sulina itself received the bulk of housing and industrial development. Around Sulina, but also in the northern and southern parts of the Delta, officials initiated several land reclamation projects.



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These projects were designed to boost agricultural production and also to help bring local populations under tighter control—by integrating the area more in the national economy and by importing people from other regions (Iordachi 2002; Van Assche et al. 2008; Pons in IUCN 1992). The economic results of the reclamation projects were questionable, as local and international experts acknowledged early on (Schultz 1986; Pons 1987; IUCN 1991, 1992; World Bank 1994). But dissent against the Ceaușescu regime was a dangerous option. Reed production, for cellulose and for roofs, was increased in the 1960s, and notably unprofitable fish farms, based on oversized ponds, were also set up (Goriup 1994). Several Romanian state agencies, mostly under the direction of the Ministry of Agriculture, were involved in the development of the Delta. In Tulcea, Centrala Deltei, which was established in 1970, coordinated implementation, while the older research institute for land reclamation and design (established 1932), became its main source for applied research. This latter institute would evolve into the present Danube Delta National Institute (DDNI), focusing on conservation and development. Some of the development projects were designed to employ the large numbers of political prisoners living in the Delta, often in horrific circumstances. The government’s “development” policies simultaneously served several goals: Along with employing prisoners and providing actual economic development, anticipated benefits of the projects included international prestige, Romanization and overall increased control of the government (Pons 1987; Pons and PonsGhitulescu 1990). The knowledge used in this Romanian context was often engineeringoriented, and often based on the assumption that policy goals could be met (Pușca 2009; Tismăneanu 2003). Voices of public dissent were hard to find, and anxiety ruled in the administration and academia. Knowledge production was highly laden with risk, and knowledge was not easily shared. Government intrigue and uncertainty regarding the latest directives from the top, as well as the questionable reality of those directives, led to secrecy and immobility as preferred strategies. Yet, at the same time, knowledge is power: It can be useful in maintaining and achieving status. Sharing knowledge was routinely interpreted as sharing power, which also meant diminishing your own power (Apostol 2005; Armas and Avran 2009; Bourdieu 1981). Outside of Romania, the Danube Committee did not completely disappear. While the CED perished in 1936, after the war, an international Danube Committee was re-erected, with considerably less power than the original CED. They did not take on the responsibilities of local administration in the lower Danube. Sulina, Brăila and Galaţi, remained firmly under Romanian administration, and the memory of the CED era, when Sulina was under a sort of international administration, faded. Yet, this new CED did have an impact on the Delta in that it played a role in matters of navigation (UNDP et al. 2007).

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In 1979, UNESCO sent a delegation to the Delta, out of concern about the Ceauşescu plans for Delta development, according to an interview with Ms. Pons-Ghitulescu, but the mission had little success. In fact Romanian development plans picked up steam in the 1980s—the most influential version of Ceaușescu’s Complex Plan for the Development of the Delta seems to be the one put forward in 1983 (IUCN 1992; Pons 1987; Schultz 1986). As early as the 1960s, Romanian biologists and soil researchers had already observed pollution, poverty, and ineffective protection of Letea Forest and the few smaller nature preserves in the area (Interview with Ms. Pons-Ghitulescu, also Schneider 1990; Roman 1990; Pons and Pons-Ghitulescu 1990). In the 1970s, a Dutch team visited the Delta, to observe and share knowledge. The group included Professor Leendert Pons, soil scientist at Wageningen University, and a team of Dienst IJsselmeerpolders, the land reclamation branch of the Dutch Water Ministry (Rijkswaterstaat; Schultz 1986). The Dienst IJsselmeerpolder delegation was received with great anticipation as Ceaușescu considered the Dutch polders a model for the Delta. The leading Dutch policy advisor left after a few years, saying that a continuation of the mission would be impractical and unethical (interview with Prof. Schultz). After 1989, a new Dutch team, from the Water Ministry’s Netherlands Institute for Inland Water Management and Waste Water Treatment (RIZA), worked on Delta issues again, this time from a largely ecological perspective (Droste et al. 2002; interviews with Mr. Droste and colleagues at RIZA). Changes after the Revolution: International Actors and their Impact A Moscow meeting of various nature organizations in late 1989 led to a group excursion to the Delta in 1990. Those present included Mr. and Ms. Pons, Erika Schneider (WWF), Romanian Environment Minister Angheluţă Vădineanu, Aitken Clark (Norfolk Broads Authority), and Liz Hopkins and Paul Goriup (both IUCN), as well as several others (interviews Aitken Clark, Paul Goriup, Ms. Erika Schneider, Ms. Pons-Ghitulescu; also Goriup 1994; IUCN 1992; UNEP 2009; UNESCO-MAB 1998). The consortium of organizations decided to study the issues of the Delta more deeply, leading to a symposium in September 1991 (see report by IUCN 1992) and to a concerted effort to effect legal protection and write a management plan. According to virtually all interviews and literature studied, a turning point in the fate of the Delta was its recognition as a UNESCO Natural World Heritage Site in 1991. This recognition came after extensive lobbying by State Secretary for Environment Angheluta Vadineanu and the consortium of organizations already mentioned, led by IUCN (see IUCN 1991). The notes



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of the UNESCO meetings in Paris of July 10 and December 9, 1991, show a general willingness to accept the nomination, but also reservations related to the unclear legal status of the Delta, as well as the lack of a management plan. Jacques Cousteau, French oceanographer-cum-celebrity, visited the Delta and brought up its conservation status in influential circles. Cousteau’s friend Jacques Attali, close to French president Mitterrand, and at that time president of the European Bank for Reconstruction and Development (EBRD), proved instrumental in freeing up funds for the institutional development of nature conservation in the Delta. The commitment of EBRD, in conjunction with the recognition by UNESCO, proved enough to open the doors at the World Bank, more precisely, to the Global Environment Facility (GEF) funds, with the World Bank as implementing agency. The World Bank and EBRD provided the bulk of the funding for the formation of the DDBRA, the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Administration (IUCN 1991; Euroconsult IUCN, 1993; World Bank 1994; EBRD 1994; notes of the UNESCO meetings: UNESCO 1991; Goriup 1994). The World Bank focused first on Romania, then later decided to split the $6 million for institutional development for nature conservation between Romania and Ukraine (which received $1.5 million). EBRD was planning to support the economic development of the area, as part of a strategy integrated with World Bank conservation efforts. Paul Goriup, resident advisor for IUCN, worked with Euroconsult (now Arcadis), a private consultancy firm, on the planning for local economic development initiatives (Euroconsult and Goriup 1993; interviews at Arcadis). In a consultative process, they developed several scenarios for the sustainable development of the Delta. Goriup also worked with the DDBRA on the 1995 draft management plan (Baboianu and Goriup 1995). While the 1992 IUCN report reveals the scientific and activist enthusiasm of an interdisciplinary group sharing an embryonic vision, the 1995 draft plan reveals the political pragmatism of the new Romania, and, already, a crumbling belief in ambitious planning schemes. As early as 1992, Vadineanu had to threaten the Romanian Parliament with loss of the UNESCO-designation in order to pass a protection law that was promised to UNESCO (interview with Vadineanu). In the end, Law no. 8217 was passed in December 1993, and the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve was officially created. The law also stipulated special attention for nature conservation and local livelihoods in the region. UNESCO accorded the new reserve the status of a Man and Biosphere Reserve. The traditional MAB zoning—with core areas, buffers and economic zones—were inscribed in the law, and would be delineated by the newly established DDBRA, in cooperation with IUCN and partners. MAB status requires co-management of an area, including participation of local residents, NGO’s, and substantial volunteering.

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From the very beginning, virtually all international actors, including the ones with mostly environmental agendas, stated the importance of (regulated) local economic development and local participation. Also from the very beginning, virtually all parties were worried, and after a few years gravely concerned, about the lack of local participation. Discussions within IUCN, WWF and RIZA came back to this topic regularly (interviews Erika Schneider, Paul Goriup, Aitken Clark, Angheluta Vadineanu, Hans Drost, and others). Following an optimistic report in 1994, EBRD withdrew its funding for local economic development in 1995. Our sources in IUCN and WWF said the EBRD made this decision out of concern that the recipients did not have the capacity to utilize these resources well. In other words, the suspicion was that regional and national corruption, plus the conspicuous absence of locals in previous years’ planning, would produce a resource allocation that would not benefit local development as intended. Workshops organized for EBRD by Euroconsult, which were supposed to be a participatory process leading to a regional investment strategy, were routinely dominated by local mayors, and institutional actors at the regional level. John Fraser Stewart of the World Bank warned that stakeholders and consultants are not the same as locals (Norsworthy 2000; also Reed 2008). There was regional political pressure to designate the 1995 draft management plan as a final plan, but the IUCN and partners succeeded in keeping the “draft” label in the hope of more successful citizen participation for the next round. Meanwhile, at the DDBRA, with a scientific council originally intended as site of citizen input, even participatory governance was ineffective: The council was basically transformed into an empty shell, a meeting place for DDBRA management and County officials (interviews with Paul Goriup, Erika Schneider and Aitken Clark). National politicians were eager to join the newly created DDBRA because of its broadly defined authority—including planning and zoning on the biosphere reserve, which covers about two-thirds of the Delta’s territory. A DDBRA governor position ranked just below an appointment as minister in terms of prestige, and the jockeying for power increased the impact of national politics on the authority. As a result, local participation was reduced even further. The EBRD initially wanted to separate DDBRA from the Ministry of Environment, to make it more independent (Euroconsult and Goriup 1993). According to the World Bank (1994, 2000 and 2005) this situation would have allowed for closer cooperation with the local communities in drafting the management plan. Nonetheless, in the early nineties, with the local economy in shatters, a green future for the Delta looked acceptable to most Romanian actors. New resources did materialize, the UNESCO designation and some related public relations efforts—which included members of the British Royal Family— brought a patina of prestige to wetland conservation and restoration efforts.



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WWF had gained experience by building a knowledge base for wetland restoration projects in Western Europe, including projects in Germany initiated by the WWF’s Auen Institute (Rastatt, currently Karlsruhe University). The WWF project leader, from the Auen institute, did have a thorough understanding of the Romanian context, and saw the window of opportunity there (see e.g. Schneider 1990). Some other international players ought to be mentioned here. The Norfolk Broads authority was considered by both Romanians, the first governors of DDBRA and western actors especially the nature organizations as a potential model for the DDBRA. The Norfolk Broads Authority’s director at the time, Aitken Clark, organized exchange programs, bringing DDBRA staff to England and bringing some of his staff to the Danube Delta (interviews Aitken Clark, Sandra Bell, Meg Amsden). The Norfolk Broads, established later than most English national parks and in a relatively more populated area, offered a model of a multi-use landscape with high ecological value (IUCN 1992; Baboianu and Goriup 1995). The Broads saw a high level of landscape intervention—e.g. to clean up algae—that could not reasonably be emulated in the Danube Delta, due to issues of scale and resources. But the Broads Authority’s extensive education programs and collaborative management practices were seen by many experts as the best available example for the Delta. Whereas the general spatial structure of the Danube Delta Biosphere reserve—with core areas, buffers and economic zones—was inspired by a best-practice concept that was embraced by both UNESCO and the IUCN and derived from ecological network theory, the organizational structure first envisioned (e.g. IUCN 1992) was inspired by the Norfolk Broads. In the Norfolk Broads, the idea that the Authority would manage planning and zoning was rendered acceptable in the region by conceiving planning and zoning as a profoundly participatory process. In the Danube Delta, a much larger area, the DDBRA claimed planning authority, but participatory planning never materialized. Local municipalities were not well-informed about the DDBRA and many did not realize the consequences for local planning (Bell 2004; Apostol 2005, and interviews). Furthermore, trust levels were low and responsibilities were not clearly demarcated regarding the remaining planning powers of the municipalities in the Delta. This example shows the difficulties people faced when they tried to implement the Norfolk Broads Model in the Delta—as well as offering a lesson on the limitations of transplanting ideas and organizational structures from different contexts. World Wildlife Fund (WWF) was represented by the Auen Institute, as mentioned above, but its strategy was multi-pronged. WWF, with its complex internal structure, did not formulate one policy for the Delta, but allowed for the emergence of several initiatives among its various branches—initiatives that were largely compatible with one another. WWF Germany, WWF

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Netherlands, the WWF Danube Carpathian Program (DCP), later WWF Romania, all developed projects, sometimes in cooperation, sometimes not. WWF was active on both sides of the border (interviews Willem Overmars, Erika Schneider, interviews at ICPDR; also Overmars, 2008). International Organizations Whereas the Danube Delta in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries experienced the direct impact of international politics over the lower Danube branches and cities, through the European Danube Commission (CED), its successor organizations have considerably less impact. The International Commission for the Protection of the Danube River (ICPDR) is a relatively young organization (established in 1998), resulting from a new treaty, the Danube Convention (1994), signed by seven riparian countries, later extended to 15 basin nations. Itself modeled after the commission for the Rhine Basin (CCNR), ICPDR cannot be considered a revival of the CED, which was an international authority dissolved in 1936. A Danube Commission still exists, with limited authority, and it largely deals with navigation problems, while ICPDR is an arena where various issues facing the nations in the Danube space can be discussed (interviews Harald Kutzenberger, Willem Overmars, Teun Botterweg, and at ICPDR; also UNDP et al. 2007). The ICPDR facilitates consideration of engineering issues, ecological questions and economic and political problems and organizes monitoring programs. ICPDR formulates visions for future development. Decision making in the ICPDR is not always very smooth, and the amount of knowledge underlying its policies is staggering. The IAD (International Association for Danube research), represents academia, and academic knowledge, at ICPDR meetings, in an advisory role. IAD’s network is largely in the natural sciences, but it recently opened up more to social sciences. For the Danube Delta, among other things, the EU Water Framework Directive and the Birds and Habitat Directives (aimed at nature conservation) have already proven influential. Following the Birds and Habitat Directives the Danube Delta was designated as a Natura 2000 site, which gave a new impetus to the wetland restoration efforts of WWF and partners (Marin and Schneider 1997; Staras 2001; Schneider 2007; Chernicko and Overmars 2003). The Water Framework Directive requires basin-wide formation of knowledge and policy, and reinforces the tendency of ICPDR to envision the relationship between all the issues and locations affected by policy in the Delta. Since 2006, ICPDR has been the official partner of the EU for the implementation of the Water Framework Directive. The Framework’s impact on the Danube Delta includes requirements for interactive, participatory



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governance in water-related decision making, starting from the local level. ICPDR published its own basin-wide public participation strategy in 2003, a document that formed the basis for a 2004 draft (and 2006 final document) on ensuring participation in the implementation of the water framework directive (ICPDR 2003). When it comes to the impact of the EU, and the role of ICPDR, one should keep in mind that both the Water Framework and Habitat directives are relatively minor programs in comparison with the EU’s Structural Funds for regional development. Many projects upstream will affect the Danube Delta—especially plans to “regularize” the Danube over long stretches: This involves defining and deepening the navigation route by means of an extensive program of infrastructural improvements, like building jetties and dykes, removing islands and cutting off river branches (interviews Teun Botterweg, Harald Kutzenberger, Willem Overmars, and at ICPDR and Arcadis). At this point, it is hard to predict the relative weight of the diverse EU-inspired policies and the fate of the Danube Delta. The regularization plan, leading to accelerated drainage, would sharpen the difference between floods and droughts, and the sediment load would be less dispersed over the Delta, sustaining less of the ecological diversity observed today. Local Decision Making and Knowledge Two organizations play a key role in the current management of the Delta: the DDBRA and the Danube Delta National Institute for Research and Development (DDNI). The DDNI successfully transformed itself from a communist-era institute for land reclamation and fisheries development, into an interdisciplinary research and policy support institution, advising DDBRA but also other authorities in all matters pertaining to wetlands. The existing knowledge base on hydrology, geology, and fish biology was, in an actively expanded network of international cooperation, turned into expertise on fish ecology, eco-hydrology, environmental pollution, environmental policy and planning. Communist secrecy had left a legacy of poor mapping and monitoring, and the DDNI filled the niche with verve. Both the DDNI and DDBRA evolved. In the 1990s, DDBRA focused on law enforcement, with between 100 and 150 “reservation guards” (all men) enforcing laws against poaching, dumping and illegal construction. According to most accounts, local inhabitants of the area were treated like the enemy during this time (despite the admonitions of DDBRA 1996). This approach was not appreciated by the villagers (Boja and Popescu 2000; Bell 2004; Apostol et al. 2005). Since 2000, more emphasis has been placed on education of, and communication with, the local population. This was

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clear in DDBRA (2000), which was introduced after “long dragging their feet,” according to World Bank (2005). What remained unchanged is that the DDBRA took over many responsibilities of municipal and county governments within the boundaries of the Biosphere Reservation—though some environmental controls were moved to the county-level Environmental Protection Agencies in 2000 (World Bank 2005). In this institutional exception, conflicts with other local jurisdictions were bound to arise, and they did. Municipalities and the county routinely ignore DDBRA policies and vice versa. Trust levels are very low, and results can vary from immobility in one case, to a free-for-all in other cases. Rule of law is still very imperfect. The authority of the DDBRA was not understood by many inhabitants at first (Goriup 1994; Euroconsult and Goriup 1993). Later, its authority was resented (Bell 2004; Boja and Popescu 2000), and even now, distrust often marks the relationship between the DDBRA and inhabitants of Delta villages (interviews, Van Assche et al. 2009). Complicating the relationship is the unclear mandate of DDBRA in the areas of law enforcement and planning: signals from Bucharest vary, and not every rule and policy is expected to be implemented at any given moment. Some of the formal and enforced rules benefit interest groups with strong connections in Bucharest: the concessionaires of large fishing grounds in the Delta, who employ local fishermen; tourism developers; villa owners; rich hunters; and even fish poachers (Bell 2004; Apostol et al. 2005; Van Assche et al. 2008). None of these benefits for outsiders can be proven with documents, and people only spoke about it off record. One recurring narrative is the belief that small infringements punished severely, while bigger violations by more economically powerful actors escape the attention of the law: New hotels and villas are still erected in the wrong places (author’s observation); and the fish concession system, established in 2000 and enabled by loopholes in the 1993 law, is still in place, despite critiques on many sides (interviews) and despite lack of investment and lack of protection of individual fishermen. Stocks of zander and pike, valuable species, have been nearly depleted (Năvodaru et al. 2001). It seems that the DDBRA has truly changed, and the Administration no longer protects the powerful while punishing locals the way it once did. But this memory lingers on in the villages, reinforcing the image of an unfair and mostly absentee landlord. Many local people complain about false promises by the DDBRA and feel abandoned. The DDBRA is supposed to be responsible for waste collection, sewer provision and water supply—a serious concern as many locals still drink Danube water. Yet these responsibilities are mostly unfunded, and the DDBRA does not have a sufficient budget to handle these tasks (Știucă and Nicherșu 2006; Dumitrescu 2005).



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When dealing with officials to get various permits, to find out about changes in regulations or to negotiate minor issues, villagers are expected to come to Tulcea, which is a day’s journey for some (interviews; Apostol 2005; Bell 2004). Even after someone makes the trip to Tulcea, the officials they deal with can still disappear, refuse help or provide misleading information. In general locals perceive the influence of old regional elites in every action of the regional authorities. Local elites, where existing (as in Sulina and Mila 23) usually prefer to minimize open conflict, which is perceived as “bad for tourism,” but they push forward their own plans for local development, often at odds with the intentions of DDBRA and Tulcea county. One bold example of ignoring the DDBRA is the beach development in Sulina. Attempts at participatory governance leading to the draft management plan and the EBRD inception strategy (Euroconsult and Goriup 1993; Baboianu and Goriup 1995) are either not remembered, or remembered as exclusionary, based on our interviews. There were better perceptions of the discussions sessions in town halls in the years leading up to the 2005 Masterplan (described in Știucă and Nicherșu 2006). These sessions, often led by Iulian Nichersu, were more widely publicized, better attended, and, according to transcripts and the recollections of some people present, they offered a more open forum for discussion of pressing issues, and possible solutions (Bell 2004). However, the result of these discussions, the actual plan, was not so widely publicized. Furthermore, the plan did not contain a significantly larger role for local citizens in the governance of the Delta, and the development efforts aimed at improvement of their livelihoods are chronically postponed because of a lack of funds. The situation has been described as one where common resources upon which locals used to rely were privatized, and not replaced with alternatives (Apostol 2005; World Bank 2005; and Bell 2004, cf. West 2006). That situation still persists to the present day. Many locals do not expect anything anymore from DDBRA, or even their local representatives, and many young people just want to leave the area (interviews in Sulina, Mila 23). In other words, trust in participatory forms of governance is low among all local actors, and prior efforts to use such governance has only increased suspicion and fatigue. The Locals and their Participatory Possibilities and Roles in the Delta Knowledge about the situation of the Delta is produced on various scales, in Tulcea, nationally and internationally by a host of organizations, but this knowledge trickles down extremely slowly, is filtered very selectively, and

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rarely influences plans with a real impact (cf. Majone and Wildavsky 1979). Over the years, the quality of DDNI research has steadily increased. However, in the local communities, there is little perception of effectiveness of DDNI, even though the organization defends local livelihoods (via the publication series Scientific Annals of the DDNI), conducts high-level ecological analyses and increases the relevance of its research through international cooperation. In the governance of the Delta, the silence of the locals cannot be interpreted solely as a type of deliberate exclusion. Looking at the development of policy and knowledge about and for the Delta, we observe that a series of path dependencies created by past decisions shape the role of the locals in decision making—and prevents public participation for multiple reasons. One factor inhibiting public participation is the history of marginality in the Delta, a history of distance from the center of power, a history that is not conducive to very active forms of citizenship (Iordachi 2002; Van Assche Devlieger et al. 2009; Van Assche, Teampău et al. 2008). Another factor is the lack of opportunities for interactive, participatory decision making in the communist past (Tismăneanu 2003; Bădescu and Sum 2003; Bădescu et al. 2004). Various roles in Romanian society had to be redefined in a transition that was more complex than that of most other Eastern European countries (Pușcă 2009). Another factor stifling dialogue was the institutionalization of green discourse and the consequent marginalization of other perspectives: For example, the green focus of World Bank, 1994, proved more influential than the Romanian law of 1993. And then there is the sheer complexity of governance in the Danube Delta, where participatory forms of democracy ask a lot from the locals, because the range of issues facing the Delta, and the knowledge required to deliberate all these issues, is substantial. The Danube Delta is a sink collecting the dirt of half of Europe, but also a filter partly removing that dirt. The situation poses knowledge/power issues that will be overwhelming for any individual or community. It is unlikely that inhabitants of the villages will get involved in making decisions about management of the Delta because of impediments like hierarchy, secrecy, corruption, poverty, unstable institutions, transportation, education and health issues (compare Tismăneanu 2003; Pușcă 2009). On the other hand, one can also observe a strategic use of non-participation: at the local level, many people do not trust local and regional politics. Local politicians in turn can pursue their own interests by minimizing meaningful communication with the regional government. People can choose non-participation, as a manifestation of independence, as a way of emphasizing pride in differences (sometimes ethnic differences), or as a sign of distrust of the political game



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and its fairness. This non-participation can also reflect ignorance, lack of awareness or lack of real opportunities to participate (Van Assche, Devlieger et al. 2009). Within Sulina, and within the villages, there is usually awareness that the Delta is “a special place,” “a unique place,” and “an important place” (interviews). And there is an awareness that both the values to be protected and the threats to those values are very complicated. At the same time, the experts who are supposed to take care of the Delta—those representing the DDBRA/ DDNI, “Bucharest” and “Europe”—are not trusted and are often resented. Despite about a decade of efforts to step up communication, the Tulceabased institutions, are seen as being non-representative—and even dismissive of local interests and local knowledge, which is often ignored or presented as “folklore.” As is noted in Apostol et al. (2005): “A communication strategy is not participation.” Locals in Sulina have complained that their children were taught some things about nature, as part of the education and communication strategy, but that nobody asked them anything. In its 2005 evaluation report, the World Bank acknowledges that the proposal for World Bank funding should have been a product of participation itself. For the villagers, knowledge and power are intricately connected, and scientists studying the Delta are either seen as the arm of a corrupt, inefficient government, as self-serving, or as arrogant experts perpetuating negative stereotypes of local inferiority. In Sulina, and among officials in Tulcea, there appears to be an attitude that “1000 studies are done about Sulina, but nothing changes” (cf. interviews). Science is perceived as useless, and often also as harmful: New maps and studies are seen as paving the way for new policies that will not represent local understanding of the place or local interests. People are often resistant to scientific study of their own population and the area they call home, because the production of scientific knowledge is considered to be interwoven with a government apparatus that is alien and largely parasitic (Stringer et al. 2006). Already by the early 1990s, research into livelihoods, included in the preparation of both the EBRD plan (1993) and DDBRA plan (1994), was conducted under difficult circumstances, with both authorities and local residents very wary of the findings (interviews Paul Goriup, Erika Schneider, Aitken Clark). Given local experiences with “paper laws” and selective enforcement, many residents do not trust laws either. In its 2000 report, the World Bank deplored the eternal postponement of a new Delta law, to fill in the loopholes of the 1993 law. In that report, the Bank again restated the need to solve the problem of livelihoods, since current laws were forcing locals into illegality to survive, thereby further undermining the rule of law (see also IUCN 1995; Norsworthy 2000).

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Knowledge/Power and the Delineation of the Local We have defined policies as temporary conceptual structures coordinating knowledge and power, structures that are in constant transmutation because of their confrontation with other knowledge/power configurations. In Foucaultian fashion, we tried to establish a genealogy of Delta policies and knowledge in which the local came to the fore or was ignored and marginalized (Foucault 1980). In the Danube Delta, the Romanian government, advised by international actors, adopted an institutional framework that gave discourses on nature conservation and biodiversity an effective monopoly in local/regional governance. Most of the international actors did not express that intention in their reports. In fact, UNESCO, WWF, IUCN, RIZA, ICPDR, EU and the World Bank, all argued for strong citizen participation, directly and/or through NGOs, which were assumed to be more influential that they were in the Romania of the 1990s (cf. Badescu et al. 2003; Pușcă 2009; Verdery 2003). The international actors all argued that substantial and visible local benefits, resulting from participatory governance, would be the best guarantee for long-term protection. These arguments were based on the assumption that strong, well-functioning local governments were in place, capable and willing to share responsibilities with DDBRA. However, in the Romania, local governments were weak, impoverished and often clannish, and this was even more true in the Danube Delta, with its inaccessible landscape and its history of marginality (Van Assche, Teampău et al. 2009; Pușcă 2009; Bădescu et al. 2003). Western models of governance for environmentally sensitive areas therefore, were reinterpreted quite drastically at the national and regional levels, by turning the green institutions into local/ regional government (Van Assche and Teampău 2010). The green institutions, DDBRA and to a lesser extent DDNI, were not prepared for this responsibility; they were given highly ambitious and often contradictory tasks. Their focus is still conservation, and inclusion of local perspectives on the Delta and its development, is structurally difficult and unlikely. From the start, the role of the reservation guards, later renamed rangers, was ambiguous. Eurocosult had a policing function in mind, whereas IUCN and World Bank thought more of local employment, and a natural embedding of conservation goals in the villages. The training manual (DDBRA 1996) dwells extensively on education and cooperation with locals, while early DDBRA management focused on martial arts training for the guards. Education, cooperation and control vied for importance in their job description, reflecting the ambiguities and contradictions of DDBRA governance in general, as well as the delineation of the local as a subject that had to be educated and policed, possibly helped, but without meaningful interaction.



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A similar ambiguity can be found in the 1993 law establishing the biosphere reserve. The law speaks of locals being allowed to continue their “traditional activities,” with the assumption that the local populace is close to nature in a folkloristic and harmless use of its resources (an assumption also traceable in the Annals of the DDNI). But the law also leaves the door open for a concession system, which was eventually established (cf. Supra in 2000; Belacurencu 2007). After the more brutal phase of policing by the reservation guards, the concession system was a major step in disempowering the residents of the villages. Local monopolies were given to a small number of companies over the fish and reed resources of the Delta, reducing fishermen to employees of well-connected concession-owners—like in the days of Centrala Deltei. Fishermen were not allowed to unite and defend their interests through cooperatives (something called for by World Bank, WWF, UNESCO, and the NGO pro Delta). Exclusion of local knowledge and local desires is a not uncommon simplification strategy as it is part of the repertoire of a high modernist state (Scott 1998; Van Assche 2004). Here the delineating of the local is at the same time a process of silencing, subjugation and marginalization. “The local’s’ knowledge is qualified as nonconceptual knowledge, as insufficiently elaborated knowledge: naive knowledge, hierarchically inferior, below the required level of erudition or scientificity” (Foucault 2003b). In Foucault’s words these discourses “are located low down on most official hierarchies of ideas (. . .). Certainly they are ranked ‘beneath’ science. They are the discourses of the madman, the delinquent, the pervert and other persons (. . .)” (Foucault 2003a). As a local tourism entrepreneur expressed it: “the locals? They don’t even know where their ass is.” Kothari (2001), Stringer et al. (2006) and Van Assche and Teampău (2010) assert that the rhetoric and formal institutions of participatory environmental governance cannot erase the legacies of hierarchy and knowledge supremacy that marked high modernist states. Since the inhabitants of the villages are either excluded from the start, or allowed to speak without too much consequence for policy formation, their self-presentation hardly influences the images circulating in the decisionmaking process (Latour 2004). This absence of local voices and local self definitions makes it easier for other constructions of the local to dominate discourse and reduces the likelihood of later inclusion. For DDBRA, more than for the international actors originally backing it, villagers were originally the enemy, stealing natural resources whenever possible (interviews; Apostol 2005; World Bank 2005; Bell 2004; Gastescu 1996; Boja and Popescu 2000; Galatchi 2009; Belacurencu 2007). There also seemed to be a perception that local participation would mean including local clans who represent their own interests, instead of those of villagers. That image slowly morphed into one of locals as poor and uneducated, in need of development and

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education (DDBRA, 2000, interviews at DDBRA). In parallel, DDNI, already (cautiously) critical about the management of fisheries in the Delta (e.g. Năvodaru et al. 2001), and the marginalization of local fishermen in the process (Dumitrescu 2003, 2005; Bell and Nichersu 2001), developed an image of a culturally diverse (if slightly backward) mosaic of local communities. Traditions, dances, costumes, local architecture, dishes, products, became an asset, and heritage tourism became part of the development recipe (Știucă and Nichersu 2006) Local identity became commodified, acknowledged as a factor in economic development. That identity was perceived as diverse, the diversity itself understood as valuable, while a diversity of interests and desires was not part of the image. Economic and political development still remained discursively separated, as were science and politics; locals could be studied, villages developed, but the realm of the political is not conceptualized in the narrative. Foucault would argue that a conspicuous absence of politics in the imagery of locals reinforces the status quo, in this case a power distribution where locals don’t participate at the regional level, a level that is singularly important in the Delta, because of the unique role of the DDBRA. Conclusion Our analysis shows that policies originating at various levels of government co-create a “local” who is both scrutinized and silenced, simultaneously exoticized, subjugated and marginalized. The exotic world of ethnic variety in the swamp can be observed, studied and visited. Knowledge and power create the image and keep it in place. Direct citizen participation in the management of the Danube delta would affect a variety of interests at the regional and national level. The system is not closed, however, since there is no effective monopoly on knowledge production or image and subject formation. In power relations, change is always possible, counter discourse may appear, resistance practices may emerge: “Where there is power, there is resistance, and yet, or rather consequently, this resistance is never in a position of exteriority in relation to power,” Foucault (1980) argues. In other words: “Power relations are mobile, they can be modified, they are not fixed once and for all” (Foucault 1997: 291–292). While local self presentation does not contribute significantly to the production and dissemination of images with political resonance (because of the power distribution described) there are dissonant voices in Romania and abroad: NGOs, members of the Tulcea County Council, and academics. Furthermore international organizations can change their view—as happened when the World Bank, WWF, and UNESCO several times came close to taking away the MAB status, requiring more participatory governance.



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In addition, regional/national discourses on locals do not control those locals entirely. Many things go unnoticed in the marshes, and local politics, which is sometimes democratic, sometimes not, ignores many policies, plans and rules emanating from the centers of power. In this situation, participatory governance, and participatory planning in particular, is no easy undertaking. Stringer et al. (2009), discussing environmental planning, and Pușcă (2009), analyzing political participation, demonstrated how shallow civic participation in Romanian politics still is. These studies show how weak civil society is and how much participatory experiments are still tied to project funding and to EU requirements, in short, to external stimuli. Corruption is still rampant, and regional and national elites still dominate resources and decision making in a profoundly undemocratic manner. In the marginalized Danube Delta, inhabited by impoverished ethnic minorities, the challenges to participatory governance are even more pronounced, regardless of formal requirements contained in the treaties signed and laws adopted (Ramsar, Aarhus, MAB covenant, Romanian law 8317). The Delta’s unique institutional design does not help the situation either. In other words, the same knowledge/power configuration that created “the local” in the Danube Delta—a discursive construction supposed to discipline villagers while keeping them out of decision making—would render a possible inclusion of local voices in the future more risky and less meaningful. But the complexity of governance in the area, and the pressure of international actors, make some form of participation a prerequisite for future funding. The relative success of regional and national authorities in disempowering locals with a flood of scientific reports and a flurry of regulations, not only makes their return to the table unlikely, it also alienated many villagers from the government, and made them immune to most rhetoric about environment, democracy, capitalism and the rule of law (Acheson 2006; Pellozoni 2001). That in turn makes it highly unlikely that any policy aimed at sustainable management of the Delta, however well-calibrated, can be implemented. The informal institutions that developed over the years make enforcement almost impossible. The only way to get anything implemented, now more than ever, is to include locals in decision making, even if it is now harder than ever. In 2000, the World Bank had already concluded that neutral parties needed to be involved, to engender participation, since the local institutions had too many obligations to other parties, none had a credible track record of inclusiveness—and none of them were trusted by the local residents (Stringer et al. 2006, 2009; Armas and Avran 2009; Farrington 1998). Discourse that discredited the legitimacy, possibility and necessity of participatory governance, made the introduction of such governance both difficult and unavoidable. Once local people are present around the negotiation

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table, they have more control over their own image, and the discursive strategies of other actors will shift accordingly. Simply bringing people to the table does not dissolve existing elite networks, but at least the decision-making game will be clarified: Who is deciding what, why, what are the real interests? Conflicts will not go away, but they will be more visible and possibly more productive (Cleaver 2002). Definitions of problems and solutions can be more integrative of varied knowledge and interests, implementation can become more likely, and sustainability starts to sound less utopian. Bibliography Acheson, J. (2006). “Institutional failure in resource management,” Annual Review of Anthropology, 35(1): 117–134. Allen, B. (1991). “Government in Foucault,” Canadian Journal of Philosophy, 21(4): 421–440. Apostol, M., M. Cernea et al (2005). GEF Romania Danube Delta Bioconservation Project. Local benefits analysis, Stockholm: Stockholm Environmental Institute. Armas, I., E. Avram (2009). “The perception of flood risk in Danube Delta, Romania,” Natural Hazards, 50(2): 269–287. Baboianu, G., P. Goriup, eds. (1995). Management Objectives Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve, Gland: IUCN. Bădescu, G., P. Sum (2003). “Historical legacies and social capital. Comparing Romania and Germany on a regional level,” Paper presented at the annual meeting of the APSA, August 2003, Philadelphia. Bădescu, G., P. Sum and E. Uslaner (2004). “Civil society development and democratic values in Romania and Moldova,” East European Politics and Society, 18(2): 316–341. Belacurencu, T. (2007). “Implementation of ecological policies in the Danube Delta,” Theoretical and applied economics, 4(4): 9–27. Bell, S., ed. (2004). IMEW Integrated Management of European Wetlands. Final Report, Durham: Durham University. Bell, S., I. Nicherşu et al (2001). “Conservation versus livelihood in the Danube Delta,” Anthropology of East Europe Review, 19(1), 11–15. Berkes, F. (2004). “Rethinking community-based conservation,” Conservation Biology, 18(3): 621–630. Beunen, R., M. Duineveld (2010). “Divergence and convergence in policy meanings of European environmental policies: the case of the Birds and Habitats Directives,” International Planning Studies, 15(4): 321–333. Beunen, R., W. van der Knaap, R. Biesbroek (2009). “Implementation and integration of EU environmental directives. Experiences from The Netherlands,” Environmental Policy and Governance, 19: 57–69. Boja, V., I. Popescu (2000). “Social ecology in the Danube Delta: theory and practice,” Lakes and reservoirs: research and management, 5(2): 125–131.



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Rank, M. (1990). Wild Danube saved by Ceauşescu overthrow, Reuters, 19 February. Reed, M. (2008). “Stakeholder participation for environmental management,” Biological Conservation, 141: 2417–2431. Roman, R. (1990). S.O.S. Danube Delta! An Open letter to Prime Minister Petre Roman. June,1990. Schneider, Erika (1990). “Die Auen im Einzugsgebiet der unteren Donau,” Arbeit des internationals Auen symposium 1987 beim WWF Auen Institut Rastatt, Laufen, Germany: ANL. Schneider, Erika (2007). “Transboundary project on nature conservation, restoration and sustainable socio-economic development,” presentation at Final wetlands workshop of the undp/ gef Danube regional project, Tulcea, April 18–20. De Jong, J., B. Schultz (1982). “De ontwikkeling van de Donau Delta,” Cultuurtechnisch tijdschrift, 22(2): 64–72. Scott, J. (1998). Seeing like a state. Why certain schemes to improve the human condition failed, New Haven: Yale University Press. Staras, M. (2000). “Wetland restoration in the Danube Delta. Potential and limitations,” River restoration in Europe. Practical approaches, Wageningen, the Netherlands: Wageningen University. Știucă, R., I. Nichersu (2006). “Master Plan – support for sustainable development in Danube Delta Bioshpere Reserve/ Tulcea county (Romania) Logical Framework Analysis (LFA),” Proceedings of the 36th IAD conference, Vienna: IAD. Stringer, L., A. Dougill, E. Fraser, K. Hubacek, C. Prell, M. Reed (2006). “Unpacking “participation” in the adaptive management of social ecological systems: A critical review,” Ecology and society, 11, 2. Stringer, L.C., S.S., Scrieciu and M. Reed (2009). “Biodiversity, land degradation, and climate change: Participatory planning in Romania,” Applied Geography, 29, 1: 77–90. Teampău, P., K. Van Assche (2009). “Sulina, Sulina, when there’s water, there’s no light. Memory and autobiography in a Romanian town,” Identities, 7(1–2): 33–70. Tismăneanu, V. (2003). Stalinism for all seasons: a political history of Romanian communism, Berkeley: University of California Press. Turnock, D. (1986). The Romanian economy in the 20th century, New York: St Martin’s Press. UNDP, GEF, ICPDR, UNOPS (2007). Danube regional project. Working for the Danube and its people, UNDP (results of UNDP/GEF projects 2001–2007; DVD). UNEP World Conservation Monitoring center (2009). Danube Delta. Romania, UNEP, [Online: http://www.unep-wcmc.org/sites/wh/pdf/Danube%20Delta.pdf]. UNESCO-MAB (1998). Biosphere Reserves Directory. Biosphere Reserve Information, Danube Delta, UNESCO. UNESCO (1991). World heritage committee meeting minutes (July 10, Dec 9), Paris: UNESCO. Van Assche, K. (2007). “Planning as/and/in context. Towards a new analysis of participatory planning,” Middle Eastern Technical University JFA, 27(1), 105–117.

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Index of Names and Places

Aagapin, Captain, 167 Aarhus, 423 Ad Stoma, 157 Administration Romanian Waters (NARW), 383, 384, 386, 387 Aenos (Enez, Turkish), 225 Agnesse, Battista, 158, 159 Agreement on the Establishment and Joint Management of a Transfrontier Protected Area in the Danube Delta and the Lower River Prut, 320, 337 Akkerman, 231, 267 Alexander, Catherine, 218 Allport, Gordon, 246, 247 Alma-Ro, 386, 393 Amsden, Meg, 413 Anatolia, 225, 232 Anghel, Camelia, 178 Ankundinov channel, 201, 202, 203, 204, 206, 208, 213, 214, 216, 220 Anokin Kut Bay, 143 Antipa, Grigore, xi, 62 Apollonius of Rhodos, 156 Arcadis, 411, 415 Arrianus, Flavius, 156 Artsiz, 266, 340 Askania Nova, 312 Astrakhan, 231 Athos Mountain, 160 Attali, Jacques, 411

Austria, 23, 121, 186, 236, 320 Austro-Hungarian Empire, 165 Babadag, 170, 224 Baba-Rada, 103 Babina Island, 45, 48, 55, 57, 87, 93, 94, 95, 96–97, 99, 100, 102, 106, 107, 109, 111 Baclăneşti, 72 Bakhtin, Mikhail, xviii Balashev, Commandant, 229 Balkan Peninsula, 40, 162, 164, 169 Balta Borcea (Borcea Pond), 170 Balta Brăilei (Brăila Pond), 77, 121, 167, 170, 173, 250, 337, 409 Bart, Jean, 190, 194, 195 Bassov, Nikolai, 215 Batrachov, Kozmo, 230 Bauer (Bawr), General, 168 Bavaria, 121 Belgorod Canal, 202, 203, 204, 206, 207, 210 Belgrade, 162, 164, 168 Bell, Sandra, 405, 413 Berger, Peter, 246 Bessarabia, 203, 225, 226, 230, 232, 236; Southern Bessarabia, 261–275 Bessarabia Customs and Border Services, 225, 228, 230 Bickel, Konrad, 157 431

432

Index of Names and Places

Black Sea Protection Convention, 338 Black Sea, xiii, xiv, 3, 5, 8, 41, 44, 56, 57, 60, 63, 67, 71, 76, 89, 91, 93, 100, 104, 107, 110, 117, 121, 135, 157–159, 161, 162, 164, 165, 167, 169, 179, 185, 204, 223, 226, 227, 228, 232, 233, 237, 307, 325, 334, 335, 337, 338, 339, 347, 370 Bodel Nijenhuis Collection, 167 Bogasi (Sf. Gheorghe), 90, 158, 169, 170, 171, 172, 173, 179, 180 Bogatoye, 329 Bolgrad, 329, 340 Boreo, 156, 160, 161 Bosphor, 158, 164 Botterweg, Teun, 414, 415 Bourdieu, Pierre, 247 Brăila, 77, 121, 250 Brăila județ (county), 337 Brătescu, Constantin, 117, 178 Brezhnev, Leonid, 203 Britain, Great Britain, xiv, 74 British Library, 157 Brognard, Wenzel von, 168 Brubaker, Rogers, 246 Bucharest Treaty of (1812), 225 Bucharest, xviii, 91, 178, 288, 292, 334, 416 Budjak, 226 Bugeac Plain, 40 Bulgaria, 107, 161, 162, 170, 189, 223, 225, 270, 274, 326, 337, 408 Bystroe distributary, 129, 139, 143, 147 Bystroie branch, 202, 204 C. A. Rosetti, 57, 102, 244, 253, 355 Cahul raion, 337 Călărași, 107 Călărași Island, 107 Calon, 156, 160, 161 Cama-Dinu project, 107 Canary Islands, 160 Cantemir raion, 337 Cantemir, Dimitrie, 161, 169 Capul Midia, 347 Caraorman, 167, 253

Caraorman complex, 8, 11, 16, 20, 22, 25, 124, 355 Caraorman Forest, 14, 26, 58, 356 Carasu Lake, 162, 165, 310 Cat’s Bend region, 373, 374, 382, 383, 387, 388, 391, 398, 399 Ceatalchioi-Pătlăgeanca, 355 Ceauşescu, Nicolae, 303, 304, 311, 409, 410 Central Europe, 317 Cernovca Polder, 51, 57, 87, 93, 94, 95, 96–97, 100, 102, 106, 107, 109, 111 Chernobyl, 331 Chichma, 231 Chilia, 5, 94, 100, 158, 169, 170, 171, 253, 281, 282, 283, 284, 285, 287, 288, 290, 292, 363. See also Kilia Chilia Branch, 41, 43, 44, 48, 49, 55, 57, 90, 97, 100, 101, 170, 176, 179, 347 Chilia Delta, 9, 167, 168 Chilia Field, 40 Chilia Veche, 170 Cimmerian Bosphorus, 158 Clark, Aitken, 410, 412, 413, 419 Coles, Robert, 246 Complex Plan for the Economic Exploitation of the Danube Danube Delta, 91, 410 Constantinople, 159, 162, 169 Cosna-Sinoie Delta, 120, 150 Cotul Pisicii, 347 Cousteau, Jacques, 411 Crânjala Canal, 103 Crimean Peninsula, 159 Crimean War, xiv, 121, 155, 171 Danckerts family, 162 Danckerts, Justus, 162 Danckerts, Theodorus, 162 Danube Biosphere Reserve, xxiii, 205, 217, 220, 334, 338, 339, 340 Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Authority, xxi, 88, 93, 96, 280, 285, 288, 291, 295, 353, 354, 356, 357, 361, 363, 365, 366, 370, 405, 411–413, 415–417, 419–422



Index of Names and Places

Danube Delta National Institute for Research and Development (DDNI), xviii, 88, 92, 96, 101, 104, 105, 179, 285, 291, 304, 354, 383, 385, 393, 405, 409, 415, 418–422 Danube Holm, 367 Danube River Basin, 374, 382, 384, 393 Danube River Basin Convention (DRBC), 382 Danube River, xiii, xxiii, 3, 5, 41, 56, 63, 76, 87, 89, 93, 95, 101, 102, 108, 109, 117, 121, 129, 137, 148, 149, 155–182, 185, 186, 190, 192, 194, 197, 201, 202, 204, 205, 214, 215, 219, 223–242, 303, 306, 311, 312, 313, 317, 322, 325, 326, 327, 329, 330, 331, 334, 336, 338, 339, 347, 349, 356, 360, 368, 369, 373–402, 408, 414 Devin Gate, 89 Dmitriev, Konstantin, 229 Dnieper (Dnipro), 135, 143, 164, 218 Dniester (Dnister), 135, 143, 164, 219, 337 Dobrogea, 157, 160, 165, 170, 173, 175, 225, 226, 228, 232, 291, 354 Dobrogean Plateau, 3, 13, 347 Don, 224, 225, 227 Dranov Creek, 104 Driga, Basarab, 117, 127, 128, 134, 177 Drost, Hans, 412, 414, 420 Dunaiskii Plavni Nature Reserve, 205 Dunavăt II ponds, 93 Dunavăţ/Dranov, 104 Dutch Indies, 167 Dutch National Service for Land and Water Management (DLG), 373, 381, 383–385, 389–391, 397 Eastern Europe, 3, 75, 91, 165, 197, 210, 317 Ebro Delta, xii Eco-Counselling Centre Galaţi (ECCG), 386, 393, 399

433

Ederles, 169 England, 79, 121, 186, 413 Eratostene, 156 Erenciuc Branch, 55 Erenciuc Forest, 14 Erenciuc Region, 15 Erenciuc zone, 347 Erikson, Erik, 245, 246 Ermak Company, 107 Ermakov Island, 57, 94, 106, 205, 340 Ermakov Polder, 106–107 Euphrates, xi, 157 Europe, xi, xiii, xv, 3, 5, 26, 32, 40, 41, 52, 59, 73, 75, 87, 103, 106, 107, 117, 162, 164, 170, 186, 188, 226, 280, 283, 320, 397, 404, 408 European Bank for Reconstruction and Development (EBRD) 93, 404, 411, 412, 417, 419 European Center for River Restoration 89 European Commission of the Danube (CED). See European Danube Commisson European Danube Commission, European Commission of the Danube/Commission Européen du Danube (CED), 122, 129, 131, 141, 149, 244, 245, 408, 414; Danube European Commission, or International Danube Commission, 121 European Red Data Book (of endangered species), 325, 333 European Union, 45, 107, 186, 333, 338 Fadeev, Petr, 230 Falz-Fein, Friedrich, 320 Fântâna Albă, 250 FAO-UNESCO, 4 Flood Action Programme, 382, 383 Foote, Nelson, 246, 247 Forest Service, Villkovo, 197, 205, 215, 217, 218, 220, 221 Foucault, Michel, xvi, xvii, 279, 403, 405–408, 420–421

434

Index of Names and Places

Fra-Mauro, 160 France, xii, xiv, 74, 186 Frankfurt School, 246 Freud, Sigmund, 247 Furmanov, 228 Gaika, 267 Galați, 167, 169, 388, 409 Galati judet (county), 337 Galilesh, 228 Ganges, 157 Garvăn, 367 Gâştescu, Petre, 3, 117, 178, 179 Gay, Paul du, 246 General Association of Romanian Engineers (AGIR), 107 GeoEcoMar Institute, 179 Germanus, Nicolaus, 160 Germany, 52, 75, 79, 87, 95, 374, 415, 413 Giurescu, Constantin C., 170 Giurgiu, 169 Global Environment Facility (GEF), 93, 411 Goffman, Ervin, 246 Gorgova, 12, 355 Gorgova-Isac-Uzlina complex, 49 Gorgova-Uzlina complex, 30, 82 Goriup, Paul, 410, 411 Graaf, Gertjan de, 329 Greenwich, 160, 171 Grigoraș, Ion, 179 Grindul Ivancea, 23 Grindul Letea, 24 Grindul Lupilor, 20 Grindul Sărăturile, 9, 10, 11, 20, 21, 175 Gura Lupului (Licostoma), 158 Hall, Stuart, 246, 248 Hartley, Charles, Sir, 121, 171, 173, 408 Herodotus, 156 Hieron, 156, 160 Hinderstein, Baron, 167

Histria, 160 Histropolis (Istria), 157 HKV, 386, 387, 392 Hogenberg, 160 Holbina, 77, 107, 110 Holbina I, 104, 105 Holbina II, 93, 104, 105 Holbina-Dunavăț, 95, 104–105 Homann, Johann Baptist, 164 Homem, Diego, 158 Honcharenko, Uliana, 231 Honcharev, Osip/Goncharev, 229, 230 Hopkins, Liz, 410 Hume, David, 245 Hussein, Saddam, xi Iablochnikov, Karp, 230 Ialpukh Estuary, 229, 235 Iassy (Iași), 236 Ilanada Island, 162, 164 Impuțita Channel, 126 Institute for Floodplain Ecology, 87, 92, 95, 101, 105 Institute for Inland Water Management and Waste Water Treatment (RIZA), 95, 101, 104, 405, 410, 412, 420 Institute for Marine Research, Constanţa, 91 Institute of Geology and Geophysics, 179 Institute of Studies and Design for Land Reclamation Projects (ISPIF), 303 Integrated Water Resources Management (IWRM), 377 International Centre for Birds of Prey (ICBP), 92 International Commission for the Protection of the Danube River (ICPDR), 338, 382, 414 International Organizations of Nature Protection, 91 International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN), xviii, 91, 93, 291, 347, 404, 405, 410–413, 419, 420



Index of Names and Places

Inzov, I. N., 230 Iron Gate, 89, 107, 139, 149, 307, 317, 408 Isaccea, 5, 160, 347, 367 Isles of Izmail, Regional Landscape Park, 339 Istros River, 156 Italy, 74, 79, 157, 193 IUCN Eastern Europe Program, 73–75 Ivanov, Petr, 229 Izmail, 210, 224, 225, 228, 229, 230, 231, 232, 233, 234, 236 Izmail Forestry Service, 205 Izmail Oblast, 205 Izmail Oblast Council, 205 Izotov, Alexander (Nikolai’s cousin), 213 Izotov, Nikolai, 206, 220 Jastrebov, V., 262 Jebrianskaia Griada, 59 Jibriany Littoral Accumulative Formation, 135, 136 Kamen, 228 Kanischa (Nagykanizsa), 162 Karachova, 231 Kariachov, 228 Kartalskiy Estuary, 230 Kasashko, 222 Katlabug (also Kislitsy), 236, 322, 329, 330 Kedrilles, 124 Kerci Strait, 158 Kherson, 320 Kherson region, 262, 265 Kiev, xii Kilia, 210, 211, 220, 225, 226, 228, 231, 236, 266, 326; See also Chilia Kilia arm 203, 204, 225, 231 Kilia branch, xxiii, 135, 136, 148, 149, 322 Kilia Delta, 118, 121, 130–133, 135–140, 142–149, 161, 162, 204, 205, 220, 269, 322, 324, 326, 329

435

Kilia Distributary, 135, 136, 137, 143, 148, 149 Kilia district, 201, 205, 216, 329 Kilia lobe, 322 Kilia Nouă, 162; See also Chilia Nouă Kisla Balaban, 168 Kislița, 43 Kitai, 228, 235 Klinitsy, 231 Kuban, 225, 227 Kuban Delta, 5 Kubanki, Lukian, 230 Kuchma, Leonid, 338 Kuchugolskie, 232 Kuehkopf-Knoblochsaue Nature Reserve, 95 Kugurlui, 229, 230, 322, 325–330, 332, 340 Kurgurlui, Lake, 331 Lake Kagul, 229, 269, 322, 326, 327, 328, 340 Lake Kitai, 322, 326, 340 Lake Yalpug, 322, 327, 328, 330, 340 Large Daller, 339 Laurentii, Nicolaus, 160 Lauterer, Captain, 157, 168, 169 Le Vasseur, Guillaume, 161 Lebedele, 12 Lebedinoe, 132 Lelystad, 89, 95, 104 Leontai Metropolitan, 250 Letea, 20, 26, 57, 59, 118, 139, 244, 253, 282, 284, 355, 405 Letea complex, 8, 22, 24, 25 Letea Dune Area, 10, 11, 20, 22, 25, 61 Letea Field, 24, 167 Letea Forest, 14, 26, 28, 29, 58, 59, 139, 356, 410 Letea Littoral Accumulative Formation, 135, 136 Letea-Caraorman initial, 118 Licostoma, 158 Liski, 203, 205, 212, 214 Locke, John, 207, 245

436

Index of Names and Places

Lower Danube Green Corridor, 107, 337, 384 Lytvyn, Volodymyr, 216 MAB covenant, 423 Măcin Mountains, 322, 369 Mackenzie, W. J., 246 Macov, Shova, 287 Magris, Claudio, xiii, xviii Maliuc, 285, 287, 310, 356, 362, 404 Maritime Cemetery, 194, 259 Martines, Joan, 158 Matiţa-Merhei complex, 82 Maximilian, Emperor, 157 Mediterranean Sea, 157 Mercator, Gerhard, 160, 161, 162, 171 Merhei complex, 30, 34 Mila 23, 32, 280, 283, 287, 405, 417 Millard, Master, 121 Mishurnovaia, Praskovia, 203 Mitterrand, François, 411 Moldavia, 107, 121, 160, 161, 169, 245, 252 Moldava, 107, 121, 160, 161, 169, 245, 252 Moldova, xxiii, 160, 168, 170, 179, 228, 236, 319, 320, 323, 327, 338, 441 Monde, Nicolaas van, 165, 167 Moscow, 410 Motuzenko, Evgenii, 223 Munster, Sebastian, 160 Muravlevka, 231 Musura Bay, 18, 132, 134, 136, 139, 143, 147, 168, 179 Musura Gulf, 71 Musura Spit, 148 Mykolaiv, 210 Naracum, 156, 160 Natasha Izotova, 213 National Academy of Science of Ukraine (NASU), 205, 334, 340 National Chilia, 5, 94, 100, 158, 169, 170, 171, 253, 281, 282, 283, 284, 285, 287, 288, 290, 292, 363; See also Kilia

National Committee for Emergency Situations, 383 Nekrasovtsy, 226, 227, 229–234, 236, 237 Newton, Isaac, 158 Nile, 157 Nistru Valley, 161, 179 Norfolk Broads Authority, 410, 413 Novenksoie, 228 Noviodunum (Isaccea), 5, 157, 160, 347, 367 Novo Nekrasovsky, 329 Ochakov, 203, 226 Ochakov branch, 202, 204 Ochakov distributary, 143, 147 Odessa Oblast, 201, 205, 329, 337, 340 Odessa, xxii, 171, 210, 211, 212, 216, 236, 263, 265, 320, 338, 342 Old Nekrasovka, 231 Olinka Island, 122, 124 Oliva, Joan, 159 Olives, Bartolomeo, 159 Ortelius, Abraham, 159, 161 Ostrovul Tătaru, 43 Ottoman Empire, xiv, xxi, 26, 161, 164, 165, 186, 201, 220, 224, 225, 232 Pallis, Marietta, xi, 4 Panaitescu, P. P., 170 Panin, Nicolae, 179 Pardina Polder, 43, 93, 106, 305, 310, 313, 314, 315, 362 Paris Peace Treaty (1919), 121, 186, 224 Parliamentary Commission on Ecology, Bucharest, 91 Partizani, 355 Peluso, Nancy, 200, 206 Periprava, 55, 94, 100, 355 Petru Rareș, Prince of Moldavia, 160 Peuce Island, 160 Peutinger, Konrad, 157 Plin, 12 Pliny the Elder, 156



Index of Names and Places

Podolskaia Gubernia, 236 Pokrovka, 231 Poland, 74, 211 Polissia, 225, 227 Poludionyi, 202 Poludionyi channel, 202, 204, 206 Polybius, 156, 161 Pons, Leendert, 410 Pons-Ghițulescu, Nadia, 410 Pont-Euxin Island, 161, 162, 163 Popina Gârlă, 101, 102 Popina Polder, 51, 55, 56, 57, 100, 101 Portița Bogasi, 169 Potapovskaya Kosa, 143 Potapovskoe Girlo, 143 Prorva, 203, 204 Prorva distributary, 143, 147 Prussia, 121, 186 Prut, 320, 337, 338, 384, 386, 387 Prymorskoie, 201, 205 Pseudo, 156, 160 Psilon, 156, 160 Ptolemy, 155, 156, 160 Ptychyi Island, 147 Răduculeţ, 12 Ramsar, 423 Ramsar Convention, 91, 92, 93, 338, 347, 358 Ramsar List of Wetlands of International Importance, 325 Rastatt, 87, 413 Razelm (Razim) lagoon system, 104, 160, 161, 167 Razelm (Razim)-Sinoie lagoon system, 173, 347 Razim (Razelm) Lake, 77, 104, 164, 168 Razim (Razelm)-Sinoe lacustrine area, 367 Razim (Razelm)-Sinoie coastal lagoon system, 322 Razim (Razelm)-Sinoie lake complex, 369 Reichersdorf, Georg de, 160 Reni, 210, 279, 322, 326, 329, 340

437

Repida, 329 Repida canal, 340 Research Institute for Soil Science and Agronomy (ICPA), 304 Research Institute of Irrigation and Drainage (ICITID), 304 Rhine Basin, 414 Rhine, xii, 89, 94–95, 373, 441 Ribot, Jesse, 200, 206 Roiz, Pascoal, 159 Romania, xiv, xviii, xxi, xxiii, 3, 5, 8, 26, 32, 40, 68, 91, 135, 161, 162, 173, 186, 187, 189, 199, 201, 220, 223, 225, 226, 243, 266–268, 274, 291, 292, 303, 304, 305, 307, 316, 317, 319, 320, 323, 326, 338, 345, 347, 363, 373, 375, 382, 383, 388, 397, 398, 411, 420 Romanian Academy of Science/ Commission for Nature Protection, 91, 92, 107 Romanska, Svetana, 223 Roşca Lake, 12, 31 Roşul, 12, 170 Roşulet, 12, 170 Roşu-Puiu complex, 30 Rotund Lake, 12, 49, 94, 102, 103 Rusciuc, (Ruse) 168 Russia, xiv, xxi, 186, 225, 226, 227, 230, 270, 274 Russian Empire, 165, 186, 201, 264, 266, 320 Russian Revolution, 266 Sacalin Island (also Sakhalin), 8, 20, 124, 126 Sacalin-Zatoane zone, 347 Sakhalin Spit, 126 Saline (Sulina), 162 Salsovia (Mahmudia), 157 San Stefano Peace Treaty (1878), 225 Sarikei (also Sarykee, Sarykei), 224, 228, 232 Sasyk Lagoon, 143 Sasyk Liman, 327 Sasyk, Lake, 205, 269

438

Index of Names and Places

Scalin Bay, 18 Schedel, Hartmann, 160 Schelde Delta, xii Schneider, Erika, 410, 412 Scientific Division of the IJsselmeerpolders Development Authority (RIJP), 304 Scotus, Johan, 160 Semlin, 168 Serbata, 12 Serbia, 121, 161, 162, 170, 408 Seredne, 124, 126 Serpents’ Island (Leuce Island, Ortelius, Fidonisi, Sidonisi, Ilanada), 159, 161, 164 Seutter, Mattheus, 164 Sfântu Gheorghe, 5, 55, 104, 105, 111, 118, 126–129, 137, 148–149, 355 Sfântu Gheorghe branch, 124 Sfântu Gheorghe distributary, 121–126, 129 Sfistofca, 16, 244, 258 Shabo, 228 Shashkin, Iakov, 229 Shyrokov, Fedor, 231 Sighet, 162 Silistra, 107, 232 Sireasa, 31, 106 Siret, 337 Small Daller, 339 Solima (Sulina), 158 Somova-Parches lacustrine complex, 5 Şontea-Fortuna channel, 43 Şontea-Fortuna Delta complex, 102, 103 Southern Bug (Boh), 226, 234 Spratt, Abel Thomas, Captain, 121, 141, 171, 172 Stambul Bay, 168 Starostambul branch, 202, 203, 204, 206, 207 Stary Stambulsky branch, 139, 143, 147 Stary Stambulsky distributary, 132, 134, 139, 143, 148

Stentsovsko-Zhebryanski marshes, 327 Stentsovsko-Zhebryanski Plavni, 326 Stentsovsko-Zhebryanski wetlands, 340 Stentsovsko-Zhebryanski Plavni, 205 Stokes, John, 170 Strabon, 156 Sulina (town), xvi, xviii, xxi, 5, 20, 25, 36, 93, 121, 124, 126–128, 162, 166–170, 179, 185–196, 225, 229, 243–260, 279, 280–294, 358, 363, 369, 405, 409, 417, 419 Sulina Branch, 93, 103, 109, 129, 131, 132, 142, 149, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171, 173, 176, 408 Sulina Canal, 103, 189 Sulina Delta, 118, 125, 135, 137, 148 Sulina Distributary, 121, 126–137, 139, 147, 149 Suvorovo, 267 Tătaru, 12, 43, 106, 339 Tauferer, Baron, 168 Teixeira, Luis, 159 Temeswar (Timișoara), 162 Teraclea, 327 Tigris, xi, 157 Tikhonov, Nikolai, 327 Timoc River, 107 Tomis (Constanța), 161 Topalo, Feodosii, 230 Tuchkov, C. A., 229, 230, 236 Tulcea (city), xviii, xxi, 5, 49, 170, 224, 226, 250, 251, 253, 279, 282, 289, 291, 304, 307, 322, 347, 353, 354, 356, 358, 361, 363, 365, 367, 393, 405, 417, 409, 419 Tulcea (county), 243, 292, 355, 365, 384, 386, 387, 417 Tulcea Branch, 354 Tulcea judet, 337 Turkey, 121, 186, 326 Ukraine, xviii, xxiii, 40, 41, 43, 59, 106, 107, 135, 161, 164, 197, 198, 201, 206, 211, 212, 215, 217, 219, 220, 223, 227, 262, 264, 266, 270,



Index of Names and Places

274, 307, 317, 319–322, 331–339, 342, 404, 411 Ukrainian-Romanian Transboundary Biosphere Reserve, 197 Ukranian Danube Delta, xxi, xxii, xxiii, 106–107, 197–222, 262, 266, 281, 319–343, 405 UNESCO Man and the Biosphere Programme (MAB), 91, 339, 342, 347 UNESCO, xxiii, 197, 320, 334, 338, 410, 411, 412, 413, 420, 421, 422 UNESCOs International Network of Biosphere Reserves, 347 Ust’ Dunaisk, 143 Uzlina, 12, 93 Uzlina, Lake, 30, 170 Vădineanu, Angheluță, 410, 411, 412 Valachia (Walachia), 121, 161, 162 Valk, Gerardus, 161 Valk, Leonardus, 161 Vâlsan, George, 170, 178 Varadin (Oradea), 162 Varnenskoie Lake, 225 Vasilevka, 267 Vatoped Monastery, 160 Vaz Durado, Fernao, 158 Velho, Bartolomeu, 158 Verdery, Katherine, 199, 213 Verkhovna Rada, 215 Vespremeanu, Emil, 179 Vidrașcu, Gheorghe, 155, 176, 177, 178 Vienna, 157, 160, 167, 169 Viketa canal, 340 Vilkovo (“Lipovenskaya” Village), 138 Vilkovo, 59, 135, 136, 197–202, 204, 205, 207, 209–216, 218–221, 223, 228, 230–232, 235, 236, 266, 279, 322 Vilkovo Forest Service, 205

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Vladimirescu, Tudor, 355, 356 Volga Delta, 5 Vostochnoye distributary, 143 Vulcănești raion, 337 Wales, 73, 74 Weser Delta, xii Western Europe, xii, 158, 319, 322, 331, 333, 413, 418, 419 Wilkinson, Lieutenant, 121 World Bank, 347, 405, 421, 422 World Heritage Convention, 338 World Wildlife Fund (WWF), 88, 91, 93, 347, 386, 393, 404, 405, 410, 411, 413, 420, 421, 422 Württemberg, 121 WWF Germany, 413 WWF Institute for Floodplain Ecology, 87, 92, 95, 96 WWF International, 90, 92, 107, 384 WWF Netherlands, 106, 413–414 WWF Romania, 414 WWF-Auen-Institut of WWFGermany, 90, 92, 95, 101, 101, 105, 413 WWF-Danube Carpathian Programme (WWF-DCP), 90, 106, 384, 386, 394, 414 Yalpukhskaia Spit, 236 Yanukovych, Viktor, 339 Zachis, Panait, 187–191 Zagora (Dobrogea), 160 Zaporizhian Sich, 201 Zhebryanski, 228, 231 Zhebryanski Bay, 143 Zhebryanski Ridges, 8, 20 Zhebryanski spit, 235 Zhurilovka (Jurilovca), 228 Zlatoustove, 267

About the Authors

Kristof van ASSCHE is Associate Professor in Planning, Governance and Development at University of Alberta, Visiting Associate Professor of Strategic Communication at Wageningen University, and Research Fellow at Bonn University’s Center for Development Research (ZEF). Van Assche’s research focuses on innovation, planning and development in governance, especially in the fields of environmental governance. Geographically, his work covers Eastern Europe and Central Asia, the Low Countries and North America. He published works on governance evolution, citizen participation, institutional design and development, heritage and memory, on environmental policy, planning and design. His latest publications include: Radomski P., Van Assche, K. eds. (2013) Lakeside living. Sustainable planning and design in the footsteps of environmental writers (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 2013); Van Assche, K., Beunen, R., Duineveld, M. (2013) Evolutionary governance theory: An Introduction (Heidelberg: Springer International Publishing); Van Assche, K., Salukvadze, J., Shavishvilli, N., eds. (2009) City planning and city culture in Tbilisi: Where Europe and Asia meet (Lewiston, New York: Edwin Mellen Press); Van Assche, K. (2004) Signs in time: An interpretive account of urban planning and design, the people and their histories (Wageningen: Wageningen University). Denie AUGUSTIJN is Associate Professor at the Department of Water Engineering and Management of the University of Twente, Enschede, The Netherlands. He is interested in a broad range of research topics related to water management, varying from a better understanding of physical, chemical and ecological processes in water systems to application of this knowledge in policy processes. Recent publications: “Instruments for integrated water resources management: Water quality modeling for sustainable 441

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About the Authors

wastewater management,” Environmental Engineering and Management 12 (2013) 8, 1679–1690 (with George Barjoveanu, Carmen Teodosiu, Claudia Cojocariu and Ioan Crăciun); and “Evaluation of a simple hydraulic resistance model using flow measurements collected in vegetated waterways,” Open Journal of Modern Hydrology 3(2013) 1, 28–37 (with Fredrik Huthoff, Menno Straatsma and Suzanne Hulscher). He was involved in the PhD research of Joanne Vinke-de Kruijf on the role of Dutch water expertise in Romanian water projects and has co-authored several publications with her. Starting from 2014 he has a leading role in the large Dutch research programme “RiverCare” on sustainable management of rivers in which cooperate five universities and many public and private parties. Sandra BELL is a Senior Lecturer in the Department of Anthropology at Durham University, United Kingdom. Her research focuses on environmental anthropology. From 2001–2004 she was Principle Investigator (PI) for a large EU funded research programme, called “Integrated Management of European Wetlands.” The project addressed five separate, interrelated and multidisciplinary research issues in the Danube Delta, Romania; the Nemunas Delta, Lithuania; the Saamai Lakes, Finland, and Kerkini Lake, northern Greece. In 2004 she acted as PI for a project entitled “Calming Troubled Waters: Making Interdisciplinarity Work.” From 2005 to 2008 she led a team of social scientists studying the role of volunteer naturalists in the monitoring of biodiversity across EU member states as part of the EU funded project “EU Wide Monitoring Methods and Systems of Surveillance for Species and Habitats of Community Interest” (EuMoN). Her most recent publications include: Bell S., and Reinert, H. (2009) “On the Outside Looking in: Biodiversity and the algebra of life,” in Mess and Ramses II, Mediterranean Ethnological Summer School, Vol 7, edited by Repic, J., Bartulovic, A. and Sajovic Altshu, K. Ljubljana: Ljubljana Faculty of Arts, University of Ljubljana, 327–42; Carss, D. N., Bell, S., and Marzano, M. (2009) “Competing and Coexisting with Cormorants: Ambiguity and change in European wetlands,” in Heckler, S., ed., Landscape, Process and Power: A new environmental knowledge synthesis (Oxford: Berghahn); Bell S., Marzano, M., Podjed, D. (2010) “Inside Monitoring: A comparison of bird monitoring groups in Slovenia and the United Kingdom,” in Lawrence, A., ed., Taking stock of nature: Participatory biodiversity assessment for policy, planning and practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 232–250. Raoul BEUNEN is Research Fellow at the Strategic Communication Group of Wageningen University. He works on Evolutionary Governance Theory in the fields of natural resource management and spatial planning. His research explores the potentials and limitations of environmental policy and



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planning in the perspective of adaptive governance and sustainability. He studies the implementation of planning and environmental policies in different institutional settings and investigates the importance of path dependence in enabling new perspectives in policy landscapes. Among his publications: Van Assche, K., Beunen, R., Duineveld, M. (2014) Evolutionary Governance Theory: An introduction (Heidelberg: Springer International Publishing); Beunen, R., Van Assche K. (2013) “Contested delineations, planning, law and the governance of protected areas,” Environment & Planning A 45 (6): 1285–1301; Beunen, R., Van Assche, K., Duineveld, M. (2013) “Performing failure in conservation policy: The implementation of European Union directives in the Netherlands,” Land Use Policy 31: 280–288. Hans BRESSERS is Professor of Policy Studies and Environmental Policy at the Twente Centre for Studies in Technology and Sustainable Development (CSTM), University of Twente, the Netherlands. He was director of CSTM from 1988 to 2009, and inter alia, vice-chairman of the official permanent Evaluation Committee of the Environmental Management Act, which advises the Minister regularly on the efficacy of Dutch environmental policy. He was also the chairman of the Advisory Committee to the Dutch Minister for the Environment for the implementation of environmental policy by local government (1991–2001) and has been chairman of the Dutch social science association for environmental and energy research, SWOME. Currently he is an independent scientific member of the Commission on Sustainable development of the Dutch Social-Economic Council (SER) and member of the National Advisory Committee on Water. Recent publications: “Achieving Sustainable Development: The Challenge of Governance Across Social Scales” (2003, with Walter Rosenbaum); “Integrated Governance and Water Basin Management” (2004, with Stefan Kuks); “Governance of Complexity in Water Management: Creating Cooperation by Boundary Spanning Strategies” (2010, with Kris Lulofs); and Water Governance Policy and Knowledge Transfer (2013, with Chryl de Boer, Joanne Vinke – de Kruijf and Gül Özerol). Ștefan CONSTANTINESCU is Assistant Professor at the University of Bucharest, Faculty of Geography. He is specialized in coastal geomorphology, with research interest in GIS and Remote Sensing techniques applied in the coastal zone. Another area of interest is historical cartography. Selected publications: “Romanian Littoral Zone between Cape Midia and Vama Veche. Geomorphological Study based on Digital Elevation Models” (PhD. Thesis, in Romanian, Bucharest: Editura Universitară, 2012); “A cartographical perspective to the engineering works at the Sulina mouth,” Acta Geodaetica et Geophysica Hungarica, Vol. 45-1, (2010), 71–79; “A spatial

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About the Authors

data infrastructure for the Romanian littoral zone,” Infrastructures and Engineering for Knowledge Society, Romania Academy Library, (December 2007) 129–135. Constantinescu is co-author of: “Maintenance of large deltas through channelization: Nature vs. humans in the Danube delta,” Anthropocene 1 (2013), 35–45; “Was the Black Sea catastrophically flooded in the early Holocene?” Quaternary Science Reviews, 28 (2009) 1–2, 1–6; “Recent morphodynamics of the Indus delta shore and shelf,” Continental Shelf Research, 26 (2006) 14, 1668–1684; “Young Danube delta documents stable Black Sea level since the middle Holocene: Morphodynamic, paleogeographic, and archaeological implications,” Geology, 34 (2006) 9, 757–760; “Morphodynamics of the Danube delta coast: multi-decadal evolution and North Atlantic scillation Influences,” Journal of Coastal Research, Special Issue 50 (2007), 157–162; “Developing an Open Romanian Geoportal using free open source software,” Gegraphia Technica, 1 (2008), 15–20. He is cofounder of geo-spatial.org a Romanian geoportal, which promotes sharing geo-knowledge and geo-data, based on OGC standards. Mihai DOROFTEI is a biologist at the Danube Delta National Institute for Research and Development (DDNI) in Tulcea, Romania. His research experience resides in plant ecology, invasive plant species, vegetation mapping and habitat conservation. Since coming to DDNI, he has served on the Biodiversity Conservation Department and has written several grant proposals collaboratively to fund protected areas-aided species and habitats. Doroftei has coordinated and collaborated within various environmental research projects within the field of climate changes, plant species translocation, natural resources evaluation and geo-database design concepts. His main activity focuses on rehabilitation of endangered endemic and rare species by identifying new potential habitats along with climatologist and IT colleagues. Recent publications: Covaliov S. and Doroftei M., (2011) Forests from Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve – the most common ligneous flora species, Illustrated pocket guide (Tulcea: “Danube Delta Technological information Center” Publishing House) (in Romanian); Doroftei M. and Covaliov S. (eds.), 2013, “Manual of the Danube Delta”: A field guide for Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve staff and environmental commissioners, (Tulcea: “Danube Delta Technological information Center” Publishing House) (in Romanian). Paul GORIUP has worked in biodiversity conservation and management for over 30 years. Between 1982 and 1986, Paul coordinated the conservation programme of the then International Council for Bird Preservation (now BirdLife International), managing over 300 projects world. Paul established NatureBureau, a conservation consultancy, in 1986. He became involved



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with conservation of the Danube Delta in Romania and Ukraine in 1990, and has continued to work in the region until the present day. Publications: Goriup, P., Baboianu, G. and Chernichko, J. (2007) The Danube Delta: Europe’s remarkable wetland. British Birds 100: 194–213; Baboianu, G., Munteanu, I., Voloshkevych, A., Zhmud, M., Fedorenko, V., Nebunu, A., Munteanu, A. and Goriup, P. (2004) Transboundary Cooperation in the Nature Protected Areas in the Danube Delta and Lower Prut. Editura Dobrogea, Tulcea; Goriup, P. D. (ed.) (1999) The New Forest Woodlands: A Management History. Pisces Publications, Newbury; Goriup, P. D. (1997); The World Status of the Houbara Bustard Chlamydotis undulata, Bird Conservation International 7: 373–397; Goriup, P. D. (1994) “Managing the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve,” ECOS 15(1): 45–51. Natasha GORIUP has a Degree in Biology from the University of Odessa. After graduating, she was assigned to the Danube Delta Nature Reserve where she worked for 13 years as a vegetation ecologist and reserve manager; between 1992 and 1994 she served as Deputy Director and Head of the Science Department of the Nature Reserve. In 1995, Natasha Goriup joined the Nature Conservation Bureau (UK) as a Project Manager, and gained experience of working on sustainable development and biodiversity issues within Ukraine, as well as Russia, Pakistan, Kazakhstan and Abu Dhabi (UAE). From 1997 to 2001, Natasha Goriup developed and managed the Partners for Wetlands Project in Odessa, Ukraine, on behalf of the Worldwide Fund for Nature (WWF), as part of the WWF Danube Carpathian Programme. Since 2001, Natasha Goriup has directed Salix Ltd. based in Odessa. This company is involved in ecologically sustainable use of natural resources and socioeconomic development in local communities. Jenică HANGANU, Senior scientist, holds a Ph.D. in ecological reconstruction of wetlands. Since 1984 he is employed by the Danube Delta National Institute, Romania performing research studies on soils, vegetation, reed beds, aquatic macrophytes and water quality for elaborating management plan of the natural vegetation resources of the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve he was in charge. He was local coordinator of the FP4 (EUREED II), FP6 ( REBECCA) and presently local coordinator of FP7 (EnviroGRIDS) and (HELM) EC projects. He has lead the national research project “NARDUS” dealing with inventory of semi-natural grasslands in Romania and national coordinator of the Corine Land Cover 2000 and 2006 EEA projects. Selected publications: Hanganu J., Dubyna D., Zhmud E., Grigoraş I., Menke U., Drost H., Ștefan N., and Sârbu, I., 2002, Vegetation of the Biosphere Reserve “Danube Delta” with Trans-boundary Vegetation Map (RIZA rapport 2002.049, The Netherlands Publisher); “Challenge for ecological reconstruction of the

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About the Authors

largest agricultural polder in the Danube Delta (Romania),” Transylvanian Review of Systematical and Ecological Research 6 (2008), “Wetlands Diversity” pp. 175–182; “Trophic gradients in a large-river delta: ecological structure determined by connectivity gradients in the Danube Delta (Romania),” River Research and Applications-RRA-06-0172 24 (2008), 5. Constantin IORDACHI is Associate Professor of History and co-director of Pasts, Inc. Center for Historical Studies, at the Central European University, Budapest, and associate editor of the journal East-Central Europe (Leiden: Brill). He has published widely on comparative history in Central and South-Eastern Europe, mostly on citizenship, the history of fascism, and the collectivization of agriculture, with a focus on the history of Dobrogea. His publications include: Charisma, Politics and Violence: The Legion of the ‘Archangel Michael’ in Inter-war Romania (Trondheim: 2004); and Citizenship, Nation and State-Building: The Integration of Northern Dobrogea into Romania, 1878–1913 (Pittsburgh, Carl Back Papers, 2002, no, 1607). Editor of: Redobândirea cetățeniei române: Perspective istorice, comparative și aplicate/Reacquiring Romanian Citizenship: Historical, Comparative and Applied Perspectives (Bucharest: Curtea Veche, 2012); “Fascism in East-Central and South-Eastern Europe: A Reappraisal,” East-Central Europe, 37 (2010) 2–3; and Comparative Fascist Studies: New Perspectives (London: Routledge, 2009, 2010). Co-editor of circa 10 collective volumes, among which: The Collectivization of Agriculture in Communist Eastern Europe (Budapest, New York: CEU Press, 2014); Hungary and Romania Beyond National Narratives: Comparisons and Entanglements (Frankfurt/ Main: Peter Lang, 2013); Transforming People, Property and Power: The Process of Land Collectivization in Romania, 1949–1962 (Budapest: CEU Press, 2009; Romanian ed.: Iaşi: Polirom, 2004); and România si Transnistria: Problema Holocaustului. Perspective istorice si comparative (Bucharest: Curtea Veche, 2004). Iulian NICHERŞU has 29 years of experience in the scientific research of Danube Delta and Floodplain, which include studies in geography, socio-anthropology, biodiversity conservation and ecological restoration, sustainable development, spatial planning and environmental impact. He has conducted research on the Danube Delta since 1991 and has published several papers on the representation of digital map features at multiple levels of details and environmental domains, resulting in the development of multiscale spatial databases. The development of Land and Ecosystem Accounting Methodology for EEA has been a key part of his work. He has also worked on environmental change detection, data integration and 3D modeling. Nicherşu is leader of Delta and Fore Delta Expert Group in the International



About the Authors

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Association of Danube Scientists (IAD). This work builds on participatory research and international scientific collaboration such as Master Plan–Support for Sustainable Development in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve Tulcea County/Romania or Ecological and Economical Resizing of Lower Danube (REELD). Willem OVERMARS is a landscape architect, and the founder and owner of one-man Wildernis Consultancy, operating in teams of experts on natural rivers and natural grazing. His awards include E. O. Wijers award for regional planning, Medal of merit NGO Natuurmonumenten, Officer in the order of the Golden Ark for the work on the rivers Rhine and Meuse, Trophy of the Dutch Association of Garden- and Landscape Architects, Groeneveld award 2005. Main publications: Vision for the Danube Delta, Ukraine. Together with a team with members from: the Water Management Unit, Melitopol; the Province of Odessa, Water Management Board, WWF Ukraine, WWF Danube-Carpathian Program and WWF Netherlands, 2003, in English and Russian Vision for the Danube Delta, a natural Gateway to Europe. Ecology and economy in harmony. Vision on the Danube Delta and the Lower Danube in the Ukraine, Moldova and Romania. Nature protection, nature development, harbour development, shipping, local economy, ecotourism. Commissioned by WWF Danube Carpathian Program and WWF Netherlands, 2006. He has also authored internet films on rivers in Western Europe: see www. freudeamfluss.eu, www.amice.eu, www.maasfilm.nl, www.dwaalfilm.eu. Alexander PRIGARIN, is Associate Professor, Department of Archaeology and Ethnology of Ukraine, Odessa “I. Mechnikov” National University. His research focuses on the history and ethnography of the population of Bessarabia. He authored more than 200 scientific publications, including the monograph The Russian Old Believers on the Danube: The Formation of an ethno-confessional community at the end of XVIII–the first half of XIX centuries (Moscow-Odessa, 2010) (in Ukrainian). Tanya RICHARDSON is Associate Professor in the Department of Global Studies at Wilfrid Laurier University. She conducts research on the politics and history of nature conservation and environmentalism at the Ukrainian ends of the Danube. She is author of the book Kaleidoscopic Odessa: History and Place in Contemporary Ukraine (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008); co-author of “Resource Materialities” Anthropological Quarterly 87 (2014), 1, 5–30 (with Gisa Weszkalnys). Ion SÂRBU is a senior scientist specializing in botany. In 1975 he was accepted as a researcher at the Botanical Garden of the Iaşi University, where

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About the Authors

he reorganized the structure of Romanian flora and vegetation section, on an area of 25 hectares. In 1978 he obtained his PhD in biology. After 1990 as associate professor at University of Iași, he conducted various disciplines such as: nature preservation, landscape architecture, terrestrial and aquatic biodiversity and forest resources. In 1997 he won the title of Scientific Researcher 1st degree. As scientific secretary of the Botanical Garden “Anastasie Fătu” of Iaşi, Ion Sârbu published a large number of original articles (130) and books (14) in plant taxonomy, phytosociology, phytogeography and protected areas. Recent publications: Hanganu J., Dubyna D., Zhmud E., Grigoraş I., Menke U., Drost H., Ștefan N., and Sârbu, I., (2002), Vegetation of the Biosphere Reserve “Danube Delta” – with Transboundary Vegetation Map on a 1:150,000 scale (Danube Delta National Institute); M.G. Kholodny -Institute of Botany & Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve, Ukraine and RIZA, The Netherlands. RIZA rapport 2002.049, Lelystad (in English), Zanoschi V., Sârbu I. and Toniuc Angela, 1995, 2000, 2004 a,b (4 volumes); “Spontaneous and Cultivated Woody Flora of Romania,” University “Alexandru Ioan Cuza” Publishing House (in Romanian); Sârbu I., Ștefan N. and Oprea A., (2013) “Vascular Plants of Romania - Illustrated Field Guide” (Bucharest: Victor B Victor Publishing House) (in Romanian). Natalia SEREBRIANNIKOVA is Lecturer at the International Humanitarian University, Odessa, Ukraine. Serebriannikova is trained in ethnology. Her research interests focus on medical anthropology, medical folklore, rituals, and the semiotics of objects, everyday life in the Soviet period, urban behavior, and economical anthropology. Among her publications: “Традиційні уявлення про уроки слов’янського населення Південно-Західної України” Народознавчі зошити, (2001), 3(39), 508–511; “Уявлення про пошесні хвороби: за матеріалами східнослов’янського населення Півдня України,” Археологія та етнологія Східної Европи: матеріали і дослідження, (2002), 3, pp. 315–316; “Історичний контекст розвитку народної лікувальної практики на території Південно-Західної України,” Питання стародавньої та середньовічної історії, археології й етнології. Збірник наукових праць, (2004), 2 (18); “Поняття здоров’я / нездоров’я в традиційних слов’янських уявленнях,” Медицина в художніх образах, (2004); “Символіка простору в лікувальній практиці слов’янського населення Південно-Західної України,” Человек в истории и культуре, (2007), pp. 279–286; “Огонь в лечебных заговорных практиках: евразийские перспективы,” Сибирская деревня: история, современное состояние, перспективы развития. Сборник научных трудов, (2010), Part ІІ, pp. 18–22; “Реклама окультних послуг в сучасному місті: досвід антропологічного дослідження,” Человек в истории и культуре, (2012), 2, pp. 424–431.



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Erika SCHNEIDER is Senior Scientist and Associate Professor at the “Lucian Blaga” University, Sibiu, Romania, and KIT-Karlsruhe Institut für Technologie, University of Baden-Württemberg, Institute for Geography and Geoecology, Division WWF-Auen-Institut, Institute for Floodplain Ecology. Her working experience include four years research activity at the Biological Research Center, Department for Systematics, Geobotanics and Plant Ecology of the Romanian Academy of Science, Cluj-Napoca Branch; more than 10 years as a scientist at the Museum of Natural History, leading the branch of Botany. Main research activities in floodplain ecology, management and restoration. Large project activities on the Lower Danube and the Danube Delta in particular wetlands restoration. Recent publications: SchneiderBinder, E. “Floodplain forests along the Lower Danube.-Transylvanian Review of Systematical and Ecological Research,” The Wetlands Diversity 8 (2010), 113–136; Schneider, E. “Floodplain Restoration of Large European Rivers, with Examples from the Rhine and the Danube,” (2010), in Martina Eiseltová (ed.), Restoration of Lakes, Streams, Floodplains and Bogs in Europe. Principles and Case Studies, Series Wetlands Ecology, Conservation and Management, vol. 3, (Dordrecht, Heidelberg, London, New York; Moelder, Springer), 185–223; Mölder, A. and Schneider, E. (2011): “On the beautiful diverse Danube? Danubian floodplain forest vegetation and flora under the influence of river eutrophication,” River Research and Application 27: 881–894; Schneider, E., Dister, E. and Döpke, M. (eds.) (2009) Lower Danube Green Corridor Atlas, second enlarged ed., WWF Germany; Schneider, E., Tudor, M. and M. Staraş (eds.) (2008) Evolution of Babina polder after restoration works (Tulcea: WWF Germany and Danube Delta National Institute Tulcea; Schneider, E. (2003) “Organisation longitudinale des forêts alluviales, le cas du Danube” in Piégay, H., G. Pautou and Ch. Ruffinoni (eds,.): Les forêts riveraines des cours d’eau, écologie, fonctions et gestion des ripisylves de l’Europe, 272–285 (Paris: Institut pour le developpement forestier); 2002) “The ecological functions of the Danubian floodplains and their restoration with special regard to the Lower Danube” Large Rivers, 13, 1–2; Marin, G. and E. Schneider (eds.) (1997): Ecological restoration in the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve/Romania. Babina and Cernovca islands (Danube Delta Research and Design Institute/ICPDD Tulcea and WWFAuen-Institut Rastatt). Bart SCHULTZ is Emeritus Professor of Land and Water Development, UNESCO-IHE, Delft, the Netherlands (since May 2012), Former Top Advisor, Rijkswaterstaat, Civil Engineering Division, Utrecht, the Netherlands (since October 2009). Prof. Schultz’s career includes more than 35 years of research, advising and project implementation in the field of land and water development, drainage, irrigation, flood management and environmental

450

About the Authors

engineering. The first part of his career he worked as head of the Water Management Division in the IJsselmeerpolders Development Authority. In addition to his part time appointment at the UNESCO-IHE Institute for Water Education he was until December 2009 top advisor in Rijkswaterstaat, Civil Engineering Division. In this capacity he was, among others, responsible for environmental impact studies on major hydraulic works, as well as for advice, design and implementation of large scale environmental engineering projects. At UNESCO-IHE, Prof. Schultz was responsible for education and research in Land and Water Development. Under his guidance about 200 overseas participants obtained their Master of Engineering degree (MEng), 190 participants their Master of Science degree (MSc) and 15 participants their PhD degree. From September 1999 to July 2002 he was President of the International Commission on Irrigation and Drainage (ICID). He is author of more than 275 papers in the field of land reclamation, drainage, irrigation and flood management and editor of several proceedings of National and International Conferences. He is chairman of the Editorial Board of the journal Irrigation and Drainage. During his career he visited more than 30 countries to: (i) participate in international research; (ii) appraise, evaluate, or advice in projects; (iii) teach in the fields of land reclamation, drainage, irrigation and flood protection projects. He is a member of the International Water Academy, Oslo, Norway. Nicolae ŞTEFAN is Professor of Botany at University of Iași, Romania. In 1968 was enrolled at Biological Reseach Centre of Romanian Academy in Iași subunit were he made significant improvements in addition to the scientific research in the field of flora and phytocoenology. Stefan published 220 articles and 16 books on cormobionta taxonomy, Romania’s flora and vegetation, protection of natural resources, invasive species, geo-botany and medicinal plants. He was coordinator and collaborator in 40 research projects and grants at national and international level. The founding of the Ecosystems Laboratory within University of Iași – Department of Plant Biology is one of his latest achievements. Recent publications; Hanganu J., Dubyna D., Zhmud E., Grigoraş I., Menke U., Drost H., Ștefan N., and Sârbu, I., 2002, Vegetation of the Biosphere Reserve “Danube Delta” – with Transboundary Vegetation Map on a 1:150,000 scale (Danube Delta National Institute, Romania); M. G. Kholodny -Institute of Botany & Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve, Ukraine and RIZA, The Netherlands. RIZA rapport 2002.049, Lelystad (in English); Ștefan N. and Oprea A., (2007) Systematic botany (Alexandru Ioan Cuza University Publishing House) (in Romanian); Sârbu I., Ștefan N. and Oprea A., 2013, “Vascular Plants of Romania - Illustrated Field Guide” Bucharest: Victor B Victor Publishing House, (in Romanian).



About the Authors

451

Petruţa TEAMPĂU is Lecturer at the Faculty of Political Science, BabesBolyai University, Cluj-Napoca, Romania. Her research interests include social memory and urban anthropology, and gender studies. She participated in several international research projects: “Nature, culture and planning in the Danube Delta” (2006–2009); “Teaching Anthropology: Means and Meaning,” ReSet project (Regional Seminar for Excellency in Teaching), HESP (2003–2006); “Teaching Gender in Eastern Europe,” HESP (2005–2008). Recent publications include: Sulina fabuloasa (Cluj: EFES, 2013); “Crossing trails in the marshes: rigidity and flexibility in the governance of the Danube Delta” (with Kristof Van Assche, Raoul Beunen, Joren Jacobs), Journal of Environmental Planning and Management, 1, 1–22, 2012; Sulina, altă lume, altă viață, Cluj: EFES, 2011; Sulina traita de Panait Zachis, Cluj: EFES, 2010; “Forgetting and remembering in the margins: Constructing past and future in the Romanian Danube Delta,” Memory Studies, Vol. 2, No. 2, 211–234, 2009, Sage Publications, (with Kristof Van Assche, Patrick Devlieger, Gert Verschraegen); “Migratory marginalities: making sense of home, self and mobility” (with Kristof Van Assche), Ethnologia Balkanica, vol. 13/2009, part 1, pp. 147–162. Cosmina TIMOCE-MOCANU is Researcher at the The Folklore Archives of the Romanian Academy, Cluj-Napoca, Romania. Her research focuses on the history of ethnology and study of folklore in communist and postcommunist Romania, the specifics of archive texts, and the epistemological status of ethnographical documents, traditional cultures and their dynamics. Recent publications: Antropologia ritualului funerar. Trei perspective [The Anthopology of the Funeral Ritual. Three Perspective] (Cluj-Napoca, Mega Publishing House, 2013); Teme actuale în cercetarea etnologică şi antropologică [Present Topics in Ethnological and Anthropological Research] (co-edited, with Alina Branda, Ion Cuceu) (Cluj-Napoca, The Foundation for European Studies Publishing House, 2011); Antropologie şi studii culturale [Anthropology and cultural studies] (co-edited, with Alina Branda, Ion Cuceu) (Cluj-Napoca, Mega Publishing House, 2012); “The Research of Funeral Rituals through the Questionnaire Method in Folklore in the Interwar Period. From B. P. Hasdeu to I. Muşlea,” Philologica Jassyensia, 2 (2013), 12 p.; “Ştefania Cristescu-Golopenţia – profilul unei cercetătoarede teren,” Revista Română de Sociologie, XXIV (2013), no. 3–4, 231–259; “An Unwritten Text about Forgotten Texts,” Anuar IEF, 22 (2011) 201–211; “In Between Visibility and Vision. Reading Some Archival Ethnological Documents,” Studii şi comunicări de etnologie/ Forschungen und Beiträge zur Ethnologie, 2011, XXV, 127–142; “On contemporary storytelling in Sulina,” Caietele ASER, 6 (2010), 355–366.

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Joanne VINKE-DE KRUIJF is Postdoctoral Researcher at the Institute for Environmental Systems Research, University of Osnabrück, Germany. Her research focuses on the human dimension of water management. She studies multi-actor interactions, learning, governance, public participation, policy transfer and international collaboration in water resources management. Her current research concerns multi-level learning processes in European water projects focusing on climate change adaptation. For her PhD research she resided in Romania for three years, where she studied the effectiveness of Dutch-funded water projects. Publications: co-editor of Water governance, policy and knowledge transfer: International studies on Contextual Water Management (2013, with Cheryl de Boer, Gül Özerol and Hans Bressers, Earthscan (London: Routledge). Other recent publications: “Evaluation of policy transfer interventions: lessons from a Dutch-Romanian planning project” (with Denie Augustijn and Hans Bressers), Journal of Environmental Policy and Planning 14 (2012) (2), 139–160; “Stakeholder participation in the distribution of freshwater in the Netherlands” (with Saskia Hommes and Geiske Bouma), Irrigation and Drainage Systems 24 (2010), 249–263; and “Reorganization of water and wastewater management in Romania: From local to regional water governance” (with Valentina Dinica and Denie Augustijn), Journal of Environmental Engineering and Management, 8 (2009) 5, 1061–1071.