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Discourses on the Arab revolutions have, to date, focused on regime change and its implications for future democratization in the region. This essay explores the impetus behind the religiopolitical tensions in Tunisia and posits that to grasp the events unfolding since 2010 the unrest must be located within an understanding of the dynamic between the Islamists and the state under President Habib Bourguiba and, later, President Zine El Abidine Ben Ali. The essay revisits the terms revolutionary and revolution within the Tunisian context and reflects on the application of the label revolutionary, contending that the act of selective labeling bears implications for an objective understanding of the revolution and its actors. Finally, the essay evaluates how far the political tensions of the past continue to mark the present through the subsequent generation of religious movements emerging from the revolution.

Historiography of the nineteenth-century Caribbean often holds Santo Domingo (later, the Dominican Republic) to be something of an anomaly. This essay reconsiders that scholarship in a Pan-Caribbean frame, demonstrating how such a characterization can lead to a number of distortions. First, it allows projections of elite Dominican nationalism to serve as synecdoche for popular thought. Second, privileging this anxious and divisive rhetoric forecloses study of the nation as an emancipated state, together with Haiti, in a hostile Atlantic. Common Dominicans had a keen sense of this regional context, as demonstrated by popular unrest in the 1850s and 1860s. In the absence of plantation records or other prolific documentation, scholarship has often rested on the testimony of foreign observers; these sources demand further critical attention. Creative research that pointedly seeks out popular thought promises to elucidate connections across the island as well as ties to networks and neighbors throughout the Caribbean.

This article considers the state’s punitive response to the civil unrest that swept across England in August 2011. Surveying measures taken by police, courts, and politicians—including lengthy prison sentences, violent police raids, increased surveillance, and proposals for new benefit sanctions—the article highlights the targeting of disaffected young people, impoverished neighborhoods, and racialized communities. Considering these measures alongside the accompanying political rhetoric, the article argues that the state’s actions worked to depoliticize the riots and generate a narrative of blame that worked to rationalize the state’s own vindictive violence.

The turmoil associated with the Arab Spring in the region’s eight monarchies has received comparatively modest attention because, aside from Bahrain, the demonstrations were mostly small and nonconfrontational, there were few calls to overthrow the regimes, and states’ coercive powers were applied with relative moderation. Behind these generalizations, however, lies a more complex reality: the extent of the strife was quite different, as were state actions to counter them across the eight cases. What explains these disparities? This essay argues that the differences in the levels of unrest are largely illuminated by varying degrees of societal support for monarchical regimes, deep-seated societal cleavages, and the deficiencies of political mobilization. The variation in state responses, in turn, is mainly explained by divergent financial resources, the quality of political leadership, and external diplomatic, financial, and security assistance.

Metabolism is a term and concept established in the nineteenth century with the coming together of chemistry and animal physiology (Kamminga 1995; Bing 1971). It was, suitably enough, a metabolism for an industrial era, focused on the conversion of matter from the raw materials of nature to the products of man. Metabolism was understood as a factory, as the activity of “thousands of minute workshops,” or “a singular inward laboratory” filled with reactionfacilitating chemistry apparatus (Voit quoted in Nichols and Reeds 1991: 1889; Huxley 1869: 137). The sciences of the interconversions of matter — Stoffwechsel — were supplemented slightly later with detailed studies of bodily conversions of food to energy — Kraftwechsel — and the resulting image of “the human motor” has been well described (Rabinbach 1992). Max Rubner, a German physiologist in whose efforts lie the origins of our contemporary logics of the calorie — he was the first to make tables of the energy contents of foods with the direct intent of rationalizing nutrition — was deeply concerned with food as the source of bodily work (Gratzer 2005). Wilbur Olin Atwater, an American scientist trained in Germany, brought home both the techniques and the politics of Rubner’s Arbeitsphysiologie (physiology of work). Funded by industrialists interested in quelling labor unrest, nutrition science and the politics of the living wage in early twentiethcentury America were deeply linked in Atwater’s own tables of how much energy could be purchased for the same money in wheat versus cabbage (Aronson 1982; Mudry 2009).

This article reads Lovecraft’s weird fiction in relation to his historically-minded eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century precursors. In Lovecraft’s essay ‘Supernatural Horror in Literature’ (1927) the first text he focuses on at length is Horace Walpole’s Castle of Otranto (1764), a supernatural tale which, he claims, exerted a virtually unparalleled influence on weird literature. Forming a distorted mirror image of Georg Lukacs’s description of Otranto as a piece of costumery that nonetheless becomes the most famous historical novel of the eighteenth century, Lovecraft’s equivocal praise places Walpole in a tradition of cosmic horror that also includes Clara Reeve, William Godwin, and Walter Scott (Lukacs, The Historical Novel, p. 19) . Yet the relationship between Lovecraft’s fiction and these earlier writers of historical fiction has been more assumed than explored. Aware of history as a malleable and potentially destructive force, these precursors search for an alternative tradition to the ‘divine right’ of kings on which to base the British constitution. In the process, they both interrogate the idea of Anglo-Saxon liberty and exploit the progressive narratives of stadial history. Lovecraft follows their historical experiments in search of liberty, constructing a prosthetic past in an attempt to interpret the American people and their constitution. Despite Lovecraft’s horror of labor unrest and miscegenation, his racist political vision is, as a result, haunted by the radical and progressive potential of these past traditions.

In 1991, at Princeton University where I then taught, “The Idea of Europe” was selected as the topic of a newly established senior seminar to be offered jointly by the departments of Germanic, Romance, and Slavic languages and literatures. The cold war had very recently ended; the last customs barriers among the member states of the EEC, now the European Union, were about to come down; and the prospects for Europe seemed extremely promising. The EU was at that time a predominantly Western European affair, but since 1991 the Central and Eastern European states of Austria, Hungary, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Poland, Romania, Bulgaria, Slovenia, Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia have been added, along with Sweden, Cyprus, and Malta; and of course the two Germanies have been reunited. During the same period, however, there have been serious outbreaks of ethnic, religious, and nationalist conflict in the southeastern part of the continent, sectarian violence in Northern Ireland, and Basque separatism in Spain. There is even a violent independence movement on the island of Corsica, which from time to time requires significant deployments of French police and military. In Turkey — supposedly a candidate for full membership of the European Union in the near future — popular support for a more religiously based, Islamic society has continued to grow. Meanwhile, unrest and instability in Albania, virtual civil war in Algeria, and economic hardship in Morocco and parts of the Near East and Central Asia have led to an influx of immigrants, many

17 In March 1997, in rural Hebei and Henan Provinces in China, several hundred farmers from neighboring villages clashed over access to water resources to irrigate their crops, leading to dozens of injuries. The rivers that used to supply all their needs were drying up. Two years later, violent conflicts over water escalated in the same region. Hundreds more villagers were injured and water diversion facilities destroyed. In 1999, some 700 soldiers were sent to quell fighting that claimed six lives and injured 60 others in clashes that erupted between two Yemeni villages fighting over a local spring. In 2001, civil unrest in Pakistan over severe water shortages led to protests, riots, and bombings, killing one and injuring dozens. In 2004, a similar dispute in a bordering region of India led to four deaths and more than 30 injuries. Between 2004 and 2006, at least 250 people were killed and many more injured in Somalia and Ethiopia in fighting over water wells and pastoral lands. Villagers there call it the War of the Well and tell stories of “well warlords, well widows, and well warriors.” Across the globe, these sorts of public protests, disputes, and violence over water are increasingly common as problems of contamination, shortages, and allocation grow. In rural villages and expanding cities around the world, water is an increasingly scarce and contaminated resource. As populations and water demands continue to expand, the heightened risk of violent conflicts over water use and contamination suggest new calls for fundamental changes in the way we manage and use this precious resource. The world of water is changing— not just how much water is available, or who controls it, but the whole way we think about and manage this precious commodity. The assumptions we made in the last century about the availability and use of water no longer seem to apply. And for water managers, planners, hydrologists, engineers, economists, policy makers, and concerned citizens, the time has come for new thinking and new solutions. Over the past several centuries, societies have developed different technologies, practices, and institutions for supplying safe and reliable freshwater, dealing with extreme events, as well as collecting, treating, and disposing of wastewater. These tools brought enormous benefits to humankind. But they have also failed to solve some of our most difficult water problems, and in key ways they are unsuited to our new Peter H. Gleick is co-founder and president of the Pacific Institute in Oakland, California, a MacArthur fellow, and member of the U.S. National Academy of Sciences. He is the author of seven books, including the biennial report, The World’s Water (Island Press).

The qing court had a love-hate relationship with popular drama. From the Qianlong emperor (r. 1736–95) to the Empress Dowager Cixi (1835–1908), several Qing rulers were renowned for their doting patronage of popular opera, yet the state was far from sanguine about drama's social effects, viewing public theaters with great suspicion. Theaters, in the eyes of the authorities, were notorious hangouts for ruffians, slackers, gamblers, and insurgents, providing these roustabouts with the ideal environment in which to scheme and swindle. In addition to waging campaigns to censor and weed out “seditious passages” from popular dramas (Guy 1987, 92), emperors throughout the Qing dynasty issued dozens of edicts regulating the construction, location, and clientele of commercial theaters. In rural areas, especially in times of unrest, local authorities often canceled scheduled performances for fear that such occasions offered gangs and secret societies prime opportunities for stirring up trouble (Mackerras 1972, 37). Urban theaters were no safer. According to popular lore, even the Kangxi emperor was cheated by hoodlums when he ventured into a public theater during one of his legendary outings disguised as a commoner (Liao 1997, 80). Yet in spite of their reputation for breeding disorder and moral vice, commercial theaters—commonly known as teahouses (chayuan)—increasingly thrived, and in this new social space, the genre of Peking opera came into full flower during the last century of the Qing dynasty.

This essay describes the history of labor unrest and the changes in the relations between unions and the Romanian government during and since the Ceausescu years (1965–89). Briefly, the relatively peaceful relations between one central labor confederation and the government during the communist era changed after the December 1989 revolution. In the early postrevolutionary era, some unions were organized into various confederations while others, such as the union representing Jiu Valley coal miners, remained independent, and labor unrest increased as workers protested over issues including workplace control, political policies, and economic conditions. While the government sought to create a more cooperative relationship with unions by enacting labor legislation in the early 1990s, labor militancy continued unabated. Recent developments having implications for Romania’s labor movement include economic and political conditions and the rise of a radical right seeking to appeal to the working class, a segment of society that feels more left behind by the changes since the revolution than any other group.

An essential feature of beijing'slong history as China's imperial capital was the ability to feed its population despite a geographical location distinctly unfavorable to agricultute. For all ancient and modern states, provisioning the capital is not only a matter of pride and prestige but a question of survival. The failure to feed civil officials, military supporters, and the urban population that serves them is a visible sign of a government's inadequacy and easily leads to political unrest. For these reasons, all states have tended to favor the food security of their cities, and especially their capital cities. In this China has no claim to uniqueness.

Fromjune i8I2 to December i820, the Papantla region in northern Veracruz was a crucible of guerrilla warfare. Papantla, the seat of a subdelegacidn and the center of a prosperous vanilla trade, had a tradition of political unrest. Riots rent the community in I735, I762, 1764, 1767, and I787, earning the villagers a well-deserved reputation as a troublesome people.' Although the mostly Totonac-speaking inhabitants of the region did not immediately respond to Hidalgo's call to arms, once the town rebelled in i8I2 it did not easily return to order. During the greater part of the war of independence, insurgents dominated the coastal region between the ports of Tuxpan and Veracruz. And although by i8i8 the royalist army had gradually reconquered all the towns in the area, the rural hinterland remained in rebel hands. Indigenous insurgents from Papantla withdrew to the rough terrain to the south and established a fortified mountain refuge at Coyusquihui, where for the rest of the war they resisted the royalist military.

Reports from india's northeastern states—Arunachal Pradesh, Assam, Manipur, Meghalaya, Mizoram, Nagaland, and Tripura—rarely deal with the positive aspects of their institutional development processes. The national media mainly concentrates on the disquieting stories of unrest, insurgence, and violence. The negative portrait of this region offered by both the press and scholarly studies in India and abroad must be distressing for the people of the Northeastern region.This paper suggests that an excessive preoccupation with violence and a narrow reading of the implications of insurgent violence on the part of the observers are responsible for a substantial misunderstanding of the Northeastern political processes. As a result, the positive aspects of community formation, the linkage of communities in wider political institutions as parts of the Northeastern administration and representative systems, and the contribution of these processes to the national systems remain largely unexplored. The history of insurgence is rarely narrated in the context of an equally long history of peace, social collaboration, political reconciliation, democratic participation, and innovations in institution-building and sustenance. Even the received narrative of violence is deeply flawed due to its frequent inability to attend to the possible rationality of forced desperation, and its insensitivity to the long-term constructive implications of many anti-authority struggles.

iiis essay examines the forces that retarded and ultimately destroyed early trade unionism in Brazil. Studying the inefficacy of the Brazilian movement, however, raises a broader question: why have some working-class movements failed, while others under apparently similar circumstances have survived and even flourished? We still lack the information for a definitive answer to this question. But insight is gained by viewing Brazil and making some comparative references to labor movements in general. Such references are also made to the particular experience of Argentina, a nation whose trade union development most closely approximated that of Brazil. The central focus will be on Sdo Paulo, Santos, and Rio de Janeiro, the Brazilian cities that formed the center of industry, commerce, and working-class unrest during the period under consideration. European immigrants dominated Brazil's first labor movement. From the beginning of the movement, immigrants, principally from Italy, Portugal, and Spain, constituted the majority of the working class in Sdo Paulo and Santos and a sizeable minority in Rio de Janeiro (then the federal capital). In all three cities immigrants comprised the major part of the rank and file as well as the leadership of the trade unions.' The Brazilian labor movement can be dated from the 1890s when a

they recounted their version of these disturbances in oral legends and written narratives. They told of the richness of their land, the appearance of villainy, the rectification of evil, and the return of peaceful conditions. These records of past community experiences drew on the power of fiction to recall more than the actual happening for their audience. In the eyes and ears of listeners and readers, they represented the shared memory of a historical reality recaptured through extraordinary prose. During the last centuries of Tokugawa rule, peasants suffered from misgovernment and challenged perceived wrongdoing through petitions to their rulers and riots against wealthy commoners. Their protests followed a ritualized pattern: the crisis was discovered; action was taken to resolve it; and equilibrium was restored. For weeks or even months, signs and portents of unrest filled the air. Meetings were held, and complaints were voiced opposing high taxes, refusal to grant tax exemptions during famines, innovative mercantile policies, the hoarding of rice, or any other activity that threatened the people's ability to survive as they were. ' Sometimes the protest action was nonviolent, as in the g(so, the march of peasants en masse to present their petitions to the authorities, and sometimes violent, as in the uchikotktashi, the destructive riots where commoners vented their rage and punished the unjust by smashing furniture and trampling food in the mud. In either case, it was collective; the participants joined not as individuals, but as members of a community. Protest action never passed unpunished. After the riot, government officials retaliated for disorder by taking action against those involved; leaders were invariably executed. But uprisings were not simply forgotten. They needed to be explained, and the explanation had to be valid. According to Victor Turner, the framework of human relations known as society is constantly being renewed through a continual process of destruction and rebuilding. An important part of this process is the interaction among people as they collectively reach rational explanations for their action. Even though their interpretations may not be logical to outsiders, they make social life a coherent and comprehensible reality for members of the group. Thus, myths and folktales are "convenient mears of ordering collective experience" in the process of cultural becoming (Turner '977:65). Peasant uprising narratives also evoked the recent past in a way that gal P it coherence to its audience. Yet, using the narratives as

ROM its inception in the 1760s, the army of New Spain failed to meet the expectations of viceroys, senior military officers, and those it was supposed to protect from foreign invasions, civil unrest, and frontier incursions. Although in 1807 and 1808 Viceroy Jose de Iturrigaray could assemble a cantonment of some 16,000 militiamen and regular soldiers to meet a British assault that did not materialize, there were almost no troops available in September 1810 to put down the insurrection led by Padre Miguel Hidalgo. The army appeared to have vanished; officers watched spellbound as the enemy hordes grew and the existing command system collapsed. Rather than marching to raise the siege of Guanajuato, commanders such as Felix Maria Calleja and Manuel de Flon (Conde de la Cadena) wrote letters begging the defenders of the Alhondiga to hold out. In the meantime, the royalist officers fretted and vacillated, paralyzed by fears that New Spain was collapsing about them. At Queretaro, Flon saw the population as "spies for Allende" and he informed Viceroy Javier de Venegas that "there is not an Indian or creole who does not join the insurgents when they go to attack some town."2 His garrison troops from Guanajuato, Celaya, San Miguel, and other

ONE of the striking differences between the Russian and Chinese Communist revolutions was the Chinese use of rural bases (Soviet Areas) to capture national political control-surrounding the cities with the countryside. Remarkably, these bases, their evolution, characteristics, and role in the various intra-Party struggles remain one of the least studied or understood elements in our knowledge of Chinese Communist history. This paper focuses on the period I927-I934 when such bases first emerged and the pattern for their later application pragmatically evolved. The particular example chosen for illustration is the Oyiiwan (Hupeh-Honan-Anhwei) Soviet (Oyiiwan Su-wei-ai Ch'ii). Not only was Oyiiwan the largest soviet base in this period, but its political and geographic role was more important than any other single base. Due to its strategic location and size, Oyiiwan was the base considered "central" by the Central Committee. Had there not been the necessity of moving the Central Committee to Kiangsi to control Mao Tse-tung's "independent" tendencies, there seems little doubt that this base and is leaders would have become far more significant. As it turned out, competition between the Oyiiwan and Kiangsi soviets set the stage for the later struggle between their respective leaders, Chang Kuo-t'ao and Mao Tse-tung. To understand the background not only of the Oyiiwan Base but the evolution of guerrilla bases in general and their geographic concentration in central and southern China, it is necessary to look at the political and military events immediately preceding their creation. Among these the activities of cadre from the Cantonbased Farmers' Training Institute, the routes of the KMT armies in the First Northern Expedition, and the failures of the Communist attempts to capture large urban industrial cities are most important. With the reorganization of the KMT along Bolshevik Party lines in I924, two new major institutions were created. One of these was the Whampoa Military Academy, the other a Farmers' Training Institute.' In operation from July, I924, to October, I926, the Institute was coterminous with preparations for the First Northern Expedition. Its purpose was to train student cadres to return to their native districts or nearby provinces and organize existing political unrest among the farmers. These efforts were designed to spread the political doctrine of the Three People's Principles and to provide an organized mass base in support of Nationalist troops when they should begin their attack on the northern warlords. The success of the (Farmers') Institute's activity is attested to by the actions of farmers in providing the advancing troops with food, supplies, and intelligence information. In addition there were numerous examples of armed uprisings staged

H ISTORIANS have often asked why Joel Poinsett refused to undertake a second mission to South America when President Monroe asked him to serve in 1817 as a "special commissioner." Poinsett's polite but definite refusal, it is suggested, proceeded from thoughts of military service or else diplomatic employment of a higher order than that which had been his experience during the years 1810-1815.1 But even his excuses of lengthy-absence from home and friends, and recent election to the South Carolina legislature sound peculiarly hollow in the light of his well-known republicanism. During his five years in South America, Poinsett's opinion of leading revolutionaries was exceedingly unfavorable. The abilities of Don Manuel Belgrano were "overrated," and he "disappointed the expectations of the people. "2 Juan Martin de Pueyrredon was a man who had " conducted a successful course of intrigue. " The spirit of unrest which these men and others engendered was undermining the cause of true revolution in South America; and the United States could not afford to rush to the support of such instability. Poinsett's reply to the Department of State outlined his essential position, and warned of the personal ambition of many leaders.3 There is almost no later official correspondence touching this problem until the celebrated Poinsett Memorandum of 4 November 1818 to Secretary Adams. Researchers have deplored the lack of documen

ONE OF THE most fascinating of the many attempts by the United States, or its citizens, to detach Cuba from Spain prior to the Civil War occurred in 1854-55. Many factors in the international situation at that time combined to give unquestioned importance to the political destiny of Cuba. England and France prodded Spain to abolish slavery and substitute a free labor system in the island with the result that unusual political and social tensions were generated there. Characteristically, the United States was particularly sensitive to the internal unrest in Cuba. This condition was reflected in the cabinet of the pro-expansionist Franklin Pierce administration which decided to press Spain to sell Cuba to the United States notwithstanding deteriorating relations with that European power. The administration was further embarrassed by the fact that exiled Cubans in the United States cooperated with the efforts of John A. Quitman, Governor of Mississippi in 1850-51, to organize a filibustering expedition with the intent of preventing the emancipation of slaves in the island. Spanish authorities were familiar with the development of the enterprise, and the information they conveyed to the Pierce administration made it impossible for the latter to ignore the filibusters. In the background was the ever-increasing sectional furor over the Kansas-Nebraska affair which was to intensify northern opposition to the expansion of slavery. The threat of Africanization gave the crisis its peculiar character and intensity, both in Cuba and on the mainland of North America. Conservative planters understood Africanization to mean the adoption of any system of labor which had for its ultimate aim the extinction of slavery, and they so interpreted the labor decrees in the island in 1854. Predictable consequences, they declared, would be a marked decline of lroductivit., bitter racial warfare. and the extermintionI

The 1915 Buddhist-Muslim riots in Ceylon are often attributed to religious animosity, but economic and political factors significantly influenced the environment in which the riots occurred and help to explain the drastic government reaction to the disorders. The Muslims involved, recent arrivals from India called Coast Moors, were primarily traders and moneylenders. Resentment against price increases and alleged profiteering developed among the Sinhalese Buddhists. Before 1915, communal tensions had grown, with many Sinhalese-language newspapers denouncing the Coast Moors for exploitation of the Ceylonese. A Buddhist temperence movement had become a channel for articulating nationalist sentiments and was viewed with suspicion by the colonial regime. Labor unrest and trade unionism had appeared in Colombo prior to the riots. There, the 1915 disorders were led by the most militant urban workers, particularly railway workers, and reflected working-class grievances over rising living costs and unemployment. Fear of German intrigue during the war, the spread of nationalism and terrorism from India, and urban working-class unrest led colonial officials to interpret the riots as a threat to British rule. The officials were divided on the severity of action required, but those favoring the most drastic measures prevailed.

The non-cooperation movement of 1920–1922 was a significant landmark in the development of nation-wide political activities by the Indian National Congress. At the same time, because it took place within very different regional contexts, the nature of the movement and the response which it provoked derived a good deal from regional ingredients. In the United Provinces (the present day Uttar Pradesh), an agricultural region with a largely rural population, it was the agrarian system which molded the character of the non-cooperation and “anti-non-cooperation” movements. Non-cooperation there coincided with unrest among the peasantry and, for a time at least, it assumed the appearance of a revolutionary upsurge. The British Government of the province, therefore, had to meet this revolutionary movement as well as the Congress-led political movement. The Government turned to the landed aristocracy, whose influence in the countryside it had depended upon in the past, to provide the basis for an anti-revolutionary front. Initially, then, the non-cooperation movement served to refurbish the province's traditional landlord-based political system. It went further, however; and at one stage it appeared likely that the moderate-nationalist politicians, usually critical of the government, would be prepared to ally themselves with both the government and the landlords because of their concern over the dangers of revolution within the province. “Anti-non-cooperation,” it seemed, might create a new use for traditional methods of political control, as well as the source of important new lines of political development in the province. It is the creation of this situation, and its working out within the framework of the Government's efforts to counter both revolution and disorder, which is traced here.

HE AGRARIAN SECTOR of contemporary Latin America is undergoing a process of conflict and radical change; the traditional system of large estates or haciendas is now disappearing in country after country. Paradoxically, only when fading out has the hacienda finally succeeded in attracting real interest on the part of historians. Until very recently, Mexico was the only country whose agrarian history had been explored at least to some degree. The explanation is, of course, that agrarian unrest played such an important role in the origin and development of the great Mexican Revolution. Twenty years ago, two very influential studies appeared, both dealing with the origins of the large Mexican estate. I refer to New Spain's Century of Depression by Woodrow Borah' and La formation des grands dornaines au Mexique. Terre et society' aux XVle-XVIIIe siecles by Frangois Chevalier.2 Both suggested that the rise of the large landed estate coincided with a moment of pronounced demographic and economic depression stretching from the late sixteenth century through the seventeenth. As Borah put it, at the end of the seventeenth century the Mexican economy was already "organized on the basis of latifundia and debt peonage, the twin aspects of Mexican life which . . .helped provoke the Revolution of 1910-1917."3 Ever since the appearance of these pioneering studies, historians have tended to take it for granted that the formation of the hacienda