mission statement Elements, the undergraduate research journal of Boston College, showcases the varied research endeavors of fellow undergraduates to the greater academic community. By fostering intellectual curiosity and discussion, the journal strengthens and affirms the community of undergraduate students at Boston College. e Elements Fall 2014 thanks We would like to thank Boston College, the Institute for the Liberal Arts, and the Office of the Dean for the College of Arts and Sciences for the financial support that makes this issue possible. questions & contributions If you have any questions, please contact the journal at elements@bc.edu. All submissions can be sent to elements. submissions@gmail.com. Visit our website at www.bc.edu/elements for updates and further information. cover Skulls in Paris Catacombs © iStock.com/WadeHampton periodicity Elements is published twice an academic year in the fall and spring semesters. The information provided by our contributors is not independently verified by Elements. The materials presented represent the personal opinions of the individual authors and do not necessarily represent the views of Elements or the Boston College community. Elements, Undergraduate Research Journal, Volume 10, Issue 2, Fall 2014 Boston College, 140 Commonwealth Avenue, Service Building 103, Chestnut Hill, MA 02467 Printed by Kirkwood Printing,904 Main Street, Wilmington, MA 01887 Copyright © 2014 by the Trustees of Boston College elements staff editor-in-chief brandon bavier managing editor marissa marandola deputy editor ellen white layout editor frank a. direnno humanities grace west, Senior Editor patty owens, Senior Editor lydia orr, Editor sciences corleone delaveris, Senior Editor saljooq m. asif, Editor alex gilligan, Editor anna whitham. Editor media & advertising grace west, Senior Editor patty owens, Senior Editor faculty advisor elizabeth chadwick Dear Readers, As I reflected on the articles in this issue of Elements, the sentiment of me- mento mori, an ever-present aspect of the Western cultural tradition, came to mind. Memento mori, the classic demand on man to recognize the ephem- erality of his life and to act accordingly, shapes how human society in every era approaches the quest to live well despite the consuming knowledge of impending death. Through their research, our Fall 2014 authors grapple with the questions posed by memento mori, how to live and how to die, in light of the answers offered by various historical epochs. Our cover article, Margaret Scollan’s Nicosian Diet and Daily Life, examines the skeletal evidence left behind by one society in death to determine how its members lived. Her finds and conclusion suggest that memento mori, the principle that guides life towards death, can become memento vivere by us- ing the remnants of death to recall life. Paleopathologist as Medieval Practitio- ner by Frank DiRenno offers a similar response to memento mori through its study of bones to uncover the intricacies of Medieval life in the English vil- lage of Norwich. Knowing that he must eventually join the bones Scollan and DiRenno explore, man must consciously choose a way of living that best utilizes his limited time on earth. In response to the problematic introduced by science, this issue of Elements presents a number of perspectives on how social and political contexts in- fluence man’s understanding of the good life. Samantha Pinsak depicts the conflict between social expectations and individual inclinations in her piece, Masculinity and Sexuality in Renaissance Italy. In addition to the cul- tural factors Pinsak identifies, crisis, too, impacts man’s decision of how to live in profound ways. Nick Centrella’s From Doctor Shepard to Father Cough- lin explains how, in the face of the Great Depression and the two World Wars, many Americans came to see Fascism as the most assured path to the good life. Their memento vivere reflected an understanding of memento mori which suddenly seemed much more imminent. The degree of linkage be- tween man’s awareness of death and the ways in which he chooses to live fluctuates along with the social and historical context in which he operates. Having considered these scientific and historical examinations of how to live and how to die, I began to question how we, in our 21st Century mo- ment, regard life, death, and the relationship between the two. Tate Krasner approaches this problem from a political angle in A Just Measure, which explores the legality and morality of targeted drone killings. How do we weight the value of one human life in comparison to the prevention of many potential deaths? This, perhaps, is one of the most visible manifesta- tions of the modern formulation of memento mori and memento vivere, reali- ties that we probe couched in new, technical terminology. We hope that, as you peruse the contents of Elements and trace the evolution of memento mori from the time of the Nicosians to the present, you will pause to consider how you understand memento vivere and what constitutes the good life in our own social and historical moment. Happy reading! Best, marissa marandola Managing Editor editor’s note contents NICOSIAN DIET AND DAILY LIFE: RECONSTRUCTION OF THE DIETS OF A LATE MEDIEVAL CYPRIOT POPULA- TION Margaret Scollan Reconstructing the diets of the late medieval Cypriot population using carbon and nitrogen isotope analysis. MASCULINITY AND SEXUALITY IN RENAISSANCE ITALY: REPRODUCTIVE AND PERFORMATIVE MANLINESS Samantha Pinsak Investigating the societal expectations of masculinity in fifteenth and sixteenth century Italy. A JUST MEASURE: ON THE LEGALITY, MORALITY, AND EFFECTIVENESS OF TARGETED KILLING Tate Krasner Weighing the legality and morality of targeted killing in modern warfare. SATISFACTION THROUGH DISEMBODIMENT: THE SPECTACLE AND IMPRISONMENT OF HUNGER Missa Sangimino Examining the implications of voluntary hunger and its effects on both the famished and their spectators. 9 27 41 49 GRAND STRATEGY IN RUSSIAN GEOPOLITICS: NATURAL OIL AND RESOURCE NATIONALISM Stacia Vladimirova Evaluating the role of resource nationalism in a multipolar world. 55 PALEOPATHOLOGIST AS MEDIEVAL PRACTITIONER: A CASE FOR THE COMMUNITY OF THE VISIBLY ILL IN MEDIEVAL NORWICH Frank A. DiRenno Digging into the practices of medieval English hospitals and the culture of leprosy within them. THE GREAT YARN BALL: DANTE’S POETICS AND OVID’S PYRAMUS AND THISBE Paul Boboc Understanding the pagan and Christian roots that influenced Dante’s poetry. FROM DOCTOR SHEPARD TO FATHER COUGHLIN: AN EXPLORATION OF FASCISM IN 1930S AMERICA Nick Centrella Exploring the various fascist organizations present in early to mid twentieth century America. AUTHOR BIOGRAPHIES LIST OF ARTWORK 85 78 64 93 95 stable isotope analysis was used to determine the diets of twenty-six individuals ex- humed from a thirteenth-century cistercian convent’s cemetery in nicosia, cyprus. stable isotope analysis is a technique that measures the chemical signatures of car- bon and nitrogen isotopic ratios in bone. these ratios are passed on to bone from the food that humans consume and thus can indicate an individual’s diet. with an understanding of the history of nicosia and the common medieval diet in the east- ern mediterranean, it was asked if the nicosian population was eating a diet similar to those of other medieval eastern mediterraneans and if nuns and lay persons could be differentiated based on diet. by comparing the data to that of other sites, it was found that the population was eating a diet similar to that of other contempo- rary eastern mediterraneans. furthermore, based on their diet, it was hypothesized that the two outliers were nuns while the others were lay persons. the outliers’ diet, consisting of significantly more marine resources, agreed with historical sources indicating that monastics could afford and eat more fish. nicosian diet and daily life Reconstruction of the diets of a late medieval Cypriot population using carbon and nitrogen isotope analysis margaret scollan introduction & historical background Throughout the centuries, Cyprus and its capital, Nicosia, have been passed among various ruling groups and societ- ies, creating an archaeological record which has layers of different historical deposits. For example, Cyprus was a part of the Byzantine Empire for eight hundred years. However, at the beginning of the thirteenth century, it was conquered by Richard the Lionheart, then passed on to the Knights Templar, and finally sold to the dispossessed king of Jerusalem, a French noble named Guy de Lusignan. This was at the time of the fourth crusade and much of the Eastern Mediterranean was falling under Western Euro- pean control. For the next three hundred years, Cyprus was governed by the French- and Latin-speaking Lusig- nans, who were commonly called “Franks” by the Eastern Mediterraneans. These Franks were Catholics, and al- though they permitted the Eastern Orthodox Church to remain on the island, restrictions that they imposed al- lowed the Western Catholic Church to acquire both power and property. A major example of this was when the Lusig- nans expanded the walls of Nicosia: the new space was used for the construction of a series of new monasteries and convents, living under Western monastic rules.1 One monastic group, the Cistercian Order, took particular advantage of the rise to power of Frankish families in the Eastern Mediterranean. Having taken an active part in the fourth crusade, the Cistercians were interested in expand- ing their order to this new area and encouraging the adop- tion of Catholicism by local Eastern Orthodox peoples.2 Accordingly, the Cistercians began to establish monaster- ies and convents throughout the Eastern Mediterranean world, in places such as Greece, Constantinople, Crete, and Cyprus. Cistercian monasteries became markers of Western European authority and played an important role in the colonization of Byzantine lands.3 One such convent, the Cistercian convent of St. Theodore, was built in 1244 in the new space created by the expansion of the Nicosian walls. According to Kaila, the abbey was not an average Latin nunnery; it was founded by the widow of the regent of the Kingdom of Cyprus, and over the centuries its ab- besses came from the leading noble families in the city. Furthermore, the abbey was one of the richest nunneries on Cyprus, as demonstrated by its church tax records.4 The foundation of the monastery and the remnants of its cemetery lay hidden for centuries until recently, when the construction of the new Supreme Court building revealed the archaeological site underneath. Although the monas- tery was poorly preserved and the construction project had caused further damage, archaeologists were able to identi- fy the site as the Cistercian convent through their interpre- tation of an inscribed tombstone discovered there.5 The tombstone was carved with a female figure whose name was labeled underneath; she was a well-known abbess of the convent, who was mentioned in a text dated to 1328. Thirty-five burials were excavated at the site, but poor pres- ervation meant that it was not possible to determine the sex of the skeletons. It was not assumed that all the re- mains were those of nuns because according to lead ar- chaeologist, Eftychia Zachariou, it was customary for both family members and convent staff to be buried alongside the members of the convent.6 Due to these burial practic- es, it had not been possible for osteologists to identify the remains of St. Theodore’s nuns among the individuals, nor could any conclusions be drawn about the health or diet of the Cistercian Cypriot nuns. Comparisons cannot be drawn between this convent and other better-docu- mented communities from this period, nor can daily life be understood for the Cistercian sisters at this convent. However, skeletal analysis can still provide valuable infor- mation about this sample population, especially concern- ing the diet of the city’s inhabitants during this period. Stable isotope analysis, discussed at length later, is a scien- tific method used to determine the diets of individuals. It cyprus location (map courtesy of un ocha) 10 elements : : fall 2014 is particularly useful for differentiating between diets high in marine and terrestrial protein, which can potentially an- swer questions about agriculture, fishing, trade, and reli- gious fasting practices. the eastern mediterranean diet Primary sources, such as historical and social commentar- ies, travelers’ tales, regulations for the taxation and sale of foods, records of supplies, and dietary regimes of monas- teries, have provided a great deal of information on the identity and symbolism of foods in the Eastern Mediterra- nean during the medieval era.7,8 From these sources, it is known that the foundation of the medieval Mediterranean diet was the “Mediterranean trinity” of grain, olive oil, and wine. However, this basic diet was supplemented with other foodstuffs, including meat, fish, dairy products, le- gumes, and millet. The diversity of diets was determined by socio-economic factors. For example, high-status indi- viduals consumed more meat than those of lower social status, sailors and travelers ate foods capable of staying fresh for longer periods of time, and religious persons fol- lowed a diet restricted by fasting practices. The primary grains in the Eastern Mediterranean diet were wheat and barley, with wheat prized by the upper classes. According to Garvie-Lok, whose daily caloric infor- mation is referenced throughout this section, bread made up 20-50% of a medieval Mediterranean’s daily caloric in- take, with that percentage possibly being greater for monks and nuns, who were forbidden to eat animal proteins dur- ing fasts.9 Millet, a C4 grain, was also eaten, although it is unclear if this was a common grain for lower status people or if it was only used as fodder and a famine food.10 Olive oil and wine, the other two components of the Medi- terranean “trinity,” were also dietary essentials. It was ex- tremely rare for olive oil to be eliminated in religious fasts, which signifies its importance to the diet. It made up 10% of daily total calories and about 60-70% of daily fat intake (the main source of fat in a primarily carbohydrate-based diet).11 Furthermore, Dembinska’s analysis of diet in Byz- antine monasteries indicates that monks and nuns were consuming approximately 580-870 milliliters of wine per day, or 11-14% of their daily calories.12 The lay population was probably drinking an even greater amount of wine. There is much debate about the importance of animal products in this diet. Pig, sheep, and goat were the live- stock of choice. Fowl, such as chickens, were also popular options for meat-eaters. References in historical docu- ments to rulers and nobles eating meat reveals a world in which significant amounts of meat were only consumed by elites. This is supported by medieval documents listing the prices of meat, which demonstrate how expensive it was.13 Therefore it is reasonable to assume that the mem- bers of the upper classes consumed a significantly greater amount of meat than others. Dairy and egg consumption, however, was a more widespread practice, as they were a cheaper source of animal protein. Goat and sheep cheese, milk, and yoghurt would have been the most popular dairy items, along with eggs. For example, cheese and eggs made up approximately 6% of the total daily calories and 13% of the protein of monks and nuns.14 A major research question is the role that marine resourc- es played in all of this. The Mediterranean Sea is poor in fish,15 but around the year 1000CE, Europe witnessed a dramatic expansion in the fishing industry, due in part to new shipping technologies and the need to exploit new food sources for a rapidly-growing European population.16 The expansion in fishing began in northern Europe, and written records indicate that Atlantic marine food supply was reaching Italy by the shipload in the late 14th century; it is reasonable to assume that it may have been reaching other parts of the Mediterranean as well.17 Thus, evidence indicates that the years between 1000CE and 1300CE were a time of transition where greater amounts of marine food began to be included in the diet.18 But by whom? First and foremost, as fish became more popular, the group that would have initially been able to afford it was the upper class. Before adequate preservation techniques were discovered, fresh, local fish had prices comparable to top-quality meats.19,20 Fish was at least as important as meat in the Byzantine diet, and meat and fresh fish would have been the main food expenditures for aristocratic households during this period.21 In this way, one of the reasons for the rise in the demand of fish was the prestige derived from eating a costly food. However, as preservation and shipping practices im- proved, lower-quality salted and dried fish would have been available to lower classes due to their inexpensive prices. Although dried fish was one of the cheapest food items on Dembinska’s list,22 researchers believe that poor- er folk may have been content with small portions of a va- riety of fish, and eaten fish as often as they ate comparable meats.23 Powell argues that fish and marine foods could have played a role in a mixed subsistence strategy: being 11 nicosian diet and daily life not necessarily a staple food, but still a significant source of calories when it was available.24 Finally, around the year 1000CE, there was a revival of Christian fasting practices, which encouraged the replace- ment of animal protein with marine protein. The Western Church calendar dictated fasting for nearly half of the days of the year, including Fridays, Saturdays, sometimes Wednesdays, Advent, and Lent.25 Fish consumption was usually allowed on these fasting days, and even on the strictest fasting days, shellfish was permitted.26 However, it cannot be assumed that all people observed these fasts or replaced meat with fish. It is possible that while meat from animals was avoided during fasts, poorer folk would re- place this with dairy products as opposed to fish.27 Thus, although fish was becoming more available during this time period, it is unclear how important a role it played in the Eastern Mediterranean diet. monastic diets Medieval monastic diets differed from those of the lay pop- ulation and differed between Eastern and Western Chris- tian monasteries. Byzantine typika, or books instructing monastic life, generally proscribed two daily meals.28 Each meal consisted of a serving of bread, considered the most important staple to a monastic’s diet. During non-fast days, such as the majority of the period between Easter and All Saints Day, meals consisted of bread, watered wine, le- gumes, and soups containing legumes and green vegeta- bles. Fish, shellfish, eggs, and cheese were sometimes in- cluded,29 although some primary sources from specific monasteries indicate that shellfish and/or fresh or salted fish was on the menu daily.30 Lastly, meat was prohibited the majority of the time.31 To summarize, the diet of monks and nuns was mostly a vegan diet, with a large majority of protein coming from fish or the occasional dairy product. Exceptions to this diet were made when members of a wealthy family died, and donors would offer money to monasteries in return for prayers to be said for the de- ceased. This money was used for the purchase of special fare, with one text stating that this would have consisted of “fish in liberal quantities.”32 This suggests that the wealth- ier the monastery, the more likely it was to have greater quantities of fish on the table. Furthermore, some monks and nuns claimed the right to a more luxurious diet due to pride in ancestry, advanced education, or a significant con- tribution of money or property to the monastery.33 Even in the monastic world, social stratification existed and was particularly prevalent in urban settings.34 In other words, wealthier monks and nuns were eating better, regardless of the idea that there should be “equality amongst tables.”35 Finally, it is important to note the specific regulations of the Cistercian diet. When the order was founded in the twelfth century, stringent dietary rules existed. Meat was completely forbidden to all except the weak and infirm, and spices and luxury dishes were also discouraged.36 However, the diet varied and was affected by regional con- ditions, as well as economic and social developments. By the later Middle Ages, the Cistercian order had evolved and expectations had changed. Monks and nuns became less tolerant of the traditional monastic diet and as the order spread, outsiders may have been unwilling to embrace the frugality of a Cistercian lifestyle. The diet became richer and more diverse, and monks and nuns indulged in more luxurious fare.37 purpose The information garnered from the historical background of Nicosia and the description of a typical Eastern Mediter- ranean diet allows for research questions to be developed for the sample population. Religious practices encouraged the consumption of fish on fasting days. Historical evi- dence claims that the convent of St. Theodore was the rich- est nunnery in Cyprus, thus its occupants would have been able to afford the purchase of large amounts of fish. Since the sex, age, and vocations of the sample population are unknown, diet analysis may provide clues as to which indi- viduals were members of the convent, assuming the local population was not eating as much fish as the nuns. Fur- thermore, whether or not it is possible to differentiate the population, comparison of the stable isotope data from this site with that of other medieval Eastern Mediterranean sites can indicate if this group was eating a diet similar to that of their Eastern Mediterranean neighbors, or if they were consuming more marine resources due to their is- land geography. “Around the year 1000CE, there was a revival of Christian fasting practices.” 12 elements : : fall 2014 stable isotope analysis Elements are pure chemical substances that are composed of three different sub-particles: electrons, protons, and neutrons. The number of protons in an element defines it, yet the number of neutrons only contributes to the ele- ment’s weight and can differ between atoms of the same element. Isotopes are the forms of the same element con- taining different numbers of neutrons in their nuclei. They thus have different atomic masses (weights). For ex- ample, most carbon atoms have six protons and six neu- trons, but a minority of carbon atoms can have seven or even eight neutrons. An increase in neutrons increases the weight of the atom. An element’s atomic mass (and thus its isotopic identification) is indicated by a superscript number to the left of the element, e.g. 13C, which contains six protons and seven neutrons. Extra neutrons in the nucleus of an atom can affect the ele- ment’s reactivity. Some isotopes, such as 14C, are radioac- tive while others are stable. 13C and 15N are stable isotopes, meaning they do not decay over time. Some foods are more enriched with these isotopes than others, meaning that certain types of food have distinctive isotopic signa- tures. For example, marine protein sources are more en- riched with 13C than terrestrial protein sources. These iso- topic ratios are passed on to human bone and tissues when humans consume foods. Since stable isotopes are effec- tively immutable, an ancient bone will maintain the isoto- pic signature that it had at the time of the individual’s death. Often biological material can change dramatically after the death of an organism or use of an object, but in this case the samples remain the same for extremely long periods of time. As specific foods have a unique isotopic ratio and these ratios do not change over time, an analysis of these ratios is a valuable tool for understanding past diets. This analy- sis of stable isotope ratios demonstrates the “you are what you eat” principle, or that human bone isotopic signatures resemble the isotopic signatures from the broken-down food used to build them.38 In the past, archaeologists would determine diet through a variety of different qualita- tive means. For example, animal and plant remains at a site could be used to hypothesize the types of foods con- sumed by the individuals buried at the site. Also, objects such as fishing hooks, pots, and other tools could suggest the different hunting and agricultural practices of the pop- ulation.39 Furthermore, as mentioned previously, histori- ans determine diet from primary source records. Although these records are ideal for understanding available foods and their symbolism, the records usually do not calibrate the importance of each food to an individual’s diet. Stable isotope analysis, on the other hand, is a direct and semi-quantitative means of determining diet. Since indi- viduals can be examined, it allows for differences in diet to be established between different ages, genders, and even social groups.i,40 For example, some religious communi- ties have strict dietary laws which would be reflected by their dietary isotopic composition.41 Stable isotope analysis could also indicate which foods were popular in different regions. However, the differences in stable isotope ratios can be subtle, and thus stronger dietary inferences can be made when stable isotope data is combined with the indi- rect data of animal remains, plant remains, and ceramics excavated at the site. This technique is important to his- torical discovery because understanding food production and consumption can help to determine major economic trends and social relations between groups at points in his- tory where written evidence is unavailable or scarce. measuring c, n stable isotope abundance Stable isotope abundances are determined by measuring the ratio of heavier to lighter isotopes (e.g. 13C/12C) in com- parison to that of a recognized standard, notated by a low- ercase delta (b) in front of the ratio value (e.g. b13C). The numeric value of the ratio is written with a “per mil” nota- tion (‰) because it is measured in parts-per-thousand. To illustrate this, if b13C increased from -18‰ to -17‰, this would indicate that there was one additional 13C isotope per 1000 carbon atoms. According to McKinney et al.,42 the formula for stable isotope abundances is b = [(Rsample/Rstandard)-1] x 1000 ‰ (where R is the ratio of the isotopes) Both stable isotopes have internationally recognized stan- dards to which all values are referenced. The standard for carbon is PDB,43 which contains more 13C than most di- etary resources and human tissues.44 Thus, b13C values for paleodiet stable isotope analysis are usually negative num- bers. The standard reference material for nitrogen is atmo- spheric N2, 45 which contains less 15N than most dietary re- sources and tissues. This results in b15N values that are generally positive. 13 nicosian diet and daily life c, n in collagen & interpreting results Collagen is a protein that makes up 20% of human bone and, when well-preserved, is highly resistant to post-mor- tem changes of its stable isotope ratios.46 These character- istics make it a desirable starting material for isotopic analysis. The ratio of C to N in collagen ranges from 2.9 - 3.6.47 The C/N ratio is determined by the substance mea- sured and is used for quality control of the sample. If a value falls out of this range, it indicates that that collagen sample has been contaminated or compromised in some way that makes it unsuitable for analysis. The b13C and b15N values of collagen vary from those of the dietary values. Collagen b13C is often 5% less negative than dietary b13C, and collagen b15N is 3-5% greater than the di- etary value.48 Nitrogen ratios only reflect dietary protein, while carbon ratios may reflect the dietary contribution of other foods when diets are low in protein.49 However, carbohydrates and lipids may be severely under- represented in diets where animal protein is sufficient for collagen synthesis.50 This is because the majority of colla- gen amino acids cannot be synthesized from other sourc- es.51 Thus, fruits, vegetables, fats, oils, and alcohol may not be easily detected using stable isotope analysis.52 Further- more, nitrogen analysis cannot differentiate between par- ticular sources of protein, such as meat or dairy.53 The technique is best used to distinguish between foods from the land and those from the sea. Since Cyprus is an island, and its residents have access to both terrestrial and marine foods, it makes sense to use the technique for this purpose. However, analysis is again complicated by con- sidering how much marine dietary protein an individual must consume before it is evident in his or her collagen. Hedges hypothesized than an individual must consume at least 20% of marine food sources in their diet before stable isotope analysis can confidently predict that they con- sumed any marine foods.54 Also, carbohydrates and lipids can contribute carbon to collagen when a diet is relatively low in protein sources, and this carbon is generally deplet- ed in 13C.55 Thus, results from individuals consuming an Eastern Mediterranean diet may be skewed in the negative b13C direction, undermining the fact that some marine protein may have been consumed. Common b13C and b15N values in various food types are well known,56 and the b13C and b15N values for common Byzantine dietary items have also been studied.57 experimental materials and methods Samples of bone from twenty-seven individuals were tak- en from the cemetery of the St. Theodore Cistercian con- vent. According to the on-site archaeologist, age and sex of the samples were impossible to assess due to the poor preservation of the skeletal material. Twenty-four of the samples were long bone fragments, and two were phalan- ges (Table 1). One sample, T10, was a singular mandibular molar that was not analyzed due to its extreme wear and the different protocol required of assessing tooth collagen. Most of the bones were not well preserved; they had a chalky, dry texture and crumbled easily under pressure. Poor preservation was due to the dry, warm environment of Nicosia. Samples were prepared to an approximate size of 0.3-0.4 g. Small cutters were used to size down the long bone frag- ments, while a rotary dental saw was used on the phalan- ges. The samples were cleaned by abrading dirt and other substances with a dental drill. The samples were placed in 0.5 M hydrochloric acid at approximately 4oC and covered with aluminum foil. They were checked daily until the bone was demineralized to an extent that it obtained a rub- bery, flexible texture. At this point, the samples were re- moved from acid and rinsed with de-ionized water. Some samples had to be centrifuged in order to separate the acid from extremely small pieces of demineralized bone. The samples were then sealed into tubes with de-ionized water and 2-3 drops of 0.5 M hydrochloric acid. These samples were heated at 730C for 48 hours in a heater block. This process allows for the collagen fibers to dissolve into the solution, and only detritus remains in a non-soluble state. The samples were removed from the heater block and fil- tered with an 8 μm Ezee® filter. Some samples required a removal of residue that formed in the tube after filtering, which was done with a pipette. Finally, the samples were freeze-dried for 48 hours to produce the resulting colla- gen. Approximately 0.9-1.1 mg samples of collagen were first measured into tin caps, which were then combusted for the conversion of samples into carbon dioxide (CO2) and nitrogen gases (N2). CO2 and N2 were analyzed by mass spectrometry in order to obtain atomic C:N ratios and C and N concentrations in the collagen. Four standards with known compositions and C:N ratios were measured along with the samples. The data was transformed via a two- point calibration, which corrects for the measurement er- ror of the mass-spectrometer. The techniques of this data 14 elements : : fall 2014 transformation are described by Meier-Augenstein.58 It compares the known value of the standards with the stan- dard measured in the particular run. Analytical error (±1 m), determined by repeat analysis of internal standards, was ±0.1 ‰ for b13C and ±0.2‰ for b15N. results As mentioned in the previous section, the C/N ratio of col- lagen has numeric values ranging between 2.9-3.6.59,60 Values outside of this range indicate samples unsuitable for further study and analysis. Each sample was run in the mass spectrometer twice, and the two runs were labeled RDG385 and RDG386RE. Samples that had C/N ratios in the normal range are indicated in Table 2, along with the average values of b13C, b15N, %C, %N, and C/N calculated from the two runs. Sample T9-MES was not run in the mass spectrometer twice due to the small amount of col- lagen available. Samples that did not have suitable C/N ratios are indicated in Table 3. These samples were not considered for further population analysis. Of the 26 orig- inal samples, only about half, 14, had usable collagen for data analysis (SK1, T1, T3A, T3B, T4A, T4, T8, T9, T12A, T12B, T13, T16A, T16B, T17I). There is an almost direct correlation between unusable data and the original integrity of the sample. Table 4 shows the original weights and characteristics of the collagen used in the experiment, with highlighted data correlating to the usable samples indicated in Table 2. All of the usable samples except for T16A had derived collagen weights of at least 10 mg, suggesting that yield over 10 mg was an indi- cator of quality control.ii Although T16A had a weight of 4.3 mg, the sample’s collagen had the desired characteris- tics of being “fluffy” and “cottony.” All of the unusable samples had derived collagen weights of 6.0 mg or less, and all but two were gritty powder (characteristics indica- tive of poorly preserved collagen). Lastly, the unusable samples had 2.01% or less of carbon and 0.3% or less of nitrogen, as compared to the usable samples, which had at least 13.5% carbon and 4.6% nitrogen. Figures 3, 4, and 5 chart in two different ways the b13C and b15N data values of each individual from Table 1. Figure 3 is a biplot of b13C and b15N values of the samples. It indicates that T16A and T16B may be outliers from the mean data values, as they have notably greater b13C values of -16.4‰ and -16.1‰ (compared with the rest of the b13C values that are scattered around -19.0‰). Figure 4, a boxplot of the b13C data, confirms that T16A and T16B b13C values are sta- tistically significant outliers. The median of these values was -19.0‰, and the middle 50% of the values ranged from -19.1‰ to -18.8‰. The b15N values range from 7.6‰ to 11.7‰. Outliers in terms of b13C, T16A and T16B lie close to the median of the b15N values, which was 9.8‰. Figure 5 shows that there are no statistically significant outliers in this group and the middle 50% range from 7.9‰ to 11.0‰. discussion Table 5 indicates the likely b13C and b15N values for dietary items known to be included in the Byzantine diet, as de- rived from the isotopic analysis of relevant flora and fauna. It is important to note these values because C3 plants and animals feeding on them will have slightly more positive b13C values in warmer countries.62 Figure 6 compares the b13C and b15N values for the fauna derived from the work of Bourbou, et al. with the Cypriot samples.63 Understanding the isotopic ratio values of Byzantine flora and fauna and the results of other isotopic studies of medieval Eastern Mediterranean sites is critical in interpreting our results. The median value of -19.0‰ for b13C can be compared to similar b13C values found elsewhere in the Mediterranean. 64,65,66 In her doctoral thesis, Garvie-Lok explored six differ- ent medieval Greek sites,67 determining the stable isotope ratios of samples from each site. In her work, most of the b13C values were clustered around -19.0‰ as well. She in- terpreted this data as suggesting a diet consisting of C3 plants and terrestrial animal proteins such as meat or, more likely, dairy products and eggs. Furthermore, Sal- amon, et al.68 studied medieval Roman individuals dating from the fifteenth century whose b13C values also clustered around -19.0‰. This result was interpreted as indicating a diet supplemented by marine resources due to the rise of the fish trade during the turn of the millennia, but pre- dominated by C3 grains and terrestrial proteins. Finally, Bourbou, et al.,69 studied five different Byzantine sites, with mean b13C values ranging from -19.2‰ to -18.5‰. In this case, it was interpreted that most dietary protein came from domesticated fauna, with very little coming from staple grains or marine resources. The two b13C outliers not only seem to be outliers in this study, but uncommon in comparison to other eastern Mediterranean stable isotope studies as well. In Garvie- Lok’s study,70 two island populations had evidence of eat- ing slightly greater amounts of marine resources than in- 15 nicosian diet and daily life land sites, but the outliers in this study have b13C values even more positive than those individuals. It appears that these individuals were eating a diet composed of signifi- cantly more marine resources, possibly double the amount, than the other individuals in this study. The range of b15N values in this study is similar to that of other Mediterranean diets.71,72 Generally, terrestrial-only diets have b15N values ranging from 2‰-12‰, while diets with a majority of marine resources range from values of 6‰-18‰.73 However, since b15N values only represent protein, ranges could be skewed for individuals eating a mostly C3 diet, which could have been the case here. The b15N values of the two outliers fall around the median of b15N values for this study, 9‰. Although it is suggested that elevated b15N values in the Eastern Mediterranean are more likely due to dairy consumption rather than marine consumption,74 the b15N values of the outliers suggest con- sumption of larger types of archaeological fish.75 This is because the b13C values of the outliers significantly suggest marine protein consumption. conclusions The purpose of this study was to determine if the diet of this Nicosian population was similar to those of other East- ern Mediterranean populations, or if the Nicosians were eating larger amounts of marine resources since they had access to the sea. Furthermore, the study attempted to identify individuals in the sample population as either lay persons or nuns based on diet analysis. Even though the Cypriots were island-dwellers, it does not appear that they were eating a significantly larger amount of fish than contemporaries from other Eastern Mediter- ranean sites.76,77,78 A possible explanation is that the Medi- terranean is a sea poor in fish. Because of this, top and mid-quality fish had prices similar to that of expensive ter- restrial meats, making their availability limited to the gen- eral population. Also, dairy products as opposed to fish were often used by poorer folk to substitute for meat dur- ing fast days. However, it is clear that both the Cypriots and other popu- lations were eating some fish. Besides local catch, some of this fish could have been imported via the growing Atlantic fish trade. According to Dembinska,79 dried and preserved fish was relatively inexpensive, and thus could have sup- plemented the vegan diet of the population. For those who could afford it, fish would have been eaten on fasting days. It is possible that the two outliers were members of the convent and the others were lay persons. As Kaila stated,80 lay persons were buried in the cemetery along with the nuns, and thus this difference in diet may in fact differen- tiate the two groups. Monks and nuns had diets relatively high in marine resources, as explained in the section “Mo- nastic Diet.” As stated previously, most fish were expen- sive, and this expensive food was consumed in greater quantities by monasteries supported by rich donors or in- habited by monks and nuns from wealthy families. The convent of St. Theodore was supported by wealthy Frank- ish benefactors and housed some noble-born ladies,81 thus there is evidence that its inhabitants could afford the ex- pense of eating fish often. Furthermore, according to a study by Brown of the Cister- cians in the East,82 there is evidence that Western “mother” houses would send emissaries to the Eastern “daughter” convents to be sure that the nuns were observing the ap- propriate spiritual and dietary practices. For example, in 1227 there was a minor emissary from the west sent to visit the Cistercian nunneries in the Latin Empire and Greece in order to “instruct them, to institute chaplains in their houses, etc.”83 This example suggests that other em- issaries would have been sent as well, and these emissaries would have encouraged the sisters, among other things, to partake in the appropriate Christian fasting practices. However, other hypotheses could explain the two outliers. Perhaps they are younger than the rest of the population. Over time, marine resources became more available as trade networks increased with the Atlantic,84 meaning that if the samples dated from a later period, they may have had more access to fish at their local markets. Alternatively, the two could have been migrants from an area where fish consumption was popular. Future projects could attempt to date the samples via radiocarbon dating techniques and/or analyze their strontium and oxygen isotopes in or- der to determine place of origin.iv Through stable isotope analysis, a picture begins to emerge of life in the medieval Nicosia. Locals would have been sit- ting down to a table filled with bread, olive oil, and wine. Sometimes, they might include some fish or dairy prod- ucts during a fast day or special occasion. The wealthier lay population may have found more meat on the table or greater quantities of fresh fish. The Cypriot monks and nuns would have been sitting down to a table a bit richer in marine resources than others, in order to observe a strict schedule of Christian fasts. The stable isotopic data of the 16 elements : : fall 2014 twenty-six Nicosian samples, in conjunction with similar studies of other Eastern Mediterranean populations, high- lights and portrays the food culture of prominent individu- als in the Eastern Mediterranean during the late medieval period. notes i. Age-at-death is determined via teeth development, bone fusions, and other morphologies. Sex is primarily determined by pelvic bone shape, but can also be determined by an examination of crania. For more on age and sex determination and general skeletal health, see Mays, 2010, Buikstra & Ubelaker, 1994, eds. Katzenberg & Saunder, 2008. Social group status is primarily determined by burial type and grave goods. General health at death can also indicate status (someone with skeletal indicators of malnutrition may be on the lower end of the social class spectrum). Trauma may also indicate profession or social level (a knight or soldier could have trauma identifying them as such). For more on grave goods and burials, see Fleming, 2011. ii. High yield is observed in the literature as an indicator of quality control. See Ambrose, 1991 and van Klinken, 1999 iii. A boxplot is a diagram that displays a distribution of data, highlighting where the majority of the values lie and those that lie outside of the norm, or “outliers.” The bottom of the box represents the first quartile (Q1), the top side is the third quartile (Q3), and the line in the box represents the median (Q2). Quartiles are the three points that divide the data set into four equal groups. The lines protruding from the box extend to the minimum and maximum values if they are within 1.5 times the interquartile range. Any dots outside of the box represent outlying data. (Easton & McColl, 1997) iv. Strontium and oxygen isotopes can be analyzed in order to determine the place of origin of a sample. Bedrock and local water sources affect the isotopic signatures of these two elements, resulting in differing signatures depending on the region a person grew up. These signatures are often analyzed from tooth samples, since teeth are formed by the early teenage years and thus are indicative of childhood diet. If signatures indicate a geographic location differing from the burial site, this suggests migration of the individual. For more on isotopes to determine place of origin, see Bethard, 2013, Müldner et al., 2010, Montgomery et al., 2003, and Mays, 2010. endnotes 1. Kalia, 2007. 2. Brown, 2014. 3. Burton and Kerr, 2011. 4. Kalia, 2007 5. Ibid. 6. Ibid. 7. Bourbou, et al., 2011. 8. Bourbou and Richards, 2007. 9. Garvie-Lok, 2001. 10. Ibid. 11. Ibid. 12. Dembinska, 1985. 13. Ibid. 14. Garvie-Lok, 2001. 15. Braudel, 1972. 16. Barret and Richards, 2004. 17. Salamon, et al., 2008. 18. Bourbou et al., 2011. 19. Dembinska, 1985. 20. Glick et al., 2005. 21. Bourbou and Richards, 2007. 22. Dembinska, 1985. 23. Glick et al., 2005. 24. Powell, 1996. 25. Müldner and Richards, 2004. 26. Bourbou et al., 2004. 27. Reitsema and Vercellotti, 2012. 28. Gregorika and Sheridan, 2013. 29. Talbot, 2007. 30. Dembinska, 1985. 31. Talbot, 2007. 32. Ibid. 33. Ibid. 34. Gregorika and Sheridan, 2013. 35. Talkbot, 2007. 36. Burton and Kerr, 2011. 37. Ibid. 38. Müldner, 2009. 39. Ambrose, 1993. 40. Müldner, 2009. 41. Ibid. 42. McKinney, et al., 1950. 43. Craig, 1957. 44. Ambrose, 1993. 45. Mariotti, 1983. 46. Ambrose, 1993. 47. DeNiro, 1985. 48. Mays, 1998. 49. Ibid. 50. Ambrose, 1993. 51. Craig, et al., 2013. 52. Müldner, 2009. 53. Ibid. 54. Hedges, 2004. 55. Craig, et al., 2013. 56. Mays, 1998. 57. Bourbou, 2011. 58. Meier-Augenstein, 2010. 59. van Klinken, 1999. 60. DeNiro, 1985. 61. 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Paleorient 30:101-147. 20 elements : : fall 2014 table 1: sample name, type of bone, age, sex, and comments Name (1) Element (1) Comments (1) Name (2) Element (2) Comments (2) SK1-MES Fragmented long bone T7S2-MES Fragmented long bone T1-MES Fragmented long bone Possibly hu- merus T8-MES Fragmented long bone & fragmented ribs Long bone chalky T2A-MES Fragmented long bone & 1 mandibular molar Chalky T9-MES Fragmented long bone & metatarsal T2-MES Fragmented long bone Chalky T10-MES 1 mandibular molar Worn down to den- tine and pulp T3A-MES Fragmented fibula T11A-MES Fragmented long bone Chalky T3B-MES Fragmented long bone T11B-MES Unidentifiable fragments Chalky & small T4A-MES Fragmented maxilla & 1 man- dibular molar T12A-MES Fragmented ribs T4-MES Fragmented long bone & Parietal fragments T12B-MES Metatarsal & Foot pha- langes T5A-MES Parietal fragments T13-MES Metatarsal & Foot pha- langes T5B-MES Fragmented long bone T15-MES Fragmented long bone T6A-MES Fragmented long bone & 1 mandibular molar T16A-MES Fragmented long bone, 1 mandibular molar & 1 molar crown Long bone chalky T6B-MES Fragmented long bone & 2 molars (only crowns) T16B-MES Fragmented long bone Chalky T6C-MES Fragmented long bone Chalky T17I-MES Fragmented long bone, 1 mandibular molar & 1 maxillary molar T7S1-MES Fragmented long bone & 1 molar crown White EM, Hannus LA. 1983. Chemical weathering of bone in archaeological soils. American Antiquity 48:316- 322. 21 nicosian diet and daily life table 2: stable isotope data of samples with valid c/n ratios Name d13C** d15N** %C %N C/N Run d13C** d15N** %C %N C/N SK1-MES -17.6 19.3 20.02 6.95 3.36 RDG386RE SK1-MES -18.0 11.1 18.4 6.5 3.3 RDG385 -18.8 11.7 12.7 4.4 3.4 T1-MES -19.6 11.0 25.24 8.57 3.44 RDG386RE T1-MES -19.1 10.1 24.9 8.7 3.3 RDG385 -19.4 10.5 25.1 8.6 3.4 T3A-MES -19.0 8.0 31.25 11.36 3.21 RDG386RE T3A-MES -18.9 8.1 34.0 12.1 3.3 RDG385 -19.0 7.8 43.7 15.6 3.3 T3B-MES -19.1 7.7 42.60 15.38 3.23 RDG386RE T3B-MES -19.0 7.5 43.8 15.9 3.2 RDG385 -19.0 7.6 43.2 15.7 3.2 T4-MES -19.1 7.6 42.27 15.19 3.25 RDG386RE T4-MES -19.0 7.9 45.2 16.0 3.3 RDG385 -18.8 10.0 30.7 11.1 3.3 T4A-MES -18.8 9.8 29.68 10.84 3.19 RDG386RE T4A-MES -18.7 10.2 31.6 11.3 3.3 RDG385 -19.4 10.5 25.1 8.6 3.4 T8-MES -18.9 12.2 11.82 4.19 3.29 RDG386RE T8-MES -18.8 11.1 13.5 4.6 3.4 RDG385 -19.0 8.0 32.6 11.7 3.2 T9-MES -18.9 11.0 35.20 12.46 3.30 RDG386RE -18.9 11.0 35.2 12.5 3.3 T12A-MES -18.8 9.4 35.69 12.81 3.25 RDG386RE T12A-MES -18.9 9.1 37.6 13.6 3.2 RDG385 -18.9 9.3 36.6 13.2 3.2 T12B-MES -19.1 11.1 42.62 15.52 3.20 RDG386RE T12B-MES -19.1 11.1 44.4 16.3 3.2 RDG385 -19.1 11.1 43.5 15.9 3.2 T13-MES -19.1 11.7 42.51 15.32 3.24 RDG386RE T13-MES -19.1 11.3 43.1 15.8 3.2 RDG385 -19.1 11.5 42.8 15.5 3.2 T16A-MES -16.4 9.7 35.10 12.44 3.29 RDG386RE T16A-MES -16.4 9.4 35.1 12.4 3.3 RDG385 -16.4 9.6 35.1 12.4 3.3 T16B-MES -16.1 9.6 43.37 15.92 3.18 RDG386RE T16B-MES -16.1 9.4 44.9 16.4 3.2 RDG385 -16.1 9.5 44.2 16.2 3.2 T17I-MES -18.7 10.8 37.63 13.80 3.18 RDG386RE T17I-MES -18.7 11.1 41.0 14.9 3.2 RDG385 -19.0 7.6 43.2 15.7 3.2 22 elements : : fall 2014 table 3: stable isotope data of samples with invalid c/n ratios. samples not analyzed further Name d13C** d15N** %C %N C/N Run T15-MES -23.7 34.5 2.01 0.15 15.27 RDG386RE T15-MES -24.2 8.7 1.9 0.3 6.6 RDG385 T6C-MES -24.0 -33.8 1.02 -5.64 -0.21 RDG386RE T6C-MES -24.6 11.2 1.2 0.2 7.3 RDG385 T6B-MES -26.2 -20.1 0.72 -6.88 -0.12 RDG386RE T6B-MES -24.4 12.8 0.7 0.1 6.1 RDG385 T11B-MES -23.2 -233.8 1.13 -1.00 -1.31 RDG386RE T11B-MES -23.3 15.9 1.5 0.2 8.9 RDG385 T7S2-MES -24.4 -25.5 0.75 -2.80 -0.31 RDG386RE T7S2-MES -23.4 20.7 0.8 0.1 9.6 RDG385 T11A-MES -25.1 -24.8 0.89 -3.83 -0.27 RDG386RE T11A-MES -27.7 28.6 1.3 0.1 18.9 RDG385 T2-MES -23.3 -25.3 0.86 -4.65 -0.22 RDG386RE T2-MES -26.2 -1061.5 1.6 -0.1 -12.8 RDG385 T2A-MES -24.2 -158.0 1.17 -0.98 -1.38 RDG386RE T2A-MES -24.6 125.8 1.3 0.0 53.6 RDG385 T5A-MES -23.4 -42.7 1.18 -4.53 -0.30 RDG386RE T5A-MES -24.0 -337.1 1.4 -0.6 -2.7 RDG385 T5B-MES -25.1 -12.9 1.06 -13.99 -0.09 RDG386RE T5B-MES -25.4 47.8 1.2 0.1 23.2 RDG385 T7S1-MES -24.7 -13.9 0.69 -16.28 -0.05 RDG386RE T7S1-MES -23.5 57.3 0.9 0.0 20.8 RDG385 T6A-MES -21.6 45.2 1.7 0.1 17.1 RDG385 23 nicosian diet and daily life table 4: weights and description of bone/collagen samples Name Bone/mg “Collagen”/mg Collagen Description SK1- MES 298 11.7 Gritty T1-MES 414 13.2 Gritty T2A-MES 300 2.6 Gritty T2-MES 326 3.6 Powdery T3A-MES 376 31.6 Powdery T3B-MES 381 36.9 Good - cottony T4A-MES 157 14.8 Good - cottony T4-MES 374 27.2 Good - cottony T5A-MES 304 3.8 Powdery T5B-MES 343 4.0 Powdery T6A-MES 278 2.0 Gritty brown powder T6B-MES 370 3.9 White powder T6C-MES 338 4.9 Powdery T7S1-MES 341 2.8 Good - cottony T7S2-MES 391 6.0 White powder T8-MES 373 9.5 White powder T9-MES 364 18.1 Good - cottony T11A-MES 389 4.5 White powder T11B-MES 285 2.8 Brownish gritty powder T12A-MES 388 20.7 Good - cottony T12B-MES 241 33.6 Good - cottony T13-MES 229 21.6 Good - cottony T15-MES 329 3.8 Good - cottony T16A-MES 341 4.3 Good - cottony T16B-MES 377 51.2 Good - cottony T17I-MES 318 36.6 Good - cottony table 5: likely b13c and b15n values for dietary items known to be included in the byzantine diet (bourbou et al., 2011) Dietary Item Likely b13C Value Likely b15N values C3 plants -33‰ to -22‰ range C4 plants -20‰ to -9‰ range Olive Oil -30‰ to -27‰ range Sheep and goat -21.5‰ to -19.6‰ 4.0‰ to 6.1‰ Pig -20.3‰ to -19.6‰ 3.6‰ to 6.1‰ Cow -21.4‰ to -20.2‰ 3.5‰ to 6.0‰ Small, low-trophic level fishes (sardine, anchovy) -17.0‰ 5.2‰ to 7.7‰ Large species of fish -12.1‰ to -17.9‰ 8.1‰ to 17.9‰ 24 elements : : fall 2014 25 nicosian diet and daily life 26 elements : : fall 2014 during the renaissance in italy, just as there were specific proprieties and demeanors which women were expected to uphold, there were social characters and reputa- tions which men were pressured to cultivate. sodomy was persecuted less because it was viewed as a sin and more because it placed a man in a “woman’s position”; simi- larly, cross-dressing in women’s clothes was looked down upon. men were expected to produce and care for a lineage, and, as such, virility was highly prized while ste- rility was equated with disgrace. alternatively, masculinity could be proved through martial prowess and acts of violence or sexual conquest. masculinity and sexuality in renaissance italy Reproductive and Performative Manliness samantha pinsak introduction Just as once a woman’s reputation for purity has been sullied it can never be restored, so once the reputation of a gentleman-at- arms has been stained through cowardice or some other re- proachful behavior, even if only once, it always remains defiled in the eyes of the world and covered with ignominy.1 Throughout the Renaissance, various writings by men and women commended and expected female chastity as the cornerstone of feminine reputation. While engaging in the querelle de femmes, women advocated for the equality of the sexes on various levels, but would usually concede that chastity was “the supreme virtue in women.”2 This sexual classification, further exemplified by women’s social posi- tions being defined by their relationship to men (daughter, wife, widow, spinster), makes one wonder about the “dom- inant” gender and if a male’s masculinity was defined on the sexual scale like femininity was. To try and understand the determinant of manliness, this article looks at a broad- er scale by collecting a general consensus of how a man should act, and so will look at treatises and conduct books that circulated throughout Europe during the Renaissance in which male authors described how to be a “proper” man in different social positions. Many of these, however, did not focus on the sexual morality and restraint of men as they often did with women. The absence of sexual limita- tions was complimented by the numerous historical ex- amples of men’s dalliances. The popular occurrence of sodomy in the Italian region, in cities like Florence and Venice, actually prompted com- mentary on male sexuality. Nevertheless, men in these cases were not criticized for sexual promiscuity. The Church denounced them for performing an act that was “contrary to nature” and for impeding procreative sex. They were chastised by secular authorities and through public opinion because some of the men involved were un- derstood to have degraded themselves to the feminine, “passive” position. The sexes of the partners, in this case both male, and the sexuality of the act itself was never the focus of the criticism.3 Instead, the fact that a male had voluntarily demoted himself to a subordinate role, like that of a woman, was strictly opposed on all levels. Savonarola asked Florentine men, clergy included, to leave “that un- speakable vice.”4 Secular authorities, like the Council of Ten in Venice, introduced legislation for “the sin of sod- omy,” and citizens like Marin Sanuto, a possible sodomite himself, recorded the occurrences of calls to end such ac- tions.5 This disapproval led to the establishment of special offices to police sodomy, and those who participated were publicly condemned. This article will address why the communities of Venice and Florence in particular felt such policing was necessary and further discuss how this activ- ity related to the notions of masculinity. After looking at the general view of manliness in Renaissance Europe and the traditional idea of fatherhood masculinity, this article will argue that the prevalence of sodomy in Italy, despite the threat to the communities’ foundations of marriage and family life, represented a type of “performative” mas- culinity that could preserve a sodomite’s manliness. This type of active masculinity was represented in men’s focus on martial success, carnal conquest, and blatant violence. Men seem to have tried to establish their masculinity by marrying and having children or by asserting their domi- nance in more aggressive and active displays, but both forms were recognized by society and the men involved. portrait of girolamo savonarola by fra bartolomeo (image courtesy of wikimedia commons) 28 elements : : fall 2014 Additionally, this focus on fatherhood and the displays of sexual conquest ironically bound men to the same sexual definition they were forcing upon women. Dependent on their status as child-producers or promiscuous and suave seducers, men were not chained to the ideal of chastity, but their sexual license was in no way free: their masculinity was bound to it. masculinity in renaissance europe The Renaissance was filled with literature on how to con- duct oneself in a variety of contexts. This article will focus on treatises, conduct books, and sermons, written by men and usually directed toward men. These have been exam- ined for what they say about masculinity and what makes a male “manly”. Additionally, these texts reveal if any at- tention was paid to male sexuality and the expectations for men as opposed to women. Unfortunately, these writings are not always explicit in their standards, so inferences have been made based on their silences and contradic- tions. Considerable information can be derived from pre- scriptions for what men should not do, what is improper for women, what is understood to be clearly not feminine, and actions that are not not manly. Many of these sources catered to the elite, with the exception of the sermons, but they can still be used as representations of masculine fig- ures that were put forward as models for all men. The analysis of these primary sources will be quite broad at first, but they will be returned to with greater focus later in this work. Renaissance men were very preoccupied with distancing themselves from the feminine in any way possible, and they often defined masculinity through this negation. In 1443, a Venetian law was passed that forbade men from wearing clothing of the opposite sex, echoing a similar law against all forms of cross-dressing enacted in Florence in 1325.6 This aversion to gender confusion was further exac- erbated in the manly guidelines of the era. Giovanni Della Casa made it very clear in Galateo that “a man must not apparel him selfe like a woman,” claiming that such a man is worse than a prostitute.7 The statures of men and wom- en are compared in The Book of the Courtier, and Baldesar Castiglione asserted that while women “have a certain soft and delicate tenderness,” men should contrarily “display a certain robust and sturdy manliness.”8 Besides their en- grossment with not resembling women physically, men were also concerned about possessing typically “feminine” traits. In The Civil Conversation, Stefano Guazzo stated that women are mistrusted because of their “fragilitie and weaknesse of the flesh,” substantiating the common belief that women were licentious and overly sexual.9 Interest- ingly, men were supposed to avoid being like licentious women, yet were often unpunished for their own numer- ous sexual transgressions. Men were also convinced that women were focused on frivolous and material things. Gi- rolamo Savonarola condemned women in his sermons for their “pomp” and “superfluities and vanities,” warning them that if they did not live in simplicity, the plague would descend on them.10 Niccolò Machiavelli strongly voiced his opinion of all things feminine when discussing fortune: “because fortune is a woman and if she is to be submissive it is necessary to beat and coerce her.”11 He summarizes men’s aversion to womanly actions and be- haviors, encouraging males to beat any of their feminine desires into submission in order to be true men. Another point of focus was on matters deemed appropri- ate only for men, pronouncing the manliness of such ac- tions by excluding in them all things feminine. Leon Bat- tista Alberti, who focused mainly on the Florentine family, believed that a man “should do all that is proper to a man” while avoiding womanly activities, inherently contributing to the separation of distinct gender roles.12 Of course, one of the important tasks of a man that Alberti and other au- thors recognized was to be an authoritative figure to both women and other lower status men. Accordingly, a proper Christian prince should be “like a father to the state,” guid- ing his subjects and protecting them from harm.13 A father or husband should know “how matters goe in his house” so that he can “correct some faultes” of his wife’s gover- nance.14 Preachers, as men, also recognized this paternal authority and told women to go to their husbands for spir- itual counsel, claiming it would be “pleasing to God.”15 “The fact that a male had voluntarily demoted himself to a subordinate role, like that of a woman, was strictly opposed on all levels.” 29 masculinity and sexuality in renaissance italy Men retained this position of command by possessing and exercising their superior, manly characteristics. Casti- glione proffered the general outline of a respectable gentle- man who “should be fierce, rough and always to the fore, in the presence of the enemy; but anywhere else he should be kind, modest, reticent and anxious above all to avoid ostentation.”16 This description implies that men were ex- pected to be competent warriors, with more traditional “male” characteristics like strength, weaponry, and athlet- ics, but also moral and intelligent. A man of the time was required to possess “wisdom, magnanimity, restraint and integrity,”17 “libertye and boldnesse,”18 “limbs full of strength,”19, and be a Christian, among many other traits. These expectations combined were obviously unattain- able, and evidence suggests that many men did not follow these instructions perfectly. Underlying these lofty, all-en- compassing notions of masculinity were specific practices or tangible assets that determined masculinity. One of the most important requisites in a patriarchal society was a man’s ability to father and propagate his family name. fatherhood masculinity Valeria Finucci argues convincingly that instead of only trying to act and look like a true man, masculinity was also realized in a male’s ability to “confirm his manhood through offspring.”20 Through the institution of legitimate marriage, a male was able to demonstrate his virility mor- ally in a way that allowed him to increase his honor and name. Due to the importance of fatherhood, family and the marriage state arose as societal “norms.” These norms were upheld and maintained with support from the Church. Bernardino da Siena and Giovanni Dominici both considered the patriarchal family the foundation of Chris- tian society, and Dominici specifically recognized procre- ation as a way to preserve the family name and “fame.”21 Additionally, the emphasis on fatherhood maintained a male’s superior position in society by dictating status and women’s domestic roles. Marriage defined the life of a woman, giving her purpose only in her ability to continue a man’s patrimony.22 A man was also defined by marriage since “the benefits he gained from patrician status depend- ed on his paternal legacy.”23 Interestingly, this presented a venue where men were limited by their superior position. If a man could not take on the role of father as the head of household, he could not reach the pinnacle of manliness and his social standing could be in jeopardy. In their ef- forts to subvert women’s roles in the domestic realm, men trapped themselves in the same type of yoke. This interac- tion of private, married life and its dependence on the pub- lic ideal established the precedence of marriage and family as a standard, while everything else was understood to be deviant or immoral. This paternal ideal was supported in some of the primary sources that have already been reviewed. Guazzo stated that when a man chooses a wife, she should be young, and “he ought to marry while he himselfe is young…. for both being young, they are likelier to have children.”24 He founded the whole process of choosing a life companion on the necessity for children, and many of the other au- thors did as well. Erasmus, similarly, in his short mention of marriage, lists clearly the ability to “bear him children worthy of both parents and of their country” as a requisite for the prince’s future wife.25 Even women understood the relationship between fatherhood and a man’s masculinity. When questioned for an annulment trial on the grounds of impotency, a testimony was given in which the neighbor of the married couple did not know if the husband was “a man or not with regard to impregnation.”26 Fatherhood and manhood were commonly equated, and marriage was the realm where they coincided. Alberti was forthright in his opinion of the purpose of the marriage state: “In this way it seems clear to me that nature and human reason taught mankind the necessity of having a spouse, both to increase and continue generations and to nourish and pre- serve those already born.”27 This fundamental purpose of marriage made women only vessels for the gestation of offspring, putting a man in the position of power to choose the specific mother of his children. However, even though this upper hand reasserted male authority in the private and public spheres, it defined men in the same way that they were defining women. While women were constantly evaluated based on their abstinence or loyalty to their spouse, men were judged by the size of their family and children they could produce. Instead of a lack of sexuality, their worth was established by their reproductive potency. These men abided by the principle of marriage as a busi- ness contract instead of a matter of the heart, and param- eters for choosing spouses were quite specific within the agreement. The Civil Conversation states that when choos- ing a wife, “fonde Fancye” should not be the guide, and one should avoid being carried away by “riches, or bewty,” for those do not necessarily contribute to a woman’s pur- pose as wife and mother.28 Physical appearance was taken into account, not for beauty, but for reproductive potential. To have an “ill favoured” or sickly wife would be unwise because she would be less “likely to bring forth perfect and goodlye children” who could continue the family pres- 30 elements : : fall 2014 tige.29 Alberti further encouraged this business arrange- ment when he dictated that men should act as “do wise heads of families before they acquire some property—they like to look it over several times before they actually sign a contract.”30 This strict deliberation over which wife to choose created a marriage market where women became commodities instead of brides in love. Men wanted to be certain that they chose the best means to propagate their name and patrimony through legitimate children. Many of these authors recognized the importance of lin- eage for one’s social influence, implicitly indicating that in order to be respectable in society, a man must have a fam- ily. Even the ruthless Machiavelli recognized the power of a royal lineage, and told the new ruler, “the family of the old prince must be destroyed,” in order for him to retain his position.31 Even if a past prince was dead, his children, as embodiments of his name and legacy, still had the capa- bility of assuming his title, and for this they must be elim- inated. There are also less extreme cases of the recognition of familial importance in a gentleman’s life. When de- scribing the perfect courtier in The Book of the Courtier, Castiglione proposes that he must be of “noble birth and good family,” reducing the risk of him dishonoring his family’s name.32 This supposition reinforced the influence that lineage had on a man’s social standing and subse- quent masculinity. In his guide on gentlemanly behavior, Della Casa mentioned that talk of one’s family is “foolishe prittle prattle,” suggesting that a prerequisite to being a gentleman is having a family to not mention.33 Marriage was the institution where fatherhood was legitimately rec- ognized, and this increased the significance of finding a proper wife who could provide men with the best possibil- ity of continuing their patrimony. Fatherhood was also in- fluential in a type of reverse manner, where a male’s status in society was influenced by his own upbringing and his own propagation. With this elevated standard for man as father, what hap- pened to the men that did not reproduce either by choice or circumstance? Any hint of the inability to father was commonly seen as a violation of a man’s honor. Castrated men were thought of as “diminished males” because their lack of testes did not render them virile in the “true” sense.34 In her book Marriage Wars in Late Renaissance Ven- ice, Joanne Ferraro presents several cases in which impo- tency was used as a means to attempt to annul a marriage. Sexual impotence prevented consummation, making a marriage invalid, and this forced men to attempt to prove their virility in front of a Church court.35 Anything that might threaten a male’s ability to reproduce had to be staunchly defended, otherwise he would be considered less of a man. On the other hand, clerics, as well as some scholars and other sorts of everyday men, remained life- long bachelors, but still managed to ascertain some sort of artificial masculinity and authority. In Venice, like much of Italy, patricians had to resort to restricted marriages so as not to disperse the collective pat- rimony among too many siblings causing many males to go unmarried.36 However, historian Sandra Cavallo chal- lenged “the assumption that those who did not marry and generate were perceived and perceived themselves as un- manly, deficient and inadequate.”37 She looked at barber surgeons in early modern Italy, and deduced that “if male status is defined by the ability to rule the household,” arti- sans made their shop, or, in the case of the surgeon, the hospital, comparable to the domestic household.38 In this way, masculinity was validated in the professional respon- sibilities of their chosen vocation. These responsibilities could be expanded to include their “instrumental inscrip- tion into a familial marital strategy,” i.e. not marrying to allow another sibling to do so, and mentoring nieces and nephews. This allowed bachelors to share in the “patrician masculine identity” of their fathers and brothers.39 These practices gave merit to their bachelor status, allowing them to play authoritative male domestic roles to a degree—or at the very least demonstrate their focus on the welfare of the whole family. In order to fulfill their religious calling, clerics were “ex- pected to give up many of the standard expressions of mas- culinity,” primarily marriage and sex but also other exter- nal signs of masculinity like honor, violence, and military “Anything that might threaten a male’s ability to reproduce had to be staunchly defended, otherwise he would be considered less of a man.” 31 masculinity and sexuality in renaissance italy might.40 Commonly the clergy was viewed as the “third gender,” not fully male but not female either, but there were ways in which they discovered their own form of masculinity that mimicked fatherhood.41 Ministers and priests took on paternal roles when religiously guiding their congregation; they propagated spirituality and gave birth to Christians instead of biological children (if they stayed true to their vows of celibacy). In his 1419 sermon, “Do Penance,” Girolamo Savonarola adopted the position of both mother and father: “I have poured out for you as a good father does for his beloved children… Florence, am I also not to you like a mother to her little child?”42 Along the same lines, historian Tom Webster claims that ministers were both feminine and masculine through their relation- ship with the church; they fathered followers with “the im- mortal seed of the word” and acted as a mother to “nour- ish” them with it as well.43 Religious men took their ambiguous version of gender and reworked it into their relationship with their congregations in order to maintain their ability to “reproduce.” sodomy in italy While the notion of male sexuality was rarely addressed directly, unless in reference to patrimony and fatherhood, the frequent occurrence of sodomy in Italy in the four- teenth and fifteenth centuries actually prompted legisla- tion and persecution. Before entering this discussion, one must define “sodomy” in the way Renaissance Italians did. While sex between males was the most common form of sodomy, especially that which was persecuted, the terms “sodomy” and “sodomite” were not exclusive to male-male intimacy. Under the broader category of sex crimes that could be tried, sodomy represented many acts including intercourse of same sex individuals, bestiality, masturba- tion, and non-procreative sexual relations between mar- ried couples.44 For the sake of simplicity and focus, this article will use the terms “sodomy” and “sodomite” to refer only to sexual relations between males. Furthermore, the participants were defined in regard to their role in the act, at least in legal terminology. In Florentine laws of 1408 and 1409, as well as 1415, the terms “active” and “passive” partners were coined, yet the words rarely appeared in sources of the vernacular.45 As one might assume, the “active” participant in these cir- cumstances was the penetrative partner, while the “pas- sive” role was in the receiving position. In the regions of focus, Venice and Florence, sodomy was thoroughly inves- tigated and brought to court, but both communities em- phasized different controversial aspects of the couples. In Florence, the active role conformed to the traditional be- haviors that were thought to be “virile,” so having relations with a boy did not challenge a mature man’s status as a “masculine male.” On the other hand, the passive role was deemed feminine, and was only temporarily tolerated for adolescent males because they had not reached full man- hood. Typically, sodomitical relationships assumed a hier- archical structure now termed “pedastry.” In this system, there was a great age gap between the two males: generally a man over the age of eighteen would adopt the active role in a relationship with a passive teenage adolescent.46 There were rarely any role reversals because the “virile identity of all local men” was threatened by mature passivity. This concept resulted in pervasive expressions of disgust for the subordinated male. Both partners were typically distinguished in gender-laden terms, but the passive part- ner was commonly called a variety of derogatory feminine expressions—bardassa (a boy who offers himself up for sex), puttane (female prostitute), cagna (bitch), or simply just “pretty girls” because he was adopting the lowly status of a woman. On the other hand, the active male still main- tained his power and dominance sexually in such a hierar- chical society.47 The passive partner was so harshly criti- cized because he willingly surrendered his masculinity, unlike the active partner, choosing to leave the realm of the superior sex for the inferior one. Before the statute of 1415 that limited severe punishments for sodomites in Flor- ence, both partners were harshly dealt with unless the pas- sive partner was a minor, in which case the court usually determined his punishment based on each case.48 In Venice, however, even though the active partner was not adopting the “abnormal” role, he was seen to be more blameworthy and was punished much more severely. Rug- giero argues that there are two reasons for this principle. The first has to do with age: the passive male was the younger partner, usually under the legal age, and could not be prosecuted for his crimes. The second reason puts most of the blame on the active participant. He was the initiator of the “misdeed” and actually performed it, while the pas- sive partner only submitted to the act. This distinction of “Sodomy was used as a scapegoat for external threats and disasters...” 32 elements : : fall 2014 roles became commonplace starting in the mid-1440s, and the discrepancy between the two was clear in regards to punishment. The active partner was usually executed while the passive partner was given a much lighter punish- ment of detention or exile, or possibly a corporal penalty.49 The distaste for this illicit act drew great attention from secular authorities and resulted in many legal ramifica- tions. As seen in sumptuary laws, Italian governments were concerned with the moral behavior of their citizens, prohibiting anything “that might lead to, or encourage, im- moral activities.”50 This anxiety was extended to sexual re- lations between citizens. In Venice, the Council of Ten had established itself as an important council of the state, and beginning in 1406, became involved in sodomy trials. Eventually, the Ten replaced the Signori di Notte as the main body responsible for dealing with the crime.51 Addi- tionally, the Ten established a specific committee, the Col- legio dei sodomiti, to investigate offenders and even estab- lished a special police force to patrol the city.52 Similarly, Florence created an “innovative judiciary magistracy solely to pursue and prosecute sodomy” called the Office of the Night in 1432.53 When offenses like adultery and rape and institutions of monopolized prostitution were moderately tolerated, why was sodomy so vehemently attacked?54 There are few concrete answers to this question, but sev- eral conjectures have been proposed. Sodomy was used as a scapegoat for external threats and disasters in both cities. Beginning in the 1340s, Venice was hit by the plague in almost every generation, resulting in cycles of demographic collapse. In the same way, Florence suffered from the plague and recurrent epidemics from 1300-1427.55 Additionally, the threat of the ever-approach- ing Turks kept Venice constantly on the defensive.56 The importance of military excellence put pressure on the city’s aggregate warrior masculinity. In the same way, Flor- ence was engaged in multiple wars in both the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries against the papacy, Milan, and Na- ples.57 These armed outcomes projected images of “Ven- ice” or “Florence” on the international community, hope- fully as forces to be reckoned with to keep the warfare at bay. As well as these images conceived through battles and wars, the communities had, presumably unintentionally, adopted certain identifiers in the outside world. Venice was known in particular as a place of widespread sexual looseness, and “Venetian” was another term for “lesbian” until the twentieth century.58 Florence suffered from simi- lar international embarrassment, where the term Florenzer has meant “sodomite” even in contemporary times.59 These trials and hardships were frequently addressed in sermons, particularly in Florence, by preachers who de- nounced the sins of the cities, and specifically the offen- sive act of sodomy. Michael Rocke cites Pope Gregory XI censuring the Florentines and their sin that was “so abom- inable” he would not even speak of it.60 In a 1494 sermon, Girolamo Savonarola called on the Signori to “pass laws against the accursed vice of sodomy” and told the citizens to remove themselves from any act, place, or object that could tempt them into the illicit deed.61 In another ser- mon, the previously mentioned “Do Penance,” he tells Flo- rentines that their sinful behavior caused the previous and impending tribulations (plagues and wars), which God sends “to cleanse His Church of its many evils.”62 On a more domestic scale, Bernardino da Siena criticized sod- omites for breaking the marriage bed and being an im- pediment to procreation: “When young men are seized by this pestilential ruin, they are hardly ever cured, and scarcely or belatedly, if at all, do they allow themselves to be united in matrimony… they do not procreate children.”63 This statement draws attention to another anxiety that sod- omy caused. As discussed before, men and their masculin- ity were centrally focused on fatherhood, and this type of patrimony and legacy was legitimized within a marriage. These “unnatural” acts were not always despised because they ruined public morality, but because they undermined the foundational institutions of marriage and family.64 This threat to the community’s organization can be fur- ther demonstrated by comparing the type of punishments administered for different deviant sexual acts. Although the Council of Ten in Venice and the Office of the Night in Florence punished each sodomite partner, differently, sod- omites were punished much more harshly than other types of sexual criminals. In Venice, where women’s adul- tery was seen as a crime “against the state” and injurious to God, punishments were not as severe as rhetoric implied.65 A woman’s usual punishment for adultery was jail time and the loss of her dowry, while a male was almost always punished less.66 In comparison, the sentence for sodomy was much more extreme. The penalty for the active part- ner in Venice was death, which gradually transitioned from being burned alive to decapitation to corpse burn- ing.67 In Florence, punishments like castration and death by burning existed, but penalties changed to fines or pub- lic humiliation in order to “enforce the law with greater care and diligence.”68 Sodomites were punished severely to encourage the public not to partake in the illicit act, and these punishments show the higher tensions felt by Italian authorities for this crime. 33 masculinity and sexuality in renaissance italy Despite this governmental aversion to sodomitical acts and the consequent desire to prosecute and stop them, public opinion was much more lenient. Although citizens probably agreed with their secular and religious authori- ties on the wrongfulness of sodomy, there is evidence that many accepted and even facilitated the crime. Rocke ana- lyzed the frequency of the locations of the offense in Flor- ence, and found that men “often used the house of another person” for their sexual activity.69 Besides companions who presented them with sexual opportunities, taverns and other public locations became known as places “where males could indulge in sodomy with no questions asked,” and without rebuke from the owner or occupants.70 In ad- dition to this allowance, several prominent Italians pub- licly kept male lovers and maintained their esteem in soci- ety. Michelangelo Buonarroti, the celebrated artist, fell into a sort of neo-platonic love with Tommaso de’ Cavalieri in 1532, and sent him many sketches and poems highlighting his passion.71 Many of his sonnets described the “chaste desire / that burns my heart inside” for Cavalieri, his “sweet and longed-for lord.”72 This longing was not con- cealed, yet Michelangelo was still commissioned for large, public works, showing that his patrons’—including the Pope for the Sistine Chapel—concern was overshadowed by their value of his art. Michelangelo’s public approval, despite his pronounced love for men, rested in the mastery of his talent, revealing that there were other models in which men, declared sodomites included, could prove and demonstrate their masculinity apart from fatherhood. performative masculinity Did men in sodomitical relationships manage in any sense to maintain their masculinity? As mentioned above, the “passive” actor in the activity was viewed as the feminine and womanly partner. This role was commonly filled by an adolescent male who was not expected to be manly yet. On the other hand, the “active” partner “conformed to the dominant, virile image” expected of masculine males.73 This idea that being the penetrative and aggressive partici- pant maintained the masculine ideal coincides well with the interpretive framework suggested by literary critic Jen- nifer Panek. She asserts that there was a shift from “repro- ductive” masculinity to “performative” manhood that de- parted from the “traditional association with bloodlines and breeding.”74 This departure deemphasized the impor- tance of the potent father and instead highlighted the idea of the aggressive, penetrative male dominating all that he encountered. Todd Reeser believes that a common theme in Renais- sance masculinity has been the man’s ability to “dominate the self and thus justify his domination of others.”75 A common and quite popular image that demonstrates this concept is the Renaissance portrayal of Hercules. This fig- ure, burdened with “masculine ideals beyond attainment,” is actually quite appropriate because he was often dis- played with “homoerotic appeal.”76 The most popular rep- resentation of Hercules’s manliness was of his conflict with the giant Antaeus, where he enacts masculine and sexual domination.77 In the engagement, Hercules has his arms around Antaeus, lifting him from the ground in a display—a pose that art historian Patricia Simons inter- prets as Hercules representing the “active” partner while the “implicitly penetrated” Antaeus is the passive one.78 In this dispute, Hercules conquers his opponent, restraining his own lust, while suggesting some sort of socially appro- priate homoerotic desire.79 Hercules represented the am- bivalence society felt towards masculinity within sodomy. These performative acts could be also authoritative, sexual, or even violent in nature. Alberti advocated for a ruling cosimo de’ medici in armor by agnolo bronzino (image courtesy of wikimedia commons) 34 elements : : fall 2014 husband who “should guard the woman, the house, and his family and country,” adding protective and defensive responsibilities, and thus dominance over his respective enemies, to his already commanding domestic position.80 Machiavelli similarly stressed aggressive behavior in ac- quiring and maintaining territory through performances of “grandeur, courage, sobriety, [and] strength.”81 Through these actions he could make himself “the master of the country.”82 This desire to assert authority over others was quite common for men. As Savonarola described, males in Italy “would like to be the leader who governs and rules over others…not be commanded.”83 Men used their au- thority and power as a way to solidify their masculinity and validate their perceived superiority over others. This man- liness was also demonstrated through military prowess, which often went hand-in-hand with acquiring control and power over others. For a woman to “carry a sword” was deemed improper, but it was almost a necessity that a virile male do so.84 True men “waged wars and won glorious vic- tories,” demonstrating their impressive capabilities that proved their masculinity.85 Successful military operations and dominance over others were types of substitutes for the sometimes inaccessible masculinity of fatherhood. Machiavelli’s opinion of women (that they need to be sub- dued) created another performative outlet for men. Since men felt they were “lorde” over women in a general sense, such ideas of dominance were also found in sex.86 Sexual conquest of women became a type of scale that men used to measure their manliness: “The more sex men could demonstrate they performed, the better, and performance took precedence over morality in all of these cases.”87 Dur- ing this type of fornication, the focus was not on produc- ing a biological heir, but on a man exercising his ability to use his physical manhood. Guido Ruggiero contends that men’s unpunished sexual license prompted a culture of “the mistress, the prostitute, [and] the libertine.”88 This idea validates Panek’s view of the shift from “the testicles to the penis”, in which men based their masculine identity less on their ability to reproduce but in their “personal achievement” (or sexual achievement in this case).89 This masculine presentation also emerged in more violent forms, which will be analyzed in the next section. violence and aggression Many contemporary historians recognize the correlation between masculinity and violence. Sandra Cavallo argues that there were many ways outside of marriage for men to prove their masculinity: “they demonstrated their physical strength and virility through violent actions, such as fights between rival groupings, and through drinking contests and exhibitions of sexual bravado.”90 To prove one’s man- hood, a male asserted power over others and maintained his honor through military prowess, sexual conquests and blatant violence. Defending the region was particularly im- portant in Italy during the Renaissance, and preachers like Giovanni Dominici called for Florentines to “fight for your fatherland” and “bring honor for your patria” through military victories. Images of heroic warriors, like Hercules (as mentioned previously) embodied “masculine action” that men should imitate.91 This importance of military identity is highlighted in the self-presentation of Cosimo de Medici. Cosimo at the age of seventeen, as a “last resort,” became the Duke of Florence after Duke Alessandro De’ Medici, a fifth-generation descednent, was assassinated in 1537. In order to legitimize his new position, he had himself dis- played in portraits in armor, and these “idealized images of himself…obscured the precarious nature of the transi- tion.” There were many identities he wanted to portray with these images, but a striking interpretation of one pic- ture compares Cosimo to Mars, the god of war: “Cosimo is the victorious general returning from Montemurlo…Cosi- mo is Mars himself, about to celebrate his military victory with a sexual conquest.”94 In this portrait, the duke’s body, decorated with striking armor to imply his recent military conquest, is partly rotated to the left, but his “eyes face obliquely in the opposite direction and do not engage the viewer.” This sideways glance is enough to suggest the no- tion of future sexual conquest awaiting him in the near distance. This godly description validates Cosimo’s mascu- linity with his past military victory and his future sexual one, reassuring his almost divine status and right to au- thority. This self-fashioning seemed to work well since he went on to become the Grand Duke of Tuscany, outmaneu- vering other great powers of the time.95 Jonathan Davies has described further examples of vio- lence, particularly in Italian universities during the Re- naissance. He argues that university brutality was always commonplace and took the form of individual and group “insults, assaults, and murders” and even riots.96 Davies argues that the idea is “unsurprising” that elite students would resort to violence because “the upper class was to an extent a military class and its amusements consisted in fencing, jousts, and tournaments,” and therefore they were conditioned to be violent.97 Additionally, because honor was so important in the social realm, any insult to it 35 masculinity and sexuality in renaissance italy was automatically retaliated.98 This type of focus on manly honor is highlighted in Benvenuto Cellini’s autobiography Vita. Cellini was a goldsmith and artist in the sixteenth century, who worked for prominent officials including sev- eral popes, Francis I of France, and even Cosimo de’ Medi- ci.99 He was arrested for sodomy in 1557, and wrote his autobiography as a defense of his character while under house arrest.100 His autobiography traces his life story, highlighting his artistic accomplishments and recounting tales of his violent squabbles. Margaret Gallucci posits, “standards of manliness and honor required Cellini to depict himself as violent and to recount acts of assault and murder.”101 He constantly de- fended his identity in the text, attacking those who dam- aged his honor or challenged his masculinity.102 He illus- trated himself as an accomplished soldier and swordsman on and off the battlefield. In a characteristic display of his temper, Cellini sought revenge for his brother’s death by attacking the man who killed him. He described the scene in graphic detail: “the poniard entered this points so deep into the bone, that, though I used all my strength to pull it out, I was not able.”103 Violent outbursts were common- place for him, and he described them in a boastful man- ner, taking pride in his evident masculinity. He further validated his manliness through sexual conquests: “since I’m a man, I used her for my sexual pleasure.”104 Under the “code of masculinity,” seducing or even raping a girl could only enhance a man’s reputation. Cellini seemed to be quite fond of “fresh maid[s],” and even described one night in which he “stole away the little serving-girl” and enjoyed a “very pleasant night.”106 He approached these occurrenc- es casually, proceeding afterwards in his usual manner, careless of spoiling her virtue and without pursuing any relationship. Many men shared the same outlook on sexu- al conquest and general self-fashioning as Cellini did. The idea that the frequency of copulation adds to mascu- linity has been addressed, but now attention will be drawn to the violence of sexual acts and the abuse of women in general. To begin with, sexual violence happened in and out of the licit marriage bed. “Homosexual rape was very similar to heterosexual rape” because in both cases there was an active and aggressive partner dominating a passive victim.107 Rocke attributes the greater strength of the older, active partner with the prevalence of intimidation, “threats, or outright violence” to further prove manhood in the con- text of sodomy.108 Similarly, heterosexual rape was com- monplace, yet it was rarely recognized or prosecuted in the court system. “Great violence” was commonly employed to consummate marriages, but the hostility did not stop there.109 Ruggiero suggests that society may have seen rape as another element of “exploitative sexuality” that was so frequent that it was no longer troubling. To add to this de- tachment, courts described rape distantly and briefly, mak- ing minimal penalties easier to impose by not focusing on the graphic details of the crime.110 Some authorities were much more interested in non-sexual domestic abuse. Many women attempted to annul their marriages on the principle of violence and neglect. Joanne Ferraro presents many examples of husbands who “had gagged and beat,” starved, and threatened to kill their wives.111 In these cases the Church courts were very concerned with the marriage state, and asserted, by granting annulments, that the hus- band’s masculine responsibility centered on the welfare of his family, and thus his fatherhood “outmanned” his other masculine performances. However, as shown by the previ- ous examples, this was not always the popular belief. conclusion In Renaissance Europe, several types of guidelines existed that described and directed the proper behavior of men. Through these, one can derive what sorts of attributes and actions were considered masculine from directly described or implied characteristics. In some ways, masculinity seems to have been defined by a male’s sexuality, but not exactly in the same way as a female’s. Instead, the focus for men was on their ability to produce children to continue the family name. From this need came the importance of marriage and family life, the means for which this propa- gation could occur. In Italy, the prevalence of sodomy shook the masculine foundations of society. When men either chose to adopt the feminine, passive role in the in- teraction, or submit other men to it, they flagrantly ignored the “proper” masculine behavior, and accordingly they were put under heavy scrutiny and regulations in an at- tempt to return things to the status quo. The Florentine and Venetian communities did not want to lose control and dominance over their societal structure by allowing sodomites to undermine what they perceived as the funda- “Because honor was so important in the social realm, any insult to it was automatically retaliated.”36 elements : : fall 2014 mental institutions of marriage and family. The pervasive- ness of sodomy threatened the idea of fatherhood mascu- linity, but also conformed to a more “performative” model of masculinity demonstrated through military prowess, sexual conquest, and violence. In this way, the active part- ner in the relationship could still maintain his masculinity by conforming to normal gender roles and the “performa- tive” category of sexual conquest. However, this model of sexual mastery brought men’s definition of masculinity closer to women’s definition of femininity. While women were expected to remain chaste and abstinent, men were required to father children or be physical with many wom- en to prove their virility. Despite the dissociation men tried to put between themselves and women, they were simi- larly limited by their own sexual expectations. Fatherhood masculinity was in some ways overshadowed by the aggressive performance masculinity, where men strictly defied the “proper” behavior detailed by the con- duct books and treatises, but still considered themselves manly. The gap between the advice given in the conduct books and sermons and the realities of male life is very interesting. Further research would have to be done to un- derstand the difference between the ideal man and the facts of Renaissance society, and how the men of the time reconciled the two. There is also another argument con- trary to the evidence collected in this study that raises sev- eral questions. Valeria Finucci addresses the apparently common belief that “excessive sexual expenditure was linked to emasculation,” and Jennifer Panek’s article, “‘This Base Stallion Trade’: He-whores and Male Sexuality on the Early Modern Stage,” is entirely devoted to justify- ing a way in which male prostitutes could escape this fem- inization.112 While this argument does align with the idea of unbridled female licentiousness, it directly contradicts the proof regarding the importance of child production and the role of sexual conquest in asserting masculinity. However, it does also conform with the less common pre- cedence of moderate masculinity put forth by Todd W. Re- eser in his book Moderating Masculinity in Early Modern Culture. Additional examination and evaluation would have to be undertaken to reconcile these two arguments. Despite these avenues of supplementary research, one can acknowledge that men during the Renaissance were very concerned with maintaining a certain identity that validat- ed their masculinity and superior position in society, and this ardent desire ironically resulted in the definition of their own sexual limitations. ENDNOTES 1. Baldesar Castiglione, The Book of the Courtier, trans. George Bull (London: Penguin Books, 1967), 57. 2. Christine de Pizan, The Book of the City of Ladies, trans. Earl Jeffrey Richards, Rev. Ed. (New York: Persea Books, 1998), 155. 3. Michael Rocke, Forbidden Friendships (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 3, 13. 4. Konrad Eisenbichler, trans., Girolamo Savonarola: A Guide to Righteous Living and Other Works. (Toronto: CRRS Publications, 2003), 95. 5. Guido Ruggiero, The Boundaries of Eros: Sex Crime and Sexuality in Renaissance Venice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985), 111, 113. 6. Catherine Kovesi Killerby, Sumptuary Law in Italy 1200-1500 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002), 64. 7. Giovanni Della Casa, Galateo: Of Manners & Behaviors, ed. Lewis Einstein (Boston: The Merrymount Press, 1914), 104. 8. Castiglione, The Book of the Courtier, 211. 9. Stefano Guazzo, The Civile Conversation, trans. George Pettie, vol, 2 (London: Edinburgh University Press, 1925), 23. 10. Anne Borelli and Maria Pastore Passaro, ed. and trans., Selected Writings of Girolamo Savonarola. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006), 147. 11. Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince, trans. George Bull (London: Penguin Books, 199), 81. 12. Renee Neu Watkins, trans., The Family in Renaissance Florence. (Columbia; UNC Press, 1969), 208. 13. Desiderius Erasmus, The Education of a Christian Prince, trans. Lisa Jardine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 17. 14. Della Casa, Galateo, 42. 15. Eisenbichler, Girolamo Savonarola, 59. 16. Castiglione, The Book of the Courtier, 58-59. 17. Erasmus, Christian Prince, 16. 18. Della Casa, Galateo, 80. 19. Watkins, The Family in Renaissance Florence, 115. 20. Valeria Finucci, The Manly Masquerade: Masculinity, Paternity, and Castration in the Italian Renaissance (Durham: Duke University Press, 2003), 106-107. 21. Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby, Renaissance Florence in the Rhetoric of Two Popular Preachers (Turnhout: Berpols, 2001), 128, 133-134. 22. Ruggiero, The Boundaries of Eros, 12. 23. Stanley Chojnacki, Women and Men in Renaissance Venice: Twelve Essays on Patrician Society (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000), 169. 24. Della Casa, Galateo, 21. 25. Erasmus, Christian Prince, 96. 26. Joanne M. Ferraro, Marriage Wars in Late Renaissance Venice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 89. 27. Watkins, The Family in Renaissance Florence, 111. 28. Guazzo, Civil Conversation, 7. 29. Guazzo, The Civil Conversation, 8. 30. Watkins, The Family in Renaissance Florence, 115. 31. Machiavelli, The Prince, 9. 32. Castiglione, The Book of the Courtier, 54. 37 masculinity and sexuality in renaissance italy 74. Jennifer Panek, “’This Base Stallion Trade’: He-whores and Male Sexuality on the Early Modern Stage,” English Literary Renaissance 40 (2010): 385. 75. Todd W. Reeser, Moderating Masculinity in Early modern Culture (Chapel Hill, UNC Press, 2006), 136. 76. Patricia Simons, “Hercules in Italian Renaissance Art: Masculine Labour and Homoerotic Libido,” Art History 31 (2008): 632. 77. Simons, “Hercules”, 638. 78. Simons, “Hercules”, 645. 79. Simons, “Hercules”, 649. 80. Watkins, The Family in Renaissance Florence, 208. 81. Machiavelli, The Prince, 59. 82. Machiavelli, The Prince, 11. 83. Borelli and Passaro, Girolamo Savonarola, 152. 84. Watkins, The Family in Renaissance Florence, 226. 85. Castiglione, The Book of the Courtier, 219. 86. Guazzo, The Civil Conversation, 26. 87. Ferraro, Marriage Wars, 103. 88. Ruggiero, Boundaries of Eros, 10. 89. Panek, “’This Base Stallion Trade,’” 385. 90. Cavallo, “Bachelorhood and Masculinity,” 386. 91. Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby, “Political Views in the Preaching of Giovanni Dominici in Renaissance Florence,” Renaissance Quarterly 55 (2002): 25. 92. Simons, “Hercules,” 634. 93. Carolyn Springer, Armour and Masculinity in the Italian Renaissance (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2010), 132-133. 94. Springer, Armour and Masculinity, 140. 95. Springer, Armour and Masculinity, 138. 96. Jonathan Davies, “Violence and Italian universities during the Renaissance,” Renaissance Studies 27 (2013), 505-506. 97. Davies, “Violence and Italian universities”, 511. 98. Davies, “Violence and Italian universities”, 506. 99. Charles Hope, ed., introduction to The Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini (Oxford: Phaidon Press, 1983), 7-13. 100. Margaret A. Galluci, Benvenuto Cellini: Sexuality, Masculinity, and Artistic Identity in Renaissance Italy (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), 23-24. 101. Galluci, Benvenuto Cellini, 110. 102. Galluci, Benvenuto Cellini, 114. 103. Hope, Benvenuto Cellini, 60. 104. Galluci, Benvenuto Cellini, 112. 105. Galluci, Benvenuto Cellini, 134. 106. Hope, Benvenuto Cellini, 34. 107. Ruggiero, Boundaries of Eros, 125. 108. Rocke, Forbidden Friendships, 162. 109. Ferraro, Marriage Wars, 57. 110. Ruggiero, Boundaries of Eros, 90. 111. Ferraro, Marriage Wars, 120, 124. 112. Finucci, Manly Masquerade, 168. 33. Della Casa, Galateo, 39. 34. Valeria Finucci, Manly Masquerade, 239. 35. Ferraro, Marriage Wars, 70. 36. Chojnacki, Women and Men, 250. 37. Sandra Cavallo, “Bachelorhood and Masculinity in Renaissance and Early Modern Italy,” European History Quarterly 38 (2008): 376-377. 38. Cavallo, “Bachelorhood and Masculinity,” 386. 39. Chojnacki, Women and Men, 256. 40. Frank Klaassen, “Learning and Masculinity in Manuscripts of Ritual Magic of the Later Middle Ages and Renaissance,” Sixteenth Century Journal 38 (2007): 57. 41. Elizabeth Schirmer, “’Trewe Men’: Pastoral Masculinity in Lollard Polemic,” in Tom Betteridge, ed., Sodomy in Early Modern Europe (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2002), 118. 42. Sermon quoted in Eisenbichler, Girolamo Savonarola, 92. 43. Tom Webster, “’Kiss me with the kisses of his mouth’: gender inversion and Canticles in godly spirituality,” in Tom Betteridge, ed., Sodomy in Early Modern Europe (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2002), 150. 44. Rocke, Forbidden Friendships, 11. 45. Rocke, Forbidden Friendships, 89-90. 46. Rocke, Forbidden Friendships, 12-13. 47. Rocke, Forbidden Friendships, 106-107. 48. Rocke, Forbidden Friendships, 21-22, 32. 49. Ruggiero, Boundaries of Eros, 121. 50. Killerby, Sumptuary Law, 62. 51. Ruggiero, Boundaries of Eros, 126-127. 52. N.S. Davidson, “Sodomy in early modern Venice,” in Tom Betteridge, ed., Sodomy in Early Modern Europe (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2002), 68. 53. Rocke, Forbidden Friendships, 4. 54. Miles Alexander Frederick Pattenden, “Moral Legislation and the Rise of the Medici State” (MA thesis, University of Toronto, 2005), 20. 55. Nirit, Two Popular Preachers, 132. 56. Ruggiero, Boundaries of Eros, 6. 57. Niri, Two Popular Preachers, 57-59. 58. Davidson, “Sodomy in Venice,” 65. 59. Rocke, Forbidden Friendships, 3. 60. Rocke, Forbidden Friendships. 61. Borelli and Passaro, Girolamo Savonarola, 157-158. 62. Eisenbichler, Girolamo Savonarola, 88. 63. Quoted in Rocke, Forbidden Friendships, 41. 64. Ruggiero, Boundaries of Eros, 9. 65. Ruggiero, Boundaries of Eros, 47, 49. 66. Ruggiero, Boundaries of Eros, 55. 67. Ruggiero, Boundaries of Eros, 119. 68. Rocke, Forbidden Friendships, 7, 32. 69. Rocke, Forbidden Friendships, 156-157. 70. Rocke, Forbidden Friendships, 160. 71. James M. Saslow, trans., Introduction to The Poetry of Michelangelo. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991), 16. 72. Saslow, Michelangelo, 150,181. 73. 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New York: Persea Books, 1998. Watkins, Renée Neu, trans. The Family in Renaissance Florence. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1969. Chojnacki, Stanley. Women and Men in Renaissance Venice: Twelve Essays on Patrician Society. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Univer- sity Press, 2000. Cavallo, Sandra. “Bachelorhood and Masculinity in Renaissance and Early Modern Italy.” European History Quarterly 38 (2008): 375-397. Davidson, N.S. “Sodomy in early modern Venice.” In Sodomy in Early Modern Europe, edited by Tom Betteridge. Manchester: Man- chester University Press, 2002. Davies, Jonathan. “Violence and Italian universities during the Renaissance.” Renaissance Studies 27 (2013): 504-516. Debby, Nirit Ben-Aryeh. “Political Views in the Preaching of Giovanni Dominici in Renaissance Florence, 1400-1406.” Renais- sance Quarterly 55 (2002): 19-48. Debby, Nirit Ben-Aryeh . Renaissance Florence in the Rhetoric of Two Popular Preachers: Giovanni Dominici (1356-1419) and Bernardino da Siena (1380-1444). Turnhout: Brepols, 2001. Ferraro, Joanne M. Marriage Wars in Late Renaissance Venice. Ox- ford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Finucci, Valeria. The Manly Masquerade: Masculinity, Paternity, and Castration in the Italian Renaissance. Durham: Duke University Press, 2003. Gallucci, Margaret A. Benvenuto Cellini: Sexuality, Masculinity, and Artistic Identity in Renaissance Italy. New York: Plagrave Macmil- lan, 2003. Klaassen, Frank. “Learning and Masculinity in Manuscripts of Ritual Magic of the Later Middle Ages and Renaissance.” Sixteenth Century Journal 38 (2007): 49-76. Lambertini, Roberto. “Mirrors for Princes.” In Encyclopedia of Me- dieval Philosophy, edited by Henrik Lagerlund. Netherlands: Springer, 2011. Panek, Jennifer. “’This Base Stallion Trade’: He-whores and Male Sexuality on the Early Modern Stage.” English Literary Renaissance 40 (2010): 357-392. Pattenden, Miles Alexander Frederick. “Moral Legislation and the Rise of the Medici State.” MA thesis, University of Toronto, 2005. Reeser, Todd W. Moderating Masculinity in Early Modern Culture. Chapel Hill: UNC Press, 2006. Rocke, Michael. Forbidden Friendships: Homosexuality and Male Culture in Renaissance Florence. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996. Ruggiero, Guido. The Boundaries of Eros: Sex Crime and Sexuality in Renaissance Venice. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985. Saslow, James M., trans., The Poetry of Michelangelo. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991. Schirmer, E. “‘Trewe Men’: Pastoral Masculinity in Lollard Polem- ic.” In Masculinities and Femininities in the Middle Ages and Renais- sance, edited by Frederick Kiefer. Turnhout: Brepols Pub. 2010. 39 masculinity and sexuality in renaissance italy Simons, Patricia. “Hercules in Italian Renaissance Art: Masculine Labor and Homoerotic Libido.” Art History 31 (2008): 632-664. Springer, Carolyn. Armour and Masculinity in the Italian Renais- sance. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2010. Webster, Tom. “‘Kiss me with the kisses of his mouth’: gender inversion and Canticles in godly spirituality.” In Sodomy in Early Modern Europe, edited by Tom Betteridge. Manchester: Manches- ter University Press, 2002. 40 elements : : fall 2014 contemporary terror threats have brought about a fundamental shift in modern warfare. the practices of today, both tacit and official, serve as precedent for future global policy. following the hostilities of the second intifada, a contentious debate has emerged over the controversial policy of targeted killing. this article discusses how sovereign nations approach contemporary threats and how they justify such methods by discussing the legality of targeted killing based on the concept of com- batant status, followed by an examination of the practice’s morality and effective- ness. a just measure On the Legality, Morality, and Effectiveness of Targeted Killing tate krasner introduction The outbreak of the Second Intifada in September of 2000 brought about a controversial shift of Israeli strategy in re- sponse to unconventional methods employed by Palestin- ian terrorists. At the height of the conflict, University of Haifa Professor Daniel Statman stated: The threat of terror has found the West widely unprepared to deal with it. The standard means of waging war are irrelevant to contending with this threat…Hence, to effectively stop terror, a different model must be sought, not the model of conventional war with its machines and tools, nor that of the police and court activities conducted against ordinary criminals.1 The model developed by Israel was the contentious policy of targeted killing. Since the eruption of hostilities, Israeli academics, officials, and policymakers have engaged in ex- tensive debate over the legality, morality, and effectiveness of the practice. While clear answers have yet to emerge, the importance of such dialogue cannot be overstated. The so- phistication and ubiquity of modern terror organizations have changed the way sovereign nations wage war. As this paradigm shifts, it is vital to scrutinize new security tactics to ensure that they not only achieve their objectives, but also do so in a manner that is in agreement with existing legal and moral standards. The practices of today, both tacit and official, serve as precedent for future policy. By examining the Israeli debate around targeted killing, this article seeks to illuminate how sovereign nations approach these contemporary threats and justify such methods. Close examination of this debate ultimately finds targeted killing to be a legal, moral, and effective policy. defining targeted killing Scholars have argued extensively over what specifically constitutes targeted killing. Thus, before providing a defi- nition, it is perhaps prudent to present what scholars have agreed does not constitute targeted killing. In this area, there is far more consensus. To begin, targeted killing is not assassination: “An assas- sination is an act of killing a prominent person selectively, intentionally, and for political (including religious) pur- poses.”2 While targeted killing and assassination may share certain characteristics, they differ in two fundamen- tal ways. First, the term assassination has an intrinsic neg- ative moral connotation as “murder by treacherous means,” and “second, assassination usually refers to the killing of senior political officials.”3 What, then, is targeted killing? For some, such as profes- sor of international relations Steven R. David, targeted kill- ing is simply “the intentional slaying of a specific individ- ual or group of individuals undertaken with explicit governmental approval.”4 Yet, targeted killing includes two key distinctions that separate it from David’s generalized definition. First, the target must present a clear, serious, and pressing threat to the safety and security of the public. The directness of this threat can vary. In the case of Israel during the Second Intifada, targets presenting a direct threat included not only immediate threats, such as a sui- cide bomber or gunman, but also accomplices, such as a bomb-maker or driver. Second, “there also must be no rea- sonable alternative to the targeted killing.”5 Capturing, ar- resting, or incapacitating a terrorist is almost always pref- erable from a legal, moral, and strategic standpoint. These methods align with democratic, civil, and international law and can also provide invaluable intelligence. However, such methods come at a cost, not only to police and mili- tary forces, but to civilians as well. Gary D. Solis of the Georgetown University Law Center provides a comprehensive and effective definition of tar- geted killing, one which will serve as the primary defini- tion throughout this paper: The intentional killing of a specific civilian who cannot reason- ably be apprehended, and who is taking a direct part in hostili- ties, the targeting done at the direction and authorization of the State in the context of an international or non-international armed conflict.6 israeli defense force soldier carrying equipment during the second intifada (courtesy of the israel defense force) 42 elements : : fall 2014 on the legality of targeted killing While current international law does not directly address the subject of targeted killing, it appears that the practice is legally justified under the principle of self-defense. It is the foremost duty of the state to protect its citizens, and inter- national law allows sovereign nations the right to defend themselves. Historically, nations have had to defend them- selves from other sovereign nations, and accordingly, in- ternational law and law of armed conflict primarily address interstate hostilities. Yet, the number, frequency, and in- tensity of interstate wars have declined.7 Instead, conflicts have increasingly tended to be intrastate civil wars, and the emergence of non-state actors, such as terrorists, poses new threats to sovereign nations. The question now is whether traditional legal principles of self-defense apply to nontraditional conflicts. Philosopher Asa Kasher and former Israeli Defense Force (IDF) Mili- tary Intelligence Directorate Amos Yadlin argue that sover- eign nations still have the right—and duty—to defend themselves from terrorists: We take the defense of citizens from terror to be not only a prime duty of a democratic state but also, under present cir- cumstances, as the prime duty, since the danger posed by terror is a relatively new one, at least in some major respects, and is of a special nature.8 In the conflict between Israel and Palestine, this defense of citizens manifested itself in the policy of targeted killing, a tactic which falls under the category of what law professor Amos Guiora has termed “active self-defense.”9 The main advantage of active self-defense is that it stops terrorist at- tacks before they occur, saving the lives of countless civil- ians and military personnel. Active self-defense is preven- tative and proactive, differing from the reactive nature of traditional ideas of self-defense. That being said, scholars like Guiora argue that active self-defense is justified under the same laws of traditional self-defense: Targeted killing as a counter-terrorism measure can be justified by the principles upon which international law regarding self- defense is based—military necessity, proportionality, collateral damage and the exhaustion of reasonable alternatives.10 If executed properly, targeted killing fulfills these princi- ples. Yet, active self-defense can conflict with the concept of “in- nocent before proven guilty.” Even if corroborated evi- dence points to the guilt of a suspected terrorist, proactive killing denies the opportunity for a fair trial. Ethicist Mi- chael L. Gross of the University of Haifa addresses this problem, stating that targeted killing can be viewed either through a paradigm of law enforcement or a paradigm of war. The law enforcement paradigm views the terrorist as a criminal and “demands that states treat terrorists just as they would any heinous criminal, whether an ordinary lawbreaker or war criminal.”11 Under this paradigm, the terrorist would deserve a fair trial and would have to be found guilty of a crime before any punishment—let alone execution—would be administered. The war paradigm, however, views the terrorist as an enemy combatant, meaning that such rules do not apply.12 These two para- digms are fundamentally incompatible. Through which paradigm, then, should a sovereign state view terrorists? The answer to this question lies within the behavior of the terrorists themselves. In essence, terrorists act as combatants. However, terror- ists do not share the characteristics of traditional combat- ants. They do not wear uniforms, they do not serve in the militaries of sovereign states, and they do not abide by in- ternational war law. These characteristics have historically been used to ascertain legitimate military targets. Yet, the lack of these characteristics should not provide a terrorist immunity for his actions. Thus, as Gross writes, combat- ant status can be determined through other means, such as intelligence: Naming combatants is considerably more difficult than recog- nizing them by uniform and so demands careful intelligence to allow an adversary to assemble a list of individuals affiliated with their enemy’s armed forces. Armed with this list and a reasonable method of ascertaining a person’s identity, it is then possible to establish combatant status. At that point, a named, un-uniformed combatant is as vulnerable as one in uniform; both may suffer harm as adversaries defend themselves.13 “The target must present a clear, serious, and pressing threat to the safety and security of the public.” 43 a just measure By being viewed as combatants through the war paradigm, terrorists lose the legal privileges provided by the para- digm of law enforcement. In conclusion, while terrorists may appear to be civilian criminals, they are in fact mili- tary combatants and should be treated as such. Identifying whether a terrorist is a criminal or a combatant is significant because it determines the legality of targeted killing. If the terrorist is considered a criminal, then the killing of that terrorist is an extra-judicial killing, which is an illegal act. However, if the terrorist is considered a com- batant, then the targeted killing is considered a legal act of self-defense, as long as “it can meet the demands of neces- sity, utility, and proportionality.”14 on the morality of targeted killing When addressing the morality of targeted killing, terror- ists are also considered combatants. As stated earlier, ter- rorists differ in several ways from traditional combatants. This is true legally, and it is also true morally. Often tradi- tional combatants are conscripts and draftees, and those who are not often fight for causes they believe to be just or morally right. In contrast, the many of terrorists willingly join organizations and causes that the rest of the world deems unjust. Michael L. Gross speculates: Perhaps it is more reasonable to think that some combatants are unjust, and that those espousing an unjust cause and/or fighting by unjust means merits a response more severe than do those combatants who are just. Rather than ignore the mor- al responsibility of terrorists and their supporters, their moral non-innocence justifies stronger and harsher measures than one would normally inflict on an adversary. Perhaps targeted killings are an appropriate response to terrorism precisely be- cause terrorists deserve to suffer harm in a way that just com- batants do not.15 While ideas of justice and morality can be subjective, Gross’ point is no less valid; if traditional combatants who unwillingly participate in combat are considered legiti- mate combatants despite their relative moral innocence, then certainly a terrorist who willingly chooses to cause harm and suffering should be considered a legitimate tar- get as well. Furthermore, in conventional wars, combatants are often killed solely due to their affiliations or uniforms rather than their actions or the threat they pose. “With targeted killing,” Daniel Statman states, “human beings are killed not simply because they are ‘the enemy,’ but because they bear special responsibility or play a special role in the en- emy’s aggression.”16 Consider two scenarios: in the first scenario, a warplane from Country A drops a bomb on a military base belonging to Country B, killing hundreds of soldiers; in the second scenario, a sniper from Country C eliminates a single terrorist who has been proven, through corroborated intelligence, to be involved in a plot to de- stroy a supermarket. If all lives are considered equal, then the second scenario, an example of targeted killing, is pref- erable, not only because it reduces the total number of lives lost, but also because it limits punishment to the sole person responsible for possible harm. Statman concludes: Hence, targeted killing is the preferable method not only be- cause, on a utilitarian calculation, it saves lives—a very weighty moral consideration—but also because it is more commensu- rate with a fundamental condition of justified self-defense, namely, that those killed are responsible for the threat posed.17 Ideally, not a single person would perish from war. How- ever, targeted killing perhaps represents a positive moral progression on the spectrum of warfare, as it challenges the indiscriminate mass killing that has been a key feature in warfare for thousands of years. Instead, it advances just war theory because of its emphasis on responsibility. “If the terrorist is considered a criminal, then the killing of that terrorist is an extra-judicial killing, which is an illegal act. However, if the terrorist is considered a combatant, then the targeted killing is considered a legal act of self-defense.” 44 elements : : fall 2014 If terrorists are considered combatants, then the same moral rules that apply to traditional warfare must also ap- ply to the war on terror as well. Under such rules, targeted killing simply represents another method of eliminating a legitimate enemy combatant who poses a legitimate threat. Thus, Statman contends, as long as one accepts the moral legitimacy associated with conventional war, one must ac- cept the legitimacy of targeted killing. And, as a result: If one rejects this legitimacy, one must object to all killing in war, targeted and non-targeted alike, and thus not support the view, which is criticized here, that targeted killings are particu- larly disturbing from a moral point of view.18 It follows, then, that one who criticizes targeted killing on a moral ground must be a pacifist, opposing targeted kill- ing due to its association with violence in general, not in comparison to conventional warfare.19 Lastly, it is important to note that many “moral” critics of targeted killing actually criticize poor execution of the pol- icy. For example, if faulty intelligence leads to the death of an innocent person in a mission to kill a terrorist, the fault lies in the intelligence, not the policy itself. Such mistakes far too often have tragic consequences, yet it is unfair— and incorrect—to morally evaluate targeted killing based on factors that have no actual correlation to the policy. In- stead, as stated above, targeted killing derives its legitima- cy from existing moral standards. on the effectiveness of targeted killing The first two sections of this article have examined the le- gality and morality of targeted killing. Yet, these factors are ultimately irrelevant if targeted killing is ineffective in achieving its objectives. Therefore, the last section of this article will address the effectiveness of targeted killing. To determine the efficacy of targeted killing, it is necessary to first identify the objectives of the policy. Amos Guiora states that the “primary objective” of targeted killing “is the prevention of a terrorist act intended to kill innocent civil- ians.”20 This view is shared by the majority of academics and policymakers in Israel and around the world. There- fore, two questions must be answered. First, does targeted killing prevent acts of terrorism? And second, does target- ed killing protect the lives of innocent civilians? Compre- hensive studies have yet to be published that address ei- ther question. However, scholars have begun to observe patterns that provide some direction. It can be difficult to evaluate whether an act of targeted killing prevents an act of terrorism. In some cases, it is relatively simple. For instance, if an agent from Country A eliminates a suicide bomber entering a crowded train sta- tion, it is obvious that the agent prevented an act of terror- ism. However, if an agent from Country B eliminates a bomb-maker in a terrorist organization, it is still fairly clear that an act of terrorism has been prevented, but it is less evident than in the first scenario. It becomes more dif- ficult to gauge the effectiveness of targeted killing as the targets become further removed from the actual act of ter- ror. Eventually, killing a certain member of a terrorist orga- nization—perhaps an informant or a driver—ceases to be effective. Yet, scholars such as Steven David argue that, regardless of whether or not the target is directly engaged in the act of terror, targeted killing is effective: In sum, the policy of targeted killing has prevented…attacks against Israel, weakened the effectiveness of terrorist organiza- tions, kept potential bomb makers on the run, [and] deterred terrorist operations…It has not prevented all acts of terrorism, nor can it. But as part of a larger array of policies, including blockades, checkpoints, and incursions, it is seen to be a suc- cessful response to an intolerable threat.21 Targeted killing is successful in damaging the terrorist in- frastructure, both directly and indirectly. Directly, targeted killing eliminates key members who provide valuable ser- vices to the organization. Indirectly, targeted killing leads to “a sowing of distrust and confusion amongst terrorist organizations regarding the identity of informants without whom the policy could not be implemented.”22 Thus, tar- geted killing appears to be an effective policy. mourning the loss of a victim of terror (courtesy of wikimedia commons) 45 a just measure However, many scholars and policymakers have suggested that targeted killing actually leads to more acts of terror- ism. In September of 2002, during the Second Intifada, Steven David wrote: Targeted killings have provoked murderous retaliations, elimi- nated individuals who might have become pragmatic negotia- tors for peace, diverted the resources of intelligence agencies from existential threats, “burned” informers, generated inter- national condemnation, recruited new volunteers for terrorist acts, enhanced the standing of organizations whose leaders have been marked for death, and promoted the unity of groups confronting Israel.23 David’s commentary presents multiple legitimate and ra- tional concerns. Yet, consider two alternative scenarios in response to a potential act of terror. In the first scenario, no action is taken, and the act of terror is allowed to occur. In the second scenario, conventional military action is taken, thus preventing the attack. The first scenario will lead to the death of innocent civilians, while the second scenario presents the exact same challenges of revenge and retaliation. Targeted killing is obviously preferable to the first scenario because it saves the lives of innocent ci- vilians, but it is also preferable to the second scenario be- cause it limits the collateral damage often associated with conventional warfare. Therefore, realistically, the effective- ness of targeted killing must be evaluated not only by it- self, but also alongside its alternatives. In this sense, David ultimately takes the lesser of evils approach: Targeted killing is an unsavory practice for an unsavory time. It can never take the place of a political settlement, which is the only solution to the terror that confronts Israel. Until such a settlement is achieved, however, targeted killing stands out as a measured response to a horrific threat. It is distinctly attractive because it focuses on the actual perpetrators of terror, while largely sparing the innocent. For a dangerous region in an im- perfect world, the policy of targeted killing must remain a nec- essary evil.24 However, other scholars have argued the efficacy of tar- geted killing by instead focusing on its long-term effective- ness. While there is a consensus that a focused, aggressive campaign against terrorism has the potential to generate dangerous amounts of revenge and backlash, these schol- ars contend that such a campaign will undoubtedly desta- bilize—and eventually destroy—the infrastructure of ter- rorist organizations over time. Daniel Statman states that, “In the long run, there is good reason to believe that such killings will weaken the terror organizations, generate de- moralization among their members, [and] force them to restrict their movements.”25 This “life on the run” is stren- uous and unsustainable, and it clearly puts terrorist orga- nizations in a disadvantageous position. Therefore, in terms of weakening the current terrorist infrastructure and inhibiting its expansion, targeted killing is an effective policy in the long run. The primary objective of targeted killing is not the elimina- tion of terror, and it would be both unfair and unrealistic to deem it so. Rather, the objective of targeted killing is to prevent pressing and immediate terror threats that put the lives of innocent civilians at risk. The state owes its citizens a pursuit of both eliminating certain terror dangers and eliminating terror in general, but there is no reason to assume that success in pursuing the short-range problem determines in either way the extent to which we are brought closer to success in pursuing the long-range problem as well.26 Targeted killing represents a solution for the problem of “eliminating certain terror dangers,” and in this regard, it is an effective strategy. conclusion The threat of terrorists and other non-state actors has put modern sovereign nations in a precarious situation. Na- tions must now defend their citizens from combatants “As long as it is executed with responsibility and accountability, the policy of targeted killing provides sovereign nations a legal, moral, and effective method for countering...terrorism.”46 elements : : fall 2014 who do not adhere to convention. For this reason, it has never been more important that these nations respond to these threats in a conscientious manner, for their current responses will ultimately generate precedents that both state and non-state actors will follow. Irresponsibly re- sponding to such threats has the potential to provide ter- rorist organizations justification for future atrocities. Therefore, if targeted killing is to be adopted as a legiti- mate strategy for eliminating terrorist threats that is effec- tive in both the short-term and the long-term, there must be no doubt that the policy falls under existing legal and moral standards. Targeted killing derives its legal legitimacy from two fac- tors. The first factor is the target’s status as an enemy com- batant, which is established though careful and corrobo- rated intelligence. This status consequentially leads to the second factor, which is the state’s right, under internation- al law, to self-defense. When these two factors are consid- ered, targeted killing is simply another strategy sovereign states employ in response to potential threats. Targeted killing derives its moral legitimacy from existing moral rules of war. If terrorists and other non-state actors are considered enemy combats, then it logically follows that traditional rules of war should be applied to the prac- tice of targeted killing. In this sense, targeted killing is no more repulsive or disconcerting than conventional war- fare. Furthermore, because targeted killing limits punish- ment to those responsible for harm and reduces civilian casualties, it actually represents an advancement of moral- ity from conventional war. Ultimately, targeted killing will not end terrorism. That is a far more complex challenge that depends on the coopera- tion, creativity, and activism of leaders and citizens across the world. However, as long as it is executed with respon- sibility and accountability, the policy of targeted killing provides sovereign nations a legal, moral, and effective method for countering the immediate and pressing threat of terrorism. endnotes 1. Statman 2004 (1) 2. Kasher and Yadlin (44) 3. David 2002 (2) 4. Ibid. 5. Guiora (322) 6. Solis (3) 7. Goldstein 2011 8. Kasher and Yadlin (45) 9. Guiora (324) 10. Guiora (334) 11. Gross (324) 12. Gross (325) 13. Gross (330) 14. Gross (332) 15. Gross (330-331) 16. Statman 2004 (13) 17. Statman 2004 (9) 18. Statman 2004 (1) 19. Statman 2004 (2) 20. Guiora (329) 21. David 2002 (8) 22. Guiora (334) 23. David 2002 (12) 24. David 2002 (22) 25. Statman 2004 (14) 26. Kasher and Yadlin (55-56) references Byman, Daniel. 2013. “Why Drones Work: The Case for Washington’s Weapon of Choice.” Foreign Affairs. 92.4. Cronin, Audrey Kurth. 2013. “Why Drones Fail: When Tac- tics Drive Strategy.” Foreign Affairs. 92.4. David, Steven R. 2002. “Fatal Choices: Israel’s Policy of Targeted Killing.” Begin-Sadat Center for Strategic Stud- ies, Bar-Ilan University, Mideast Security and Policy Studies. No. 51. David, Steven R. 2003. “Israel’s Policy of Targeted Killing.” Ethics and International Affairs. Vol. 17. No. 1. Goldstein, Joshua S. 2011. Winning the War on War. New York: The Penguin Group. Gross, Michael L. 2006. “Assassination and Targeted Kill- ing: Law Enforcement, Execution, or Self-Defence?” Jour- nal of Applied Philosophy. Vol. 23. No. 3. Guiora, Amos. 2004. “Targeted Killing as Active Self-De- fense.” Case Western Reserve Journal of International Law. Vol. 36.319. Kasher, Asa, and Amos Yadlin. 2005. “Assassination and Preventative Killing.” SAIS Review. Vol. 25. No. 1. 47 a just measure Luft, Gal. 2005. “The Logic of Israel’s Targeted Killing.” Middle East Quarterly. Mazzetti, Mark. 2013. The Way of the Knife: The CIA, a Se- cret Army, and a War at the Ends of the Earth. 1st ed. New York: The Penguin Press. Solis, Gary D. 2007. “Targeted Killing and the Law of Armed Conflict.” Naval War College Review. Vol. 60. No. 2. Sperotto, Federico. 2008. “Targeted Killings in Response to Security Threats: Warfare and Humanitarian Issues.” Global Jurist. Vol. 8. No. 3. Statman, Daniel. 2004. “Targeted Killing.” Theoretical In- quiries in Law. Vol. 5. No. 1. Statman, Daniel. 2003. “The Morality of Assassination: A Response to Gross.” Political Studies. Vol. 551. No. 775-779. 48 elements : : fall 2014 the following article analyzes and contrasts the event of self-starvation in franz kafka’s short story a hunger artist with colum mccann’s novella hunger strike. the reworking of this trope charges readers to consider both the narrative and his- torical functions of fasting and its utility as a spectacle. by comparing the role of hunger in the utopian genre (as in a hunger artist) to that of historical fiction (such as hunger strike), this article identifies the relevance of context to narrative iterations of hunger. by foregrounding the divergent settings of both texts, the two tales navigate the distinction between interiority and exteriority and use space to recall the place of hunger in the readers’ cultural consciousness. satisfaction through disembodiment The Spectacle and Imprisonment of Hunger missa sangimino While hunger and hunger strikes have long been a part of Irish historical memory, no full-length novel, to date, brings the experience to the literary community. Colum McCann, however, explores the development and social impact of the 1981 hunger strikes on Northern Irish ado- lescents in his recent novella Hunger Strike. A number of parallels can be drawn between the hunger strikers of Mc- Cann’s novella and the titular hunger artist in Franz Kaf- ka’s short story A Hunger Artist, which tells the story of a man who abstains from all food and lives within a cage. A Hunger Artist tracks the discourse of starvation as a type of performance and uses hunger to mystify perceptions of interior and exterior, existent and abstract, and somatic and natural. By tracing various literary displays of hunger, as they are contained within the imprisoned bodies of those fasting, readers gain a sense of the multi-faceted and diverse nature of hunger’s historical use. Through a com- plex network of references and connections, the novellas A Hunger Artist and Hunger Strike examine hunger as a con- tained spectacle, and call readers to a temporal and histori- cal consideration of narrative starvation. This article navigates the two texts, tracing the experience of hunger and the impact of its supervision. Through an examination of the perception of hunger against its physi- cal practice, the article attempts to tease out the many com- plex relationships that form between those fasting and those observing. By comparing the implications of hunger in a utopian narrative (like that of A Hunger Artist) to a historically familiar experience of hunger (accessible in Hunger Strike), the article examines the role of contextual- ization in hunger’s utility. Finally, by identifying the differ- ence in narrative settings in the two texts, this article initi- ates a discussion about interiority and exteriority as a means of inviting readers to engage with the collective memory of hunger and its sociohistorical functions. Readers note in both A Hunger Artist and Hunger Strike that the utility of hunger relies on its potential to be ob- served and recognized; hunger is useful only as it is wit- nessed. In the case of A Hunger Artist, the artist himself identifies his viewers as “his reason for living.”1 The exis- tence and status of the hunger artist are constantly in tune with his own fasting and, more tangibly, the viewers who pass by and express their interest in his unique perfor- mance. The artist is the feature of an act and joins a circus to be put on display; he fasts for the viewing pleasure and marvel of his spectators, while the bars of a cage separate him from his viewers. However, despite this disconnected interaction with the world outside his cage, Kafka’s hunger artist “withdraws into himself” and obsesses over the righ- teousness and loneliness of his art.2 It is as if by preventing any physical material from entering his body, he also ab- stains from internalizing the outside world. Indeed, the artist expresses in his last moments of life, “I always want- ed you to admire my fasting” and admits that the “watch- ers” for which he lives often “depress him.”3 As follows, Kafka presents a hunger artist who feels no human con- nection to his spectators, despite his constant relativity to their recognition of him. The hunger artist is both the art- ist and the art itself, and the exteriorization of his fasting withdraws his humanity from both viewers and readers. Thus, Kafka entreats readers to examine on which side of the cage their own role is meant to fall.franz kafka , author of a hunger artist (photo by sigismund jacobi) 50 elements : : fall 2014 Kafka writes, “No one was in a position to spend all his days and nights keeping a constant watch over the hunger artist…only the hunger artist himself could know, and thus he was the only spectator who could be completely satis- fied with his fasting.”4 Readers gain a sense not only for the display that the hunger artist fruitlessly intends specta- tors to recognize, but also understand that the hunger art- ist sees himself as fulfilling a second dual role, as both spectacle and, now, as spectator. Ellman deciphers this, stating, “If the presence of spectators defines the fast into an art, their absence reduces it to a pathology.”5 Ultimately, the spectacle does not even satisfy the hunger artist him- self, and Kafka exposes the buried link between psyche and hunger, expressing, “Perhaps it was dissatisfaction with himself that made him so emaciated. For he alone knew, as no other initiate did, how easy fasting was…in- wardly this dissatisfaction was always gnawing on him and never, after no period of fasting—this had to be said on his behalf—had he left the cage of his own free will.”6 In this moment, readers gain insight into the hunger artist’s dy- namic internal and external self. Fasting is valuable to an artist only when difficult, the hunger artist needs his cage, and his satisfaction is linked both to the shape of his body and his estrangement from the outside world. Finally, Kafka reveals that the hunger artist sees fasting as expandable, perfectible, and, like any other art, glorifiable. When the circus director removes the artist from his cage, Kafka writes, “He could have endured it longer, infinitely longer; why stop precisely now, when he was in his best form for fasting, or rather, before he had even reached his best form?...He felt there were no limits to his ability to fast.”7 Here, the hunger artist roughly equates fasting to exercise; the more one practices, the stronger one be- comes. The peculiar comparison necessitates an examina- tion of corporal change. As the hunger artist’s body visibly shrinks in the eyes of his viewers, his glory grows, and the hollowing out of his physical form is the only means by which he feels any satisfaction. Thus, Kafka paints the hunger artist as a spectacle that derives power and fulfill- ment—ironically the sustenance that food would pro- vide—as the artist becomes more and more entangled in a fight against the entrance of food into his cage and body. The artist gains his only power through spectators’ con- scious consideration of his fasting as a challenge and way of strength. Consequently, the text offers an abstract per- spective for readers, calling them to challenge the signifi- cance of occupying conscious, rather than physical, space. In contrast, the spectacle of hunger in Hunger Strike is more convoluted and historically complex. While the hun- ger strikes of Northern Ireland certainly served political purposes through their sensational international media at- tention, McCann narratively displaces the experience of hunger in the novella, and inverts Kafka’s spectacle by pro- viding a removed observation of hunger. Readers obtain the most specific view of the hunger spectacle as the four- teen-year-old protagonist, Kevin, imagines his uncle’s ex- perience of starvation and presents it in charts and graphs.8 Kevin’s pain of adolescence and dislocation reflect the hunger of his uncle, an IRA hunger striker in Northern Ireland. Kevin frequently attempts to empathize with the pain of his uncle and other prisoners, often appearing to absorb their symptoms, as McCann writes, “When he looked at his empty plate, he imagined it full and then he threw his prison blanket across it and groaned and tried to stop the hunger pains and all the quiet necessary shiver- ings.”9 Because radio, news, and telecommunication me- diate the spectacle of the hunger strike, Kevin and his fel- low Northern Irishmen and women can serve only as removed spectators. The knowledge of the uncle’s nation- alist fasting ignites an interest and violence in Kevin that McCann explores. The novella only indirectly represents the uncle; he exists only in the media and imagination of a nephew whom he has never met. Despite his centrality in the novella, the uncle is literarily disembodied. This disembodiment underlines and complicates the his- torical narrative that readers know to be occurring, and a coextensive and inverse discourse forms in the story. As the uncle becomes more real in Kevin’s charting and imagina- tion, he wanes in physical mass and life in his prison cell, becoming more discorporate in the story’s reality. Thus, the disembodiment of the hunger strikers in Hunger Strike becomes quite a spectacle. The less space the hunger strik- ers physically occupy in prison, the more space they occu- py within Kevin’s mind and the collective consciousness of Northern Ireland. Ellman writes, “Digestion is a kind of fleshly poetry…food is the symbol of the passage, the totem of sociality, the epitome of all creative and destructive la- bor.”10 In this statement, Ellman highlights the beginning “The hunger artist sees fasting as exoandable, perfectible, and, like any other art, glorifiable.” 51 satisfaction through disembodiment of a phenomenon that McCann outlines in Hunger Strike. Just as digestion transubstantiates the body and signals a forward passage, self-digestion awakens cultural memory, and a death through starvation ushers the body into histo- ry. The use of hunger strikers’ bodies as a final, foodless meal represents a passage out of life and into the collective consciousness of Irish political imagination. Russell expli- cates this simultaneous “creation and de-creation of self,” explaining, “We are fascinated by hunger because after 50 or 90 or 382 days, hunger ends in a body forced to canni- balize itself.”11 In this way, readers contemplate the fasci- nation with hunger and spectacle of the hunger strike, as Northern Irish populations, such as Kevin and his mother, once internalized it. To further expand upon this web of connections and relationships, it is important to examine the role of imprisonment in both texts. Both McCann and Kafka employ prisons in their portray- als of hunger, and thus demand a double scrutiny of inter- nal and external. In A Hunger Artist, readers consider the interaction between the artist’s cage and his desire to be recognized as a spectacle. Despite the artist’s imprison- ment and starvation, readers are struck by the deliberate- ness of the entire process. The artist is self-imprisoned, and his starvation is a voluntary refusal of food. As the Dialectic of Enlightenment describes, “The history of civili- zation is the history of the introversion of the sacrifice.”12 In analysis, Kafka’s hunger artist exemplifies such intro- version. As the hunger artist continues in the solitude of his self-imprisonment and reaps the most available satis- faction from his art, the sacrifice of his fasting becomes completely internal. Despite his constant yearning for spectators, no one witnesses the fast that ultimately kills him, as Kafka writes, “One day a supervisor noticed the cage and asked the servants why this perfectly serviceable cage had been left standing there…no one knew, until, with the help of the board with the number on it, someone re- membered the hunger artist.”13 Kafka leaves readers to de- termine whether this unnoticed death proves the hunger artist’s complete internalization of sacrifice, or whether the hunger artist has become so completely invested in his own spectacle, that the disappearance of his spectators is the disappearance of his very self.14 Furthermore, an observation of narrative time lends itself to a more intricate reading of the hunger artist’s caged spectacle over the course of the novella. While spectators marvel at the hunger artist’s act, the cage serves as a bar- rier, separating the artist’s sacrifice from the public and ensuring his place as a unique and challenging demon- stration. In these moments, the cage protects the hunger artist’s glory, keeping food out and his glory within, there- by operating as an abstract display case. Forgotten and un- supervised, however, the cage simply holds the hunger art- ist in place. His immobility allows viewers to pass him by and, as the glory of perception disappears, so does the seeming power of the hunger artist. Kafka describes, “It was impossible to fight against such incomprehension, against a world of such incomprehension.”15 The multi- functionality of the cage as a protective barrier, display case, and grave demonstrates the potential of hunger to shift in relation to its perception as a spectacle. To call time into particular question, Kafka establishes neither charac- ter names nor a setting. The utopian discourse of hunger appears to be all at once broadly applicable and meaning- less. This timeless and multi-faceted ambiguity, in literary juxtaposition, highlights the sociohistorical importance of hunger in Irish history and the impact of the hunger strikes in McCann’s politicized narrative. In order to understand McCann’s incorporation of hunger, it is important to contemplate the depth of hunger’s role in Irish historical memory. The object of hunger is tempo- rally manipulable in the mind of Irish history, functioning constantly as a source of power, and inhabiting different figures to serve social and political purposes. Russell com- ments, “For the Irish, hunger was readily seen as power: magical, moral, and legal.”16 Indeed, Irish history is wrought with voluntary and involuntary hungers that serve as catalysts for change. The resurrection of the an- cient civil code Senchus Mor during the 1981 Irish hunger strikes reveals an ever-attentive consciousness to Irish hunger history, as it states, “He who does not give a pledge to fasting is an evader of all; he who disregards all things shall not be paid by God or man.”17 Similarly, poet Edmund Spenser chronicles the history of Irish hunger power in Prose, “Till Ireland be famished it cannot be subdued.”18 Thus, the restoration of power through hunger is well de- tailed and familiarized in Irish historical culture and litera- ture. McCann deals extensively with such issues in Hunger Strike. In the case of the Irish hunger strikes, the spectacle of hunger psychically frees strikers from the physical cages in which they feel unfairly imprisoned. Ellman comments, “In the Irish hunger strike of 1981, it was not by starving but by making a spectacle of their starvation that the pris- oners brought shame on their oppressors.”19 Historically, Northern Ireland understands starvation protest as a form of strength, honor, and sacrifice, and self-starvation marks 52 elements : : fall 2014 defiance against the coerced dependence of imprison- ment. Because prisons provide food to inmates, prisoners of war must rely on their enemies for sustenance. During hunger strikes, the bodies of inmates refuse to become re- liant upon the cages that enforce the injustice against them. In these circumstances, strikers accept incarcerated starvation as a means to escape direct enemy control. The Irish hunger strikes simultaneously free the strikers from reliance on their British captors, and invade prisons with an evocation of the Irish political history of hunger. Thus, within the confines of their physical cells, hunger strikers free their cause from the restraints of time and place, as they voluntarily enter the ranks of Irish hunger, awaken Irish history, and become part of collective memory in death. Famous IRA hunger striker Bobby Sands writes from his cell, “I believe and stand by the God-given right of the Irish nation to sovereign independence…That is why I am incarcerated, naked, and tortured.”20 Once more, read- ers examine the countercurrent of physical and metaphys- ical development; the death of the prisoners unites Irish politics cross-temporally. The disappearance of bodily weight, and eventually, entire bodies, runs opposite to the evolution of glory in political history. Nonetheless, Irish history reveals an awareness of the hunger paradox in the unofficial slogan for Sands’ cam- paign, “his life is in your hands,” which allocates power to the prison itself.21 This slogan, together with Kevin’s con- stant frustration with his uncle’s imprisonment, recogniz- es hunger’s paradoxical form as both freedom and limita- tion. Ellman expounds on this in her book, stating, “If eating, therefore, is imprisonment, self-starvation seems to represent the extirpation of the other from the self. Yet starving also keeps the other in and fortifies the stronghold of the ego, lest the ghosts within the self should break out of their tomb.”22 In Hunger Strike, Kevin plays with food, shaping it, and creating it into pieces of a chessboard. In this way, Kevin becomes the owner and master of food, and offers an alternative to the strike’s attempt to dispos- sess it. While forming chess pieces out of bread—even sharing them with his mother and offering to teach his uncle how to do the same in prison—the boy ponders the hunger strike.23 Kevin animates his food, McCann de- scribes, as “He lifted the bread in the air and the middle section fell out and it struck him that the bread had lost its heart.”24 Later in the scene, the boy discovers his ability to manipulate food, a skill which history dictates is innately part of Irish survival. A discourse ensues with the same piece of bread: He mashed the bread with the tip of the blade and then saw what it could be. His father, a carpenter, had once told him a man could make anything of anything if he wanted to. The boy began to mold the bread quickly. He moved it around the plate with the knife and it soaked up more sauce, took on a definite form. He thought of his uncle in prison: a single cell, the dark- ness outside, the sound of boots along a metal catwalk, the carv- ing of days into a wall. He dropped the knife and began mold- ing with his fingers.25 McCann describes the “molding” and manipulation of re- lationships between food and people as a part of Irish his- tory, streaming from the boy’s father into his own life and the considerations of his uncle. After establishing the rela- tionship between Kevin, his uncle, and food, McCann aug- ments the connection as he writes Kevin’s logbook. It is worth noting that, as a cure from self-starvation (anorexia nervosa) sources suggest that patients keep a record. As Crisp advises in The Wish to Change, “We have suggested that you [keep a logbook] regularly, because our experience is that people’s views, feelings, and preoccupations change not only with time, but also with changes in weight. You will thus be able to look back over the time and see how things have changed and have remained constant.”26 As Kevin keeps an imagined logbook for his uncle’s weight decrease, he provides a schematic against which readers can examine Kevin’s own coming of age. Kevin transforms as his uncle looses weight, and he joins in the imagined experience of pain and death as he himself grows into an adult. Readers again notice the bizarre parallel of growth and decomposition, and thus the novella provokes a reflec- tion on the means by which this relationship evolves, in a varying context of food manipulation.27 Although the ultimate purpose of literary hunger cannot be summarized monolithically, it is certain that the signifi- cance of hunger as a multifaceted and highly complex ex- pression develops within the narratives of Kafka’s A Hun- ger Artist and McCann’s Hunger Strike. Rather than demarcating a narrow definition for hunger, the literature traces the paradoxical, ironic, and discursive nature of hunger in spectacle form, and allows readers to explore its utopian role as well as its historical exploitation. By follow- ing the complexities of hunger as a contained spectacle, readers engage with a variety of conscious and uncon- scious imaginations, and may begin to examine the many temporal and collective implications of the use of hunger in literature and reality. 53 satisfaction through disembodiment endnotes 1. Kafka 33-52, 45 2. Kafka 34 3. Kafka 35 4. Kafka 35 5. Ellman 67 6. Kafka 37 7. Kafka 38-9 8. McCann 76, 76, 79, 91, 95-6, 100, 117, 120, 125, 140 9. McCann 76 10. Ellman 112 11. Russell 11 12. Adorno and Horkheimer 55 13. Kafka 49 14. The experience is highly reminiscent of Kafka’s own desire for solitude in expression: “That is why one can never be alone enough when one writes, why there can never be enough silence around one when one writes, why even night is not night enough” (Kafka 155). Indeed, the reliant solitude of the hunger artist seems to reflect Kafka’s own familiarity with solitary communication. Ellman expresses this concept, explaining, “The moral seems to be that it is not by food that we survive but by the gaze of others; and it is impossible to live by hunger unless we can be seen or represented doing so” Ellman 17. 15. Kafka 42 16. Russell 219 17. Senchus Mor 113-119, 119 18. Spenser 244 19. Ellman 17 20. Sands 219 21. Flynn 210 22. Ellman 95 23. McCann 65 24. McCann 51 25. McCann 53-54 26. Crisp et al., 51 27. This analysis asserts the potential to explore this concept of “coming of age” in relation to hunger in further research. references Adorno, Theodor, and Max Horkeimer. 1994. Dialectic of Enlightenment. Tran. J. Cumming. New York: Seabury Press. Crisp, A. H. et al. 1996. Anorexia Nervosa and the Wish to Change. 1st Edition ed. Hove, East Sussex: Psychology Press. Ellman, Maud. 1993. The Hunger Artists: Starving, Writing, and Imprisonment. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press. Flynn, Barry. 2011. Pawns in the Game: Irish Hunger Strikes 1912-1981. Cork, Ireland: Barry Flynn. Kafka, Franz. 1996. “A Hunger Artist.” A Hunger Artist. Tran. Kevin Blahut. 2011th ed. Prague: Twisted Spoon Press. Kafka, Franz. 1974. Letters to Felice. Trans. James Stern and Elizabeth Duckworth. Ed. Jurgen Born. London: Martin Secker and Warburg. Kelly, Shirley. 2000. “The Moral Complexity of Life in the North.” Books Ireland 232: 165-167. McCann, Colum. 2000. “Hunger Strike.” Everything in this Country Must. Picador: Colum McCann. McDonald, Ronan. 2005. “Strategies of Silence: Colonial Strains in Short Stories of the Troubles.” The Yearbook of English Studies 35. Irish Writing since 1950: 249-63. Morrison, Danny, ed. 2006. Hunger Strike: Reflections on the 1981 Hunger Strike. Kerry, Ireland: Mount Eagle Publi- cations. O’Donnell, Peadar. 1932. The Gates Flew Open. The Merci- er Press 1965 ed. Netherlands: Jonathan Cape Ltd. Russell, Sharman Apt. 2005. Hunger: An Unnatural Histo- ry. New York, N.Y.: Basic Books. Sands, Bobby. 1983. One Day in My Life. Dublin: Mercier Press. Senchus Mor. Vol. 1. Dublin: Alexander Thom; London: Longman, Green, Longman, Roberts, and Green 1865. 113- 119. Spenser, Edmund. 1949. “A Brief Note of Ireland” The Prose Works: The Works of Edmund Spenser. Vol. 9. Vario- rum ed. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. 244. 54 elements : : fall 2014 russia’s foreign policy is heavily influenced by its access to natural gas. russia pro- vides access to natural gas for many smaller nations which surround it, making those countries rely on russia economically and politically. putin’s government uti- lizes this dependence on russian natural gas to combat the spread of western cul- ture and influence and promote their own, a strategy known as ‘resource national- ism.’ while this makes europe dependent on russia for natural gas, that dependence is not absolute or necessarily permanent, even in the foreseeable future. grand strategy in russian geopolitics Natural Oil and Resource Nationalism stacia vladimirova theoretical framework This article seeks to clarify the role of natural gas in Rus- sia’s grand strategy by evaluating different perspectives on the relationship between Russia and Europe in the context of natural gas, in addition to the relationship between Rus- sia and transit states, particularly Ukraine. A thorough background understanding of Russian political ideology was necessary for a critical analysis of natural gas markets in the context of national strategy, which was narrowed into an evaluation of the nature and consequences of inter- dependent relationships between Russia and energy con- sumers. Primary documents on Russian policy and tran- scripts from Russian officials, academic papers on Russian-EU relations and the CISi project, and the ideo- logical framework for Russian policy and resource nation- alism provided the necessary theoretical and factual re- sources to evaluate the significance of natural gas as an instrument in Russia’s foreign policy.1 There is a consen- sus in academic literature, supported by historical evi- dence and Russia’s official position, that natural resources are a national asset and Russia is willing to utilize natural resources as strategic instruments of political purpose. This article analyzes the significance of interdependent re- lationships between Russia, Europe, and the CIS on the value of natural gas as an instrument of Russia’s grand strategy and political ideology. Gas cutoffs and the subsequent economic and political consequences in Ukraine and Belarus suggest that under Putin’s leadership, natural gas sustains the economic sta- bility necessary for Russia to develop effective foreign pol- icy. Natural gas has evolved into a tool of economic acquisi- tion with the long-term goal of energy security through which Russia seeks a position of global power, a distinc- tion from the traditional perspective that presents natural gas as a weapon of political coercion, which seeks to inter- vene in domestic politics of other countries, independent of commercial considerations. To use energy so politically is a detriment to Russia’s reputation and long-term inter- ests of demand security. However, to protect long-term in- terests, Russia is willing to use the gas weapon against transit countries with whom the interdependent relation- ship of consumer and supplier is more asymmetrical. Rus- sia is willing to secure long-term economic growth at the expense of short-term losses, and utilizes natural gas as an instrument to realize commercial interests and protect fu- ture as a stable supplier before increases in LNG import capacity and renewable energy sources reduce the value of natural gas as leverage.2 grand strategy Russia’s grand strategy is to develop a multipolar world or- der where Russia has leverage to resist economic and po- litical domination by Western countries, particularly the US and Europe.3 Russia’s plan to reclaim a position as a world superpower, capable of protecting national interests and extending influence beyond her borders, demands ter- ritorial and economic security.4 Russia perceives the pres- ence of Western powers in regions near its borders as both a territorial threat and an ideological challenge to Russia’s role as regional leader, which Russia justifies through its shared history with the FSU5 and common economic and security interests with the CIS.6 Subsequently, Russia in- terprets Western values, and thus institutions of Western powers such as NATO, as a threat to the Kremlin’s ability to act without interference from other countries. There- fore, the Kremlin has made resistance to Western ideology and insistence on Russia’s right to maintain a dominant position in the “near abroad” a strategic priority of its for- eign policy.7 Natural gas plays a pivotal role in shaping Russia’s relationships with the countries of the near abroad, both in the supplier/consumer relationship and in Russia’s reliance on these countries as transit states to the major natural gas importers in Western Europe. Literature emphasizes the danger of European depen- dence on Russian gas, as Russia could disrupt gas supplies to consumers for political reasons. Dependence on Rus- sian gas is perceived as a threat to national security partic- ularly to small ECE8 and CIS states that rely on Russia for virtually all of their gas imports but make up a minor por- tion of Russia’s export market, therefore giving them rela- tively little leverage compared to large consumers like Ger- many.9 These countries make up the transit corridor through which the majority of gas imported to Western Europe must travel, leaving Western Europe vulnerable to cutoffs during disputes between Russia and the transit states.ii Literature emphasizing Russia’s ability to employ natural gas as a tool of political or economic coercion ne- glects arguments recognizing Russia’s incentives to pro- tect energy demand security, which is contingent on a reputation as a reliable supplier. Literature focusing on the cost of unreliable energy sup- plies on consumer’s neglects the consequences of unreli- able demand on Russia and ultimately understates the significance of Russian-European interdependence. The European gas market holds a unique role in Russia’s cur- rent economic and political model.10 Moscow enforces a 56 elements : : fall 2014 dual-pricing system in which the high price of gas exports to Europe generates revenue to finance heavily subsidized domestic gas prices and lighter subsidies in the CIS.11 The low cost of natural gas reduces the operating costs for oth- er industries in Russia, thereby encouraging productivity and economic growth, and the commercially attractive deals for the CIS is economic incentive to maintain rela- tionship with Russia and not pivot toward west.iii The dual- pricing system reflects the integration of foreign and do- mestic policy—economic power and domestic stability engender a strong international status, which legitimizes the centralized power of the current political regime and creates the necessary leverage to protect the sources of eco- nomic power from abroad.12 The importance of European revenue and subsidized prices for Russia’s strategic inter- ests indicates Russia has a greater degree of dependence on European consumers than the traditional perspective of Russian-European interdependence suggests, implying a reduced threat of the natural gas weapon. the role and value of the gas weapon Russia has successfully used attractive commercial deals in the natural gas market to develop a strong economic and political presence in countries of the FSU, indicating that Russia is willing to capitalize on the lack of unified energy policy in Europe through resource nationalism. Russia employs economic incentives for long-term strate- gic gains in Western Europe and transit countries of ECE, particularly as leverage in negotiations with Ukraine. When Ukraine resisted Russia’s attempts to regain control of the Sevastopol fleet in 1993, Yeltsin blended threats of disrupting Ukraine’s gas supply with economic incentives, forgiving most of Ukraine’s gas debts in exchange for the opportunity to purchase most of the Sevastopol fleet in 1994.13 Despite historical resolution by Ukraine to secure territorial integrity against Russian military forces, Ukraine exchanged territorial security for a 10-year defer- ment on various gas debts and an estimated 30% discount of Ukraine’s gas debts in May 2007, when it successfully signed a deal giving Russia an initial 20 year lease to the base in Sevastopol.14 Ukraine gave Russia the opportunity to increase permanently stationed armed forces in her ter- ritory in exchange for cheap natural gas, a case where Rus- sia successfully employed economic incentives at a short- term cost but a long-term strategic profit. Under Putin, Gazprom continues to effectively use price level and debt-forgiveness for asset acquisition as leverage to gain control over transit and domestic distribution infra- structure, especially in countries such as Moldova, Belarus and Ukraine where it has greater leverage. In January of 2006 Gazprom cut-off gas to Moldova after the country refused to accept a 100% increase in gas prices. To attain a more a moderate price increase and raise revenue to cover the increased costs of gas, Moldova sold Gazprom majority shares of the national gas company, Moldovagaz. Gazprom gained control over domestic distribution but narrowing the gap between prices paid by European consumers and the CIS has led to conflict with former Soviet countries, which feel entitled to their formerly subsidized natural gas prices.16 In January 2007, Russia demanded Belarus pay $200 per 1,000 cubic meters, a fourfold increase over the less than $50 per 1000 cubic meters Belarus paid in 2006. Russia threatened a gas cutoff before reaching a compro- mise of $100 per 1,000 cubic meters, conditional on Gaz- prom’s acquisition of a 50% stake in Belarus’s gas export pipeline, Beltragaz, for $2.5 billion.17 This gave Russia con- trol over the Belarus portion of the Yamal-Europe pipeline network, which delivers about 10% of Russian gas exports to European consumers. Although higher prices leverage asset acquisition, control over transit and distribution in- frastructure is not sufficient guarantee of Russia’s ability to ensure delivery to Western Europe, as the 2010 conflict between Gazprom and Belarus indicated that Russia’s in- terests are significantly dependent on transit states.iv As with Belarus, Russia’s relationship with Ukraine re- flects that Russia’s use of prices as to produce opportunity for debt-forgiveness to acquire significant pipeline control reflects the resource nationalism underlying Russia’s cur- rent political and economic model. In April 2014, Russia revoked the natural gas price discount Gazprom had agreed upon in December 2013, which charged Ukraine approximately 70%, the average EU price.19 The discount was given on schedule of repayments to clear Ukraine’s accumulated debt from the last year as well as pay in full for current supplies. Ukraine’s failure to clear debts for supplied gas exceeding $2.2 billion led Gazprom to abol- “Literature emphasizes the danger of European dependence on Russian gas.” 57 grand strategy in russian geopolitics ish the zero customs duty on gas exports and discontinue the gas price discount, which drove prices as high as 485 USD per 1000 cubic meters in April, from the discounted price of 268.5 USD. Gazprom and the Kremlin wanted to send a message that failure to pay for supplied gas and honor agreements would have consequences, although Gazprom Chairman Alexey Miller then proposed supply- ing Ukraine with at 2-3 USD billion in sovereign loans to assist Ukraine in paying off Gazprom debts.22 This sug- gests that shared commercial interests may encourage diplomatic resolutions and political cooperation. Russia’s actions reflect commercial opportunism that cap- italizes on political instability in transit countries to in- crease market power. The “gas wars” with Ukraine and price increases in the CIS are interpreted as economic co- ercion meant to discourage increasing links with NATO and pro-Western attitudes in Russia’s sphere of influence. Russia used price increases to exacerbate political instabil- ity in 2005 to undermine Ukraine’s “Orange Revolution,” setting off the 2006 gas crisis when Ukraine refused to pay the European price for gas.23 Rather than compromis- ing on moderated increases, Gazprom in tandem with the Kremlin reduced the amount of natural gas passing through Ukrainian pipelines by the estimated amount that Ukraine consumes and in response, Ukraine avoided an immediate shortage by siphoning off gas going to Eu- ropean consumers, which Russia perceived as theft from Europe consumers and in response, cut all gas flow to Ukraine.24 The temporary gas reductions while gas was redirected to Western Europe stunted economic productiv- ity in both Europe and the Ukraine. The subsequent com- promise included a complicated agreement that an inter- mediary company, RusUkrEnergo, would blend gas it purchased from Gazprom at 230 USD per thousand cubic meters, blend it with cheaper gas from Turkmenistan, and sell it at a price of 95 USD per thousand cubic meters.25 The dispute and economic slowdown slowed the momen- tum of the “Orange Revolution” and contributed to a shift in the percent of Ukrainians who indicated that good rela- tions with Russia should be a priority of Ukrainian foreign policy, from 28% in September of 2003 to 51% in Decem- ber 2008.26 This immediate political victory did not con- tribute to long-term diplomatic gains, as the international community sharply criticized Russia for what it perceived to be politically punitive action against Ukraine. Russia’s long-term priority of increasing energy demand security was compromised as Russia’s reliability as a supplier was questioned, despite the commercial justifications for Rus- sia’s actions.27 The international backlash moved Russia to undertake serious attempts to increase reliability as sup- plier and reduce dependence on consumers as a shield. Threats to Russia’s reputation as a reliable supplier as a consequence of pricing disputes with Ukraine and the CIS threatens Gazprom’s expansionist ambitions and is an ob- stacle for economic development, which has driven Russia to diversify transit routes to Western Europe. Transit-in- duced interruptions were a driving force behind the con- struction of Blue Stream Pipeline to Turkey and the Yamal- Europe Pipeline through Belarus to Poland.28 Russia has diversified trade routes by bypassing Ukraine with the South Stream pipeline and the Nord Stream, which has no transit countries between Russia and Germany, reducing transmission costs and eliminating political risks.v,29 In 2013, 86.1 bcm, or about 52% of Russian gas sold to Eu- rope and Turkey went through Ukraine, a reduction from 95% in 2008.30 This reflects Russia’s strategy of diversify- ing transit routes, reflecting Russia’s desire to protect its long-term contracts with Europe. Experiences with Ukraine and Belarus have increased incentive for Russia to prevent political disputes from interfering with com- mercial transactions and contributed to Russia’s attempts to make a single transit space between the European and Asian markets by purchase controlling stakes in Naftgas, despite strongly resistance from Ukraine. Russia defends its policy of methodically gaining control over energy in- frastructure as a desire to avoid additional energy disrup- tions or disputes. To reduce political uncertainty in security of demand and security of supply, Russia seeks to increase market share in both downstream and upstream gas infrastructure and shield its commercial and national interests.32 Gazprom is using revenue to increase assets in downstream assets in Europe rather than developing new gas supplies or refur- bishing pipelines, which potentially increases dependence gazprom ‘s logo (image courtesey of gazprom) 58 elements : : fall 2014 on cheap gas from central Asia, especially Turkmenistan. It is immediately more commercially effective to spend money on distribution networks than develop new sources of supply that that require extensive development or refur- bish aging infrastructure, however it draws into question Russia’s ability to develop energy supplies at the pace matching consumption growth.33 If Russia alienates Eu- rope through unreliable supply and the threat of acquiring market power, Europe may develop new suppliers and un- dermine Russia’s ability to generate revenue necessary for future investment and resource development. Its strategy of maximizing distribution assets threatens to undermine its ability to make investments necessary to sustain devel- opment of supplies and infrastructure required by con- tracts. Thus, the energy reserves make it an energy giant, but the risks associated with political manipulation and the short-term asset acquisition aimed at reducing depen- dence on transit states risks the long-term commercial model and is therefore a detriment to long-term political ambitions. Economic realities reveal that security of de- mand is requires funds develop new sources of energy, another element increasing significance of Russia’s reli- ance on European revenue. The interdependent relationship paradigm overstates Eu- rope’s dependence on Russian imports by neglecting the ability to diversify through increased LNG capacity, Middle Eastern suppliers, and increasing renewable energy sourc- es. In 2013, Gazprom increased its market share to 30% of Europe-Turkey gas consumption, a 16% increase from 2012, from 138.8 bcm to 162.7 bcm. In 2013, Europe used less than 30% of it’s LNG35 capacity and was the lowest level of LNG imports since 2004, importing only 46.5 bcm, which is almost half of the high of LNG imports, 88 bcm, in 2011.36 The reduction in LNG imports and in- crease in Russian gas consumption can be attributed to reduced Gazprom prices that were about 20-30 percent lower than the average LNG import price. Therefore, the argument that Europe is entirely dependent on Russia for natural gas ignores the potential for utilizing other sourc- es, such as Algeria, Norway, and Qatar, which were 14%, 35%, and 10% of European gas imports in 2012.37 Russia has given Europe an economic incentive to sustain the supplier-consumer relationship. Any manipulation of gas prices in an attempt to leverage European countries into particular policy action could result in Russia losing that portion of the market. Consequently, Russia uses energy as a way to increase interdependence between suppliers and consumers, and present itself as a legitimate econom- ic partner aspiring to global credibility. ideological framework of gas markets Russia’s reliance on European revenue is mitigated by ideological resistance to Western values, as Russia has al- ready shown that it seeks to develop a multipolar world and therefore stands to benefit from economic and politi- cal ties with countries that also define themselves outside of Western ideology. Russia’s future as a great power de- pends on its ability to establish economic interdependence in the CIS and its ability to realize a credible political ideol- ogy alternative to Western ideology, based on a unique cul- tural identity and values in the “near abroad.”38 Although the literature is divided on the prospect of China becoming a significant competitor for European gas considering technical challenges in infrastructure development, Span- jer argues that Russia faces significant incentives to in- crease its Asian consumer base, as China is geopolitically located to benefit from development of both western and eastern gas fields of Russia and diversification of consum- er base that would both increase energy demand security even as European demand may fluctuate, as well as in- crease Russia’s leverage over other consuming countries.39 Long-term contracts in the region, such as agreements with Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, and Kazakhstan that give Russia significant control over the export of their products through Russian pipelines, represent a successful organi- zation of producers that dominate the export of CIS natu- ral gas and reflects the role of energy security in realizing geopolitical interests in CIS. Russia’s relationship with CIS countries is one that seeks to maximize the power of natural gas in realizing an ideo- logical empire founded on resource nationalism. There- fore, there is a distinct difference in the use of gas in Rus- sia’s relationships with energy consumers. With CIS and smaller ECE transit countries, both Russia negotiates from a position of economic and political leverage. The lack of unified European approach is what generates uncertainty and lack of confidence in Russia, because Russia has tradi- tionally capitalized on individual nations’ desire to secure “... shared commercial interests may encourage diplomatic resolutions and political cooperation.” 59 grand strategy in russian geopolitics the greatest immediate national benefit at the expense of European unity, while Putin and Gazprom are willing to trade inefficiency in the marketplace for effectiveness in achieving geopolitical and commercial aims. Russia’s grand strategy and historical tradition of natural resources as an asset that for the service of the public good is what defines the energy policy based on suboptimal control of the state market.40 Russia’s use of natural gas as a tool of foreign policy is a distinctly Russian method of realizing a distinctly Russian project. It is a Russian method because it is rooted in the experiences of the economic and political realities after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, and it is a Russian project because it undertakes a vision of a political economy based on unique Russian values and culture.41 The majority of Russians want a political system that reflects the unique experiences, history, and identity of the Russian people. Formally embracing a unique identity is a geopolitical strategy that gives Russia legitimacy in its long-term strat- egy of developing a sphere of influence that will be the foundation of its global identity. The shared history with the CIS region justifies its attempt to realize a credible po- litical ideology based on unique cultural values and eco- nomic interdependence shaped by the natural gas market. Russia perceives Western skepticism regarding Russia’s claim to a privileged interest in the CIS region as an at- tempt to undermine the development of a multipolar world order. Condemnation of Russia’s accumulation of upstream and downstream natural gas infrastructure and the close ties between Gazprom and the Kremlin is inter- preted by Russia as the West forcing Western neoliberal values on Russia. Neoliberal values of Western ideology demand Russia maximize the efficiency of its gas market, however Russia relies on its natural resources as a strate- gic asset. Rather than utilize the resources to maximum efficiency, it seeks to maximize effectiveness in long-term political and economic strategy. Russia perceives the de- mands for changed political economy as an ideological af- front of neoliberal values, and feels forced to rely on geopo- litical assets to assert its status as an independent sovereign power with unique political and economic ideology.45 the importance of the interdependency paradigm European reactions to the gas struggle between Russia and Ukraine neglect the interdependence between Russia and Europe acknowledged in the EU-Russia Energy Dialogue. This leads Europe and Western powers to overstate the risk of relying of Russian natural gas.46 The new paradigm of increased interdependence suggests that Russia’s focus on making CIS markets more profitable is a reflection of a maturing economy, as Gazprom and the Kremlin appear to find reliable commercial rewards more lucrative than volatile political alliances with the CIS founded on subsi- dized gas prices. The difference in natural gas interdepen- dence dictates how Russia conducts foreign policy with other countries. With large Western European consumers that contend for global power and present ideological op- position, Russia works to protect it’s reliability as supplier to protect long-term commercial interests. In less econom- ically powerful countries, CIS Russia capitalizes on peri- ods of political instability to increase control over natural gas infrastructure and more strongly integrate their eco- nomic and political interests. Ultimately, Russia’s accumu- lation of assets strategic to its goal of securing a lucrative role in the energy market of the future causes skepticism regarding Russia’s reliability as an energy supplier, which is exacerbated by Russia’s resistance to Western ideology. vladimir putin (photo courtesy of norgler via wikimedia commons) 60 elements : : fall 2014 recent development The first portion of this paper was written in the spring of 2014, before the annexation of Crimea and the escalation of the Ukrainian conflict. As of this writing, the United States, gradually followed by other countries, has levied economic sanctions against Russia in condemnation of its actions in the region. The language published by the State Department argues that Russia “purported annexation of Crimea and its use of force in Ukraine, continues to under- mine democratic processes and institutions in Ukraine; threaten its peace, security, stability, sovereignty, and ter- ritorial integrity; and contribute to the misappropriation of its assets, and thereby constitute an unusual and extraordi- nary threat to the national security and foreign policy of the United States.”47 The significance of the language, such as the claim that the “misappropriation” of Ukrainian constitutes a threat to the United States deserves its own exploration. The immediate consequence is that the US has sought to limit the ability of Russia to pursue expan- sionist foreign policy through economic sanctions. In response to these economic sanctions, Russia has levied its own sanctions against Europe, banning food imports from across Europe. Russia is the largest consumer for most European commodities, particularly food exports. As of August 7th, Russia had banned all meat, fish, dairy, fruit and vegetable imports from the US, Norway, the EU, Can- ada, and Australia.47 The US has led the charge on eco- nomic sanctions, while the European Union was initially reluctant to take a firm stance on the situation in Ukraine, and now remains divided in terms of the proper response. The varying degrees of dependence on Russian natural gas among European countries as consumers, transit states and trading partners, undermines the EUs attempt at a common energy security policy. Countries backing the South Stream pipeline project – Austria, Bulgaria, Italy, and Hungary – are among those opposing harsher sanc- tions against Russia. Austria, a hub for a third of all Rus- sian gas exports to Western Europe, are in the position to articulate the potential downside of increasing economic sanctions against Russia and continued agitation in Ukraine.48 The United States has less to lose than coun- tries like Bulgaria, which is dependent on Gazprom for virtually all 3 bcm of annual gas consumption, although it also will suffer if the EUs economy succumbs to higher inflation or suffers significant losses as a result of a Rus- sian import ban. Whether or not an energy security policy can be articulated independently of the evolving situation in Ukraine remains to be seen, particularly as the econom- ic impact would be disparately felt among the various ac- tors. Without delving into the specific issues enveloping Ukraine and the interests of the factions active in the coun- try, the escalating contention between Russia, the US and the EU suggests this is a critical point in determining glob- al power structure for the near future. Russia’s tension with the West has heightened the signifi- cance of its pivot to Asia, as well as reminding its Europe- an consumers of their vulnerability. The $400 billion gas deal signed between Beijing and Moscow in July 2014 ex- tends over 30 years and represents Russia’s turn. The deal that has been preceded by years of negotiations, suggests that Russia is seriously willing to embrace a political part- nership with Asia that can offset US hegemony, even if it means conceding leverage over China.49 The argument that Russia would embrace significantly lower prices than originally seeking to speed up the deal is offset by the par- ity between prices paid by Germany and China. China and Germany will be Gazprom’s two largest customers, respec- tively. Sources claim the base price for China National Pe- troleum is about $360 per 1,000 cubic meters, compared to the average of $366 paid by Germany last year.50 The timing of the deal, in the middle of the escalating Ukraine crisis, is a confirmation that Russia sees long-term value in Russia’s geopolitical interests in an immediate symbolic and material consolidation of the Russian-Chinese alli- ance. Whether this alliance will give Russia the energy de- mand security it needs, the economic expansion it wants, or grants it leverage over the West as it continues pursuing its national interests, remains to be seen. The United States’ reaction to the turmoil in Ukraine ex- tends past ideological differences and reveals US resis- tance to the extension of Russian interest in Central and Eastern Europe with a hardline stance against any expan- sion of Russia’s power. Russia’s soft support of the separat- ists in response to the sanctions suggests that it will not play second party to the terms of any future agreement. The EU remains vulnerable, as each country faces signifi- cant ongoing economic challenges, particularly when it comes to the new economic sanctions that could set back economic growth. The crisis shows the difficulty individu- al sovereign nations have in coming together for one uni- fied policy when each has different interests at stake. The clash of ideologies and economic interests among allies and conflicting parties complicates the resolution of the Ukraine’s current turmoil, as both Russia and the US draw a hard line at the interference of the other in the region. While both the domestic and foreign governments strug- 61 grand strategy in russian geopolitics gle to reconcile their ideology with the current reality, con- sumers in countries saddled with embargoes and height- ening violence will continue to suffer. As it stands, while governments stall reconciliation, the people of Ukraine lose the most, suggesting ideology as a foreign policy is far better suited in theory than in practice. notes i. This paper will hold that Gazprom, monopoly holder of natural gas in Russia, generally acts as extension of the Russian government and serves national economic and political interests. ii. Countries such as Lithuania and Estonia rely on Russia for almost 100% of their energy supply, while making up about 1% of Russia’s export market. See Ghaleb, 16. iii. Russia’s dual gas pricing system has lead to concerns regarding fair competition, if energy prices are almost five times higher for European industries than in Russia, but the arguments for and against unified pricing are beyond the scope or purpose of this paper. iv. Belarus claimed Gazprom was $260 million short on transit fee payments imposed in response to the petroleum export duties simultaneously impose during 2006 gas price increase crisis, while Gazprom claimed that Belarus was behind on gas payments and reduced volume of gas flow supplied by 60%. In response, Belarus threatened to redirect gas meant for Western Europe to compensate for its own losses. Belarus and Gazprom both paid their outstanding payments in full before the payment dispute disrupted energy supplies to Europe. See Goldman. v. Gazprom projects that the direct connection between Russian gas reserves and the European gas transmission system will make it possible for Nord Stream to supply about 25% of the nearly 200 billion cubic meters increase in European demand for imports. endnotes 1. Commonwealth of Independent States 2. Spanjer, 2889-2898,1-17. 13 3. Chambers, 112-25 4. Putin 5. Former Soviet Union 6. Secrieru, 291. 7. Putin. 8. Abbreviation for Central and Eastern Europe 9. Ghaleb, 15. 10. Spanjer, 3. 11. Spanjer,4. 12. Chambers,125. 13. Ghaleb, 86. 14. Ibid. 15. Crane, 34. 16. Goldman,145. 17. Goldman,151. 18. Chambers, 303. 19. Bochkarev. 20. Gazprom. 21. Bochkarev. 22. Gazprom. 23. Crane, 33. 24. Ibid. 25. Saivetz. 26. Ghaleb, 80. 27. Valentina. 449-69.. 28. Saivetz. 29. Gazprom. 30. Bochkarev. 31. Baev, 298. 32. Evert Faber Van Der Meulen, 836. 33. Meulen, 848. 34. Bochkarev. 35. Liquefied natural gas 36. Ibid. 37. Ratner, 6. 38. Chambers, 306. 39. Spanjer, 14. 40. Putin. 41. Danchenko, 2. 42. Chambers, 122. 43. Secrieru, 294. 44. Spanjer, 13. 45. Van Der Meulen, 850. 46. Spanjer, 12. 47. http://www.state.gov/e/eb/tfs/spi/ukrainerussia/ 48. http://www.euractiv.com/sections/agriculture-food/russias- sanctions-threaten-both-eu-farmers-and-policymakers-307827 49. http://www.ogfj.com/articles/2014/08/russia-uses-south- stream-gas-pipeline-to-widen-eu-division.html 50. Piet 51. http://www.bloomberg.com/news/2014-07-02/gazprom-gas- price-in-china-deal-said-to-be-near-germany-s-level.html references Baev, Pavel K. “From West to South to North: Russia En- gages and Challenges Its Neighbours.” JSTOR. Canadian International Council, Spring 2008. Bochkarev, Danila. “Why the Ukraine Crisis Is a Political Earthquake and Not an Energy Quake.” EastWest Institute. EastWest Institute, 24. Apr. 2014. 62 elements : : fall 2014 Chambers, Luke. “Authoritarianism and Foreign Policy: The Twin Pillars of Resurgent Russia.” Caucasian Review of International Affairs 4.2. (2010): 112-25. Danchenko, Igor, and Clifford Gaddy. “The Mystery of Vladimir Putin’s Dissertation.” Brookings Institution, For- eign Policy Program Panel. 30. Mar. 2006. Feklyunina, Valentina. “Russia’s International Images and Its Energy Policy. An Unreliable Supplier?” Europe-Asia Studies 64.3, ‘Russia and the World’ (2012): 449-69. JS- TOR. Gazprom. “Decision Taken To discontinue Gas Price Dis- count for Ukraine Starting from April.” Decision Taken To discontinue Gas Price Discount for Ukraine Starting from April. Gazprom., 4. Mar. 2014. Ghaleb, Alexander. Natural Gas as an Instrument of Rus- sian State Power. Carlisle, PA: Strategic Studies Institute, U.S. Army War College, 2011. Goldman, Marshall I. Petrostate: Putin, Power, and the New Russia. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2008. Piet, Remi. “Russia-China Energy Deal: Geopolitical Tec- tonic Shift.” Aljazeera, 17 June 2014. Putin, Vladimir. “Meeting with Russian Ambassadors and Permanent Representatives in International Organisa- tions.” President of Russia. Kremlin, 9. July 2012. Ratner, Michael, Paul Belkin, Jim Nichol, and Steven Woehrel. Europe’s Energy Security: Options and Challeng- es to Natural Gas Supply Diversification. Rep. N.p.: Con- gressional Research Service, 2013. Secrieru, Stanislav. Russias Foreign Policy under Putin: “CIS Project” Renewed. Rep. no. 10. N.p.: UNISCI Discus- sion Papers, 2006. Spanjer, A.R. (2007), “Russian gas price reform and the EU-Russia gas relationship: Incentives, consequences and European security of supply,” Energy Policy, 35(5). 63 grand strategy in russian geopolitics although leprosy is not as prevalent today as it was in the middle ages, leprosy has affected many people and served as a source of fear throughout history. today, it is easy to diagnose thanks to advances in modern medicine. no longer do practitio- ners have to diagnose an individual from physical appearance alone. however, this was not the case for the medieval practitioner, and a diagnostic approach based on physical abnormalities presents a wide margin for error. today, paleopathologists are using skeletal remains to determine both the prevalence of leprosy throughout history and the treatment of those diagnosed with leprosy. one of the main chal- lenges for researchers is very similar to that of the medieval practitioners: how to determine if someone had leprosy from their physical body, in this case the skeleton. by combining standards from a variety of research groups, the presence of leprosy in a medieval cemetery at norwich is discussed, and the case is argued that the ceme- tery was not just for those diagnosed with leprosy, but for those individuals living with a variety of physical deformities. paleopathologist as medieval practitioner A Case for a Community of the Visibly Ill in Medieval Norwich frank a. direnno When discussion arises around the prevalence of disease in the Middle Ages, the first infection to come to mind is often the plague. However, what deserves equal discus- sion, and may have been most on the minds of those who lived during the Middle Ages, sparking the construction of over 300 hospitals devoted to its care, is leprosy. Known today as Hansen’s Disease, after the discovery of its bacte- rial strain Mycobacterium leprae by Gerhard A. Hansen, leprosy has been a public health issue since antiquity. For as long as the disease has been active, there has been dis- cussion and debate over how to treat those affected by the condition and protect the healthy. Although the number of people affected by leprosy and at risk for contracting the disease today is less than during the Middle Ages, the last leprosarium in the United States was closed only 15 years ago. Even a little over a century ago, Western physicians looked to medieval policies as they shaped their own policy for controlling the disease’s spread.1 In doing so, they per- petuated the understanding that the standard approach was strict segregation of the leprous, outside of the city and away from the healthy. While there have been over 300 leprosy hospitals identi- fied across England, few have been excavated, and even fewer affiliated cemeteries have been found. Recently, skel- etal evidence has emerged as a prime resource in the study of medieval medicine. Excavations in Denmark,2 Scot- land,3 Italy,4 and Sweden,5 among others, have helped con- tribute to the understanding of the spread of the disease across Europe.6 Extensive excavations have been undertaken at sites across England, and leprosy has been found in cemeteries known to be associated with leprosaria, as well as in unaffiliated parishes and community cemeteries. Two sites of interest are those at the Saxo-Norman Castle Mall site in Norwich and the hospital of St. Mary Magdalen in Winchester. Each site has evidence of multiple cemeteries that appear to be related chronologically, and yet are separate from each other. Although both sets of burials at the sites of Norwich and Winchester indicate a separation in death of the sick from the “healthy,” they each tell a different story of the separation of these individuals during life. A study of the parallels between medieval diagnosis and the modern analysis of skeletal material suggestive of leprosy provides a necessary context supporting the distinctions between these cemeteries. Through a comparative study of loca- tion, paleodemography, and skeletal pathology between the various cemeteries at Norwich and Winchester, the two burials at Norwich, although connected in terms of chro- nology and geography, represent a distinct separation dur- ing life dependent upon physical appearance, and not spe- cifically a diagnosis of leprosy. Finally, a brief exploration will be undertaken of further methods for examining these types of sites in the future. Only recently have historians begun to re-interpret the life of the medieval leper. Even in 1984, B.S. Turner proposed that: “The outward decay of the leper was a sign of inner profanity. The leper constituted both a moral and physical threat to the community and had to be separated from the population by dramatic rituals and other legal means.”7 These arguments for the treatment of lepers in medieval society were often supported by citing the ‘Leper Mass’ and forced removal by the royal writ de leproso amovendo. However, as Carol Rawcliffe explains, the instances of forced exclusion were the exception, and not the rule.8 While it is without a doubt that hospitals were established specifically to address the spread of leprosy, the idea that they were quasi-prisons is likely untrue. Instead, as Raw- cliffe describes, “The larger earlier houses in particular fol- lowed a monastic model, which required voluntary profes- sion, sometimes after a probationary period, on the part of lay brothers and sisters.”9 Although these houses were traditionally located outside of the city, they were often placed very close to the gates of entrance into the city. This location was an ideal place for those living at the hospital to solicit alms and receive support from travelers to the city. The connection of these houses to monasteries or places of worship was also intentional, and not a declara- tion of immorality. In fact, Rawcliffe argues that the belief that leprosy was a ‘divine calling’ was the impetus behind the explosive construction of leprosy hospitals across me- dieval England.10 Others have argued that housing in sepa- rate religious institutions was a way to ease the sense of isolation of those “rejected by the world but chosen by God.”11 Yet questions remain: how were individuals identi- fied as leprous, and were these diagnoses accurate? Leprosy is a contagious disease, spread by actions like sneezing, spitting, or coughing. However, what makes it different from other infectious diseases is its variability. Some infected individuals will never experience the effects of the disease, and in others, it may take years for symp- toms to appear. There are also varying degrees of infection, often dependent upon the strength of the infected indi- vidual’s immune system. The early stages of the disease are often accompanied by numbness, weakening of the muscles, and superficial skin lesions. It may then take one of two forms, tuberculoid or lepromatous. The tuberculoid 65 paleopathologist as medieval practitioner strain is less visible in the infected individual than the lep- romatous strain, which is characterized by the physical deformation traditionally associated with the medieval leper.12 These deformations can have a variety of effects on the skeleton, which may take years to develop and are con- sidered the most severe cases of leprosy. It is thus reason- able to assume that many more individuals were likely af- fected with leprosy than showed serious symptoms, both during life and in their skeletal remains. The medieval treatment of leprosy was varied, and there were likely cases of leprous individuals who avoided detec- tion and also cases of individuals who “could have made themselves look leprous to gain charity.”13 Cases of leprosy seemed to have increased dramatically following the elev- enth century, or more specifically, following the Norman Conquest, in which Norman, Breton, and French soldiers invaded and occupied England, led by William the Con- queror. This is reflected in the large increase in construc- tion of leprosy hospitals in the twelfth century, correspond- ing to the increase in population density of England following the conquest, specifically in the south and east.14 The development of a set of criteria for diagnosing those with leprosy was a serious concern, especially as a result of the social stigma likely experienced by those who were di- agnosed with the disease. With such concern surrounding the diagnosis of leprosy, the standards and actions taken to diagnose individuals were equally complex. Obvious differences between medi- eval and modern medicine aside, “In a world before the laboratory, diagnosis was a slow, deliberative process.”15 Additionally, evidence suggests that a particular group with specialized training did not dominate this process. It is likely that when leprosy began to emerge as a larger so- cial issue, clergy and religious individuals played a promi- nent role in diagnosis. This is supported by the association of most early leprosaria with religious institutions. As the disease became more common and information became more easily accessible, diagnosis was not limited to reli- gious or medical specialists. Rawcliffe argues that, “An as- sessment might in all probability be made by friends, fam- ily or neighbors, who would, just like the physician, view the progress of the disease over time.”16 The fact that lep- rosy is a disease that often takes years to develop supports the idea that it would take time for a certain diagnosis to be made. Plus, as described earlier, and as will be discussed in greater detail later, there was a chance that individuals more resistant to the disease only displayed concealable symptoms. As Charlotte Roberts writes, “People could have evaded detection knowing that their lives would be over once they entered a leprosy hospital, or they could have made themselves look leprous to gain charity.”17 This last statement appears infrequently in the literature and is perhaps less likely, especially given the connotations asso- ciated with the leprous. However, the clear connection of the disease with charity makes it plausible that certain in- dividuals would have been treated better as lepers than whatever their current situation may have been. While leprosy may have been physically evident in a variety of ways, the one most often cited as a ‘definite’ case of lep- rosy was the deformation of the face. Skin lesions and su- perficial changes in appearance are the most often associ- ated with those of leprosy in art, but these were secondary symptoms for the medieval practitioner. Facial deforma- tion was the cornerstone of a confident diagnosis (known as facies leprosa) for whoever was responsible for diagnos- ing an individual as suffering from leprosy. As multiple medieval cases describe, the effect of leprosy on the face was hard to argue against and difficult to hide. Carol Raw- cliffe lists a number of these cases from a variety of medi- eval sources across England. For example, “The discolored and distorted face of a once handsome young Norman at- tracted far greater attention than his macerated hands and limbs. Gerald the knight fled into exile because of his hu- miliating facial symptoms, while the horrific aspect of an anonymous Welsh leper seemed to reflect the spiritual cor- ruption within.”18 These examples emphasize the impor- tance of facial symptoms over those of the extremities or other less visible parts of the body. This may help to ex- plain the high percentage of facies leprosa in cemeteries as- sociated with leprosaria. Multiple cases of medieval medical authorities struggling to diagnose leprosy without facial symptoms are also re- vealing of the importance of these specific symptoms. Luke Demaitre writes of how the early fourteenth century “As multiple medieval cases describe, the effect of leprosy on the face was hard to argue against and difficult to hide.” 66 elements : : fall 2014 Doctor Bernard de Gordon was confused by a case in which a long-term patient showed bodily signs of leprosy, and yet the face remained unaffected for over twenty years. In his guide to diagnosing leprosy, Gordon explains, “…but these signys sufficeth to me and prinspaly signes that beth in the fface….”19 As artistic depictions of lepers confirm, facial appearance was a sure sign of the affliction from which the individual suffered. The 1425 image of a leper woman with a bell, from the Exeter Pontifical shows the stereotypical facial lesions and deformed limbs.20 From this evidence, those that showed signs of facies leprosa and other visible leprous symptoms were more likely to be tar- geted and encouraged to separate from the community. Since facies leprosa is understood to be indicative of an ad- vanced case of leprosy, it is likely to have affected the bone tissue during the individual’s life. It has thus been a key piece of evidence in the paleopathological attempt to deter- mine if an individual suffered from leprosy during life. The discovery of facial bones affected by leprosy in high concentrations at cemeteries associated with medieval lep- rosaria confirms the use of facial deformation as a key symptom in diagnosing leprosy during the Middle Ages. This facial bone deformation is just one piece of evidence in a set of criteria used to determine whether an individual suffered from leprosy during life. The most often-cited work in the paleopathology of leprosy was that done by V. Møller-Christensen.21 Møller-Christensen, and subsequent authors including Keith Manchester, Johannes Andersen, and Donald Ortner, point to four specific locations where leprosy manifests itself in the skeleton: skull, hands, lower leg (distal fibula and tibia), and feet.22 There are then sub- sets of characteristics for each location, a variety of combi- nations of these characteristics, and some characteristics are given more weight than others. Adding to the diagnos- tic difficulty is the availability and condition of the skeletal material. Often times, some bones are absent or are in conditions not conducive to identifying pathologies. As was clear during life, emphasis is placed upon skeletal le- sions of the skull, specifically the rhino-maxillary region. Thus, it may be appropriate to say that the diagnosis paleo- pathologists make today (excepting DNA and chemical analysis) are no more accurate than the diagnosis made by medieval clergy or physicians centuries ago. If facial deformation served as a significant symptom of leprosy in life, it is likely that such visible deformation likely affected the bone. Evidence for facies leprosa is often cited using a “triad of osseous lesions” determined by Møller-Christensen in the early 1960s.23 Over time, spe- cific evidence has been changed and added, resulting in the following criteria used most often: destructive remod- eling of the piriform aperture (anterior nasal opening); destruction of the nasal spine; abnormal porosity of the nasal floor, alveolar process, and hard palate; and destruc- tive remodeling of the anterior alveolar process. As has been mentioned, while these rhino-maxillary changes may present the best evidence for leprosy, they are not ‘pathog- nomonic’ for leprosy.24 These rhino-maxillary changes may occur in other diseases including tuberculosis, trepo- nematosis, and leishmaniasis, and trauma may also result in similar changes to the bone structure. Cook studied Pre- Columbian skeletons from the New World for signs of rhino-maxillary changes.25 Since “virtually everyone con- tributing to paleopathology today regards leprosy as absent from the Precolumbian New World,” the presence of these deformations in these populations must be explained by other infections, as Cook goes on to explain. The hand and foot lesions indicative of leprosy are also absent from these cranium of a supposed leper; arrow highlights facial deformation (courtesy of wikimedia commons) 67 paleopathologist as medieval practitioner cases, making it inaccurate to declare an individual lep- rous based on facial skeletal evidence alone. Thus, the best case is made when these facial changes are present with other characteristics. The second part of the body in which specific bone change is suggestive of leprosy is the hand. The bone changes in the hands are in response to neuromuscular degeneration, which causes severe flexion and contraction of the fingers during life. This response, known as ‘claw hand,’ results in bone remodeling best described as: “A grooved lesion with hypertrophic cortical reaction of the volar surface of the distal end of the proximal phalanges of the hand.”26 These abnormalities, often simply referred to as ‘volar grooves,’ are not as common as those found in the foot, yet, in com- bination with other bone abnormalities, have been demon- strated to be suggestive of leprosy. The third aspect of the skeleton for which bone changes are suggestive of leprosy is the lower limb, specifically the distal tibia and fibula. It is important to note that these abnormalities are not a result of the M. leprae bacteria, but a neuromuscular response to a secondary infection. Since leprosy results in various skin lesions and sores, broken and untreated skin on and around the feet is more likely to become infected with other bacteria. These pathogens elic- it an immune response that would be impaired due to the already-present M. leprae bacteria, resulting in a reactive periostitis, or inflammation of the connective tissue sur- rounding the bone. The resulting periosteal reaction evi- dent on the bone depends upon the site of the infection. Thus, periostitis present along the mid-shaft or more prox- imal part of the lower leg bones may have been caused in- directly by something other than leprosy.27 Examples of secondary infections that may be associated with leprosy include septic arthritis and chronic ulcer. Sep- tic arthritis would manifest itself as severe joint destruc- tion and fusion in the ankles. Chronic ulcer is also likely linked with leprosy due to its association with neurological degeneration and weakened vascular function.28 If the periosteal lesions that result are composed of woven bone or appear very porous, the infection was likely active at the time of death, and thus possibly indicating the cause of death. This is explained by the fact that leprosy is not a disease that kills; instead, it weakens the immune system and causes death from a secondary infection. The final aspect of the skeleton observed in the study of leprous bone changes is the foot. These abnormalities are linked to neurovascular disorders connected to leprosy and typically take one of two forms: destructive remodeling of the metatarsals and phalanges, or degeneration of the arches of the foot and reactive remodeling of the tarsal bones.29 The remodeling of the metatarsals and phalanges can be described as blade-like or concentric, most promi- nent in the distal ends and diaphyses. The degeneration of the arches of the foot often manifests itself as abnormal bars of bone on the superior surface of the navicular bone. During life, these manifestations may have resulted in a crippled appearance and difficulty walking—two symp- toms shared by those suffering from leprosy—but also may be present in individuals suffering from other diseas- es or disorders. This resulting ambiguity may have led early hospitals to take in all of the individuals suffering from such visible deformities during their life and buried in their cemeteries, as demonstrated by the skeletal evi- dence at Norwich. As has already been mentioned, it is possible that certain individuals attempted to conceal their potentially leprous conditions during the Middle Ages. An individual suffer- ing from facies leprosa would have found it difficult to hide his or her condition in public. The burial evidence sup- ports this inference; skeletons found in cemeteries associ- ated with leprosy hospitals most often show signs of rhino- “Just as medieval clergy and physicians attempted to diagnose leprosy using a variety of signs and symptoms, so too have paleopathologists used a combination of these pieces of skeletal evidence to determine whether the individual suffered from leprosy during life.” 68 elements : : fall 2014 maxillary abnormalities. For example, a study of the Sct. Jørgensgård cemetery, known to be associated with a lepro- sarium in Odense (Medieval Denmark), produced the fol- lowing results: “The (semi)visible facial symptom of the nasal spine occurs around four times as frequently in the Odense sample as in the Tirup sample, whereas the also (semi)visible symptom of the fifth metatarsal is only twice as frequent in Odense.”30 The Tirup sample mentioned was from a rural parish cemetery (not affiliated with a lep- rosarium), also from medieval Denmark. This case shows how individuals with facies leprosa were more likely to be found in leprosaria in life and in their cemeteries in death. Individuals suffering from abnormalities in the distal limbs were potentially better able to conceal their leprous symptoms, avoiding detection. For this reason, certain re- searchers include the caveat that skeletons displaying evi- dence for leprosy solely in the hands, distal limbs, or feet are not categorized as leprous in their analysis. This ability to conceal symptoms, or at the very least avoid detection, may help to explain the presence of individuals with signs of leprosy in community or parish cemeteries. While there are few examples of just distal limbs showing signs of lep- rosy in cemeteries, this may be explained by the fact that most researchers would not associate sole evidence from these aspects of the skeleton as suggestive of leprosy.31 Just as medieval clergy and physicians attempted to diag- nose leprosy using a variety of signs and symptoms, so too have paleopathologists used a combination of these pieces of skeletal evidence to determine whether the individual suffered from leprosy during life. For example, Roberts chose to look at a set of six criteria which included: facies leprosa only, facies leprosa and feet, facies leprosa and hands, facies leprosa and distal limbs and feet, distal limbs and feet, hand and distal limbs and feet.32 In the analysis of the samples from medieval Denmark, Boldsen looked at the prevalence of seven different lesions: edge of the nose, spina nasalis anterior, alveolar process, palate, subperios- teal exosteosis on fibula, porous hyperosteosis on fibula, and fifth metatarsals.33 This variability makes it difficult for direct comparisons, but by looking at regions of the skele- ton, a more reliable picture appears, just as it likely was for medieval practitioners to look at the whole body and study people over time. In Norwich, the criteria used for diagnosing was much more variable, and this may have been due to the unex- pected nature of the findings. The skeletal evidence sug- gestive of leprosy was found in the cemetery of Timberhill in Norwich, in the Castle Mall site, dating to around the eleventh century. The Domesday Book of 1086 records a population in Norwich ranging from 1,320 to 1,518, indi- medieval leprosarium, painting by vinzenz von beauvais (courtesy of wikimedia commons) 69 paleopathologist as medieval practitioner cating an actual figure anywhere from five to ten thousand, making it the fourth largest town in England.34 The Domesday Book also records a total of around 50 churches and chapels in the town, suggesting a dense settlement population.35 Immediately following the Norman Con- quest, a castle was constructed in Norwich around 1067- 1075, leading to the establishment of a cathedral precinct around 1094. This construction dramatically increased the status of the town, perhaps marking the town as an attrac- tive place for travelers or immigrants. Of particular inter- est for this report is the chronology and location of the two cemeteries likely associated with this period of Norwich’s history, the cemetery at Farmer’s Avenue and the cemetery at Timberhill, or what was known at that time as the church of St. John at the Castle Gate. Thus, the discussion of the chronology regarding Norwich’s history has intrigu- ing implications concerning the affiliations and purposes of these two cemeteries. That being said, the dating of the periods of use of each cemetery has proven controversial. Archaeological excava- tions and radiocarbon dating of the skeletal material at the cemetery at Farmer’s Avenue have determined that the cemetery was in use from as early as the ninth century through the eleventh century. The cemetery at Timberhill has sparked more debate, specifically relating to the results from the radiocarbon dating tests. Archaeological evidence and radiocarbon dating suggest different years during which the cemetery was in use, particularly surrounding the question of whether the burial was pre- or post-Nor- man Conquest.36 Each date has different implications, each of which is discussed in detail in Bayliss, et al.37 How- ever, regardless of the exact dates of use, it appears as though both cemeteries were in use at similar periods of time, overlapping each other for at least a few decades. Both cemeteries were in use prior to the construction of the outer city walls in the late thirteenth century, meaning they were likely associated with the town pre-Conquest or a few decades post-Conquest, as is supported by the evi- dence. This also dates both cemeteries as in use prior to the construction of the first leprosy hospital, St. Mary Mag- dalen, associated with the city of Norwich. The hospital of St. Mary Magdalen was founded in the early twelfth cen- tury by Bishop Herbert de Losinga on the outskirts of the town in an area known as Sprowston.38 This location paral- lels that of other leprosaria founded in medieval England, such as the hospital of St. Mary Magdalen in Winchester, also located on the outskirts of the town, 1.6 km east of the main city,39 and the hospitals of St. James and St. Mary Magdalene in Chichester, located about a kilometer out- side of the main town.40 Further proof that the cemetery at Timberhill in Norwich was not associated with this first leprosarium is the directive from Rome that each hospital must possess its own cemetery, where the sick can be bur- ied separately from the healthy population.41 There was a cemetery excavated at the hospital of St. Mary Magdalen where skeletal evidence of leprosy was in fact discovered.42 This evidence points to an earlier, perhaps undocumented community or institution for the sick, directly outside the castle gates. In the site’s excavation reports, the archaeolo- gists make a brief mention of this: “It is possible that the Timberhill cemetery indicates the burial ground of a leper ‘community’, perhaps even a village. Popular social atti- tudes may have required the segregated burial of lepers even before this became a requirement of the church.”43 However, the key part of this statement, ‘leper community’ is questionable, particularly as a result of the various other pathologies present in the population (Table 1). Moreover, St. Mary Magdalen was not the only leprosarium estab- lished in Norwich: there were at least five others. At least five other leprosaria were established, one at each of the gates leading into the city of Norwich, along the north, west, and south sides of the city. It is believed that these five leprosaria were founded following the edict of the third Lateran Council of 1179, which ordered the con- finement of lepers.44 The location outside of the city gates again parallels that of other medieval leprosaria. Similarly, according to the excavation maps, the cemetery at Timber- hill appears to be placed near the defensive wall and en- trance gate of the Norwich Castle. This follows the pattern of segregation based on health status continued through- out the Middle Ages. The number of leprosaria (five) con- structed also appears abnormal at first, but there were in fact ten such institutions in London, and York had five as well.45 However, based on the map of the known leprosy hospitals across England, Norwich contains the greatest concentration in a single city in eastern England. This may be an indication of the history of institutions in Norwich devoted to the care of the sick even before it was dictated by the church. From the historical evidence and the basic fact that the cemetery contained skeletons suggestive of leprosy, it ap- pears that the cemetery at Timberhill may have been asso- ciated with a segregated population of individuals suffer- ing from leprosy and other visible illnesses. However, the key to this argument lies in the skeletal evidence. If the cemetery at Timberhill served as a burial site for those in- 70 elements : : fall 2014 terred at a hospital or living in a special community of seg- regated individuals, there must be an unassociated, com- munity cemetery nearby for the ‘healthy.’ The cemetery that fits this description is the cemetery at Farmer’s Avenue. The cemetery at Farmer’s Avenue was in use from the ninth century through the eleventh century (~150 years), but it is unknown whether the cemetery was affiliated with a specific church or institution.46 The popu- lation demographics of the interred individuals mirror that of most early medieval cemeteries, albeit the percentage of juveniles (30.9%) is slightly higher than average, and the ratio of females to males (~2 to 1) is also higher than aver- age.47 This is likely attributable to the limited area of the cemetery available for excavation. Most important to note is the absence of leprosy according to the excavation re- ports. There also appear to be very few signs of what would have been visible deformities or illnesses, apart from those often associated with old age, such as osteoporosis or os- teoarthritis: “In general terms, however, there is very little evidence for chronic or debilitating illness in this group, other than those related to the aging process.”48 This is in stark contrast to the cemetery at Timberhill. The cemetery at Timberhill, as already has been men- tioned, is most notable for the presence of skeletal evi- dence suggestive of leprosy. The population demographics are difficult to interpret as a result of the large amount of disarticulated remains present at the burial site. For ex- ample, if the disarticulated remains are included, the per- centage of juveniles increases from 19.0% to 30.2%.49 Without the disarticulated remains included, this percent- age is abnormal. In addition to leprosy, it is also worth not- ing the presence of other potentially visible deformities in the skeletal evidence. There are signs of rickets, spondy- lolysis, spina bifida, pectus excavatum (‘funnel chest’), various cranial anomalies, Perthes disease, metatarsus ad- ductovarus, and disuse atrophy suggesting paralysis (Table 1). If these 29 individuals are added to the total number of suspected lepers (35), the percentage of those affected by deformities and illnesses increases to ~36%. Moreover, this is likely a conservative estimate, as many potential cases have not been included due to the uncertain nature of their potential for visible manifestation during life. There was also a great deal of trauma-related skeletal evi- dence, which has not been included in this percentage un- less evidence is clear that the trauma was not healed at the time of death. If this cemetery was indeed associated with a hospital or community for the sick, there may have been a number of individuals that were being treated or cared for as victims of accidents or other trauma-inducing inci- dents. Of course, it may also be the likely case that many other individuals present in this cemetery population had illnesses for which no skeletal lesion occurs. Similarly to the cemetery at Farmer’s Avenue, there is evi- dence of ‘family burials,’ in which skeletal evidence sug- gests a relatedness between individuals, although this is difficult to interpret due to the large amount of disarticu- lated remains.50 The evidence of leprosy, coupled with the evidence of other conditions that were likely visible during life, support the argument that the individuals buried in the cemetery at Timberhill were grouped together during life in an institution or community for the sick. The pres- ence of a select few healthy individuals in the cemetery, and the evidence for relatedness, may also be explained by the familial segregation of those individuals with leprosy or other diseases. As discussed earlier, the skeletal evidence for leprosy var- ied between individuals. Different labels were used by the researchers: definite, probable, and possible, as well as ‘Yes?’ or ‘Yes’. In each case of the cemetery at Timberhill, a variety of skeletal elements were used in the final determi- nation, through a combination of signs (i.e., rhino-maxil- lary and hands). The excavation report shows the detailed “The evidence of leprosy, coupled with the evidence of other conditions that were likely visible during life, support the argument that the individuals buried in the cemetery at Timberhill were grouped together during life in an institution or community for the sick.” 71 paleopathologist as medieval practitioner pathologies present in each skeleton suggestive of leprosy. The chart lists 35 skeletons, each showing skeletal evidence for leprosy in one of the categories described earlier (skull, hands, distal limbs, feet). However, only 19 are labeled with at least a ‘Yes?’ designation, giving a prevalence of 13.3% if these were the sole lepers in this cemetery. As the researchers note, “However, it seems likely that many were not recognizable due to poor preservation.”51 If a diagnosis of leprosy is made by the presence of only one piece of evi- dence, then the prevalence increases to 19.4% (35 individu- als) of the 180 assessable skeletons, “but even this figure is probably too low.”52 Of the skeletons with observable skulls, 100% (21 of 21) show rhino-maxillary signs of lep- rosy, and 19 of those 21 are labeled at least ‘Yes?’ lepers by the researchers. Just as was believed to be the case in the diagnosis attempts during the Middle Ages, individuals suffering from facies leprosa were more likely to be identi- fied as leprous from the skeletal evidence. The cemetery at Farmer’s Avenue had no individuals la- beled as leprous; however, of interesting note is the pres- ence of a few individuals with evidence of periostitis in the distal limbs.53 As was discussed earlier, this piece of skele- tal evidence is not enough to confidently declare an indi- vidual as to have suffered from leprosy, yet its mere pres- ence suggests that if the individual did in fact suffer from leprosy, there is a chance that that individual was able to conceal his or her condition during his or her life and avoid detection long enough to be buried in the cemetery with other ‘healthy’ individuals. When compared with each other, there are stark differ- ences between the cemeteries. First, the mean age at death of each site is different: “Unlike Farmer’s Avenue, more than half the children buried in the area of the St. John’s (Timberhill) churchyard died after the age of 6 years.”54 Since leprosy takes time to develop, and is difficult to ob- serve, an institution devoted to the care of the sick would likely have fewer young children than a traditional parish cemetery. Second, the prevalence of skeletal evidence sug- gestive of visible deformities in the cemetery at Timberhill, and its near absence in the cemetery at Farmer’s Avenue, suggests a difference in the life of those buried at each cemetery. Finally, the mere presence of leprosy in the cem- etery at Timberhill and its absence in the cemetery at Farmer’s Avenue suggests a distinct difference. A second, comparative cemetery for the study of medieval leprosy is the cemetery at the hospital of St. Mary Magda- len in Winchester. The history of this particular hospital and cemetery is better understood than that of the ceme- tery at Timberhill, but it has only been recently excavated. The first documented use of the hospital itself was in the mid-twelfth century. However, the recent archaeological evidence suggests it was originally founded in the late elev- enth century.55 There were three cemeteries at the site, de- noted in the literature as the chapel, the north cemetery, and the south cemetery. While it is difficult to compare the three cemeteries to each other as a result of the different time periods in which they were used, they still provide an accurate picture of cemeteries geographically close to a leprosy hospital. The north cemetery matches the time pe- riod of the cemeteries at Norwich, while the chapel ceme- tery and south cemetery appear to have been in use later than the north cemetery, perhaps from the fourteenth cen- tury onwards. Similar to the Norwich cemeteries, the northern cemetery was likely decommissioned around the mid-late twelfth century. There were a total of 11 skeletons studied from the chapel, 5 from the south cemetery, and 38 from the north cemetery.56 Just as there was a clear separa- tion in the two cemeteries at Norwich, so too is there a distinction between the cemeteries at Winchester. Although they did not overlap in terms of periods of use, the cemeteries at Winchester provide an insight into the separation of leprous individuals. Eleven individuals were excavated from the chapel cemetery, with 63% falling into the age category of old middle or mature adult, and only one younger child. For the north and south cemeteries, the researchers describe the age distribution as such: “The age distribution of the burials from the external cemeteries is unusually biased towards younger individuals, but there is an absence of the very young.”57 In terms of paleopatho- logical analysis, the diagnostic criteria used to determine the presence of leprosy is very similar to that used by the researchers at Norwich, focusing on the rhino-maxillary region, hands, distal limbs, and feet. Of the individuals in the chapel, only one individual had evidence of leprosy. However, this particular individual only showed evidence in the foot bones and distal lower limbs. Either there is an alternate explanation for this pathology, or it is another case of an individual who was able to conceal his infection. If the individual was a ‘lay patron’ as suggested by the re- searchers, this lack of evidence may reflect an early stage of the infection. In the north and south cemeteries, 84% showed signs indicative of leprosy. Approximately 77% of the observable individuals diagnosed with leprosy in the north and south cemeteries showed skeletal evidence of leprosy in the rhino-maxillary region. DNA tests were run on nine individuals that showed signs of leprosy, and two 72 elements : : fall 2014 (100%) found in the Timberhill cemetery. Once again, these values show the dependence of both medieval diag- nosis and paleopathological analysis upon facies leprosa as positive identifiers for leprosy. In turn, this shows that in- dividuals with visible deformities, especially in the ceme- tery at Timberhill, were likely segregated into special insti- tutions or communities, whether that was a leprosarium or simply a community for the sick. It is also interesting to note the chronological parallels be- tween these two burial sites, the north cemetery at Win- chester and the cemetery at Timberhill. Both sites present radiocarbon dating evidence identifying them as being used directly around the time of the Norman Conquest. This placement in time opens up a series of questions re- garding the influence of the Norman conquest of England on the institution of leprosaria and hospitals. Other future questions still to be answered, both for the cemeteries discussed here and other cemeteries associated with hospitals, are those relating to the origin of the buried individuals. The general perception is that most leprosaria housed local individuals, as Carol Rawcliffe describes: “… the creation of well over two hundred English leprosaria, usually situated at the gates of towns and cities, for the re- ception of local people.”65 However, she goes on to write that, “Many lepers led a peripatetic existence, migrating from one town to another in search of alms. They encoun- tered a very mixed reception, which varied from place to place over time.”66 If this were indeed the case, there are chances of discovering non-locals buried in cemeteries af- filiated with leprosy hospitals. The best method to study this theory would be through strontium isotope analysis. As numerous studies have shown, strontium isotope samples taken from tooth enamel and bone can be compared with local strontium isotope values to determine whether an individual grew up in the local geographic area.67 This isotope study is also useful within populations, as the observance of outliers in- dicates the presence of individuals from other geographic areas. The implications of such a study at the Norwich cemeteries may help to shed light on the use of the ceme- tery as an institution for the sick and disabled. Was it an institution that accepted individuals from all over England, or was it mainly for locals? If the cemetery were used dur- ing the period of the Norman Conquest, would there be evidence of significant outliers? While strontium isotopes have not specifically been studied at the Norwich cemeter- ies, three skeletons have been studied from the Winchester control individuals with no evidence of leprosy, all from the north and south cemeteries. All nine individuals were positive for M. leprae, while the two controls were nega- tive, as was expected.58 From this evidence in particular, the high percentage of leprous individuals, the cemeteries were indeed associated with the leprosy hospital of St. Mary Magdalen. Although the percentage of those affected by leprosy is much different between Winchester and Norwich, evi- dence from the Winchester excavations parallels that of the Norwich excavations. The first parallel appears in the de- mography of each site, particularly the age distribution of the north cemetery at Winchester and the cemetery at Tim- berhill. Just as the north cemetery contains very few indi- viduals who were ‘very young’ at the time of death, most of the individuals in the cemetery at Timberhill died after the age of six. The lack of very young individuals in the Win- chester cemeteries reflects its affiliation with the leprosy hospital; it is also difficult to find skeletal evidence of lep- rosy in very young individuals.58 This lends support to the argument that the lack of very young children in the Tim- berhill cemetery is a reflection of its affiliation with a hos- pital. Second, as in the chapel, the cemetery at Farmer’s Avenue appears to be a burial for the healthy. Just as the chapel at Winchester had an individual with distal limb periostitis suggestive of leprosy, the cemetery at Farmer’s Avenue contained a number of individuals with distal limb periostitis. The skeletal evidence for leprosy is also similar in the north cemetery and the cemetery at Timberhill, al- beit differing total percentages. These differing percentages tell a different story in each cemetery. The high percentage of likely cases of leprosy in the north cemetery is similar to that of other cemeteries known to be affiliated with leprosy hospitals (e.g., Anders- en, 1969 with ~77%; Wells, 1967 with ~60%).60,61 Albeit lower than these values, the cemetery at Timberhill still has a higher percentage of leprous individuals than other cemeteries unaffiliated with leprosy hospitals (e.g., Kjell- ström, 2012 with ~3%;62 see Roberts, 2002 for other ex- amples).63 It is most similar to that of the excavated ceme- teries at Chichester (~19.5%), known to be affiliated with an almshouse, which housed more than just those suffer- ing from leprosy.64 From these comparable cases, it is likely that the cemetery at Timberhill was associated with some kind of institution or community devoted to the care of the sick and disabled. Second, the high percentage of evidence from the rhino-maxillary region in the Win- chester cemeteries (~77%) mirrors the high percentage 73 paleopathologist as medieval practitioner cemetery. In each individual, enamel from an intact molar was analyzed. Each of the three individuals fell within the expected range of having spent their adolescent years in Winchester. However, this only looks at a very small per- centage of the cemetery population, and may not reflect the make-up of the remaining individuals. For example, there was a single individual buried with a scallop shell, which is the traditional symbol for a pilgrim who has jour- neyed to the shrine of Santiago de Compostela, Spain.68 However, burial evidence alone is not enough to make the assumption that he was an immigrant. Understanding the origin of the individuals buried in these cemeteries will help in interpreting the purpose of these institutions. If the cemetery at Norwich was indeed associated with a community for the sick and disabled, was it a place of ref- uge for people around the region, or just the local town? While there are still these questions and others that re- main unanswered, the presented evidence supports the affiliation of the cemetery at Timberhill with an institution or community for the sick, but not specifically the leprous. While the percentage of individuals with skeletal evidence for leprosy in the cemetery at Timberhill is lower than that at the cemetery of the hospital of St. Mary Magdalen, Win- chester, this can be explained by the fact that the Win- chester cemetery was associated with a known leprosy hospital. The cemetery at Timberhill sees an increase, nearly double, when individuals with potentially visible ill- nesses during life are included. This estimate is itself con- servative, and there are likely many more individuals who suffered from similar diseases; even leprosy was likely more prevalent in this community given the small per- centage of people that actually show skeletal signs of lep- rosy. The controversial chronological period of use for the cemetery at Timberhill also has serious ramifications in terms of the history of disease and care in the area and the affect of the Norman Conquest on these practices. Future study into the origins of these people may help to answer some of these lingering questions and provide more evidence in support of affiliation of this cemetery with a hospital or community for the sick. If these indi- viduals had visible illnesses, the uncertainty in diagnosis during the Middle Ages may have led to their segregation, whether forced or voluntary. These potential mistakes pro- vide a cautionary tale for today’s paleopathologists, that the skeletal manifestations of a particular disease may take many forms, or none at all, and it is just as important to keep in mind the potential alternative diagnoses a particu- lar piece of evidence may support. endnotes 1. Ashmead 2. Boldsen 3. Lunt 4. Belcastro 5. Kjellström 6. Schuenemann et al., 2013 7. Turner 8. Rawcliffe 2006 (20-23) 9. Rawcliffe 2007 (235) 10. Rawcliffe 2001 11. Rawcliffe 2007 (238) 12. Brody (21-32) 13. Roberts 14. Ibid. 15. Rawcliffe 2006 (168) 16. Rawcliffe 2006 (167-168) 17. Roberts 18. Rawcliffe 2006 (175-176) 19. Demaitre (124-125) 20. English School, c. 1400 21. Møller-Christensen 22. Ortner 23. Cook 24. Ortner 25. Cook 26. Andersen 1987 27. Andersen et al., 1994 28 Ortner 29. Andersen & Manchester 1998 30. Boldsen 31. Roberts 32. Ibid. 33. Boldsen 34. Popescu (284) 35. Popescu (49) 36. Bayliss et al., 2004 37. Ibid. 38. Rawcliffe 1995 (41) 39. Roffey & Tucker 40. Magilton et al., 2008 41. Rawcliffe 1995 (46) 42. Gilchrist 43. Popescu (270) 44. Rawcliffe 1995 (47) 45. Rawcliffe 1995 (48) 46. Popescu (101) 47. Anderson (213) 48. Anderson (214) 49. Anderson (216) 50. Anderson (219) 51. Anderson (230) 52. Ibid. 53. Anderson (214) 54. Anderson (216) 74 elements : : fall 2014 55. Roffey & Tucker 56. Ibid. 57. Ibid. 58. Roffey et al., 2013 59. Lewis 60. Andersen 1969 61. Wells 62. Kjellström 63. Roberts 64. Magilton et al., 2008 65. Rawcliffe 2007 66. Ibid. 67. Bentley 68. Roffey & Tucker references Andersen, JG (1969) Studies in the Mediaeval Diagnosis of Leprosy in Denmark; an Osteoarchaeological, Histori- cal, and Clinical Study, Ph.D. dissertation, Costers Bog- trykkeri. Andersen, JG (1987) Grooving of the Proximal Phalanx in Leprosy: A Paleopathological and Radiological Study. Jour- nal of Archaeological Science 14:77-82. Andersen, JG & Manchester, K (1988) Dorsal Tarsal Exos- toses in Leprosy: A Palaeopathological and Radiological Study. Journal of Archaeological Science 15(1):51-56. Andersen, JG, Manchester, K, and Roberts, C (1994) Sep- tic Bone Changes in Leprosy: A Clinical, Radiological and Palaeopathological Review. International Journal of Osteoar- chaeology 4(1):21-30. Anderson, Sue. (2009) “4.V Human Bone.” In Norwich Castle : Excavations and Historical Survey, 1987-98. Eliza- beth Shepherd Popescu, ed. Pp. 192-236. Norwich; Nor- folk: NAU Archaeology ; Historic Environment, Norfolk Museums and Archaeology Service. Ashmead, AS. (1896) Leprosy Overcome by Isolation in the Middle Ages. Janus 1:558. Bayliss, A, Popescu, ES, Beavan-Athfield, N, Ramsey, CB, Cook, GT, and Locker, A (2004) The Potential Significance of Dietary Offsets for the Interpretation of Radiocarbon Dates: An Archaeologically Significant Example from Me- dieval Norwich. Journal of Archaeological Science 31(5):563- 575. Belcastro, MG, Mariotti, V, Facchini, F, and Dutour, O (2005) Leprosy in a Skeleton from the 7th Century Necrop- olis of Vicenne-Campochiaro (Molise, Italy). International Journal of Osteoarchaeology 15(6):431-448. Bentley, RA (2006) Strontium Isotopes from the Earth to the Archaeological Skeleton: A Review. Journal of Archaeo- logical Method and Theory 13(3):135-187. Boldsen, JL (2001) An Epidemiological Approach to the Paleopathological Diagnosis of Leprosy. American Journal Physical Anthropology 115:380-387. Brody, SN (1974) The Disease of the Soul; Leprosy in Medieval Literature. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press. Cook, DC (2002) Rhinomaxillary Syndrome in the Ab- sence of Leprosy: An Exercise in Differential Diagnosis. In The Past and Present of Leprosy : Archaeological, Histori- cal, Palaeopathological and Clinical Approaches. C.A. Rob- erts, M. E. Lewis and K. Manchester, eds. pp. 81-88 Oxford: Archaeopress. Demaitre, LE (1980) Doctor Bernard De Gordon, Professor and Practitioner. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies. English School (15th Century). c. 1400 Lansdowne 451 Fol. 127 “A Leper with a Bell,” from a Pontifical. Gilchrist, R (1992) Christian Bodies and Souls : The Archae- ology of Life and Death in Later Medieval Hospitals. pp. 80- 82. Kjellström, A (2012) Possible Cases of Leprosy and Tuber- culosis in Medieval Sigtuna, Sweden. International Journal of Osteoarchaeology 22(3): 261-283. Lewis, ME (2002) Infant and Childhood Leprosy: Clinical and Palaeopathological Implications. In The Past and Pres- ent of Leprosy: Archaeological, Historical, Palaeopathological and Clinical Approaches. C. A. Roberts, M. E. Lewis and K. Manchester, eds. pp. 163-169. Oxford: Archaeopress. Lunt, DA. (2013) The First Evidence for Leprosy in Early Mediaeval Scotland: Two Individuals from Cemeteries in St. Andrews, Fife, Scotland, with Evidence for Normal Burial Treatment. International Journal of Osteoarchaeology 23(3): 310-318. 75 paleopathologist as medieval practitioner Magilton, JR, Lee, F, and Boylston, A (2008) “Lepers Out- side the Gate”: Excavations at the Cemetery of the Hospital of St. James and St. Mary Magdalene, Chichester, 1986-87 and 1993. York England: Council for British Archaeology. Møller-Christensen, V (1961) Bone Changes in Leprosy. Co- penhagen: Munksgaard. Ortner, D (2008) Skeletal Manifestations of Leprosy. In “Lepers Outside the Gate” : Excavations at the Cemetery of the Hospital of St. James and St. Mary Magdalene, Chichester, 1986-87 and 1993. J. R. Magilton, Frances Lee and Anthea Boylston, eds. pp. 198-207. York England: Council for Brit- ish Archaeology. Rawcliffe, C (2001) Learning to Love the Leper: Aspects of Institutional Charity in Anglo-Norman England. Anglo Norman Studies, xxiii. pp. 233-252. Rawcliffe, C (1995) The Hospitals of Medieval Norwich. Nor- wich: Centre of East Anglian Studies, University of East Anglia. Rawcliffe, C (2007) Isolating the Medieval Leper: Ideas - and Misconceptions - about Segregation in the Middle Ages. In Freedom of Movement in the Middle Ages. Harlaxton Medieval Studies 15:229-248. Rawcliffe, C (2006) Leprosy in Medieval England. Wood- bridge, UK; Rochester, NY: Boydell Press. Roberts, CA (2002) The Antiquity of Leprosy in Britain: The Skeletal Evidence. In The Past and Present of Leprosy: Archaeological, Historical, Palaeopathological and Clinical Approaches. C. A. Roberts, M. E. Lewis and K. Manchester, eds. pp. 213-222. Oxford: Archaeopress. Roffey, S & Tucker, K (2012) A Contextual Study of the Me- dieval Hospital and Cemetery of St. Mary Magdalen, Win- chester, England. International Journal of Paleopathology 2(4): 170-180. Schuenemann, VJ, Singh, P, Mendum, TA, Krause-Kyora, B, Jäger, G, Bos, KI, Herbig, A, Economou, C, Benjak, A, Busso, P, Nebel, A, Boldsen, JL, Kjellström, A, Wu, H, Stewart, GR, Taylor, GM, Bauer, P, Lee, OYC, Wu, HHT, Minnikin, DE, Besra, GS, Tucker, K, Roffey, S, Sow, SO, Cole, ST, Nieselt, K, and Krause, J (2013) Genome-Wide Comparison of Medieval and Modern Mycobacterium Lep- rae. Science 341(6142): 179-183. Popescu, ES (2009) Norwich Castle: Excavations and His- torical Survey, 1987-1998. Dereham; Norwich: Historic En- vironment, Norfolk Museums and Archaeology Service; in conjunction with NAU Archaeology. Taylor, GM, Tucker, K, Butler, R, Pike, AWG, Lewis, J, Rof- fey, S, Marter, P, Lee, OYC, Wu, HHT, Minnikin, DE, Besra, GS, Singh, P, Cole, ST, and Stewart, GR (2013) De- tection and Strain Typing of Ancient Mycobacterium Leprae from a Medieval Leprosy Hospital. PlosOne 8(4):e62406. Turner, BS (1984) The Body and Society: Explorations in So- cial Theory. Oxford, [Oxfordshire]; New York, NY, USA: B. Blackwell. Wells, C (1967) A Leper Cemetery at South Acre, Norfolk. Medieval Archaeology XI:242-248. 76 elements : : fall 2014 S k e l e t o n Number Pathology 10229 Spina bifida 10492 Spina bifida 13072 Spina bifida 11405 Pectus excavatum (‘funnel chest’) 11488 Congenital absence of basi-occipital bone (causing abnormal head posture) 13040 Kyphosis 10069 Kyphosis 10031 Scoliosis 10264 Scoliosis 11034 Scoliosis N/A Scheurmann’s Disease N/A Scheurmann’s Disease N/A Scheurmann’s Disease N/A Scheurmann’s Disease N/A Scheurmann’s Disease N/A Scheurmann’s Disease 13073 Rickets 11250 Rickets 10224 Perthes Disease 13266 Myositis ossificans 10836 Myositis ossificans 11502 Ankylosis of wrist 13212 Metatarsus adductovarus 13105 Abnormal bending/rotation of leg bones 11055 Abnormal bending/rotation of leg bones 13044 Abnormal bending/rotation of leg bones 11476 Disuse atrophy (suggestive of paralysis/ smallpox/rickets) 10723 Scalp infection 11471 Ischial bursitis (possibly a result of a traumic event) table 1: skeletal evidence indicating potentially visible deformities/handicaps/illnesses in the cemetery at timberhill, except for leprosy 77 paleopathologist as medieval practitioner dante’s poetry draws heavily from both christian theology and pagan mythology, specifically greek and roman. among the stories which dante reinterprets is the tale of the unfortunate lovers pyramus and thisbe, originally characters in ovid’s meta- morphoses. while ovid writes of the human concerns of pyramus and thisbe, dante is concerned with their connection to the divine. dante also connects symbols in the pyramus and thisbe story, such as that of the lion, to christian and old testament mythology, thereby effectively and poetically synthesizing the two traditions into a single, multifaceted one. the great yarn ball Dante’s Poetics and Ovid’s Pyramus and Thisbe paul boboc Dante tends to resist, even oppose, reduction to a single poetic interpretation. In spite of his poem’s richness of content, an extensive poetics may be deduced. With par- ticular regard to the various retellings, reversions, and in- versions of the mythological Pyramus and Thisbe episode throughout the Comedy, and the aid of some of the percep- tive commentators on Ovid’s myth, Dante’s poetic philoso- phy sought to make poetically immanent the promise of Christian redemption. In order to do so, he combined the promise of Christian eternity with pagan poetic myth. No understanding of Dante’s poetics can afford to ignore the Comedy’s various Ovidian echoes. The key to Dante’s poet- ics lies in Ovid’s poignant episode, synecdoche for the grander tragic patterns of classical myth, which he revers- es in the general scheme of the Comedy. Dante’s inversion of the myth, implies that sacred theology and human po- etry, rather than being at odds, may be used intertextually toward the end of spiritual regeneration. Dante’s inversion of the myth works on three levels, representing (1) Dante the ascending pilgrim’s union with Beatrice (contra the mutual deaths of the lovers); (2) the union of the divine with the profane as immanent in the loftiest stages of sa- cred experience (a point that the lion in the first canto of the Inferno makes explicit); and (3) the union of appropri- ated, and appropriately re-interpreted, classical poetry and Christian theology toward the highest spiritual ends. This article concentrates on the third representation, citing Mandelbaum’s translation. It might be proper to attend to the particulars of the Pyra- mus and Thisbe myth before an analysis of its appropria- tion by Dante. The story is recounted in Book 4 of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, a staple Latin text of the European Middle Ages and Renaissance. In the oft-quoted story, Pyramus and Thisbe are Babylonian lovers whose parents forbid them from seeing each other. However, they realize that there’s a chink in a wall, and communicate through it. They decide to meet clandestinely in the woods, under a mulberry tree by Ninus’ tomb. Thisbe arrives first and is frightened by a lion; she runs away and leaves her veil, which the lion tears. Pyramus arrives and sees the veil; as- suming that a wild animal has killed her, he stabs himself. When she returns and sees his dead body, she likewise kills herself. On a literal plane, the myth explains the rud- dy complexion of mulberries; allegorically it furnished ample grounds for re-interpretation and appropriation by European authors, most famously Shakespeare and Dante, both of whom transform its tragic content into platforms for highly original and wildly contrasting narrative set- tings. In Dante, the first significant allusion to the myth is in Purgatorio III, lines 94-99:1 Without your asking, I shall tell you plainly that you are looking at a human body; that’s why the sunlight on the ground is broken Don’t be astonished; rest assured that he would not attempt to cross this wall without a force that Heaven sent him as support.2 Virgil responds to the excommunicated shadows’ inquiry into Dante’s physicality, of which the pilgrim himself is unaware. According to Virgil, Dante cannot and will not cross the wall of broken sunlight “without / a force that Heaven sent him as support,” recalling the wall that sepa- rates Pyramus and Thisbe in Babylon. The fundamental difference between the Ovidian wall and Purgatorio III’s Dantean wall rests in the former’s profanation by the lov- ers, whose heedless amour turns them against their par- ents’ injunction; the latter cannot be crossed except through the help of divine favor. Dante’s wall functions polysemously: as a physical actuality and an allegory of po- etic creation. Between the lower echelons of Dante’s tripar- portrait of dante alighieri by sandro botticelli (courtesy of wikimedia commons) 79 the great yarn ball tite hierarchy and the higher there lie several divisions, which the eerie wall of this canto symbolizes, and Dante only goes on, as pilgrim and as poet, because he has the support of the divinity. In the Pyramus and Thisbe narra- tive, the sacrifice enacted by the lovers amounts to a kind of primeval pagan ritual-sacrifice; the Comedy itself may be appropriately understood as a monument or laudatory sacrifice to the Divine. Several other parallels draw the sto- ries together. Durling and Martinez note that the spirits pull back in hesitation, just as Thisbe draws back upon seeing Pyramus’ dying body.3 Dante casts himself as an ultimately successful Pyramus, inverting the death-narra- tive of the original story: in Dante’s account, it is the pil- grim who ascends higher, and the spirits, stuck in Purga- tory, have the clement promise of reconciliation with God, unlike the vainly suicidal Thisbe. The inversion of Ovid’s story thus propels Dante’s inverted poetics of atonement, transforming the unredeemed tragedy of the pre-Christian mythos into a poetry of promised redemption. The Pyramus and Thisbe story, though significant in rela- tion to Paradiso, is most explicitly tied to Purgatorio, where many who loved “not wisely but too well” end up. Durl- ing’s observation that “the simile of Purg 27.37-42 makes at last explicit the relation of Ovid’s story to the fundamen- tal system of imagery governing the Purgatorio”4 bears weight; Dante directly compares himself to Pyramus: When he saw me still halting, obstinate, he said, somewhat perplexed: “Now see, son: this wall stands between you and your Beatrice.” As, at the name of Thisbe, Pyramus, about to die, opened his eyes, and saw her (when then the mulberry became bloodred), so, when my stubbornness had softened, I, hearing the name that’s always flowering within my mind, turned to my knowing guide. Unlike Pyramus, who rashly kills himself for earthly love, Dante turns to his “knowing guide.” In these lines, the fundamental difference between Ovid’s myth and Dante’s poem, between classical poetry and the Dantean poetic paradigm, is foregrounded: the former stops at human eros, while the latter has the stamp of divine protection. Like the mulberry, perpetually budding in springtime, Dante claims that Beatrice’s name is “always flowering within my mind.” In Dante, the connection remains vir- ginal and sacred, at its most human barely transgressing the bounds of modesty. In Ovid, the spilled blood origin- myth of the mulberry’s redness connotes the spilled blood of broken virginity. Dante transmutes, and ultimately re- writes, Ovid’s paganism into a poetics of Christian tran- scendence. In his notes on the Inferno, Boccaccio, one of Dante’s earli- est and most celebrated commentators and a fellow-poet, “…recognizes exclusively the modality of poetic allegory, for poetry at large holds within its compass all theology, philosophy, and myths… the distinction between history and fiction fades… Most importantly, the term genealogy implies that the text purports to be a meta-discourse or posthumous commentary on myth.”5 Boccaccio under- stood the Comedy in such terms, as did Dante himself. Richly suggestive, the Medieval tradition of Ovidius moral- izatus, wherein the works of Ovid were read as the effu- sions of a moralist-seer, influenced Dante’s interpretation of the Pyramus and Thisbe narrative, as well as the archi- tecture of his outlook on poetry.6 Dante’s poem picks up the moralizatus tradition; after all, his poem’s tripartite di- vision creates a poetry of moral hierarchies. However, he places himself within the classical tradition by inverting the Pyramus and Thisbe story. As Durling notes, “The en- tire Comedy thus involves a metaphorical reversal of the tale of Pyramus and Thisbe… it moves from confrontation with a lion and other beasts in the Dark Wood to the safety of home…”7 This observation suggests more than the re- versal of the Pyramus and Thisbe story; it hints at the re- versal of the tragic poetics that distinguish Greco-Roman literature from Dante’s own poetic ethos. “The fundamental difference between Ovid’s myth and Dante’s poem...is foregrounded: the former stops at human eros, while the latter has the stamp of divine protection.” 80 elements : : fall 2014 The initial episode of the three beasts, constituting verses 43 to 47 in the first canto of the Inferno, merits inclusion here; it provides the incipit to the myth’s inversion: …hope was hardly able to prevent the fear I felt when I beheld a lion. His head held high and ravenous with hunger- even the air around him seemed to shudder- this lion seemed to make his way against me. The origin of the lion metaphor, though related to the Pyramus and Thisbe story, also has thematic ties to Jeremi- ah: “Wherefore a lion out of the wood hath slain them, a wolf in the evening hath spoiled them, a leopard watcheth for their cities: every one that shall go out thence shall be taken, because their transgressions are multiplied, their rebellions strengthened.”8 In both the Pyramus and This- be narrative and the Old Testament passage, the lion is given remarkable agency and eventual victory over the people with which it comes into contact, though in the for- mer it does not actually enact the massacre, instead stag- ing it by planting fear in the lovers. Symbolic of pride, the lion in the Inferno does not deter Dante; it is the wolf that makes him give up in despair, before Virgil reaches out to him: “The very sight of her so weighted me / with fearful- ness that I abandoned hope / of ever climbing up that mountain slope.”9 The wolf is a symbol of avarice, but its mythological sig- nificance allows for a less Christian interpretation: she re- calls the suckling of Remus and Romulus by a she-wolf, and thus harbors symbolic gravity as evoker of Roman cul- ture, including Roman literary culture and myth. Dante’s inversion of Old Testament prophecy and of lion-story, and his fear and hesitation before the she-wolf, connect his metaphorical journey with both, but it also connects the Old Testament with Latin history, since in both the Old Testament account and in the Roman Pyramus and Thisbe narrative, the lion triumphs over the human. The Comedy, in which the lion is defeated, inverts both, and Dante tri- umphs over wolf and lion alike: it is the post-Scholastic counterpoint to the desultory existential crises with which pre-Christian individuals, lacking the proper spiri- tual instruments, could not contend. The reversal of the Pyramus and Thisbe story builds to a crescendo through the Comedy, culminating in the latter stages of the Paradiso. Durling makes the intriguing point that the wall that separates Pyramus and Thisbe becomes the wall of fire in Purgatorio 27, and that starting in Purgatorio 4:17, the chinks in the rocks, through which the travellers mount, bear a kind of symbolic resem- blance to the chink through which Pyramus and Thisbe communicate. Furthermore, he asserts that Beatrice’s veil in Purgatorio 30:31 and 31:145 is the “ultimate version of Thisbe’s veil.”10 The referential parallels, rather than being a tribute to the Ovidian story, sustain an implicit diatribe against the earthly eroticism and unredeemed suicides of the Babylonian lovers. Thisbe’s veil manufac- tures Pyramus’ suicide, and the chink in the wall allows for the lover’s unholy, and eventually doomed, rendez- vous; chink, wall, and veil in the Ovidian mythos prog- nosticate death in the forest, and the lovers’ spilled blood carries no spiritually resurrective potential. Indeed, in the Pyramus and Thisbe story, the veil fools Pyramus into thinking that Thisbe had died, and distinguishes it- self as an artifact of illusion rather than an emblem of sacred chastity. In Dante, Thisbe’s deceptive veil and the redness of erot- ic desire transform into symbols of Christ-like sanctity and the purging, baptismal fire of Christ’s spilled blood: “A woman showed herself to me; above / a white veil, she was crowned with olive boughs; / her cape was green; her dress beneath, flame-red.”11 The final mystical vision like- wise contrasts with the Ovidian myth, and with all classi- cal poetry, because it allows Dante a vision of the Divine that pre-Christian antiquity could not have fathomed. The ultimately rent veil symbolizes the final unity of po- etry and God, of desire and divine will, and transcends “In both the Pyramus and Thisbe narrative and the Old Testament passage, the lion is given remarkable agency and eventual victory over the people with which it comes into contact...” 81 the great yarn ball erotic desire as such, which Pyramus and Thisbe do not. Dante writes of Divine Love: “Nel suo profondo vidi che s’interna, / legato con amore in un volume, / ciò che per l’universo si squaderna”; “In its profundity I saw-ingath- ered / and bound by love into one single volume- / what, in the universe, seems separate, scattered….”12 The chief distinguishing characteristic between ancient poetry and the Universe-as-Poem (and the Comedy itself, of course), lies in the former’s erotic as opposed to divine imma- nence, secular and pagan art’s fundamentally tragic scope, which Dante strives to amend. Hawkins, in Dante’s Testaments, offers an enriching in- terpretation of Dante’s Christological re-appropriation of classical tradition. Dante’s distancing himself from Ovid, with a particularly evocative statement on his relation- ship to Ovid: “Nonetheless, taken strictly on its own terms, their legacy for the Christian poet is a dead letter, cut off from the radiance and joy that constitute Dante’s divine vision,”13 Hawkins claims, and goes on to quote line 99 of Inferno’s canto 25, which references Ovid: “Io non lo ‘nvidio.” A pun turns the statement into a polyse- mous signifier: Io non lo ‘nvidio reads as “Io non Ovidio” also: I am not Ovid. And since Dante is not Ovid (but superior, as he must have considered), the Comedy is not the story of Pyramus and Thisbe; the Comedy is not a document of classical tragedy’s doomed Eros, but of sav- ing grace. In fact, Ovid in the Comedy occupies an infe- rior position to the Ovid of the Convivio and earlier Dan- tean poetry, and is relegated or downgraded to a second-rate position: What [Dante] largely found in [the Metamorphoses] was not some quasi-biblical writer almost as authoritative as Virgil, but a curator of the fallen world in all its hideous permuta- tions: a pagan master who would provide not a meditation on the cosmic power of divine providence but a sustained night- mare of rage, rape and human loss.14 Hawkins likewise notes that the last mention of Ovid, in Canto 25 of the Inferno, occurs in the midst of lines that offer an Ovidian display of poetical-rhetorical appropria- tion, a spectacle of “mutare e transmutare.”15 This is Dante’s private confession of his poetic technique: the mutation and transmutation of classicism and mytho- logical rhetoric. The superbly ironic fact that this confes- sion and veiled criticism of Ovid occurs in the circle of thieves and on the brink of the false counselors, as Hawkins notes, poignantly illustrates Dante’s hesitation to borrow directly from Ovid, and makes Ovid out to be a cautionary signal, like Ovid’s own Phaeton and Icarus, un- successful proto-types of the Dante-as-Pilgrim motif.16 A further separation may be adduced: that of Dante the pil- grim in the Comedy’s narrative and of Ovid as man, who, like Dante, was banished from his patria, though more severely than the Florentine. Ovid as exile perhaps remind- ed Dante of himself, prompting Dante to transcend his exile in his greatest literary achievement by achieving mys- tic union with the object of his purged love. The Comedy as a whole contrapuntally opposes Ovid’s work: where the Comedy promises salvation and attains the beatific mo- ment, Ovid’s unruly, mellifluously licentious poetry exiles him to Dacian Tomis. As the discerning reader will have noticed, in general, whenever he implicitly evokes the Pyramus and Thisbe story, Dante colors his verses with the presence of solar or pyrrhic illumination, metaphor for sacred radiance and enlightenment, and Purgatoio 4:14 makes mention of the sun “having climbed fifty degrees,” a datum that Dante, separated from Virgil by a “gap,” does not notice. The bro- ken sunlight in 3:96 accords the same thematic parallel. The sunlessness establishes a correspondence between the story and Dante’s interpretation of Ovidian myth. Though he admired Ovid (with some caveats, as Hawkins notes), he admired Biblical truth more, and inevitably placed it on the highest level. Dante’s poetics can be under- stood best in light of his interpretation of Biblical literature in relation to classical pagan poetry: “What is involved [in the Comedy] is how Dante brings secular history and salva- tion history into focus, and more particularly, the process of transposition of the methods of patristic hermeneutics from the Bible into secular literature.”17 Dante’s treatment of Virgil’s texts, for example, offers insight into his meth- ods of poetic appropriation: “The common practice of moralizing pagan texts is dramatized by Dante in the canto of Statius, where Statius is shown subverting the literal statement of the Virgilian text in favor of a spiritual sense that accords with his own inner world.”18 This attitude was extended to Ovid, who, because he lived before the coming of Christ, could have functioned on only two of the four levels of poetry (literal and allegorical, sans the anagogical and moral dimensions). The appropriation of the Pyramus and Thisbe narrative and its “mutare e transmutare” into a poetics of Christian theological polysemy, inexorably means that certain things have to be kept out: “According- ly, the examples evoked especially from Ovid are generally ones from which Dante dissociated himself in the end. They are exempla warning against the temptation to ven- ture beyond the parameters sanctioned for human endeav- 82 elements : : fall 2014 or.”19 Unlike Ovid, Dante “sets himself as the instrument and vehicle—rather than the rival and challenger—of the Divine” and his prayer to Apollo to be turned into a worthy vessel20 parallels Paul, the vas electionis of Acts I.15, more than Ovid’s overreaching characters.21 Dante’s hesitation to follow Ovid’s example, his apparent aversion to the Ovidian mythos, ethos, and even, in some respects, pagan pathos, accords with his treatment of other classical poetic beacons like Virgil and Statius, both of whom he respected but self-acknowlegedly eclipsed. His poetics may also be understood in relation to the Orpheus myth, most famously celebrated by Ovid himself. As Leah Schwabel notes: Dante only explicitly names Orpheus once in his Divine Come- dy, upon seeing him within the Limbo for intellectuals. Yet the function of the Orpheus figure in the Divine Comedy, similar to his function in literature, is that of chimera. The shade of Or- pheus residing in Dante’s Limbo serves only as the mold for the multiple imprints the figure leaves throughout the text.22 She likewise notes that Orpheus had three (somewhat schizophrenic) identities. He was Orpheus the lover, Or- pheus the musician, and Orpheus the dispeller of myster- ies.23 Franke makes a similar point: “Orpheus’ descent was taken over by Church Fathers… and projected onto an infi- nite abyss of divine transcendence… The Christian moral sense of Orpheus’ loss of Eurydice is that we must over- come attachments to worldly loves on pain of death.”24 As the Pyramus story stands in the background of the Come- dy as a cautionary tale, the Orpheus story takes on equally poignant attributes, Dante himself being a kind of Or- pheus on a mission to unite with his perished beloved. Un- like Pyramus and Orpheus, Dante the pilgrim succeeds in his endeavor toward divine union; unlike the former, he finally transcends the poignant ephemerality of erotic de- sire, and unlike the latter, he makes it through the other worlds by virtue of God’s grace. In Shakespeare: Invention of the Human, Bloom claims that Shakespeare invented the formula that sexual desire faced with the shadow of mor- tality becomes eroticism. Dante, already aware of the for- mula, oversteps both in his final vision of Beatrice and, ultimately, of divine love. His unflattering exchanges with the Pyramus myth, and, to a lesser extent, Orpheus’ tragic story, endorse such a reading of the Comedy. To conclude, Dante sets himself as a worthy rival to Ovid, and his poetics display considerable aversion to, and rival- ry with, the poetic mythos, ethos, and even pathos of Ovid- ian and classical poetic tradition. Dante’s poetics, ultimate- ly, can be understood best in light of his puzzlingly ambidextrous relationship with Ovid, whose myth of Pyra- mus and Thisbe he adopts and inverts within the context of his Christian epic. Dante does not merely appropriate and re-write Ovid; he explicitly compares himself to Pyra- mus and engages in critical dialogue with the great autore, and his discourse with him translates into a broader dia- logue with all of classical tradition, which he finally tran- scends. Dante’s poetry overshadows mortality, and the di- vine love it speaks of redeems and exalts. These are mighty achievements that the Pyramus and Thisbe story, for all its poignancy and potential for re-interpretation, cannot boast. endnotes 1. Durling & Martinez, 620 2. Dante, Purgatorio III, 94-99 3. Durling & Martinez, 620 4. Ibid. 5. Whitman 335 6. Freccero 306 7. Durling & Martinez, 620 8. Jeremiah 5:6 9. Dante, Inferno, 52-54 10. Durling & Martinez, 620 11. Dante, Purgatorio 27, 31-33 12. Dante, Paradiso 33, 85-87 13. Hawkins, 146 14. Hawkins, 148 15. Dante, Inferno, 25, 43 16. Hawkins, 149 17. Lansing, 16 18. Ibid. 19. Franke, 9 20. Franke 14 21. Ibid. 22. Schwabel, 1 23. Schwabel, 2 24. Schwabel, 92 references Alighieri, Dante, Robert M. Durling, Ronald L. Martinez, and Robert Turner. The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri. New York: Oxford UP, 2004. Alighieri, Dante, Allen Mandelbaum, and Peter Armour. The Divine Comedy. New York: Knopf, 1995. 83 the great yarn ball Hawkins, Peter S. Dante’s Testaments: Essays in Scriptural Imagination. Stanford, CA: Stanford UP, 1999. Lansing, Richard H. Dante: The Critical Complex. New York: Routledge, 2003. Franke, William. Dante and the Sense of Transgression: ‘the Trespass of the Sign’. London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2013. Freccero, John. Dante: The Poetic of Conversion. President and Fellows of Harvard College: Boston, 1986. Schwabel, Leah. Dante’s Metam-Orpheus: The Unspoken Presence of Orpheus in the Divine. McGill, 07 June 2005. Comedy. Hirundo: The McGill Journal of Classical Studies, Volume IV: 62-72 (c) 2005-2006. Whitman, Jon. Interpretation and Allegory: Antiquity to the Modern Period. Leiden: Brill, 2000. 84 elements : : fall 2014 while most consider fascism a phenomenon unique to twentieth-century europe, there were a number of fascist organizations present in america during the same time fascism across the atlantic was on the rise. the black legion was a secret orga- nization with an agenda of fascist revolution which performed acts of extreme vio- lence. in contrast, the silver legion was a public political platform with a fascist economic plan that was prone to acts of discrimination and violence. the most suc- cessful and prominent fascist organization in america, however, was the christian front, a strong, anti-semitic political organization which incited riots and began to plan acts of terrorism. from doctor shepard to father coughlin An Exploration of Fascism in 1930s America nick centrella To a modern American, fascism is an ideology associated with the rise of Adolf Hitler and the destruction of World War II. It has been reduced to a mere slogan, a by-word for oppressive tendencies in any organization. Although his- tory seems reluctant to admit it, fascism as a political movement was not confined to one side of the Atlantic. In the period between 1930 and the entrance of America into the Second World War in 1941, fascism as a political trend stretched across the entirety of the United States. Among a murky subculture of various radical fascist extremist para- military organizations, three stand out for their cohesion, large membership, and proclivity for violence: The Black Legion in the Midwest, The Silver Legion on the Pacific Coast, and the Christian Front on the East Coast. Each group differed in organizational methodology, but shared the same goal: the overthrow of the government of the United States and its replacement with a fascist state. The Black Legion had its origins in the 1920’s Ku Klux Klan, where its name was initially the Klan Guard. The Grand Cyclops of the Bellaire Klan, Dr. William Jacob Shepard, founded the Guard between 1924 and 1925 in the small industrial town of Bellaire, Ohio. He originally planned to switch the standard white Klan robes with black ones, replete with red trimming and a white skull and crossbones.1 After a brief power struggle during the 1925 Klan convention in Ohio, the Bellaire klavern’s charter was revoked for a violation of Klan discipline. Undeterred, Shepard continued his Klan activities with his new black- robed guards, who came to be known variously as the Black Night Riders, the Blacks, and, ultimately, the Black Legion. With Shepard as head, the Black Legion was simi- lar to the Klan in that it retained notions of southern chiv- alry as its main focus, preferring backwoods vigilantism and initially refraining from any sort of fascist political agenda. At this time, the Legion was known mainly for floggings, tar and featherings, and ominous threats that often forced the accused to flee town for their own safety.2 Shepard had replaced the standard Klan initiation with his own secret ceremony that he claimed to be modeled on the “Black Oath of Quantrill,” named for the band of Confed- erate bushwhackers that famously massacred Union sym- pathizers in Lawrence, Kansas during the Civil War. The initiation was usually done in the late hours of the night, preferably midnight, in a secluded rural location. The initi- ates were asked to confirm that they were native born, white, Protestant, American citizens. They were bound to oppose Catholics, African-Americans, and immigrants, and were made to pledge that they would arm themselves as soon as possible. After a brief speech by a current mem- ber, the recruits knelt. Guns were then pressed to their backs, and they were forced to repeat the Black Oath as dictated by a current member of the Legion.3 By April of 1929, the Legion had begun their vigilante ac- tivities in earnest. They whipped a man in the backwoods of Ohio, threatened another man and two young girls with lynching, tarred another woman, and kidnapped a black man, who they put on a train against his will and sent south.4 These activities continued for some time under Shepard. In 1931, a man from Lima named Virgil Effinger took effective control of the Legion with the intent to turn this Klan offshoot into an effective revolutionary proto- fascist organization.5 Effinger reorganized the Legion on the model of the United States Army. He created regi- ments based on four battalions, each of which was com- posed of four companies, each company having ninety- nine men. Therefore, each regiment contained roughly sixteen hundred soldiers. Furthermore, Effinger instituted a rank system to bring order to his new army. The bottom level was known as the Foot Legion, whose members could be promoted to Night Riders, then Black Knights, then Armed Guards. At the top was the Bullet Club.6 His second-in-command was Isaac “Peg-Leg” White. White was a former policeman active in the Legion who lost his leg in an auto accident. Because he received a pen- sion from the city of Detroit, he was able to focus most of his time and energy on organizing for Effinger’s new revo- lutionary group. In 1933, he is suspected to have murdered (or aided the murder) of two Communist organizers.7 With those murders, revolutionary Legion violence was be- ginning. That same year, the Legion initiated the bomb- ings of radical and communist bookstores and recreational centers, committed arson against at least one pro-Catholic theatre, and was directly responsible for the murder of la- bor organizer George Marchuk. Members planned assas- sinations of the boss of Highland Park, the councilman in Highland Park, and the mayor of Ecorse, Michigan; all were Catholics.8 Political revolutionary violence had be- come the norm, and the Legion became less of a vigilante group and more of a dedicated nativist fascistic political party. Effinger began planning the seizure of Washington D.C. by 1935.9 Brigadier General Lupp investigated the possibility of attacking enemies by means of typhoid. In an eerie parallel to the nascent Holocaust in Germany, Effin- ger planned to place time bombs filled with mustard gas in every American synagogue during Yom Kippur. The ex- 86 elements : : fall 2014 pected death toll was one million.10 Soon, the Legion’s militant anti-Catholicism became a detriment to the orga- nization. Members planned to plant a bomb near the shrine of Father Charles Coughlin, a well-known fascist supporter and potential ally.11 Such sentiment did not shield even the most loyal of Legionnaires, as shown by the story of Roy Pitcock. He was hanged by the Legion for re- fusing to leave his Catholic wife.12 Legionnaire Dayton Dean tried and failed to kill Catholic mayor William W. Voisine of Ecorse in 1935. Instead, he shot a black cam- paign worker named Edward Armour. Dean then lured another black worker to a cottage in Pinckney, Michigan. Legion members shot him and dumped his body in a swamp.13 On May 12, 1936 a Catholic named Charles Poole was kidnapped, driven out to a field near Dearborn, and shot five times. The Poole murder became the Legion’s un- doing. Soon the local police had followed the trail of bodies to Dayton Dean, who in turn revealed the activities of the Legion in public. The secret organization, suddenly thrust into the spotlight, collapsed almost overnight.14 While not overtly fascist in the economic sense, the Black Legion shared characteristics of contemporary European revolutionary movements. In particular, Effinger’s pledge to take Washington D.C. echoed Mussolini’s March on Rome. Their violent methods were used by similar groups abroad. However, they lacked several essential characteris- tics that tend to exclude them from groupings with exclu- sively fascist organizations. In particular, their intense se- crecy immediately ensured that they would never be able to carry out the mass rallies made popular by Adolf Hitler, or even Father Coughlin’s Christian Front. As previously stated, they also lacked an explicit economic agenda, in sharp contrast to the corporatism favored by the Silver Shirts and the populism espoused by the Coughlinites. While not explicitly fascist in some senses, the Black Le- gion can nevertheless be considered one of the preemi- nent groups that must be examined in any investigation into American fascism. While the Black Legion epitomized revolutionary terroris- tic violence, the Silver Legion fulfilled the need for fascist grandeur. By no means secret, the Legion’s founder Wil- liam Dudley Pelley was named to Who’s Who in America in every edition from 1926 to 1942.15 The Silver Shirts, as they were commonly known, can trace their origins back to Pelley’s manifesto No More Hunger, written in 1933. Modeled on Mein Kampf, Pelley called for the creation of a Christian Commonwealth that would be based on a fascist brand of corporatism. The new state, in Pelley’s mind, should also incorporate anti-Semitism and white suprem- acy.16 To achieve this, the Silver Legion of America (com- monly called the Silver Shirts) was formed on January 31, 1933.17 Pelley named himself National Commander and centered his headquarters in Oklahoma City. Unlike the Black Legion’s ominous robes, Pelley created a uniform like those worn by fascist supporters in Europe. The Silver Shirts dressed in a tie, dark blue corduroy pants, and a sil- ver shirt with a scarlet L on the shoulder.18 According to Pelley, the symbol stood for Love, Loyalty, and Liberty.19 Membership was restricted to white Christian males who were over eighteen and native born or naturalized citizens. The majority were Protestants.20 Pelley’s new legion was strongest in the Pacific Northwest, where 1,600 were spread out over twenty-three towns in Washington State.21 Just as Effinger had his White, Pelley’s chief lieutenant was a man named Roy Zachary. Zachary was to the Silver Shirts what White was for the Black Legion; he provided Pelley with a trustworthy and energetic organizer in the Midwest. He also provided what little active militancy the Silver Shirts had to offer. Zachary suffered a concussion during a brawl with protestors at a Silver Shirt rally in Chi- cago and was arrested several times for inciting to riot.22 What the Silver Shirts lost in direct action they more than made up for in grandiose planning. Like the reputed occult characteristics of Hitler’s Nazism, Pelley combined his open fascism with an esotericism that attracted recruits. He announced that Hitler’s appointment as Chancellor in Germany coincided with a prophecy Pelley had heard in 1929. Pelley reportedly based such a prophecy off of mea- surements of the Great Pyramid in Egypt.23 Later conspira- cies had a blatant flair for the anti-Semitic. Silver Shirts reported dutifully that Henry Morgenthau, then Secretary of Treasury under President Franklin D. Roosevelt and of Jewish origin, purchased quarters from a mint in Russia for only five cents, creating a twenty-cent profit for himself on each quarter put into American circulation. Similarly, they regarded President Roosevelt himself as a hidden Jew whose original name was Rosenfelt.24 Pelley’s economic plan was similarly impractical. His ideal Christian Commonwealth would include an “American Corporation.” This Corporation would force Americans to live on one fourth of America’s potential production, creat- ing supposed massive surpluses. Therefore, each citizen would get $1,000 beyond what they themselves earned that year. Those too old to work would receive their average earnings as they were in 1928.25 87 from doctor shepard to father coughlin overtly fascist towards the end of the 1930’s, and after 1938 his anti-Semitic rhetoric became more pronounced.30 He vehemently opposed the League of Nations, capitalism, foreign intervention, communism, the Roosevelt adminis- tration, and Jews.31 His own economic program was simi- lar to corporatism, and he argued for sixteen principles of social justice. These included, but were not limited to, a just living wage, public ownership of public necessities, the nationalization of the Federal Reserve System, a gradu- ated tax system, and government control of property deemed a necessity for the welfare of the general public. While Coughlin and the National Union for Social Justice provided the political cover for the organization, the Chris- tian Front was known to initiate violent revolutionary ac- tivity. Initially, conflict was confined mostly to New York City. Mobs of Coughlin supporters, often with little organi- zation or leadership, participated in various brawls and muggings, mostly directed towards those they perceived as Jews. In one incident, a man named Lawrence Maynard was beaten for selling anti-Coughlin propaganda. The per- petrator, John Dugan, was charged with assault, brought to a wanted poster for william pelley (photo courtesy of us government via wikipedia) It was ultimately Pelley’s political platform and campaign of militancy that caused his personal downfall and the dis- solution of his private army. He enlisted lieutenants that included a man named Virgil Hayes, who later testified against him before the Special House Congressional Sub- committee on Un-American Activities. Hayes asserted that he taught Legionnaires street fighting techniques and trained them in the use of small arms. He also claimed that he had been offered money for various munitions: $10 for each rifle, twenty dollars for each case of ammunition, $50 for each machine gun. Two corporals at the North Is- land Naval Base in San Diego reportedly sold the Silver Shirts shotguns, rifles, and pistols.26 Appearances before a separate committee revealed Pelley’s contacts with the German government. Apparently, a Colonel Edwin Emer- son had offered Pelley a reward of ten dollars for each Ger- man he recruited for the Legion. They set a target of 15,000 German members. Pelley claimed that he refused the of- fer.27 Nevertheless, he was charged with sedition in 1942, tried, convicted, and sentenced to fifteen years in the Terre Haute Federal Penitentiary. Soon after the conviction, the Silver Legion ceased to exist. Pelley’s Silver Shirts represent a political evolution from the Black Legion. The group was well organized, armed, and politically active. Most importantly, they can be charac- terized as explicitly fascist based on their corporate eco- nomic platform and public displays of organization. Pelley was also a charismatic leader in the vein of Mussolini and Hitler, whereas Effinger was less prone to showmanship and more concerned with violence. The combination of the Silver Legion’s flair for the political and the Black Legion’s penchant for revolutionary violence manifested itself in the Christian Front, founded by Father Charles Coughlin. Where the Black Legion lacked a spe- cific political platform and the Silver Shirts did not carry out any specific violent attacks, the Christian Front encom- passed all the aspects of a typical fascist movement. No discussion on the Christian Front can take place with- out mentioning Father Charles Coughlin. Beginning in 1931, Coughlin regularly used radio to lambast his political opponents.28 His addresses were first directed at oppo- nents of the New Deal and he was seen as a strong ally of President Roosevelt. In 1934 he publicly broke with the Roosevelt administration and started his own party.29 The National Union for Social Justice, as it came to be known, reached its peak membership at 4 million, most of whom were Catholics on the East Coast. Coughlin himself was 88 elements : : fall 2014 trial, and subsequently given a suspended sentence and released.32 Other incidents saw various anti-Coughlin ral- lies degenerate into riots. At one point, an elderly female picketer randomly attacked a man and a woman for ap- pearing to be Jews.33 Though these acts were violent, they did not constitute the sort of political terrorism one often finds in a fascist group. The closest the Christian Front ever came to a legitimate terrorist attack was uncovered in January of 1940. The Brooklyn Christian Front Sports Club (BCFSC) was a Christian Front affiliated action committee centered in the heart of New York City. Various accounts place either Wil- liam Bishop or John Cassidy as its leader. Bishop was well known in fascist circles and at one point was marked for assassination by The Order of 76.34 An FBI informant within the BCFSC detailed the Club’s activities over the period of a year in 1939. Bishop is known to have planned the bombing of a Daily Worker office and also attempted to burn down the Communist Party Headquarters in New York City.35 It is known that the Club participated in fire- arms training on October 21, 1939. They were self-armed, and various members boasted of arms theft, mostly from government sources.36 It is known that Bishop himself personally came into the possession of two Browning ma- chine guns stolen from a Boston armory.37 At one point, the informant was introduced to two men identified as members of the Irish Republican Army, ostensibly present to buy and sell weapons.38 The group planned to bomb sev- eral public centers in the New York area, and purchased the materials necessary to do so. An FBI raid on January 13, 1940 eventually interrupted their activities. Upon inspec- tion of their headquarters, the FBI found the following: fifteen partially completed bombs, eighteen cans of trench mortar explosive powder, ten 30.06 caliber rifles of various manufacture, two .45 caliber Springfield rifles, four .22 caliber rifles, one .32 caliber Savage Automatic machine gun, one twenty gauge shotgun, seven hundred and fifty rounds of machine gun ammunition, three thousand five hundred rounds of 30.06 caliber ammunition, dynamite fuses, flares, chemicals, and at least one sword.39 Addition- ally, seventeen members were arrested.40 After a highly publicized trial, three were freed due to lack of evidence, nine were acquitted, and five were granted mistrials. No one was ever convicted as a result of the raid. By all accounts, the Christian Front was sufficiently pre- pared for a devastating terrorist attack. The arms seized in the 1940 raid were easily enough to cause considerable damage to both public property and government employ- ees. There is little doubt that, while the press derided them as fanatics, the Brooklyn Christian Front Sports Club was capable of a spectacular terroristic attack that was only averted due to the timely FBI raid. It was, in a sense, the most complete fascist organization America has ever seen. The Front had a strong political arm in the National Union for Social Justice, a charismatic Hitler-esque leader in Fa- ther Coughlin, and a well armed and dedicated direct ac- tion group prepared to engage in political violence. Al- though not unique in neither their ideology nor their methods, the Front appears to be the only group that was capable of garnering mass political support while still maintaining a penchant for violence. It epitomizes what American fascism could have been, and asserts once and for all that fascism as a movement does have a place in the annals of American history, whether history would like to include it or not. endnotes 1. Peter H. Amann, “Vigilante Fascism: The Black Legion as an American Hyrbrid,” Comparative Studies in Society and History, 25, no. 3 (1983), 493. 2. Amann “Vigilante Fascism...”, 494 3. Amann “Vigilante Fascism...”, 496 4. Amann “Vigilante Fascism...”, 500 5. Peter H. Amann, “A ‘Dog in the Nighttime’ Problem: American Fascism in the 1930’s,” The History Teacher, 19, no.4 (1986): 556 6. Peter H. Amann, “Vigilante Fascism…”, 504. 7. Peter H. Amann, “Vigilante Fascism…”, 506 8. Peter H. Amann, “Vigilante Fascism…”, 511 9. Peter H. Amann, “A ‘Dog in the Nighttime’…”, 566. 10. Peter H. Amann, “Vigilante Fascism…”, 512. 11. Peter H. Amann, “A ‘Dog in the Nighttime’…”, 567. 12. Peter H. Amann, “Vigilante Fascism…”, 518. 13. Peter H. Amann, “Vigilante Fascism…”, 520 14. Peter H. Amann, “Vigilante Fascism…”, 521 15. Suzanne G. Ledeboer, “The Man Who Would Be Hitler: William Dudley Pelley and the Silver Legion,” California History, 65, no. 2 (1986), 127. 16. Eckard V. Toy, Jr., “Silver Shirts in the Northwest: Politics, Prophecies, and Personalities in the 1930’s,” The Pacific Northwest Quarterly, 80, no.4 (1989): 141. 17. Suzanne G. Ledeboer, “The Man Who Would Be Hitler…”: 129. 18. Ledeboer, 130. 19. Arnold Sevareid, “Silvershirts Meet Secretly Here But Come Out Openly In Pacific Coast Drive,” The Minneapolis Journal, September 12 1936. 20. Eckard V. Toy, Jr., “Silver Shirts in the Northwest…”, 141 21. Toy, Jr., 142 22. Toy, Jr., 143 23. Toy, Jr., 140 89 from doctor shepard to father coughlin 24. Arnold Sevareid, “Silvershirts Say Quarters Are Bought By Morgenthau In Russia At 5 Cents Each,” The Minneapolis Journal, September 15, 1936. 25. Arnold Sevareid, “Silvershirts Here Elevate Maurice Rose To Status Of International Banker” The Minneapolis Journal, September 14, 1936. 26. Ledeboer, 132 27. Ledeboer, 135. 28. Charles J. Tull, Father Coughlin & the New Deal, (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1965), 1. 29. Tull, 59 30. Philip Jenkins, “”It Can’t Happen Here”: Fascism and Right- Wing Extremism in Pennsylvania, 1933-1942,” Pennsylvania History, 62, no. 1 (1995): 43 31. James P. Shenton, “Fascism and Father Coughlin,” The Wisconsin Magazine of History, 44, no.1 (1960): 9 32. James Wechsler, “The Coughlin Terror.” The Nation, July 22, 1939: 93 33. Wechsler, 95 34. FBI case # 65 - HQ - 4279, Christian Front, file in possession of the author. 35. Ibid 36. Ibid 37. Ibid 38. Ibid 39. Ibid 40. Francis MacDonnell, Insidious Foes, (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), 37. 41. Charles J. Tull, Father Coughlin & the New Deal: 223. references Amann, Peter H. “A ‘Dog in the Nighttime’ Problem: American Fascism in the 1930s.” The History Teacher. 19. no. 4 (1986): 559-584. Amann, Peter H. “Vigilante Fascism: The Black Legion as an American Hybrid.” Comparative Studies in Society and History. 25. no. 3 (1983): 490-524. FBI case # 65 - HQ - 4279, Christian Front, file in possession of the author. Jenkins, Philip. “”It Can’t Happen Here”: Fascism and Right-Wing Extremism in Pennsylvania, 1933-1942.” Pennsylvania History. 62. no. 1 (1995): 31-54. Ledeboer, Suzanne G. “The Man Who Would Be Hitler: William Dudley Pelley and the Silver Legion.” California History. 65. no. 2 (1986): 126-136. MacDonnell, Francis. Insidious Foes. New York: Oxford University Press, 1995. Sevareid, Arnold. “Silvershirts Here Elevate Maurice Rose To Status Of International Banker.” The Minneapolis Journal, September 14, 1936. Sevareid, Arnold. “Silvershirts Say Quarters Are Bought By Morgenthau In Russia At 5 Cents Each.” The Minneapolis Journal, September 15, 1936. Shenton, James P. “Fascism and Father Coughlin.” The Wisconsin Magazine of History. 44. no. 1 (1960): 6-11. Toy, Jr., Eckard V. “Silver Shirts in the Northwest: Politics, Prophecies, and Personalities in the 1930s.” The Pacific Northwest Quarterly. 80. no. 4 (1989): 139-146. Tull, Charles J. Father Coughlin and the New Deal. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1965. Wechsler, James. “The Coughlin Terror.” The Nation, July 22, 1939, 92-97. 90 elements : : fall 2014 paul boboc nick centrella frank a. direnno is a senior Biology major and History minor in the College of Arts & Sciences. He is interested in using scientific techniques to answer historical questions, focusing his research interests in the fields of bioarchaeology and pa- leopathology. He is currently using isotope analysis to study the geographic origins of historic Italian populations for his senior honors thesis. Outside of class, he has taught health education classes through Peer Health Ex- change and plays alto saxophone for the Boston College Pep Band. tate krasner is a junior in the College of Arts & Sciences from Charlotte, NC, majoring in International Studies and minoring in Chinese and Russian. His primary interests include conflict resolution, global security, peacekeeping, and eth- ics. He has served as a research assistant for Professor Kenneth Himes, focusing on the ethics of targeted killing and drone warfare, and he has completed independent research on Chinese unmanned aerial vehicles and Asia- Pacific security at the S. Rajaratnam School of International Studies in Singapore. Additionally, Krasner serves as Deputy Editor-in-Chief for Al-Noor and as a Clough Junior Fellow. author biographies samantha pinsak is a junior in the College of Arts & Sciences, majoring in History and Economics. Her paper was written for Profes- sor Ross’s “Women of the Renaissance” (H300) course. Aside from writing long papers, she enjoys singing in BC’s Liturgy Arts Group, tutoring through the Neighborhood Center, and is excited to start her new role as a Health Coach through the Office of Health Promotion! She recently participated in a Maya archaeological dig in northern Belize, and plans on working for a non-governmental organization in Switzerland for the Spring of 2015. missa sangimino is an English major in the class of 2015. After studying abroad at Kings College London and interning with the Fulbright Commission, Sangimino completed an independent research project with Professor Greene on financial regulation, analyzing the history and impact of the Volcker Rule during the spring of 2014. Sangimino is currently undertaking an Honors Thesis, analyzing female representation in mafia narratives, and will be continuing as a Teaching Assistant in the Business Law department of the Carroll School of Management. She is also a member of the BC Cycling Team, the Arrupe Nicaragua Program, the English Association, and Peer Health Exchange. margaret scollan was a member of the class of 2014, and graduated cum laude with a Bachelors of Science in Biology and a minor in History. She is interested in archaeological science, an interdisciplinary field tying together biology, chemistry, archaeology, and history. She is pursuing her Masters of Science in Archaeological Science at Durham University, United Kingdom (‘15). Maggie is an alumna of the Boston College Presidential Scholars Program, a member of Alpha Sigma Nu, and was selected as a 2014 Fulbright Finalist. “Nicosian Diets and Daily Life” is an abridged version of her Honors senior thesis. stacia vladimirova is a junior in the College of Arts & Sciences majoring in Political Science with a double minor in Economics and Sociology. She is a member of the Boston College chapter of the Golden Key International Honour Society and Political Science Honors Program. Her primary interests include Russian and U.S. foreign policy, as well as en- ergy and environmental policy. Her interest in the process and consequences of globalization was developed while studying abroad in Russia during a gap year, and is a driving force in her academic and personal interests. list of artwork cyprus © Un Ocha portrait of girolamo savonarola © Wikimedia Commons cosimo de medici © Wikimedia Commons israeli soldier © Israel Defense Force mourning © Wikimedia Commons franz kafka © Sigismund Jacobi gazprom logo © Gazprom vladimir putin © Norgler/Wikimedia Commons cranium © Wikimedia Commons medieval leprosarium © Wikimedia Commons dante alighieri © Wikimedia Commons william pelley wanted poster © US Government/Wikipedia 10 28 34 42 45 50 58 60 67 69 79 88