Journal articles on the topic 'Homeliness'

In my study, I explore the logical self-contradictions stemming from the legal category of the national minority and argue that the minority rights that create this category are unsuitable for resolving the fundamental existential paradox of minority status. Similarly to Sándor Makkai, I see the minority paradox in the lack of homeliness of the physical home. In my view, homeliness as a measure of social defaultness is a function of the consensus prevailing in society and thus is related to the legal order of the state hosting the minority. To resolve this existential paradox of ethnic Hungarians in Transylvania, I find it necessary to recognize the right to homeliness, which entails stepping out from the paradigm of minority rights.

This article explores the representation of British sailortown and merchant sailors onshore in the context of their representation in Victorian writing and contemporary journalism. It proposes that sailortown functioned as an urban setting which offered the traveling or returning sailor an important sense of homeliness—a homeliness that was paradoxically based on the promotion of a collective and worldly belonging. This sense of “worldliness” was articulated through aspects of ornamental material culture ranging from sailortown's visual display of nautical and transnational symbols, to the interior arrangements of places of hospitality such as Sailors’ Homes, to sailors’ own forms of portable property. By thinking more closely about the relationship between the domestic and the global in the context of maritime culture, the article proposes that the ornamental features of the seafarer's life, in all its diverse manifestations, serves to reveal the paradoxes and rich ambivalences that underscore the situation of the nineteenth-century sailor onshore.

In this work, I analyze the theoretical boundaries between the concepts of immigration and diaspora as represented in Brian Moore’s novel The luck of Ginger Coffey. This novel raises the possibility of discussing different concepts of diaspora and immigration, as well as various aspects, like the perception of the experience, the fluidity of terms regarding mobility, the criteria that define diaspora and immigration, the concepts of home and homeliness, and assimilation.

Current research investigating the accommodation experience in the sharing economy in China is limited, especially from a cross-cultural perspective. To fill this gap, this study examined the accommodation experience of Airbnb guests using text-mining techniques and compared the accommodation experience perception between two culturally different groups: domestic Chinese and foreign English-speaking Airbnb guests. The results showed that the two groups shared eight common dimensions, including “Convenience/Location”, “Amenities”, “Feel at home”, “Check-in/out”, “Experience”, “Availability/Transportation”, “Host”, and “Style/Decoration”. However, there are differences in the relative importance of each dimension of accommodation experience between the domestic and foreign Airbnb guests. For example, the foreign guests more often mentioned homeliness, location/convenience, and availability/transportation, while the domestic guests showed greater interest in check-in procedures and style/decoration. Additionally, the two groups have several unique dimensions. The dimensions unique to foreign guests are “Recommendation” and “Booking flexibility”, while the dimensions unique to domestic guests are “Revisit” and “Cleanliness”. This study provides both theoretical and practical implications for peer-to-peer accommodation hosts and platforms. For example, Airbnb hosts can improve the satisfaction of Airbnb guests by improving several common extracted topics (e.g., amenities quality and host response) and the fact that foreign guests care more about homeliness, while domestic guests pay more attention to the check-in process and house design and decoration.

AbstractObjective:To explore how patients experience being in the hospital environment and the meaning they assign to the environment during serious illness.Method:A qualitative study design was applied, and the data analysis was inspired by Ricoeur's phenomenological-hermeneutic theory of interpretation. Data were collected through multiple qualitative interviews combined with observations at a teaching hospital in Denmark from May to September 2011. A total of 12 patients participated.Results:The findings showed that the hospital environment has a strong impact on patients' emotions and well-being. They reported that aesthetic decorations and small cozy spots for conversation or relaxation created a sense of homeliness that reinforced a positive mood and personal strength. Furthermore, being surrounded by some of their personal items or undertaking familiar tasks, patients were able to maintain a better sense of self. Maintaining at least some kind of familiar daily rhythm was important for their sense of well-being and positive emotions.Significance of Results:The results stress the importance of an aesthetically pleasing and homelike hospital environment as part of palliative care, since the aesthetic practice and a sense of homeliness strengthened patients' experiences of well-being, relief, and positive emotions while in a vulnerable situation. Such knowledge could encourage the development of new policies regarding appropriate care settings, which in turn could result in overall improved care during serious illness.

Purpose The purpose of this paper is to build a new theoretical framework for inscribing the constituents of therapeutic community (TC) practice in prisons and other secure psychiatric settings looking at three core element: homeliness, hope and humour. Design/methodology/approach The study is based on theory building, review of related literature, including research and policy, and synthesis from related funded research projects (Sociology of Health and Illness, Arts Humanities Research Council). Findings Home-as-method, and the concept of transitional home, highlights how a well-designed therapeutic environment looks and feels and can act as a base for effective rehabilitation. The TC aspires to offer a corrective new synthesis of home superseding the resident’s prior experience. A through-going definition of hope-as-method is outlined. It is argued that hope is co-constructed on the TC, and that there is a necessary challenge in gauging fluctuations in hope across time. Humour is a much overlooked idea but arguably an integral ingredient of healthy transactions between prisoners and staff. The particularities of humour present a challenge and an opportunity for harnessing the conditions when humour can flourish and conversely, the chain of events when mal humour damages community atmosphere. Practical implications H3 provides a new framework for reflecting on current TC practice, and also a model for developing novel ways of seeing, including the development of research and policy guidance. H3 also provides a philosophical base for developing a curriculum for education and training. Originality/value The 3Hs offers a rubric for positively narrating the aspirations of a prison milieu. The idea is purposively simple, and so far the authors have found that staff, prisoners and service directors are receptive to the concept, and there are plans for the 3Hs are set to be a narrative descriptor for developing practice in prisons.

ABSTRACTMealtimes in residential care homes are fundamentally social occasions, providing temporal structure to the day and opportunities for conversation and companionship. Food and drink are imbued with social meanings and used to express and create relationships between people. There is a dearth of research exploring care home residents' mealtime experiences in the United Kingdom. This paper reports on particular findings from a qualitative study which investigated factors influencing nutritional care provided to residents in two different types of residential care settings in South Wales, UK. Data were generated through focus group interviews with relevant staff members (N = 15), individual interviews with managers (N = 4) and residents (N = 16) of the care homes and their informal carers (N = 10), observation of food preparation and mealtimes throughout the day, and analysis of appropriate documents. Data were analysed using thematic analysis. This paper's focus is on the ways in which care home residents' experiences and understandings of mealtimes were influenced by various environmental factors, such as the home's geographical location, physical lay-out and ambience. Moreover, the shared meaning of mealtimes for residents, informal carers and staff was constructed from each group's socio-cultural background, family experiences and memories, and was integral to residents' sense of normality, community and identity.

The argument contends that Jhumpa Lahiri’s fiction – in particular her two novels to date, The Namesake (2003) and The Lowlands (2013) – features a combination of the elements of homeliness and estrangement, domestic and foreign, ultimately, self and the other, that evokes the Freudian concept of the uncanny. Placing it in the context of the diasporic family dynamics, prevalent in Lahiri’s fiction, the uncanny effect may be seen to reside in the unspoken secrets and repressed content passed on from the first to the second generation and disturbing the neat acquisition of the trappings of middle-class domesticity. Drawing on recent models of the “geopolitical novel” (Irr), the “new immigrant fiction” (Koshy) and the “South Asian diasporic novel” (Grewal), the reading engages with the irruption of the unhomely into the domestic space, sustained by immigrant families in the face of local and global disturbances.

Amidst massive economic damage tension between the needs to save lives and save jobs has become the basis of a key political fault-line and a matter of daily on-the-ground management during the COVID-19 pandemic. In this article we consider four especially salient changes to work-life wrought by the pandemic: (1) new workplace praxes pertaining to matters of touch; (2) erosion and degrading of the quality of erstwhile intimate relations in certain workplaces; (3) changes to senses of belonging and homeliness in workplaces; (4) and, reflecting on the particular type of work that we do, how the pandemic (and pandemic lockdown especially) is impacting our pedagogical and research practices. Throughout we reveal how the intimacies experienced within workplaces are being transformed – not always eroded or degraded, but also sometimes adapted, sustained in new ways (especially via new communications technologies), and even enhanced.

The article investigates the ongoing reformulation of the institutional culture of early childhood education and care (ECEC) in Finnish evening ECEC. Educators’ practices in implementing evening ECEC were explored and viewed through the lens of young children’s belonging. Data were collected by observing the evenings of eight children aged 20–36 months in two Finnish centers offering flexibly scheduled ECEC and analyzed using qualitative thematic analysis. Three main themes of educators’ practices were identified: (1) managing a unique and changing social group, (2) fostering homeliness, and (3) maintaining routines and institutional order. While these practices mostly contributed to child-responsive interactions supportive of young children’s belonging, in some of them individual children’s initiatives were not responded to, thereby challenging their belonging. Overall, educators’ practices in implementing evening ECEC manifested the orientation of the institutional culture of ECEC toward the present ideals regarding young children’s belonging.

This article explores how “home” is performed in the emerging sharing economies of tourism, drawing on the example of Airbnb in Sofia, Bulgaria. Based on an (auto)ethnographic approach, this article analyses the sometimes contested ways in which both hosts and guests engage in the everyday embodied practices of home-making. In doing so, it challenges Airbnb’s essentialized idea of home as a site of belonging, “authenticity” or “localness”. It also shows how the political and historical specificities, as well as the materialities of people’s homes significantly shape the ways in which ordinary practices of homemaking play out and consequently affect feelings of (un)homeliness as part of the Airbnb experience. By using performance theory as an analytical framework, this article seeks to contribute to a critical understanding of the contemporary geographies of home in relation to the global sharing economies of tourism, one that is attuned to openness, interrelatedness, and a constant mode of becoming.

The works analysed in this paper – Wacław Rolicz-Lieder’s poem Ja jestem satyr [I am a Satyr](from the volume Nowe wiersze [New poems, 1903] and Jacek Malczewski’s painting Hołdsztuce i muzie [Homage to Art and Muse, 1910] – relate to the theme of art. They cover a subjectof key importance to the Young Poland movement, simultaneously using the motif of a forest idol(faun, satyr) fashionable at the turn of the 20th century. The difference between these two works isnot limited to the nature of artistic expression (poetic vision – the painter’s vision). In the poem byRolicz, it is narrowed to the individual (the individual’s experiences) – basically, it is the confessionof an individual finding satisfaction in the image of what is native. In the painting by Malczewski,the perspective seems wider and more universal. The former reveals what could be the source ofinspiration for an artist, while the latter presents what art can aspire to. Regardless of this directionof influence, both works contain the suggestion that art is conditioned by culture and that it has theright to bear the mark of “homeliness”.

Purpose – The purpose of this paper is to assess the behavioural and psychological effects on people with intellectual disabilities of transferring to an environment influenced by patient choice and low secure standards. Design/methodology/approach – Patients and staff transferring from a non-optimal environment to one driven by low secure standards compared the homeliness, ward climate and satisfaction with the two wards. Comparisons were made between the occurrences of risk behaviours on the two wards. Findings – The new environment was rated by staff as more homely while patients’ increased satisfaction with the new ward was reflected in social climate ratings of patient cohesion and experienced safety. The latter findings were reinforced by an objective reduction in risk behaviours in the new environment. Practical implications – Treatment interventions need to optimise research findings that attest to the influence of the environment on the behaviour of patients with intellectual disabilities. Originality/value – Findings highlight need to increase the focus on aspects of the built environment in planning the treatment of women in secure care.

Financial speculation and capitalist accumulation leave spatial and temporal traces. When the waves of the global financial collapse reached Ireland and culminated in the extreme measure of the comprehensive state guarantee, the receding excesses of the Celtic Tiger revealed a landscape that was gentrified and alienating. The spectrality of the ghost estates of Ireland became a synecdochal signifier of Ireland's ignominious fall from the podium of neoliberal grace and the focus of both popular lament and critical intervention. This essay provides a deferred assessment of the uncanniness of dwelling in post-Celtic Tiger Ireland by concentrating on the socioecological fallout of ruins and the longterm casualties of land speculation: that is, transformations of landscape into real estate, and of place into property. Reading Ireland's ghost estates as ‘imperial formations’ that ‘register the ongoing quality of processes of decimation, displacement, and reclamation’ – to use Ann Laura Stoler's term – the essay brings to the fore questions of dwelling and homeliness that suggest more protracted imperial processes which ‘saturate the subsoil of people's lives and persist, sometimes subjacently, over a longer durée’. To demonstrate these arguments the essay will analyse works by Kevin Barry, Sara Baume, and Claire Keegan.

The study aimed to evaluate and develop quality standards in the education sector, through sampling the opinion of stakeholders the current standards and make the development it as it notes the existence of problematic standards in the current standards and thus th eir inability to diagnose the actual reality of education, the study was based on the case study method and homeliness and field interviews with those involved in order to get the data, it has been a form design included the proposed standards for adoption instead of the current standards has also been used a number of statistical methods and standards including the global exploratory analysis and so with the help of statistical program (SPSS) :The current study findings to a set of conclusions was the most important:The existence of a concrete blurry and weak when managers regarding the application of knowledge standards, The study concluded a set of recommendations Perhaps the most important: increased support and develop managers and teachers the ability to establish positive relationships with students and colleagues at work, taking into account the need to adopt standards proposed and obtained the agreement of the study sample.

The study aimed to evaluate and develop quality standards in the education sector, through sampling the opinion of stakeholders the current standards and make the development it as it notes the existence of problematic standards in the current standards and thus th eir inability to diagnose the actual reality of education, the study was based on the case study method and homeliness and field interviews with those involved in order to get the data, it has been a form design included the proposed standards for adoption instead of the current standards has also been used a number of statistical methods and standards including, the global exploratory analysis and so with the help of statistical program (SPSS) :The current study findings to a set of conclusions was the most important:The existence of a concrete blurry and weak when managers regarding the application of knowledge standards, The study concluded a set of recommendations Perhaps the most important: increased support and develop managers and teachers the ability to establish positive relationships with students and colleagues at work, taking into account the need to adopt standards proposed and obtained the agreement of the study sample.

Africa’s bitter historical experience of slavery and racial discrimination influences diasporic literary writers in their representation of home and its exigencies. This is due to the sordid effect of racial conflicts culminating in disillusionment of writers, who engage in the nostalgic longing for their country of origin, notwithstanding the influences of the host country on African migrants. By exploring Warsan Shire’s poetry, this study, through the lens of modernity and globalization, examines the concept of home while x-raying locations of the African immigrant in diaspora. The research utilised the Postcolonial theory and the qualitative method of analysis to examine how diasporic immigrants, particularly female subalterns struggle to grapple with the intricacies of dwelling in a hostile clime which situates the “Us” and “Them” binary opposition on their lived conditions. It analysed Shire’s poems as a product of the transcultural identity formation of the poet, illustrating her migratory experiences through the notion of “unhomely” (in her home country) and “Homeliness” (in her host country) as dilemmas that bisect her quest for return home because of war. The study, thus, submits that globalization alternates the idea of situating home as a place of origin.

AbstractFamily worship, or family prayer, is a form of piety which was propagated in the Netherlands in the seventeenth century by the pietistic movement of the Nadere Reformatie. It was still propagated when in the early nineteenth century the theological climate had changed. In family worship the members of a family held a sort of church service together: they prayed together, sang and read from the Bible or an edifying book. Around the year 1800 many books were written for family devotion in the Netherlands, even by such prominent theologians as Clarisse and Van der Palm. Moreover, many translations of devotional books of German origin appeared. In this article family worship is described on the basis of three treatises published by Dutch societies, the orthodox Haagsch Genootschap, the 'evangelical' Nederlandsch Zendeling Genootschap, and the liberal Maatschappij tot Nut van het Algemeen. These treatises were written for the 'common man'. They show that in the early nineteenth century family worship was propagated because religion was seen as the guarantee of the happiness of the family, and of the prosperity of society in general. The concept of family worship was especially suited to the pervading culture of homeliness in the Netherlands of the early nineteenth century. In spite of the different background of the three societies, their treatises do not differ from each other very much.

Before the so-called refugee influx into Germany peaked in 2015, the term Willkommens- und Anerkennungskultur [welcome culture] emerged as a political response to the negative attitude towards immigrants within the German society. During the summer and autumn of 2015, a new set of welcoming practices emerged as large groups of local Berliners engaged in the refugee situation – some by housing refugees in their own home. At this stage, the concept of welcome culture was no longer nourished by the input of political actors alone, it had become a part of a public discourse. The present article is based on ethnographical fieldwork, and is a part of a comprehensive master thesis that is focused on Willkommens- und Anerkennungskultur – more specifically, how different forms of welcome culture in light of the refugee influx into Europe in 2015 emerged in the everyday life, of civic initiators in Berlin, Germany. With inspiration from John Law’s Modes of Ordering I examine the informants’ different practices and rationales for engaging in the refugee crisis. Taking inspiration from the concept of conviviality I analyze how the home and certain notions of solidarity, inclusion and ‘homeliness’ become part of the practices and rationales for housing refugees, and perform different versions of engagement. I conclude that the informants’ welcoming practices and rationales are in and out of sync, with each other and the political concept of welcome culture.

The husband and wife acting duo, Michael Denison and Dulcie Gray, achieved popular acclaim in British cinema during the 1940s, Gray in They Were Sisters (1945) and Denison in My Brother Jonathan (1948). Following the success of My Brother Jonathan (in which Gray also appeared), the couple's star status was soon cemented by roles together on screen, including notably The Glass Mountain (1949), The Franchise Affair (1951), Angels One Five (1952) and There Was a Young Lady (1953). As a result of these roles in popular films and images of the couple in extra-cinematic culture, a picture of cosy, domestic consensus became irrevocably associated with Denison and Gray's status as British film stars, much to Denison's later chagrin.Rachael Low's History of the British Film suggests that British actors and actresses have not been deemed worthy of the glamorous connotations of star status because they are ‘somewhat homely in comparison with legendary international figures’ (1971: 263). In this period, the Denisons’ star image was characterised by the ‘homely’: by a vision of their domestic life together as at once aspirational, ordinary and English. However, this article argues that their stardom can be resituated as a postwar reformulation of modes linking British stars with ideas surrounding domestic modernity in the middlebrow culture of the interwar years. Therefore, Low's label of homeliness can be redefined as a key characteristic of the distinction, promotion and reception of popular British stardom in the immediate postwar period.

This pilot research project sought to provide a postoccupation assessment of a new mental health inpatient unit in East London, built under the Private Finance Initiative scheme. Qualitative discussion groups or unstructured interviews were used to explore the views of people who had been service users (but were currently well) and of nursing staff and consultants working in the new hospital. The participants gave their views on the aspects of the hospital which were beneficial or detrimental to well-being and the reasons for their views. Informants discussed hospital design in terms of: (1) respect and empowerment for people with mental illness; (2) security and surveillance versus freedom and openness; (3) territoriality, privacy, refuge, and social interactions; (4) homeliness and contact with nature; (5) places for expression and reaffirmation of identity, autonomy, and consumer choice; and (6) integration into sustainable communities. Themes emerging from this research were interpreted in light of ideas from geographical research on therapeutic landscapes constituted as physical, social, and symbolic spaces, as well as research from environmental psychology. The findings have practical implications for hospital design and underline the need to consider empowerment of patients in decisions over hospital design. We note the challenges involved in determining therapeutic hospital design given changing models of care in psychiatry, lack of consensus over models of care, and the varying and somewhat conflicting requirements these imply for the physical, social, and symbolic attributes of design of hospital spaces. We also note the implications of our findings for an interpretation of therapeutic landscapes as contested spaces.

The given article is analysing images of the invisible by example of sensory perception visual cultural images by a human being. Qualia, which is a problem phenomena in philosophical society, to this day, provoking discussions of the very fact of its existence, is embodied in art, and claim a human being not be, what he or she is really, but wants to be. Such a desire is expressed in an active position of art to intensify taste for life, adorn our reality, show an alternative for a possible development of a human being, who becomes a culture character. In culture, a great deal is based not on presentation of other worlds, but on their sensation of other worlds, and the latter changes his or her concept of the art visual constituent. Moreover, such a concept translates a new aesthetics of beauty through visible images, and the aesthetics raise a human being over his or her homeliness. In many respects, this phenomena is originated from semiotic practices of modern art, embedded the idea into human conscience as follows: He or she is always a creator and co-author of the all new, that is why, should strain every effort to endow art images with his or her symbolic sense and increase importance of the new. Facing an artwork, a human being raised its aesthetical status, attributing the art his or her individual senses, which his or her self-sentiment is traced with. At the same time, cultural images emphasise internal human beauty with its semiotic models; such a phenomena generates the modern idea of Kalokagathia, connected with aesthetics of being felt beauty.

El presente artículo tiene por objetivo analizar desde un punto de vista ontológico los retos económicos y existenciales que Europa afronta durante los últimos años, a consecuencia de la crisis económica y de la masiva oleada de refugiados derivada de los conflictos en el mundo Árabe. Cimentando nuestra argumentación en la interpretación de Martin Heidegger del ser humano como δεινόν, asombroso, tratamos de demostrar que el núcleo ontológico de la situación turbulenta que actualmente vivimos puede hallarse en el evento de la ausencia de hogar, en tanto que carencia de una morada propia en Europa. Por último, presentamos la política e ideológicamente convulsa matriz del esquema político europeo moderno, a fin de subrayar la relevancia de redefinir, por una parte, el significado de familiaridad y coexistencia para nosotros, los europeos, y, por otra, Europa en tanto que totalidad.The aim of this article is to analyse from an ontological point of view the challenges, economic and existential, that Europe has been facing the last years as a result of the economic crisis and the incoming human waves of the refugees as a result of the conflicts in the Arab world. Namely, founding our argumentation on the interpretation of the human being as δεινόν, uncanny, made by Martin Heidegger we would like to show that the ontological core of the turbulent situation we are currently living in can be found in the concept of homelessness as the lack of our abode in Europe. Finally, presenting the political and ideologically intense matrix of the modern European political scene we aim at highlighting the importance of redefining what homeliness and cobelonging mean to us, Europeans and Europe as a whole.

Background: Silk fibroin is the main protein of silk, and it has recently been evaluated for drug delivery applications due to its excellent properties. Specifically, silk fibroin exhibits good biocompatibility, biodegradability and low immunogenicity. Fibroin nanoparticles have attracted attention due to their high binding ability to different drugs as well as their ability for controlled drug release. The improvement of the therapeutic efficiency of drug encapsulation is important and depends on the particle size, the chemical structure and the properties of the silk fibroin nanoparticles. Methods: There is a variety of methods for the preparation of fibroin nanoparticles such as (i) electrospraying and desolvation method, (ii) supercritical fluid technologies, (iii) capillary-microdot technique, (iv) salting out etc. Furthermore, various techniques have been used for the characterization of nanoparticles such as SEM (scanning electron microscopy), TEM (transmission electron microscopy), DLS (dynamic light scattering), Zeta-potential and FTIR (Fourier transform infrared spectroscopy). Different drugs (paclitaxel, curcumin, 5-fluorouracil etc) have been encapsulated in fibroin nanoparticles. Results: Each separated synthesis method has different advantages such as (i) high yield, (ii) avoid use of toxic solvents, (iii) low cost, (iv) controllable particle size, (v) no organic solvent residue, (vi) simplicity of operation, (vii) small particles size, (viii) homeliness of operation, (ix) restrainable particle size, (x) easy and safe to operate, (xi) no use of organic solvent. Moreover, some major drugs studied are Floxuridine, Fluorouracil, Curcumin, Doxorubicin, Metotrexate, Paclitaxel and Doxorubicin, Horseradish peroxidase. All the above combinations (preparation method-drug) are studied in detail. Conclusion: Various drugs have been encapsulated successfully in silk fibroin and all of them exhibit a significant release rate. Finally, the encapsulation efficiency and release rate depend on the molecular weight of the drugs and it can be adjusted by controlling the crystallinity and concentration of silk fibroin.

The Australian White Ibis (Ibis) ( Threskiornis molucca) is one of three endemic Ibis species in Australia. In a short time frame beginning in the 1970s, this species has moved from inland waterways to urban centres along the eastern and southeastern seaboards, Darwin and the Western Australian southwest. Today Ibis are at home in cities across the country, where they thrive on the food waste, water resources and nesting sites supplied by humans. In this article, the authors focus on Sydney to argue that the physical and cultural inroads of Ibis, and the birds’ urban homeliness, are resignifying urban surfaces and the multispecies ecologies in which contemporary Australians operate. They explore how the very physical and sensory presence of Ibis disrupts the assumptions of many urban Australians, and visitors from overseas, that cities are human-centric or human-dominant, non-hybrid assemblages. They also introduce to this discussion of disrupted human expectations a cultural parallel, namely, the recent rise of Ibis in popular culture as an icon-in-the-making of the nation and as a totem of the modern Australian city itself. This trend exemplifies an avian-led revisualization of urban spaces, and is notable for its visual appeals to Ibis kitsch, and to working class or ‘bogan’ sensibilities that assert their place alongside cosmopolitan visions of being Australian. Sometimes kitsch Ibis imagery erupts across the urban landscape, as occurs with many Ibis murals. At other times it infiltrates daily life on clothing, on football club, university and business logos, as tattoos on people’s skin, and as words in daily idiom, confirmed by terms such as ‘picnic pirates’, ‘tip turkeys’ and ‘bin chickens’. The article uses a visual vignette methodology to chart Ibis moves into Sydney and the realms of representation alike, and thus to reveal how new zoöpolitical entanglements are being made in the 21st century.

Palestinian narrative comes to reflect the reality of a nation under dislocation, Diaspora, and reshaping the indigenous identity. The Palestinian narratives always attempt to show part of the Palestinian suffering and struggling under the Israeli occupation. This study traces the life of a family, it is Abulheja’s during three generations as presented by Susan Abulhawa’s “While the World Sleeps” as the title of Arabic version, and it has other versions in English entitled ‘Mornings in Jenin’ or ‘Scar of David’, (2006). The study addresses the postcolonial concepts of dislocation, Diaspora, exile and reshaping the Palestinian identity of people/place in Susan Abulhawa’s “Mornings in Jenin”, it is a story of a Palestinian family living in the refugees’ camp of Jenin from 1948 to the beginning of the third millennium, 2002. It does not only represent the life of Abulheja’s family, it is a story of a nation, living in the refugees’ camp: Jenin refugees’, being strangers, even in their home. Many members of the family are killed, and many members of Palestinians’ identity are reshaped to avoid killing while a large group of Palestinians leave their country to America to fulfill the American dream of hope and happiness, and freedom and fairness as expected. However, their Journey to America and Europe may not help them to forget their traumatic past or start a new life away of nostalgic/collective memory and homeliness. The result showed the suffering and struggling of the Palestinian families, lacking the urgent needs of daily life. The study found the Jewish state worked on reshaping the cultural, religious, national, political and indigenous identity of the Palestinian people/place to fulfill their expansionist project of politico-historical domination, giving no serious considerations to the particularities of the indigenous people. The narrative showed that the indigenous identity of Palestinians had been reshaped and a lot of them left their home to places safer to live as strangers, away of their home.

A homely–stranger category in local anthroponomy on the example of surnames of Wysokie MazowieckieThe aim of the article is showing the homely–stranger category in relation with local anthroponomy on the example of surnames of inhabitants of a town in Podlasie.The opposition mentioned above is shown as one of basic categories which de­scribe the culture of local community. The role of surname geography in establishing the homely–stranger relation was discussed.Moreover, review of surnames’ interpretations in onomastic surveys was presented. In the discussion of the homely–stranger category with reference to anthropo­nyms of inhabitants of Wysokie Mazowieckie indicators of homeliness were taken into consideration: local (toponymic surnames with the ­ski formant), familiar (surnames formed from native appellatives and patronymic), recognized, accepted (surnames which contain foreign elements or unknown dialectal appellatives whose holders are well known to the community or there is a large representation of them). Among the indicators of strangeness there are elements: foreign (anthroponyms with non-­Polish formants, e.g. ­uk, foreign surnames which have a small representation of holders), unknown (anthroponyms formed from non-­Polish appellatives or from appellatives of archaic character), different (surnames with non-­Polish phonetic features).The discussion of understanding particular surnames by micro community shows again what important role a stereotype plays both on linguistic and cultural ground. Presented analysis shows inclination of a given group to attributing certain features to particular surnames. These features result from knowledge and imagin­ing of particular members of a community and most often are not connected with knowledge of morphological structure or an anthroponym’s etymology. Therefore they disaccord with linguistic interpretation. Категория свой–чужой в местной антропонимии на примере фамилий жителей города Высокое МазовецкоеВ статье проведен анализ категории свой – чужой в области антропонимов – фамилий жителей одного из городов региона Подляшие. Данное противопоставление представлено как форма/метод описания культуры местного общества. Приведен обзор толкования фамилий в ономастических исследованиях. При анализировании фамилий городка Высокое Мазовецкое учитывались критерии, определяющие своих: здешний (фамилии происходящие от названий местностей с финалью -ski), знакомый (фамилии, происходящие от аппелятивных наименований и патронимии), приемлемый (фамилии с иностранными элементами или неизвестные диалектные названия в качестве фамилий лиц хорошо известных в данном социуме или не имеющие многозначимого представительства в данной среде). Показателями, определяющими чужих, являются: нездешний (антропонимы, включающие непольские элементы, напр., -uk; иностранные фамилии немногих лиц), фамилии, происходящие от непольских или архаических аппелятивных наименований, отличающихся (фамилии с неполскими фонетическими элементами). Восприятие данных фамилий микросредой лишний раз подчеркивает существенное влияние стереотипа как на языки, так и на культуру. Из анализа следует также склонность приписывать отдедьным фамилиям определенных черт, являющихся эффектом знаний и представлений, бытующих в среде и, чаще всего, не связанных с пониманием морфологической структуры ими или этимологии антропонима – следовательно идущих в разрез с языковедческим толкованем.

Apart from biological, psychological, and social factors, recent studies indicate that spirituality and work culture also play an important role in the onset of burnout. Hence, the commonly applied bio-psycho-social model of health and disease might not be sufficient to comprehensively explain and describe burnout. This study empirically investigates the relationship between spirituality (operationalized by perceived meaningfulness of work) and work culture (operationalized by sense of homeliness of the working environment) with burnout risk and work engagement. For this purpose, an anonymous cross-sectional data collection with fully standardized questionnaires and selected socio-demographic and work-related items was conducted among working adults (n = 439) from different industries via social media and local health service centers. For all scales and subscales, we found significant moderate to strong correlations. Furthermore, positive meaning within the perceived meaningfulness of work scale was the largest beta coefficient for burnout (β = −0.65) and work engagement (β = 0.62). Within sense of homeliness, the largest beta coefficient for burnout was needs fulfillment (β = −0.34) and work engagement emotional connection (β = 0.36). The strong associations suggest that the current health and disease model needs to be expanded to a bio-psycho-socio-spirito-cultural model to be able to sufficiently describe burnout. The perceived meaningfulness of work and a sense of homeliness should be adequately considered when examining the onset of burnout, describing burnout as a concept, and explaining work engagement.

In year 2013, I lived in Vietnam. Once a year, the Vietnamese people have a particular tradition called khom đất, where the people set out a guest table filled with delicious feast of food and paper clothing, shoes, accessories and money for the spirits of the house. Khom in khom đất means a set of rituals or prayer to bow down and pay respect. Đất means land. It is a ritual which acknowledges the spirits within the home and the agency these spirits have to the home. There would be separate rituals for different types of spirits and incense would burn as an offering to various places. For example, an incense and food offering would be on an alter directly above the fire stove in the kitchen to be grateful to the fire spirit of the home. There is a belief that if the fire spirit gets angry, the spirit may be a danger to the family. The spirit has the agency and a power over the home. It is a ritual to recognise that a home has its ghosts, its history and its spirits that reside long before the current people residents and that they have the power to protect or destroy. Mostly, it is to recognaise that land and place is not to be owned, and matters such as fire or water or wood is not mere commodities. Rather, these materialities are living and only would be at our disposal to help us when they given the respect and recognition that they are living and are powerful agents.Within the Vietnamese language, there is no specific word for differentiate ‘home’ and ‘house’ but rather, use the word ‘house’ to mean both the building and the home – nhà (Rather then state, ‘I go home’ one states literally, ‘I return to the house’ – Tôi về nhà). To state house rather than home could mean that home is not to be possessed but rather, has it’s own agency, vitality and spirit.With this in mind, I will tell you about a particular uncanny phenomenon that has happened in my family home in Strathfield (a loved family home where my family still resides in) that has happened 10 years ago and has not escaped the memories of any of us. I hope to capture, in a self-reflexive way, the merging of the past and the present within the Vietnamese migrant experience living in the Australian landscape, with its dark history of the forced displacement of Indigenous peoples. I wish to mourn and acknowledge that the land that has given my refugee family opportunity to begin life safely and freely, and my birthplace is a stolen land. And that we are always both grateful and in mourning with our homeland.

This chapter and the next are concerned with Roman domestic art. But the term ‘domestic art’ may create a slightly misleading impression of the paintings, mosaics and sculptures, the statuettes and stuccoes with which the inhabitants of the Roman world adorned the rooms and gardens of their houses. The phrase implies domesticity and homeliness – a comfortable backdrop for private family life, perhaps. But the properties that offer the best surviving evidence of ‘domestic’ Roman art were less intimate and more public than most modern homes. Like the interiors of modern homes, the works of art contained in such houses and villas said much about the status and concerns of those sufficiently affluent to possess them; but they did so in a much more obvious and imposing manner and, unlike modern decor, these works often represented a considerable investment of specialized labour on the part of Roman craftsmen.

Companies seek among the main strategies that achieve sustainability, environmental and social performance, and this can only be achieved through the realization of green productivity, so the study aims to highlight the green productivity strategy standards and how they can play a significant role in environmental sustainability, as it is the last of topical subjects as the interest in it will lead to the shed and the concentration of industrial and consumer organizations to protect the environment through the output of green product cultural awareness of the workers and the community, which means that green productivity will lead organizations to achieve competitive advantage in the competitive environment. So was applied checklist through field homeliness and personal interviews, a number of department managers (environment, quality and safety, as well as the drilling sites). The study found that although the in spite of the arrival of the Iraqi Drilling Company to apply some standards and to varying degrees, but it sustainability did not achieve environmental and social performance. This leads us to not accept the main assumption. There is a role and impact for the green productivity strategy in sustainability for environmental and social performance.

The article attempts at detecting different meanings of the personal diary of Tatiana Rozhkova, a resident of post-war Tyumen, and various manifestations of the social and the individual reflected in it. It considers the ways of the author’s self-image construction and correlation of its facets in the space of the diary text. It is shown how the diarist’s addiction to propagandistic rhetoric of “culturalness”, transferred to the sphere of everyday life, was combined with her own understanding of culture. Rozhkova’s speculations on the mission of the Soviet intelligentsia and her attitude towards the representatives of the “uncultured” strata of the population testified that her social ideas were hierarchical. It is noted that the facade and “behind the facade” components of Soviet reality did not come into conflict in the text of the diary, which points to the diarist’s apolitical character. It is shown that the theme of labor / work, which was understood in two ways: as a collective feat and as individual creativity, became a borderline theme for the diary, where the socially conditioned and the individually significant overlapped and came into contact with each other. The creation of an autonomous private home space isolated from the outside world was especially significant for the diarist. The achievement of this goal was facilitated by the arrangement of Rozhkova’s apartment in accordance with the values of the nascent Soviet middle class with its passion for homeliness and comfort. It is concluded that the epoch in Tatiana Rozhkova’s diary manifested itself primarily in those rhetorical models and figurative patterns that were relevant at the time and served as models for the diarist.

A new device, sure to inspire technological bedazzlement, has been installed in Hong Kong shopping malls. Called simply The Love Machine, it functions like a photo booth, dispensing on-the-spot portraits1. But rather than one subject, it requires a couple, in fact the couple, in order to do its work of digital reproduction. For the output of this imaging machine is none other than a picture of the combined features of the two sitters, 'morphed' together by computer software to produce a technological child. Its Japanese manufacturers, while obviously cashing in on the novelty value, nevertheless list the advantage it allows for future matrimonial selection based around the production of a suitable aesthetic. Needless to say, the good citizens of Hong Kong have not allowed any rigid criteria for genetic engineering to get in the way of the progeny such a machine allows, creating such monstrous couplings as the baby 'cat-human', achieved by a sitter coupling with their pet. Rather than being the object of love here, technology acts as the conduit of emotion, or stronger still, it is the love relation itself, bringing the two together as one. What I want to touch upon is the sense in which a desire for oneness inhabits our relations to and through the technological. There is already an abundance of literature around the erotics of cyberspace, documenting and detailing encounters of virtual sex fantasies and romance. As well, there are more theoretical attempts to come to terms with what Michael Heim describes as the "erotic ontology of cyberspace" (59). Heim depicts these encounters not as a ravaging desire gone wild, sprouting up in odd places or producing monstrous offspring, but in homely and familial terms. Finally with the computer as incarnation of the machine, our love for technology can cease its restless and previously unfulfilled wanderings and find a comfortable place. What is worth pausing over here is the sense in which the sexual is subjugated to a conjugal and familial metaphor, at the same time as desire is modelled according to a metaphysics of fullness and lack. I would argue that in advancing this kind of love relation with the computer and the digital, the possibility of a relation is actually short-circuited. For a relation assumes the existence of at least two terms, and in these representations, technology does not figure as a second term. It is either marked as the other, where desire finds a soul mate to fill its lack. Or the technological becomes invisible, subsumed in a spiritual instrumentalism that sees it merely forging the union of cybernetic souls. I would suggest that an erotic relation with the technological is occluded in most accounts of the sexual in cyberspace and in many engagements with digital technologies. Instead we are left with a non-relational meeting of the same with itself. We might describe the dominant utilisation of the technological as onanistic. Relations of difference could be a productive effect of the technological, but are instead culturally caught up within an operational logic which sees the relational erotic possibilities of the machinic eliminated as sameness touches itself. I want to point towards some different models for theorising technology by briefly drawing upon the texts of Félix Guattari and Avital Ronell. These may lead to the production of a desiring relation with technology by coupling the machine with alterity. One of several climatic scenes from the 'virtual sex' movie Strange Days, directed by Katherine Bigelow, graphically illustrates the onanistic encounter. Set on the eve of the new millennium, the temporality of the film sets up a feeling of dis-ease: it is both futuristic and yet only too close. The narrative centres on the blackmarket in ultimate VR: purchasing software which allows the user, donning special headgear, to re-experience recorded memories in other peoples' lives. An evil abuser of this technology, known until the end of the film as an anonymous male junkie, is addicted to increasingly frequent hits of another's apperception. In his quest to score above his tolerance level, the cyber-junkie rapes a prostitute, but instead of wearing the headgear used to record his own perception of the rape, he forces the woman to put it on making her annex her subjectivity to his experience of desire. He records her reaction to becoming an appendage to him. The effect of watching this scene is deeply unsettling: the camera-work sets up a point-of-view shot from the position of the male subject but plays it to the audience as one might see through a video view-finder, thus sedimenting an assumed cultural association between masculinity and the male gaze. What we see is the violence produced by the annihilation of another's desire; what we hear is the soundtrack of the woman mimicking the male's enjoyment of his own desire. Put simply, what we watch is a feedback loop of a particular formation of technological desire, one in which the desire of or for the other is audio-visually impeded. Ultimately the experience can be stored and replayed as a porn movie solely for future masturbation. The scene in Strange Days quite adequately summarises the obstructed and obstructive desire to go no further than masturbation caught in the defiles of feedback. Feedback is also the term used in both video and sound production when a recording device is aimed at or switched onto a device playing back the same recording. The result, in the case of video, is to create an infinite abyss of the same image playing back into itself on the monitor; in the case of sound a high-pitched signal is created which impedes further transmission. By naming the desire to fuse with the technological a feedback loop, I am suggesting that manifestations of this desire are neither productive nor connective, in that any relation to exterior or heterogeneous elements are shut out. They stamp out the flow of other desires and replay the same looping desire based around notions of fullness and lack, completion and incompletion, and of course masculinity and femininity. Mark Dery makes this association between the desire for the technological, the elision of matter and phallic modes of masculinity: This, to the masculinist technophile, is the weirdly alchemical end point of cyberculture: the distillation of pure mind from base matter. Sex, in such a context, would be purged of feminine contact -- removed, in fact, from all notions of physicality -- and reduced to mental masturbation. (121) Dery's point is a corollary to mine; in discarding the need for an embodied sexual experience, the literature and representations of cyberspace, both theoretical and fictional, endorse only a touching of the sublimated self, no other bodies or even the bodily is brought into contact. There is no shortage of evidence for the disregard embodiment holds among the doyens of cyber-architecture. Hans Moravec and Marvin Minsky, writing about Artificial Intelligence, promote a future in which pure consciousness, freed from its entanglement with the flesh, merges with the machine (Mind Children; The Society of Mind). Here the reverence shown towards digital technology enters the sublime point of a coalition where the mind is supported by some sophisticated hardware, ultimately capable of adapting and reproducing itself. There are now enough feminist critics of this kind of cyberspeak to have noticed in this fantasy of machinic fusion a replay of the old Cartesian mind/body dualism. My point, however, is that this desire is not simply put in place by a failure to rethink the body in the realm of the digital. It is augmented by the fact that this disregard for theorising an embodied experience feeds into an inability to encounter any other within the realm of the technological. We should note that this is perpetuated not just by those seeking future solace in the digital, but also by its most ardent cultural critics. Baudrillard, as one who seemingly fits this latter category, eager to disperse the notion that writers such as Moravec and Minsky propound regarding AI, is driven to making rather overarching ontological remarks about machines in general. In attempting to forestall the notion that the machine could ever become the complement to the human, Baudrillard cancels the relation of the machine to desire by cutting off its ability to produce anything in excess of itself. The machine, on his account, can be reduced to the production of itself alone; there is nothing supplementary, exterior to or differential in the machinic circuit (53). For Baudrillard, the pleasures of the interface do not even extend to the solitary vice of masturbation. Celibate machines are paralleled by celibate digital subjects each alone with themselves, forming a non-relational system. While Baudrillard offers a fair account of the solitary lack of relation produced in and by digital technologies, he nevertheless participates in reinforcing the transformation of what he calls "the process of relating into a process of communication between One and the Same" (58). He catches himself within the circulation of the very desire he finds problematic. But whether onanistic or celibate, the erotics of our present or possible relations to technology do not become any more enticing in many actual engagements with emerging technologies. Popular modes of interfacing our desires with the digital favor a particular assemblage of body and machine where a kind of furtive one-handed masturbation may be the only option left to us. I will call this the operational assemblage, borrowing from Baudrillard and his description of Virtual Man, operating and communicating across computer cables and networks while being simultaneously immobilised in front of the glare of the computer screen. An operational assemblage, whilst being efficacious, inhibits movement and ties the body to the machine. Far from the body being discarded by information technologies, the operational assemblage sees certain parts of the body privileged and territorialised. The most obvious instance of this is VR, which, in its most technologically advanced state, still only selects the eyes and the hand as its points of bodily interface. In so-called fully immersive VR experience, it is the hand, wearing a data glove, which propels the subject into movement in the virtual world, but it is a hand propelled by the subject's field of vision, computer monitors mounted in the enveloping headset. Thus the hand operates by being subjected to the gaze2. In VR, then, the real body is not somehow left behind as the subject enters a new state of electronic consciousness; rather there is a re-organisation and reterritorialisation of the hand under the operative guidance of the eye and scopic desire. This is attested to by the experience one has of the postural body schema during immersion in VR. The 'non-operational' body remaining in physical space often feels awkward and clumsy as if it is too large or cumbersome to drag around and interact in the virtual world, as if it were made virtually non-functional. The operational assemblage of a distanced eye territorialising the hand to create a loop of identity through the machine produces a desiring body which is blocked in its relational capacities. It can only touch itself as self; it cannot find itself an other or as other. Rather than encouraging the hand to break connections with the circuit of the gaze, to develop speeds, capabilities and potentials of its own, these encounters are perpetually returned to the screen and the domain of the eye. They feed back into a loop where relations to other desires, other kinds of bodies, other machines are circumvented. Looping back and returning to the aesthetic reduction performed by the Love Machine, a more lo-tech version of the two technologically contracted to one might point to the possibility of alterity that current digital machines seem keen to circumvent. At San Fransisco's Exploratorium museum one of the public points of interface with the Human Genome Project can be found3. The Exploratorium has a display set up which introduces the public to the bioinformation technology involved as well as soliciting responses to bio-ethical issues surrounding the question of genetic engineering. In the midst of this display a simple piece of glass hangs as a divider between two sides of a table. By sitting on one side of the table with a light shining from behind, one could see both a self-reflection and through the glass to whomever was sitting on the other side. The text accompanying the display encourages couples to occupy either side of the glass. What is produced for the sitter on the light side is a combination of their own reflection 'mapped' onto the features of the sitter on the other side. The text for the display encourages a judgement of the probable aesthetic outcome of combining one's genes with those of the other. I tested this display with my partner, crossing both sides of the mirror/glass. Our reactions were similar; a sensation approaching horror arose as we each faced our distorted, mirrored features as possible future progeny, a sensation akin to encountering the uncanny4. While suggesting the familiar, it also indicates what is concealed, becoming a thing not known and thus terrifying. For what was decidedly spooky in viewing a morphing of my image onto that of the other's, in the context of the surrounding bioinformatic technologies, was the sense in which a familiarity with the homely features of the self was dislocated by a haunting, marking the claim of a double utterly different. Recalling the assertion made by Heim that in the computer we find an intellectual and emotional resting point, we could question whether the familiarity of a resting place provides a satisfactory erotic encounter with the technological. We could ask whether the dream of the homely, of finding in the computer a kinship which sanctions the love machine relation, operates at the expense of dispelling that other, unfamiliar double through a controlling device which adjusts differences until they reach a point of homeostasis. What of a reading of the technological which might instaurate rather than diffuse the question of the unfamiliar double? I will gesture towards both Guattari's text Chaosmosis and Ronell's The Telephone Book, for the importance both give to the double in producing a different relation with the technological. For Guattari, the machine's ghost is exorcised by the predominant view that sees particular machines, such as the computer, as a subset of technology, a view given credence at the level of hype in the marketing of AI, virtual reality and so forth as part of the great technological future. It also gains credibility theoretically through the Heideggerian perspective. Instead Guattari insists that technology is dependent upon the machinic (33). The machinic is prior to and a condition of any actual technology, it is a movement rather than a ground; the movement through which heterogeneous elements such as bodies, sciences, information come to form the interrelated yet specific fields of a particular assemblage we might term technological. It is also the movement through which these components retain their singularity. Borrowing from modern biology, Guattari labels this movement "autopoietic" (39). Rather than the cybernetic model which sees the outside integrated into the structure of the machinic by an adjustment towards homogeneity cutting off flow, Guattari underlines a continual machinic movement towards the outside, towards alterity, which transforms the interrelations of the technological ensemble. The machinic is doubled not by the reproduction of itself, but by the possibility of its own replacement, its own annihilation and transformation into something different: Its emergence is doubled with breakdown, catastrophe -- the menace of death. It possesses a supplement: a dimension of alterity which it develops in different forms. (37) Here, we can adjoin Guattari with Ronell's historical reading of the metaphorics of the telephone in attempts to think through technology. Always shadowed by the possibility Heidegger wishes to stake out for a beyond to or an overcoming of the technological, Ronell is both critical of the technologising of desire in the cybernetic loop and insistent upon the difference produced by technology's doubling desire. Using the telephone as a synecdoche for technology -- and this strategy is itself ambiguous: does the telephone represent part of the technological or is it a more comprehensive summary of a less comprehensive system? -- Ronell argues that it can only be thought of as irreducibly two, a pair (5). This differentiates itself from the couple which notoriously contracts into one. She argues that the two are not reducible to each other, that sender and receiver do not always connect, are not reducible to equal end points in the flow of information. For Ronell, what we find when we are not at home, on unfamiliar ground, is -- the machine. The telephone in fact maintains its relation to the machinic and to the doubling this implies, via the uncanny in Ronell's text. It relates to a not-being-at-home for the self, precisely when it becomes machine -- the answering machine. The answering machine disconnects the speaker from the listener and inserts itself not as controlling device in the loop, but as delay, the deferral of union. Loosely soldering this with Guattari's notion that the machine introduces a "dimension of alterity", Ronell reads the technological via the telephone line as that relation to the outside, to the machinic difference that makes the self always unfamiliar (84). I would suggest then that pursuing a love relation with technology or through the technological leads us to deploy an entire metaphorics of the familial, where the self is ultimately home alone and only has itself to play with. In this metaphorics, technology as double and technology's doubling desire become a conduit that returns only to itself through the circuitous mechanism of the feedback loop. Rather than opening onto heterogeneous relations to bodies or allowing bodies to develop different relational capacities, the body here is immobilised by an operational and scopic territorialisation. To be excited by an encounter with the technological something unfamiliar is preferable, some sense of an alternating current in the midst of all this homeliness, an external perturbation rubbing up against the tired hand of a short-circuiting onanism. Footnotes 1. The Love Machine is also the title of a digital still image and sound installation commenting upon the Hong Kong booth produced by myself and Michele Barker and last exhibited at the Viruses and Mutations exhibition for the Melbourne Festival, The Aikenhead Conference Centre, St. Vincent's Hospital, October, 1998. 2. For an articulation of the way in which this maps onto perspectival vision, see Simon Penny, "Virtual Reality as the Completion of the Enlightenment Project." Culture on the Brink. Eds. G. Bender and T. Druckery. Seattle: Bay Press, 1994. 3. Funded by the US Government, the project's goal is to develop maps for the 23 paired human chromosomes and to unravel the sequence of bases that make up the DNA of these chromosomes. 4. This is what Freud described in his paper "The Uncanny". Tracing the etymology of the German word for the uncanny, unheimlich, which in English translates literally as 'unhomely', Freud notes that heimlich, or 'homely', in fact contains the ambiguity of its opposite, in one instance. References Baudrillard, Jean. "Xerox and Infinity." The Transparency of Evil: Essays in Extreme Phenomena. Trans J. Benedict. London: Verso, 1993. 51-9. Dery, Mark. Escape Velocity: Cyberculture at the End of the Century. New York: Grove Press, 1996. Freud, Sigmund. "The Uncanny." Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud. Vol. 17. Trans. and ed. J. Strachey. London: Hogarth Press, 1955. Guattari, Félix. Chaosmosis: An Ethico-Aesthetic Paradigm. Sydney: Power Publications, 1995. Heim, Michael. "The Erotic Ontology of Cyberspace." Cyberspace: First Steps. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT P, 1994.59-80. Minsky, Marvin. The Society of Mind. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1985. Moravec, Hans. Mind Children. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard UP, 1988. Ronell, Avital. The Telephone Book. Lincoln: U of Nebraska P, 1989. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Anna Munster. "Love Machines." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.6 (1999). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9909/love.php>. Chicago style: Anna Munster, "Love Machines," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 6 (1999), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9909/love.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Anna Munster. (1999) Love machines. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2(6). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9909/love.php> ([your date of access]).

i) In Australia we do a lot of thinking about home. Or so it would seem from all the talk about belonging, home, being at home (see Read). A sure sign of displacement, some might say. In his recent memoir, John Hughes writes: It is a particularly Australian experience that our personal heritage and sense of identity includes a place and a history not really our own, not really accessible to us. The fact that our sense of self-discovery and self-realisation takes place in foreign lands is one of the rich and complex ironies of being Australian. (24-25) My sense of self-discovery did not occur in a foreign land. However, my personal heritage and sense of identity includes places and histories that are not really my own. Unlike Hughes I don’t have what is often portrayed as an exotic heritage; I am plainly white Australian. I grew up on the Far North Coast of New South Wales, on farms that every year knew drought and flood. My place in this country – both local and national – seemingly was beyond question. I am after all a white, settler Australian. But I left Kyogle twenty years ago and since then much has changed. My project is very different than Hughes’. However, reading his memoir led me to reflect upon my sense of belonging. What is my home made from? Like Hughes I want to deploy memories from my childhood and youth to unpack my idea of home. White settler Australians’ sense of belonging is often expressed as a profound feeling of attachment; imagined as unmediated (Moreton-Robinson 31). It is a connection somehow untroubled by the worldliness of the world: it is an oasis of plentitude. For Indigenous Australians, Aileen Moreton-Robinson argues, non-Indigenous Australians sense of belonging is tied to migrancy, while the Indigenous subject has an ontological relationship to land and these modes are incommensurable (31). Since colonisation the nation state has attempted through an array of social, legal, economic and cultural practices to break Indigenous people’s ontological connections to land, and to cast them as homeless in the ‘modern’ world. The expression of belonging as a profound sense of attachment – beyond the material – denies not only the racialised power relations of belonging and dispossession, but also the history of this sentiment. This is why I want to stay right here and take up Moreton-Robinson’s challenge to further theorise (and reflect) upon how non-Indigenous subjects are positioned in relation to the original owners not through migrancy but through possession (37). ii) Australia has changed a lot. Now most understand Australia to be comprised of a plurality of contradictory memories, imaginaries and histories, generated from different cultural identities and social bodies. Indigenous Australians, who have been previously spoken for, written about, categorised and critiqued by non-Indigenous people, have in the last three decades begun to be heard by mainstream Australia. In a diversity of mediums and avenues Indigenous stories, in all their multiplicity, penetrated the field of Australian culture and society. In so doing, they enter into a dialogue about Australia’s past, present and future. The students I teach at university arrive from school with an awareness that Australia was colonised, not discovered as I was taught. Recent critical historiography, by both Indigenous and non-Indigenous writers and academics, calls for and creates a new Australian memory (Hage 80). A memory, or memories, which the reconciliation movement not only want acknowledged by mainstream Australia but also integrated into national consciousness. Over the last twenty years, many Australian historians have reinforced the truths of fictional and autobiographical accounts of colonial violence against Indigenous people. The benign and peaceful settlement of Australia, which was portrayed in school history lessons and public discourse, began to be replaced by empirical historical evidence of the brutal subjugation of Indigenous people and the violent appropriation of Indigenous land. Indigenous struggles for recognition and sovereignty and revisionist history have created a cultural transformation. However, for all the big changes there has been limited investigation into white Australians’ sense of belonging continuing to be informed and shaped by settler colonial desire. Indigenous memories not only contest and contradict other memories, but they are also derived from different cultural bodies and social and historical contexts. My memory of our farm carved out of Toonumbah State Forest is of a peaceful place, without history; a memory which is sure to contradict Bundjalung memories. To me Kyogle was a town with only a few racial problems; except for the silences and all those questions left unasked. Ghassan Hage argues that a national memory or non-contradictory plurality of memories of colonisation in Australia is impossible because although there has been a cultural war, the two opposing sides have not assimilated to become one (92). There remain within Australia, ‘two communal subjects with two wills over one land; two sovereignties of unequal strength’ (Hage 93). The will of one is not the will of the other. I would argue that there is barely recognition of Indigenous sovereignty by non-Indigenous Australians; for so many there is only one will, one way. Furthermore, Hage maintains that: For a long time to come, Australia is destined to become an unfinished Western colonial project as well as a land in a permanent state of decolonisation. A nation inhabited by both the will of the coloniser and the will of the colonised, each with their identity based on their specific understanding, and memory, of the colonial encounter: what was before it and what is after it. Any national project of reconciliation that fails to fully accept the existence of a distinct Indigenous will, a distinct Indigenous conatus, whose striving is bound to make the settlers experience ‘sadness’, is destined to be a momentary cover-up of the reality of the forces that made Australia what it is. (94) Why must Indigenous will make settlers experience sad passions? Perhaps this is a naïve question. I am not dismissing Hage’s concerns, and agree with his critique of the failure of the project of reconciliation. However, if we are to understand the forces that made Australia what it is – to know our place – then as Hage writes we need not only to acknowledge these opposing forces, but understand how they made us who we are. The narrative of benign settlement might have resulted in a cultural amnesia, but I’m not convinced that settler Australians didn’t know about colonial violence and its aftermath. Unlike Henry Reynolds who asked ‘why didn’t we know?’ I think the question should be, as Fiona Nicoll asks, ‘what is it we know but refuse to tell?’ (7). Or how did I get here? In asking what makes home, one needs to question what is excluded to enable one to stay in place. iii) When I think of my childhood home there is one particular farm that comes to mind. From my birth to when I left home at eighteen I lived in about six different homes; all but one where on farms. The longest was for about eight years, on a farm only a few kilometres from town; conveniently close for a teenager wanting all the ‘action’ of town life. It was just up the road from my grandparents’ place, whose fridge I would raid most afternoons while my grandmother lovingly listened to my triumphs and woes (at least those I thought appropriate for her ears). Our house was set back just a little from the road. On this farm, my brother and I floated paper boats down flooded gullies; there, my sisters, brother and I formed a secret society on the banks of the picturesque creek, which was too quickly torn apart by factional infighting. In this home, my older sisters received nightly phone calls from boys, and I cried to my mother, ‘When will it be my turn’. She comforted me with, ‘Don’t worry, they will soon’. And sure enough they did. There I hung out with my first boyfriend, who would ride out on his motor bike, then later his car. We lolled around on our oddly sloping front lawn and talked for hours about nothing. But this isn’t the place which readily comes to mind when I think of a childhood home. Afterlee Rd, as we called it, never felt like home. Behind the house, over the other side of the creek, were hills. Before my teens I regularly walked to the top of the first hill and rode around the farm, but not all the way to the boundary fence. I didn’t belong there. It was too exposed to passing traffic, yet people rarely stopped to add to our day. For me excitement and life existed elsewhere: the Gold Coast or Lismore. When I think of my childhood home an image comes to mind: a girl child standing on the flat between our house and yards, with hills and eucalypts at her back, and a rock-faced mountain rising up behind the yards at her front. (Sometimes there is a dog by her side, but I think it’s a late edition.) The district was known as Toonumbah because of its proximity (as the crow flies) to Toonumbah Dam. My siblings and I ventured across the farm and we rode with my father to muster, or sometimes through the adjoining State Forest to visit our neighbours who lived deep in the bush. I thought the trees whispered to me and watched over us. They were all seeing, all knowing, as they often are for children – a forest of gods. Sometime during my childhood I read the children’s novel Z for Zachariah: a story of a lone survivor of an apocalypse saved by remaining in a safe and abundant valley, while the rest of the community went out to explore what happened (O’Brien). This was my idea of Toonumbah. And like Zachariah’s valley it was isolated and for that reason, in spite of its plenty, a strange home. It was too disconnected from the world. Despite my sense of homeliness, I never felt sovereign. My disquiet wasn’t due to a sense that at any moment we might be cast out. Quite the opposite, we were there to stay. And not because I was a child and sovereignty is the domain of adults. I don’t think, at least as a feeling, it is. But rather because sovereignty is tied to movement or crossings. Not just being in place, but leaving and returning, freely moving through and around, and welcoming others who recognise it as ‘our’ place. Home is necessitated upon movement. And my idea of this childhood home is reliant upon a romanticised, ‘profound’ feeling of attachment; a legacy of settler colonial desire. There is no place like home. Home is far more than a place, it is, as Blunt and Dowling suggest, about feelings, desire, intimacy and belonging and relationships between places and connections with others (2). One’s sense of home has a history. To be at home one must limit the chaos of the world – create order. As we know, the environment is also ordered to enable a sense of bodily alignment and integrity. How or rather with whom does one establish connections with to create a sense of home? To create a sense of order, who does one recognise as belonging or not? Who is deemed a part of the chaos? Here Sara Ahmed’s idea of the stranger is helpful. Spaces are claimed, or ‘owned’, she argues, not so much by inhabiting what is already there, but rather movement or ‘passing through’ creates boundaries, making places by giving them a value (33). Settlers moved out and across the country, and in so doing created the colonies and later the nation by prescribing an economic value to the land. Colonialism attempts to enclose both Indigenous people and the country within its own logic. To take possession of the country the colonisers attempted to fix Indigenous people in place. A place ordered according to colonial logic; making the Indigenous subject out of place. Thus the Indigenous ‘stranger’ came into view. The stranger is not simply constituted by being recognised by the other, but rather it is the recognition of strangers which forms the local (Ahmed 21-22). The settler community was produced and bounded by their recognition of strangers; their belonging was reliant upon others not belonging. The doctrine of terra nullius cleared the country not only of people, but also of the specifics of Indigenous place, in an attempt to recreate another place inspired by the economic and strategic needs of the colonisers. Indigenous people were further exposed as strangers in the ‘new’ country by not participating in the colonial economy and systems of exchange. Indigenous people’s movement to visit family, to perform ceremony or maintain connections with country were largely dismissed by the colonial culture and little understood as maintaining and re-making sovereignty. European forms of commerce made the settlers sovereign – held them in place. And in turn, this exchange continues to bind settler Australians to ways of being that de-limit connections to place and people. It created a sense of order that still constrains ideas of home. Colonial logic dominates Australian ideas of sovereignty, thus of being at home or belonging in this country. Indeed, I would argue that it enforces a strange attachment: clinging fast as if to a too absent parent or romancing it, wooing a desired but permissive lover. We don’t know, as Fiona Nicoll questions, what Indigenous sovereignty might look like. Discussions of sovereignty are on Western terms. If Indigenous sovereignty is recognised at all, it is largely figured as impractical, impossible or dangerous (Nicoll 9). The fear and forgetting of the long history of Indigenous struggles for sovereignty, Nicoll writes, conceals the everydayness of the contestation (1). Indigenous sovereignty is both unknown and too familiar, thus it continues to be the stranger which must be expelled to enable belonging. Yet without it we cannot know the country. iv) I carry around a map of Australia. It is a simple image, a crude outline of the giant landmass; like what you find on cheap souvenir tea-towels. To be honest it’s just the continent – an islandless island – even Tasmania has dropped off my map. My map is not in my pocket but my head. It comes to mind so regularly I think of it as the shape of my idea of home. It is a place shared by many, yet singularly mine. I want to say that it is not the nation, but the country itself, but of course this isn’t true. My sense of Australia as my home is forged from an imaginary nation. However, I have problems calling Australia home – as if being at home in the nation is like being in an idealised family home. What is too often sentimentalised and fetishised as closed and secure: a place of comfort and seamless belonging (Fortier 119). Making home an infantile place where everything is there for me. But we understand that nations are beyond us and all that they are composed of we cannot know. Even putting aside the romantic notions, nations aren’t very much like home. They are, however, relational. Like bower birds, we collect sticks, stones, shells and coloured things, building connections with the outside world to create something a bit like home in the imaginary nation. I fill my rough map with ‘things’ that hold me in place. We might ask, is a home a home if we don’t go outside? My idea of home borrows from Meaghan Morris. In Ecstasy and Economics, she is attempting to create what Deleuze and Guattari call home. She writes: In their sense of the term, “home does not pre-exist”; it is the product of an effort to “organize a limited space”, and the limit involved is not a figure of containment but of provisional (or “working”) definition. This kind of home is always made of mixed components, and the interior space it creates is a filter or a sieve rather than a sealed-in consistency; it is not a place of origin, but an “aspect” of a process which it enables (“as though the circle tended on its own to open into a future, as a function of the working forces it shelters”) but does not precede – and so it is not an enclosure, but a way of going outside. (92) If home is a way of going outside then we need to know something about outside. Belonging is a desire and we make home from the desire to belong. In desiring belonging we should not forsake the worldliness of the world. What is configured as outside home are often the legal, political, economic and cultural conditions that have produced contemporary Australia. However, by refusing to engage with how colonialism and Indigenous sovereignty have made Australia one might not be able to go outside; risk imprisoning oneself in a too comfortable space. By letting in some of the elements which are strange and unhomely, one might begin to build connections which aid the reimagining of the self and the social, which in turn enables one to not only live in postcolonial Australia but participate in creating it (Probyn). A strange place: unsettled by other desires, histories, knowledge and memories, but a place more like home. I am arguing that we need to know our place. But knowing our place cannot be taken for granted. We need many hearts and minds to allow us to see what is here. The childhood home I write of is not my home, nor do I want it to be. However, the remembering or rather investigation of my idea of home is important. Where has it come from? There has been a lot of discussion about non-Indigenous Australians being unsettled by revisionist historiography and Indigenous demands for recognition and this is true, but the unsettlement has been enabling. Given that settler Australians are afforded so much sovereignty then there seems plenty of room for uncertainty. We don’t need to despair, or if we do, it could be used productively to remake our idea of home. If someone were to ask that tired question, ‘Generations of my family have lived here, where am I going to go?’ The answer is no where. You’re going no where, but here. The question isn’t of leaving, but of staying well. References Ahmed, Sara. Strange Encounters: Embodied Others in Post-coloniality. London: Routledge, 2000. Blunt, Alison, and Robyn Dowling. Home. London: Routledge, 2006. Fortier, Anne-Marie. “Making Home: Queer Migrations and Motions of Attachment.” Uprootings/Regrounding: Questions of Home and Migration. Eds S. Ahmed et. al. Oxford: Berg, 2003. 115-135. Gelder, Ken, and Jane Jacobs. Uncanny Australia: Sacredness and Identity in a Postcolonial Nation. Carlton, Vic: Melbourne UP, 1998. Hage, Ghassan. Against Paranoid Nationalism. Annandale: Pluto Press, 2003. Hughes, John. The Idea of Home: Autobiographical Essays. Sydney: Giramondo, 2004. Moreton-Robinson, Aileen. “I Still Call Australia Home: Indigenous Belonging and Place in a White Postcolonizing Society.” Uprootings/Regrounding: Questions of Home and Migration. Eds S. Ahmed et. al. Oxford: Berg, 2003. 23-40. Morris, Meaghan. Ecstasy and Economics: American Essays for John Forbes. Sydney: Empress, 1992. Nicoll, Fiona. “Defacing Terra Nullius and Facing the Public Secret of Indigenous Sovereignty in Australia.” borderlands 1.2 (2002): 1-13. O’Brien, Robert C. Z for Zachariah: A Novel. London: Heinemann Educational, 1976. Probyn, Elspeth. Outside Belongings. New York: Routledge, 1996. Read, Peter. Belonging: Australians, Place and Aboriginal Ownership. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2000. Reynolds, Henry. Why Weren’t We Told?: A Personal Search for the Truth about Our History. Melbourne: Penguin, 2002. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Slater, Lisa. "No Place like Home: Staying Well in a Too Sovereign Country." M/C Journal 10.4 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/13-slater.php>. APA Style Slater, L. (Aug. 2007) "No Place like Home: Staying Well in a Too Sovereign Country," M/C Journal, 10(4). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/13-slater.php>.

Introduction I am a transmigrant who has moved back and forth between the West and the Rest. I was born and raised in a Muslim family in a predominantly Muslim country, Bangladesh, but I spent several years of my childhood in Pakistan. After my marriage, I lived in the United States for a year and a half, the Middle East for 5 years, Australia for three years, back to the Middle East for another 5 years, then, finally, in Australia for the last 12 years. I speak Bengali (my mother tongue), Urdu (which I learnt in Pakistan), a bit of Arabic (learnt in the Middle East); but English has always been my medium of instruction. So where is home? Is it my place of origin, the Muslim umma, or my land of settlement? Or is it my ‘root’ or my ‘route’ (Blunt and Dowling)? Blunt and Dowling (199) observe that the lives of transmigrants are often interpreted in terms of their ‘roots’ and ‘routes’, which are two frameworks for thinking about home, homeland and diaspora. Whereas ‘roots’ might imply an original homeland from which people have scattered, and to which they might seek to return, ‘routes’ focuses on mobile, multiple and transcultural geographies of home. However, both ‘roots’ and ‘routes’ are attached to emotion and identity, and both invoke a sense of place, belonging or alienation that is intrinsically tied to a sense of self (Blunt and Dowling 196-219). In this paper, I equate home with my root (place of birth) and route (transnational homing) within the context of the ‘diaspora and belonging’. First I define the diaspora and possible criteria of belonging. Next I describe my transnational homing within the framework of diaspora and belonging. Finally, I consider how Australia can be a ‘home’ for me and other Muslim Australians. The Diaspora and Belonging Blunt and Dowling (199) define diaspora as “scattering of people over space and transnational connections between people and the places”. Cohen emphasised the ethno-cultural aspects of the diaspora setting; that is, how migrants identify and position themselves in other nations in terms of their (different) ethnic and cultural orientation. Hall argues that the diasporic subjects form a cultural identity through transformation and difference. Speaking of the Hindu diaspora in the UK and Caribbean, Vertovec (21-23) contends that the migrants’ contact with their original ‘home’ or diaspora depends on four factors: migration processes and factors of settlement, cultural composition, structural and political power, and community development. With regard to the first factor, migration processes and factors of settlement, Vertovec explains that if the migrants are political or economic refugees, or on a temporary visa, they are likely to live in a ‘myth of return’. In the cultural composition context, Vertovec argues that religion, language, region of origin, caste, and degree of cultural homogenisation are factors in which migrants are bound to their homeland. Concerning the social structure and political power issue, Vertovec suggests that the extent and nature of racial and ethnic pluralism or social stigma, class composition, degree of institutionalised racism, involvement in party politics (or active citizenship) determine migrants’ connection to their new or old home. Finally, community development, including membership in organisations (political, union, religious, cultural, leisure), leadership qualities, and ethnic convergence or conflict (trends towards intra-communal or inter-ethnic/inter-religious co-operation) would also affect the migrants’ sense of belonging. Using these scholarly ideas as triggers, I will examine my home and belonging over the last few decades. My Home In an initial stage of my transmigrant history, my home was my root (place of birth, Dhaka, Bangladesh). Subsequently, my routes (settlement in different countries) reshaped my homes. In all respects, the ethno-cultural factors have played a big part in my definition of ‘home’. But on some occasions my ethnic identification has been overridden by my religious identification and vice versa. By ethnic identity, I mean my language (mother tongue) and my connection to my people (Bangladeshi). By my religious identity, I mean my Muslim religion, and my spiritual connection to the umma, a Muslim nation transcending all boundaries. Umma refers to the Muslim identity and unity within a larger Muslim group across national boundaries. The only thing the members of the umma have in common is their Islamic belief (Spencer and Wollman 169-170). In my childhood my father, a banker, was relocated to Karachi, Pakistan (then West Pakistan). Although I lived in Pakistan for much of my childhood, I have never considered it to be my home, even though it is predominantly a Muslim country. In this case, my home was my root (Bangladesh) where my grandparents and extended family lived. Every year I used to visit my grandparents who resided in a small town in Bangladesh (then East Pakistan). Thus my connection with my home was sustained through my extended family, ethnic traditions, language (Bengali/Bangla), and the occasional visits to the landscape of Bangladesh. Smith (9-11) notes that people build their connection or identity to their homeland through their historic land, common historical memories, myths, symbols and traditions. Though Pakistan and Bangladesh had common histories, their traditions of language, dress and ethnic culture were very different. For example, the celebration of the Bengali New Year (Pohela Baishakh), folk dance, folk music and folk tales, drama, poetry, lyrics of poets Rabindranath Tagore (Rabindra Sangeet) and Nazrul Islam (Nazrul Geeti) are distinct in the cultural heritage of Bangladesh. Special musical instruments such as the banshi (a bamboo flute), dhol (drums), ektara (a single-stringed instrument) and dotara (a four-stringed instrument) are unique to Bangladeshi culture. The Bangladeshi cuisine (rice and freshwater fish) is also different from Pakistan where people mainly eat flat round bread (roti) and meat (gosh). However, my bonding factor to Bangladesh was my relatives, particularly my grandparents as they made me feel one of ‘us’. Their affection for me was irreplaceable. The train journey from Dhaka (capital city) to their town, Noakhali, was captivating. The hustle and bustle at the train station and the lush green paddy fields along the train journey reminded me that this was my ‘home’. Though I spoke the official language (Urdu) in Pakistan and had a few Pakistani friends in Karachi, they could never replace my feelings for my friends, extended relatives and cousins who lived in Bangladesh. I could not relate to the landscape or dry weather of Pakistan. More importantly, some Pakistani women (our neighbours) were critical of my mother’s traditional dress (saree), and described it as revealing because it showed a bit of her back. They took pride in their traditional dress (shalwar, kameez, dopatta), which they considered to be more covered and ‘Islamic’. So, because of our traditional dress (saree) and perhaps other differences, we were regarded as the ‘Other’. In 1970 my father was relocated back to Dhaka, Bangladesh, and I was glad to go home. It should be noted that both Pakistan and Bangladesh were separated from India in 1947 – first as one nation; then, in 1971, Bangladesh became independent from Pakistan. The conflict between Bangladesh (then East Pakistan) and Pakistan (then West Pakistan) originated for economic and political reasons. At this time I was a high school student and witnessed acts of genocide committed by the Pakistani regime against the Bangladeshis (March-December 1971). My memories of these acts are vivid and still very painful. After my marriage, I moved from Bangladesh to the United States. In this instance, my new route (Austin, Texas, USA), as it happened, did not become my home. Here the ethno-cultural and Islamic cultural factors took precedence. I spoke the English language, made some American friends, and studied history at the University of Texas. I appreciated the warm friendship extended to me in the US, but experienced a degree of culture shock. I did not appreciate the pub life, alcohol consumption, and what I perceived to be the lack of family bonds (children moving out at the age of 18, families only meeting occasionally on birthdays and Christmas). Furthermore, I could not relate to de facto relationships and acceptance of sex before marriage. However, to me ‘home’ meant a family orientation and living in close contact with family. Besides the cultural divide, my husband and I were living in the US on student visas and, as Vertovec (21-23) noted, temporary visa status can deter people from their sense of belonging to the host country. In retrospect I can see that we lived in the ‘myth of return’. However, our next move for a better life was not to our root (Bangladesh), but another route to the Muslim world of Dhahran in Saudi Arabia. My husband moved to Dhahran not because it was a Muslim world but because it gave him better economic opportunities. However, I thought this new destination would become my home – the home that was coined by Anderson as the imagined nation, or my Muslim umma. Anderson argues that the imagined communities are “to be distinguished, not by their falsity/genuineness, but by the style in which they are imagined” (6; Wood 61). Hall (122) asserts: identity is actually formed through unconscious processes over time, rather than being innate in consciousness at birth. There is always something ‘imaginary’ or fantasized about its unity. It always remains incomplete, is always ‘in process’, always ‘being formed’. As discussed above, when I had returned home to Bangladesh from Pakistan – both Muslim countries – my primary connection to my home country was my ethnic identity, language and traditions. My ethnic identity overshadowed the religious identity. But when I moved to Saudi Arabia, where my ethnic identity differed from that of the mainstream Arabs and Bedouin/nomadic Arabs, my connection to this new land was through my Islamic cultural and religious identity. Admittedly, this connection to the umma was more psychological than physical, but I was now in close proximity to Mecca, and to my home of Dhaka, Bangladesh. Mecca is an important city in Saudi Arabia for Muslims because it is the holy city of Islam, the home to the Ka’aba (the religious centre of Islam), and the birthplace of Prophet Muhammad [Peace Be Upon Him]. It is also the destination of the Hajj, one of the five pillars of Islamic faith. Therefore, Mecca is home to significant events in Islamic history, as well as being an important present day centre for the Islamic faith. We lived in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia for 5 years. Though it was a 2.5 hours flight away, I treasured Mecca’s proximity and regarded Dhahran as my second and spiritual home. Saudi Arabia had a restricted lifestyle for women, but I liked it because it was a Muslim country that gave me the opportunity to perform umrah Hajj (pilgrimage). However, Saudi Arabia did not allow citizenship to expatriates. Saudi Arabia’s government was keen to protect the status quo and did not want to compromise its cultural values or standard of living by allowing foreigners to become a permanent part of society. In exceptional circumstances only, the King granted citizenship to a foreigner for outstanding service to the state over a number of years. Children of foreigners born in Saudi Arabia did not have rights of local citizenship; they automatically assumed the nationality of their parents. If it was available, Saudi citizenship would assure expatriates a secure and permanent living in Saudi Arabia; as it was, there was a fear among the non-Saudis that they would have to leave the country once their job contract expired. Under the circumstances, though my spiritual connection to Mecca was strong, my husband was convinced that Saudi Arabia did not provide any job security. So, in 1987 when Australia offered migration to highly skilled people, my husband decided to migrate to Australia for a better and more secure economic life. I agreed to his decision, but quite reluctantly because we were again moving to a non-Muslim part of the world, which would be culturally different and far away from my original homeland (Bangladesh). In Australia, we lived first in Brisbane, then Adelaide, and after three years we took our Australian citizenship. At that stage I loved the Barossa Valley and Victor Harbour in South Australia, and the Gold Coast and Sunshine Coast in Queensland, but did not feel at home in Australia. We bought a house in Adelaide and I was a full time home-maker but was always apprehensive that my children (two boys) would lose their culture in this non-Muslim world. In 1990 we once again moved back to the Muslim world, this time to Muscat, Sultanate of Oman. My connection to this route was again spiritual. I valued the fact that we would live in a Muslim country and our children would be brought up in a Muslim environment. But my husband’s move was purely financial as he got a lucrative job offer in Muscat. We had another son in Oman. We enjoyed the luxurious lifestyle provided by my husband’s workplace and the service provided by the housemaid. I loved the beaches and freedom to drive my car, and I appreciated the friendly Omani people. I also enjoyed our frequent trips (4 hours flight) to my root, Dhaka, Bangladesh. So our children were raised within our ethnic and Islamic culture, remained close to my root (family in Dhaka), though they attended a British school in Muscat. But by the time I started considering Oman to be my second home, we had to leave once again for a place that could provide us with a more secure future. Oman was like Saudi Arabia; it employed expatriates only on a contract basis, and did not give them citizenship (not even fellow Muslims). So after 5 years it was time to move back to Australia. It was with great reluctance that I moved with my husband to Brisbane in 1995 because once again we were to face a different cultural context. As mentioned earlier, we lived in Brisbane in the late 1980s; I liked the weather, the landscape, but did not consider it home for cultural reasons. Our boys started attending expensive private schools and we bought a house in a prestigious Western suburb in Brisbane. Soon after arriving I started my tertiary education at the University of Queensland, and finished an MA in Historical Studies in Indian History in 1998. Still Australia was not my home. I kept thinking that we would return to my previous routes or the ‘imagined’ homeland somewhere in the Middle East, in close proximity to my root (Bangladesh), where we could remain economically secure in a Muslim country. But gradually I began to feel that Australia was becoming my ‘home’. I had gradually become involved in professional and community activities (with university colleagues, the Bangladeshi community and Muslim women’s organisations), and in retrospect I could see that this was an early stage of my ‘self-actualisation’ (Maslow). Through my involvement with diverse people, I felt emotionally connected with the concerns, hopes and dreams of my Muslim-Australian friends. Subsequently, I also felt connected with my mainstream Australian friends whose emotions and fears (9/11 incident, Bali bombing and 7/7 tragedy) were similar to mine. In late 1998 I started my PhD studies on the immigration history of Australia, with a particular focus on the historical settlement of Muslims in Australia. This entailed retrieving archival files and interviewing people, mostly Muslims and some mainstream Australians, and enquiring into relevant migration issues. I also became more active in community issues, and was not constrained by my circumstances. By circumstances, I mean that even though I belonged to a patriarchally structured Muslim family, where my husband was the main breadwinner, main decision-maker, my independence and research activities (entailing frequent interstate trips for data collection, and public speaking) were not frowned upon or forbidden (Khan 14-15); fortunately, my husband appreciated my passion for research and gave me his trust and support. This, along with the Muslim community’s support (interviews), and the wider community’s recognition (for example, the publication of my letters in Australian newspapers, interviews on radio and television) enabled me to develop my self-esteem and built up my bicultural identity as a Muslim in a predominantly Christian country and as a Bangladeshi-Australian. In 2005, for the sake of a better job opportunity, my husband moved to the UK, but this time I asserted that I would not move again. I felt that here in Australia (now in Perth) I had a job, an identity and a home. This time my husband was able to secure a good job back in Australia and was only away for a year. I no longer dream of finding a home in the Middle East. Through my bicultural identity here in Australia I feel connected to the wider community and to the Muslim umma. However, my attachment to the umma has become ambivalent. I feel proud of my Australian-Muslim identity but I am concerned about the jihadi ideology of militant Muslims. By jihadi ideology, I mean the extremist ideology of the al-Qaeda terrorist group (Farrar 2007). The Muslim umma now incorporates both moderate and radical Muslims. The radical Muslims (though only a tiny minority of 1.4 billion Muslims worldwide) pose a threat to their moderate counterparts as well as to non-Muslims. In the UK, some second- and third-generation Muslims identify themselves with the umma rather than their parents’ homelands or their country of birth (Husain). It should not be a matter of concern if these young Muslims adopt a ‘pure’ Muslim identity, providing at the same time they are loyal to their country of residence. But when they resort to terrorism with their ‘pure’ Muslim identity (e.g., the 7/7 London bombers) they defame my religion Islam, and undermine my spiritual connection to the umma. As a 1st generation immigrant, the defining criteria of my ‘homeliness’ in Australia are my ethno-cultural and religious identity (which includes my family), my active citizenship, and my community development/contribution through my research work – all of which allow me a sense of efficacy in my life. My ethnic and religious identities generally co-exist equally, but when I see some Muslims kill my fellow Australians (such as the Bali bombings in 2002 and 2005) my Australian identity takes precedence. I feel for the victims and condemn the perpetrators. On the other hand, when I see politics play a role over the human rights issues (e.g., the Tampa incident), my religious identity begs me to comment on it (see Kabir, Muslims in Australia 295-305). Problematising ‘Home’ for Muslim Australians In the European context, Grillo (863) and Werbner (904), and in the Australian context, Kabir (Muslims in Australia) and Poynting and Mason, have identified the diversity within Islam (national, ethnic, religious etc). Werbner (904) notes that in spite of the “wishful talk of the emergence of a ‘British Islam’, even today there are Pakistani, Bangladeshi and Arab mosques, as well as Turkish and Shia’a mosques”; thus British Muslims retain their separate identities. Similarly, in Australia, the existence of separate mosques for the Bangladeshi, Pakistani, Arab and Shia’a peoples indicates that Australian Muslims have also kept their ethnic identities discrete (Saeed 64-77). However, in times of crisis, such as the Salman Rushdie affair in 1989, and the 1990-1991 Gulf crises, both British and Australian Muslims were quick to unite and express their Islamic identity by way of resistance (Kabir, Muslims in Australia 160-162; Poynting and Mason 68-70). In both British and Australian contexts, I argue that a peaceful rally or resistance is indicative of active citizenship of Muslims as it reveals their sense of belonging (also Werbner 905). So when a transmigrant Muslim wants to make a peaceful demonstration, the Western world should be encouraged, not threatened – as long as the transmigrant’s allegiances lie also with the host country. In the European context, Grillo (868) writes: when I asked Mehmet if he was planning to stay in Germany he answered without hesitation: ‘Yes, of course’. And then, after a little break, he added ‘as long as we can live here as Muslims’. In this context, I support Mehmet’s desire to live as a Muslim in a non-Muslim world as long as this is peaceful. Paradoxically, living a Muslim life through ijtihad can be either socially progressive or destructive. The Canadian Muslim feminist Irshad Manji relies on ijtihad, but so does Osama bin Laden! Manji emphasises that ijtihad can be, on the one hand, the adaptation of Islam using independent reasoning, hybridity and the contesting of ‘traditional’ family values (c.f. Doogue and Kirkwood 275-276, 314); and, on the other, ijtihad can take the form of conservative, patriarchal and militant Islamic values. The al-Qaeda terrorist Osama bin Laden espouses the jihadi ideology of Sayyid Qutb (1906-1966), an Egyptian who early in his career might have been described as a Muslim modernist who believed that Islam and Western secular ideals could be reconciled. But he discarded that idea after going to the US in 1948-50; there he was treated as ‘different’ and that treatment turned him against the West. He came back to Egypt and embraced a much more rigid and militaristic form of Islam (Esposito 136). Other scholars, such as Cesari, have identified a third orientation – a ‘secularised Islam’, which stresses general beliefs in the values of Islam and an Islamic identity, without too much concern for practices. Grillo (871) observed Islam in the West emphasised diversity. He stressed that, “some [Muslims were] more quietest, some more secular, some more clamorous, some more negotiatory”, while some were exclusively characterised by Islamic identity, such as wearing the burqa (elaborate veils), hijabs (headscarves), beards by men and total abstinence from drinking alcohol. So Mehmet, cited above, could be living a Muslim life within the spectrum of these possibilities, ranging from an integrating mode to a strict, militant Muslim manner. In the UK context, Zubaida (96) contends that marginalised, culturally-impoverished youth are the people for whom radical, militant Islamism may have an appeal, though it must be noted that the 7/7 bombers belonged to affluent families (O’Sullivan 14; Husain). In Australia, Muslim Australians are facing three challenges. First, the Muslim unemployment rate: it was three times higher than the national total in 1996 and 2001 (Kabir, Muslims in Australia 266-278; Kabir, “What Does It Mean” 63). Second, some spiritual leaders have used extreme rhetoric to appeal to marginalised youth; in January 2007, the Australian-born imam of Lebanese background, Sheikh Feiz Mohammad, was alleged to have employed a DVD format to urge children to kill the enemies of Islam and to have praised martyrs with a violent interpretation of jihad (Chulov 2). Third, the proposed citizenship test has the potential to make new migrants’ – particularly Muslims’ – settlement in Australia stressful (Kabir, “What Does It Mean” 62-79); in May 2007, fuelled by perceptions that some migrants – especially Muslims – were not integrating quickly enough, the Howard government introduced a citizenship test bill that proposes to test applicants on their English language skills and knowledge of Australian history and ‘values’. I contend that being able to demonstrate knowledge of history and having English language skills is no guarantee that a migrant will be a good citizen. Through my transmigrant history, I have learnt that developing a bond with a new place takes time, acceptance and a gradual change of identity, which are less likely to happen when facing assimilationist constraints. I spoke English and studied history in the United States, but I did not consider it my home. I did not speak the Arabic language, and did not study Middle Eastern history while I was in the Middle East, but I felt connected to it for cultural and religious reasons. Through my knowledge of history and English language proficiency I did not make Australia my home when I first migrated to Australia. Australia became my home when I started interacting with other Australians, which was made possible by having the time at my disposal and by fortunate circumstances, which included a fairly high level of efficacy and affluence. If I had been rejected because of my lack of knowledge of ‘Australian values’, or had encountered discrimination in the job market, I would have been much less willing to embrace my host country and call it home. I believe a stringent citizenship test is more likely to alienate would-be citizens than to induce their adoption of values and loyalty to their new home. Conclusion Blunt (5) observes that current studies of home often investigate mobile geographies of dwelling and how it shapes one’s identity and belonging. Such geographies of home negotiate from the domestic to the global context, thus mobilising the home beyond a fixed, bounded and confining location. Similarly, in this paper I have discussed how my mobile geography, from the domestic (root) to global (route), has shaped my identity. Though I received a degree of culture shock in the United States, loved the Middle East, and was at first quite resistant to the idea of making Australia my second home, the confidence I acquired in residing in these ‘several homes’ were cumulative and eventually enabled me to regard Australia as my ‘home’. I loved the Middle East, but I did not pursue an active involvement with the Arab community because I was a busy mother. Also I lacked the communication skill (fluency in Arabic) with the local residents who lived outside the expatriates’ campus. I am no longer a cultural freak. I am no longer the same Bangladeshi woman who saw her ethnic and Islamic culture as superior to all other cultures. I have learnt to appreciate Australian values, such as tolerance, ‘a fair go’ and multiculturalism (see Kabir, “What Does It Mean” 62-79). My bicultural identity is my strength. With my ethnic and religious identity, I can relate to the concerns of the Muslim community and other Australian ethnic and religious minorities. And with my Australian identity I have developed ‘a voice’ to pursue active citizenship. Thus my biculturalism has enabled me to retain and merge my former home with my present and permanent home of Australia. References Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London, New York: Verso, 1983. Australian Bureau of Statistics: Census of Housing and Population, 1996 and 2001. Blunt, Alison. Domicile and Diaspora: Anglo-Indian Women and the Spatial Politics of Home. 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Citation reference for this article MLA Style Kabir, Nahid. "Why I Call Australia ‘Home’?: A Transmigrant’s Perspective." M/C Journal 10.4 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/15-kabir.php>. APA Style Kabir, N. (Aug. 2007) "Why I Call Australia ‘Home’?: A Transmigrant’s Perspective," M/C Journal, 10(4). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/15-kabir.php>.