Journal articles on the topic 'Russia – Politics and government – 1881-1894'

Introduction. This article examines the role and significance of the revolutionary populist socialist organization The People’s Will in the history of political terrorism in the Russian Empire.Methods. Two waves of political terrorism took place in the Russian empire between 1878 and 1894 and 1894 and 1916. The first wave of terrorism was dominated by the People’s Will whose major accomplishment was the assassination of Tsar Alexander II on March 1, 1881. By contrast, many left-wing parties and movements participated in the massive second wave, particularly in the Revolution of 1905-1907. However, elements of continuity dominated the second wave of terrorism largely due to the work of the People’s Will in determining goals and tactics of terrorism.Results. The People’s Will acquired such an aura of perfection and self-sacrifice that future terrorists could not change their goals and tactics out of fear of betraying the legacy of this organization. The legacy of the People’s Will shaped not only the goals and tactics of the terrorists of the second generation, but also the responses of liberals, conservatives, and the government in both waves of terrorism. Terrorism in both waves was often used by different groupings in the government and political classes to advance their political goals and justify their responses to the terrorist threat.Conclusions. The People’s Will still holds a unique place in the history of terrorism in the modern world. However, objective study of the People’s Will is still difficult because the historiography of this organization for more than 140 years has included huge elements of myth-making and many blank spaces.

In the first half of the reign of Alexander III (1881–1894), Russia took several important steps to strengthen its position in Central Asia. The annexation of the city of Merv, the Iolatan and Panjdekh oases in 1884–1885 led to territorial disputes with Afghanistan over the southern Turkmen lands and to a clash with an Afghan detachment on the Kushka River. The latter event nearly brought the political confrontation between St Petersburg and London over influence in the region to the brink of a full-scale military conflict. The peace settlement resulted in the work of a mixed British-Russian commission to determine the western part of the Russian-Afghan border, which culminated in the signing of an agreement in 1888. These events did not elude the attention of the Russian public. Leading national periodicals reported on the situation on the southern borders of the empire. In this article, the author attempts to characterise the views of influential Russian conservative authors of those years on Russian policy in Afghanistan in the mid-1880s and to analyse the extent to which their foreign policy proposals coincided with the actions of the Russian government. The study draws on the publications of the most influential representatives of the conservative press, as well as official press articles on events on the Russian-Afghan border, published during the period when the Russian-British confrontation in the region (1884–1886) was at its peak. The author concludes that, despite Alexander III's sympathy for conservative views and those who expressed them, the government did not accept a single proposal from conservative publicists regarding Russian policy at the borders of Afghanistan.

An attempt to compare Russian Tsar Alexander I was the head of the Grand Duchy of Finland, which the Russian army captured in 1809 as a result of the Russo-Swedish war. The final act of the Congress of Vienna of June 1815 decided to establish the Kingdom of Poland. Beside the title of Grand Duke of Finland tsar, Alexander I was awarded the title of the King of Poland. From that moment on, for over one hundred years, the fate of the Grand Duchy of Finland and the Kingdom of Poland was intertwined during the rule of five Russian tsars. The aim of this paper is to answer the question whether two different ways on the road to independence – romantic Polish way with national uprisings, and pragmatic Finnish, relative loyal to the Russian tsars – had an impact on their policy towards both nations. The Kingdom of Poland and the Duchy of Finland were autonomous, were in a personal union with Russian tsars, had their own constitutions, parliaments, armies, monetary systems and educational structures, and official activities were held in Polish (Polish Kingdom) and Swedish (in the Grand Duchy of Finland). Both countries also had their own universities. The first national uprising in the Kingdom of Poland, which broke out in November 1830, resulted in a wave of repression. The Constitution was replaced by the so-called The Organic Statute, the Sejm (the Parliament) and the independent army were liquidated. The Kingdom was occupied by the mighty Russian army, and in 1833 martial law was introduced. The second national uprising of January 1863 led to another wave of repression and intensive Russification of Polish territories. In 1867, the autonomy of the Kingdom of Poland, its name and budget were abolished. From 1872 the Polish language was only an optional choice. After 1863, the policy of the Russian authorities changed towards the Grand Duchy. A session of the Finnish parliament (Eduskunta) was convened for the first time since 1809, the new parliamentary law allowed the dissemination of the Finnish language. After the deadly assault on Alexander II in 1881, his son Alexander III made attempts to limit also Finland’s autonomy. The years 1899–1904 were called the first period of Russification in Finland (“the first period of oppression”). The Manifesto of June 1900 introduced obligatory Russian language in correspondence of officials with Russia. In 1901, the national Finnish army was liquidated. In Russia this was the beginning of the process of the empire’s unification into one cultural, political and economic system. After a short thaw as a result of the 1905 revolution in Russia, the Grand Duchy of Finland, the so-called “second period of oppression” and anti-Finnish politics took place. During the great war of 1914–1918, the Grand Duchy was on the side of Russia. The territories of the former Kingdom of Poland were under German rule since 1915. After the outbreak of the revolution in Russia, the Eduskunta (on 6 December 1917) passed a Declaration of Independence. After a short period of regency, on 19 July 1919, the Finns adopted the republican system with a parliamentary form of government. On 11 November 1918 Germany surrendered on the Western Front. On that day, the Regency Council in Warsaw handed over military authority to the Polish Legion commander Józef Piłsudski. Although Poland still had to fight for the final shape of the state, the 11th of November 1918 is considered the first day of recovered Polish independence.

The tax system is one of the most important elements of economic policy. The method, nature and scale of money resource mobilization depend on the state’s level of development. In Russia, from the 15th to the beginning of the 20th century, the revenue from alcohol sales made up a significant part of the state budget. At the same time, alcohol abuse has become a serious social problem. Thus, the Russian government should, on the one hand, ensure moderate alcohol consumption by the population, and, on the other, increase fiscal revenues. The article discusses various aspects of this problem.

This article looks at the role of the British Royal Navy during the First Sino-Japanese War of 1894–1895. Although the British government decided to stay neutral and work with Russia to mediate between Japan and China, the presence of the China Station of the Royal Navy played a subtle role in influencing the strategies adopted by China and Japan. However, as the British government underestimated its own naval power and possibly overestimated that of its potential opponents, the China Station played only a limited role to protect British interest. As a result, Russia used a much weaker fleet to achieve its territorial and political goals, while Britain was forced to increase its military and naval investment in East Asia. The result of the war was the opposite of the intention of the British government, namely to maintain stability in the area and check the spread of Russian influence.

This article analyzes the possibility of development of liberal constitutionalism in the Russian Empire during the post-reform period in the late 19th – early 20th century within the context of European history, of which Russia was an integral component. It argues that the Russian autocracy had the potential to transform itself into a constitutional monarchy during the period that followed the Great Reforms of the 1860s (1861–1881) and, second, during the Revolution of 1905–1906 and in its aftermath. This promising evolutionary process was cut short by World War I and rejected by the Soviet period of Russian history that followed. Obstacles to constitutional government were mostly objective in character, but perhaps the most significant problem was the fragmentation and insufficient development of Russian political culture, or better said, cultures that failed to produce the consensus required for effective creation and functioning of a constitutional regime. This failure was further exacerbated by an evolutionary radicalization of revolutions in modern European history that culminated in October 1917. The author concludes that the events of the late 1980s and the Revolution of 1991 changed the character of the Russian historical landscape and provided the potential for renewed development of a pluralistic political system and a strong civil society that is its precondition.

ABSTRACT Following the growth of Russian political interests in Inner Asia in the mid-19th century, the Russian Imperial Geographical Society (RGS) initiated a series of extensive multi-disciplinary field studies of the region, including areas which now are part of the People's Republic of China. These expeditions aimed to provide the Russian government and academia with detailed information on the region's ethnographic, geological, botanical and other features and also to promote Russian science on an international level. One of the longest expeditions, in terms of both time and distance, was that of Vladimir Obruchev, the future renowned novelist and Soviet academician, who at that time was a young Siberian geologist. In the span of two years beginning in September 1892, he covered a distance of more than 15,000 kilometers inside China. He was inspired by the studies of Ferdinand von Richthofen on loess soils that are found only on the Chinese Loess Plateau. Utilizing the route description from Obruchev's memoir “From Kyakhta to Kuldzha” (1940), the original copies of his field report to the Russian Imperial Geographical Society (1900), and various materials from the archive of the Russian Academy of Sciences, the library of the Institute of Geography, and the archive of the Russian Imperial Geographical Society, as well as Chinese databases and maps, the author made a detailed geographical and chronological reconstruction of the expedition route and itinerary on the modern map of China. More than 100 places have been identified and those points are available online as an interactive presentation. This contribution also presents a novel approach for studying the history of geographical exploration with all its complexity.

Abstract In this essay I reconstruct a conflict over the legitimacy of a waqf established in Tashkent in 1881. The litigation involved a qāḍī and the heirs of the founder of the endowment; Russian colonial authorities investigated the case. Looking, as they were, for an instance of qāḍī malpractice, the Russians sought recourse to legal concepts borrowed from sharīʿa and fabricated evidence as they saw fit. I draw on the idea of legal pluralism in order to highlight how, in Russian Central Asia, legal praxis inevitably embraced diverse conceptions of legality. I also show how locals were able to maneuver government officials into using procedures from various legal traditions and thus produce a legal hybrid. Le présent article s’attache à reconstituer un contentieux touchant la légitimité d’un waqf établi à Tashkent en 1881. Le litige opposait un qāḍī aux héritiers du fondateur de la dotation; les autorités coloniales russes étaient en charge de l’enquête. Prompts à mettre en cause les qāḍī pour malversations à la moindre occasion, les Russes n’hésitaient pas à recourir à des notions juridiques empruntées à la sharīʿa, voire à forger des preuves au besoin. Mon analyse de cette affaire s’appuie sur la notion de pluralisme juridique, qui permet de mettre en évidence la coexistence, dans la justice telle qu’elle se pratiquait en Asie Centrale sous domination russe, de conceptions hétérogènes de la légalité. Cette étude révèle aussi le rôle des populations locales, et leur capacité à induire les fonctionnaires d’état à mettre en œuvre des procédures émanant de traditions différentes, au point de produire de véritables hybrides juridiques.

According to Stanisław Lorentz, the collections of Michel Tyszkiewicz, enriched by his excavations in Egypt and Italy, undoubtedly “belonged to the more valuable European collections created in the second half of the 19th century”. After his first journey to Egypt, Tyszkiewicz, enlivened with a passion for excavations, first lived in Naples and then settled permanently in Rome in 1865. As the political situation changed there after 1870 and the new government restrained issuing permits, he started applying for excavation permits in his estate of Birże, in Lithuania (1871). Later, in 1894, he also tried to obtain excavation permits at Olbia, in Southern Russia, but this time unsuccessfully. His unpublished letters to the famous German scholar Wilhelm Froehner (1834–1925), now in the Goethe und Schiller Archiv in Weimar, throw a new light on the discoveries that took place in Boscoreale and in Lake Nemi and on his purchases there, as well as on his great enterprise in relation to the Satricum excavations in 1896, from which he was excluded after discovering the trace of “thousands of different votive objects”.

Born in 1846, Franz Mehring as a young man was a follower of Ferdinand Lassalle, who in 1863 had organized Germany's first socialist party. As well as establishing a reputation as a journalist with his contributions to many liberal and democratic newspapers, Mehring was awarded his doctorate at Leipzig University in 1881 for his dissertation on the history and teachings of German social democracy. In his mid-forties he embraced Marxism and in 1891 joined the German Social Democratic Party, soon emerging as the intellectual leader of its left wing. He became editor of the Leipziger Volkszeitung and wrote prolifically for Die Neue Zeit and other radical journals on history, politics, philosophy, and literature. His book The Lessing Legend, published in 1893, is regarded as the first sustained attempt at Marxist literary criticism. His major biography of Karl Marx appeared in 1918, the year before his death. Completed in 1891, The Weavers was accepted for performance by the Deutsches Theater but was rejected by the Berlin censor as ‘a portrayal which specifically instils class hatred’. The first production of the play, discussed by Mehring below, was possible only because the Freie Bühne was a subscription society. In October 1893 a further private performance was given at the Neue Freie Volksbühne, followed by seven more in December at the Freie Volksbühne, where Franz Mehring was chairman. By now, the Prussian State censor had overruled his Berlin subordinate and The Weavers received its public premiere at the Deutsches Theater on 25 September 1894. On each occasion Hauptmann's play was greeted with great enthusiasm by the public, but found no favour with the Imperial family who indignantly cancelled their regular box at the Deutsches Theater. Subsequently The Weavers was banned from public performance in France, Austria, Italy, and Russia. Mehring's article appeared originally in Die Neue Zeit, XI, No. I (1893). Its translation in NTQ forms part of an occasional series on early Marxist dramatic criticism, which already includes Trotsky on Wedekind (NTQ28) and Lunacharsky on Ibsen (NTQ39). EDWARD BRAUN

After obtaining autonomy from the Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople in 1831, the Serbian Orthodox Church gradually established and strenghtened its position by means of constitutions and laws of the Principality of Serbia which were passed in the course of the XIX century. The established status of an official state church implied considerable priviledges but also the readiness to accept potential candidates designated by the Prince or the Government for the highest hierarch positions as well as the state’s control over practically all segments of religious life. This relationship in which provisions of the Canon Law were frequently ignored, forged a kind of partnership enabling the state to strenghten its economy and democratic institutions while at the same time providing the church with an opportunity to improve its internal organization, the quality of candidates entering priesthood and to create favourable conditions for its spiritual mission. The dissatisfaction with the Russian politics after the Congress of Berlin and the shift towards a new foreign policy relying heavily on the support of Austria-Hungary, soon took toll on the relations between Prince Milan and Metropolitan Mihailo who was a notorious Russophile and a fervent advocate of the Pan-Slavic solidarity. Dissatisfied with the Metropolitan’s activities in Bosnia, the new ally demanded that the Prince remove the dangerous opponent which proved to be a daunting task, due to the Metropolitan’s popularity and his demonstrated leadership skills. In 1881, under the pretext that the Church opposed the Tax law, the Prince’s Government, led by the Progressive Political Party first removed Metropolitan Mihailo which was followed by the removal of all other remaining disobedient Episcopes in 1883. The 1882 amendments to the Law on Church Authorities of the Eastern Orthodox Religion which resulted in changes of the composition of the Assembly of Bishops and included more lay people in the body tasked with the election of the Metropolitan, represented a genuine coup against the Church unprecedented in its centuries long history and practically annulled the canonical order governing the life and functioning of the Orthodox Churches. Having elected the new Metropolitan and Episcopes, the Government led by the Progressive Party established such an organization of the Church which was utterly dependent on the will of the state and the balance of powers on the Serbia’s political scene. The altered political circumstances brought about by King Milan’s abdication and normalization of relations with the Radical Party, enabled Metropolitan Mihailo’s return and reestablishment of previous order in the Church. The ancient Canons, which were ignored at one point in history, proved their vitality, but these events were also convenient for the growing middle class to send a clear message to the Church that the old times of harmonized activity were gone and that the new forces were taking over the public and state affairs.

AbstractThis article utilizes material from archives in Kazakhstan, Russia, Kyrgyzstan, and Uzbekistan as well as published Chinese sources to explore the opium trade between Tsarist Turkestan and Xinjiang from the early 1880s to 1917. It focuses on two different levels: the borderlands economy and society, and state policies towards illegal (or ‘grey’) markets. The main groups active in the trade were Hui/Dungan and Taranchi migrants from China, who had fled Qing territory after the repression of the great anti-Qing Muslim revolts during the 1860s and 1870s. After settling in Tsarist territory, they grew poppies and exported opium back across the border to China. This article shows how the borderland economy was influenced by the late-Qing anti-opium campaign, and especially by the First World War. During the war, the Tsarist government tried to create a state opium monopoly over the borderland economy, but this attempt was botched first by the great Central Asian revolt of 1916, and later by the 1917 revolution. Departing from the prevailing historiography on borderlands, this article shows how the international border, far from being an obstacle to the trade, was instead the main factor that made borderland opium production and trade possible. It also shows how the borderland population made a strategic use of the border-as-institution, and how local imperial administrators—in different periods and for different reasons—adapted to, fostered, or repressed this most profitable borderland economic activity.

The article considers book reviews published in the newspaper Tomskiy spravochnyy listok in 1894, the first year of its publication. The publisher of the newspaper was Petr Makushin, a well-known Siberian bookseller, philanthropist, educator and entrepreneur, founder of the largest bookshop in Siberia. Tomskiy spravochnyy listok appeared due to the fact that Makushin was not allowed to found a public-political newspaper (Sibirskaya gazeta, which he had published before, was closed “for a harmful direction”). Thus, the release of the Tomskiy spravochnyy listok was a compromise solution in the dispute between Makushin and the General Administration of Press. The program of Tomskiy spravochnyy listok was very short: it was allowed to publish reference information and advertising, government orders, telegrams, local chronicles, reports and bibliographic news. The latter was an important section of the newspaper, in which authors could not only recommend books for reading, but also express their views on them and on the problems raised on the pages. The aim of this article is to discover the peculiarities of the reviews published in the newspaper Tomskiy spravochnyy listok, including those dedicated to publications for children's reading and upbringing. In order to reach this aim, the authors determined the place of book reviews in the structure of the newspaper, composed the corpus of analysed publications, revealed their thematic spectrum, determined the methods of popularising children's literature and books on parenting. The main methods of research are comprehensive analysis of periodicals, historical typology and structural-thematic analysis. The section “Bibliography” simultaneously performed several functions in the newspaper: informational, advertising, informative-educational, publicist. Individual reviews were highly publicistic, consistent with the general Russian trend to bypass censorship prohibitions on discussing important public issues through literary criticism. The thematic range of Tomskiy spravochnyy listok reviews was quite wide, although most of the books considered were of a scientific-popular character. This trend was also characteristic of children's reading books, which were not regarded as entertainment but as a means of education and self-education. Reviewers of Tomskiy spravochnyy listok drew attention to the necessity of raising a moral younger generation, development of their practical skills, preservation of health and inculcation of useful habits, including work. Further research of materials of Tomskiy spravochnyy listok, which in 1895 transformed into the newspaper Tomskiy listok and in 1897 into the newspaper Sibirskaya zhizn', will show the development of “children's theme” on the pages of this leading periodical of Siberia.

Nikolai Alexandrovich Velyaminov was born in 1855 in St. Petersburg. He studied at the gymnasiums of Wiesbaden and Warsaw. In 1872 he entered the Moscow University in physics and mathematics, and in 1873 transferred to the faculty of medicine. In 1877 he was sent to the army in the Caucasus. In 1878-1879, Nikolai Alexandrovich became ill with typhus, developing a chronic process in the lungs, which requires long-term treatment abroad. After recovery in the years 1880-1881 N. And. Velyaminov works in Central Asia as a surgeon of the Akhal-Teke expedition, develops a system of medical sorting and evacuation of the wounded, writes "Memories of the surgeon from the Akhal-Teke expedition." In 1883 he received the degree of doctor of medicine and worked as an assistant to Professor K. K. Reyer, lectured on operative surgery in Women's medical courses. In 1884 N. Ah. Velyaminov becomes an assistant to the chief physician and surgeon of the Holy cross community of sisters of mercy. In 1885 he founded the first in Russia authoritative scientific surgical journal "Surgical Bulletin". Since 1887 N. Ah. Velyaminov as a Junior doctor of the life guards of the Preobrazhensky regiment heads the surgical Department in Krasnoselsky hospital, since 1893 works as the Director of the Maximilian hospital in St. Petersburg, since 1894 the senior doctor of the Semenovsky regiment, is appointed the life-physician and honorary surgeon of the Highest Court, and then the senior doctor of the Imperial headquarters. In 1889 he defended his doctoral thesis. In 1894 N. Ah. Velyaminov is elected Professor of the Military medical Academy. In 1896 he designs the device for the first time in St. Petersburg service of "Ambulance", organizing children's sanatoriums. In 1900, Velyaminov was elected an honorary member of the Royal medical College in London, the Chief Commissioner of the Russian red cross society for assistance to the sick and wounded in the far East. In 1905 N. Ah. Velyaminov was awarded the rank of privy Councilor, and in 1907 was awarded the order of St. Anne of the 1st degree. In the same years N. Ah. Velyaminov was the first in Russia to study occupational injuries, insurance of workers and organized the "Bureau of medical examination for workers" (1907). In 1910 1912 N. Ah. Velyaminova works as the head of the Imperial Military medical Academy in St. Petersburg. In 1913, the conference of the Military medical Academy elected him academician of medicine. At the beginning of World war I. Ah. Velyaminov took part in the work of the Main Directorate of the red cross, and from the end of August he was a surgeon-consultant at the Headquarters of the commander-in-Chief to inspect the surgical case in the army. By the beginning of 1917 N. Ah. Velyaminov held many positions: Director of the Mariinsky hospital for the poor, Alexandrinsky women's hospital and Maximilian hospital; Chairman of the Medical Commission for reception in the sanatorium "khalila", the Russian Society for the protection of public health, the Interdepartmental Commission for the revision of medical legislation; Vice-Chairman of the Committee of the Community of the Seaside sanatorium for chronically ill children; editor of the magazines "Surgical archive" and "Hygiene and sanitary Affairs"; inspector of the court medical unit; honorary consultant of the Alexander-Mariinsky hospital and hospital for incoming patients; consultant of the Royal office for the institutions of the Empress Maria Feodorovna, member of the Board of the Community. Kaufman red cross and the Medical Council of the interior Ministry. In 1919-1920 he headed the Department of surgical pathology with desmurgy at the Women's medical Institute. In March 1920, he was offered the post of Chairman of the Commission for the reform of medical education, from which N. Ah. Velyaminov refused. By this time the new government took away the Professor's apartment, and he found refuge in the utility room of the Petrograd hospital named after Peter the Great. N. And. Velyaminov author of over 100 scientific medical works, including 8 monographs. He described thyrotoxic polyarthritis, gave the classification of diseases of the joints and thyroid gland, one of the first pointed to the importance of the endocrine glands in the development of surgical diseases, used phototherapy; opened the first Russian light therapy room. A lot of new N. And. Velyaminov contributed to the doctrine of surgical treatment of bone tuberculosis and abdominal surgery. April 9, 1920 N. Ah. Velyaminov died and was buried at the Volkov cemetery.

The institutional formation of primary and secondary agricultural education was the result of the response of local governments and the provincial administration to the economic crisis caused by the effects of the drought series. The regional economy needed a skilled workforce capable of mastering modern agricultural technology and innovative agro-cultural innovations. The proposal to create an elementary educational institution of agricultural education was put forward on June 30, 1894 at the meeting of the provincial assembly by the deputy of the Verkhnodniprovsky County Zemstvo E.I. Ostroukhov, whose initiative was supported by the deputy corps. Subsequently, in November 1899, the Verkhnodniprovsky Agricultural School was opened, on the basis of which the educational and production model of the primary agricultural education institution for the Dnieper region was developed. The substantial expansion of the area of primary vocational agricultural education was significantly slowed down by the economic crisis of 1900-1903.The next stage in the development of vocational agricultural education in Katerynoslav province is related to the legislative activity of the autocracy. In particular, on May 26, 1904, the Russian Emperor Nicholas II approved the «Regulations on Agricultural Education», which defined the general legal principles and order of functioning of secondary and lower educational institutions of agricultural education. However, the obstacles to the implementation of regional educational projects were the military-political events of the Russo-Japanese War and the Revolution of 1905-1907, which caused a financial crisis that made it impossible for the intensive development of the educational environment. The new attempt of meaningful expansion of the space of lower and secondary vocational-technical agricultural education falls during the period of Stolypin agrarian transformations of 1906-1911. models of rational land use. At the meeting of December 15, 1909, the Katerynoslav Provincial Zemsky Meeting approved a new target program aimed at establishing a network of lower agricultural educational establishments in the province. The practical implementation of this document led to the emergence of a number of primary agricultural schools. On the eve of the First World War, new educational establishments were opened - practical agricultural schools, which were engaged in the training of technicians for certain branches of agriculture: horticulture, viticulture, horticulture. During the First World War, new centers of agricultural education emerged - agricultural shelters, which provided the function of social care for orphans.

Introduction. The introduction of monopoly is associated with the minister of finance S.Y. Vitte, who initiated an active reforming activity during the economic modernization of the country. The current article analyzes social and economic consequences of introducing the wine monopoly assessed by the contemporaries of S.Y. Vitte. This was one of the most complicated and controversial reforms in term of acceptance by the society, which raised opposite assessments, including ones with regard to Vitte himself. Notwithstanding the above, it became a part of the “Vitte’s Program” aimed at the creation of the national industry during the country’s economic modernization. In this context the monopoly solved an important problem, in particular, it helped to search and attract funds inside the country in order to solve the set targets, which caused controversial reaction in the society. A number of prominent state and social officials as well as famous economic scientists spoke about its implementation. Methods and materials. The author analyzed different points of view expressed by such officials as: M.M. Kovalevskiy, I.H. Ozerov, P.P. Migulin, N.A. Velyaminov, N.I. Fridman, M.N. Kulomzin, A.F. Koni, P.L. Bark, V.N. Kokovtsov, P.H. Shvanebach, L.D. Hodskiy and others, who gave their estimation of social and economic consequences of introduction of the wine monopoly, as well as the role of Vitte in its development, implementation and social and economic consequences, in their publications, articles, reminiscences and memoirs. Basic methods of research used in the article are historical and genetic and comparative historical. They allow assessing general and specific issues in the approaches and assessments of the completed reform. Analysis. Although the necessity of the monopoly introduction was discussed in the Government long before Vitte, his predecessors at the position of the minister of finance have not decided to make this step, as they understood the reaction, which will be caused in the society due to its introduction. Indeed, after the monopoly has been introduced, a number of prominent state and social activists expressed their opinion about the necessity of its introduction, the role of Vitte in its development and implementation as well as about the social and economic consequences of this reform. Among the liberal circles the estimations were mostly of a critical nature. Having admitted that the excise system was not able to eliminate alcoholism and that the organization of alcoholic industry needed serious reforms, liberal mass media of that period did not anchor any hopes on the improvement of the industry with the official trade. However, the analysis of the reform made among its developers as well as certain scientific and social actors was more balanced and objective. Results. Therefore, the reform of drinks (wine monopoly), which was introduced by Vitte in 1894 and existed almost till the beginning of the First World War was controversially assessed by its contemporaries and, as it was shown during the conducted research, often the reason for this was the attitude to Vitte himself. The critics of Vitte, as a rule, did not take into account that by introducing the monopoly he defended mostly the interests of the state and after his resignation he was no longer personally responsible for its final results. In this regard, the last minister of finance of the Russian Empire, P.L. Bark, who replaced the monopoly during the First World War with the nonalcohol law, in his memoirs highly appraised the role of Vitte in the development and implementation of the reform and considered it quite reasonable in the relevant historical conditions. Most of the contemporaries agreed that the introduction of the monopoly helped to significantly increase the cash flow to the budget, at that, the monopoly failed to solve the second important goal, which is the decrease of alcoholism level among peasants – major part of the empire’s population. The advantage of the reform, which almost nobody challenges, is the significant increase of the quality of consumed product.

The article examines the state of the waqf lands in the Turkestan general-governorate, created during the colonization of the Russian Empire, using the example of the Syrdarya region. The study mainly used primary archival sources, materials from the office of the Governor-General of the region, and scientific works on this topic. We analyzed the reasons for the establishment of the waqf lands in the area and their significance, as well as the fact that these lands became abandoned as a result of the colonial policy of the tsarist authorities. The General government in Turkestan was created in 1867 based on the Syrdarya and Semirechensk regions. The Syrdarya region included such ancient cities as Tashkent, Turkestan, and Shymkent. Waqf lands have existed in these parts since time immemorial. After the Russian invasion, these cities became the first objects of political experiments of the tsarist administration. In the early stages of local self-government, the Russian government generally adhered to a policy of non-interference concerning waqfs and the Islamic religion in the region. But with the arrival of the first governor-general von Kaufmann in Turkestan, a colonial policy concerning the lands began. Some of the land owned by the waqfs was transferred to the state account, while others were left unattended. With the cessation of income from waqf lands, mosques, madrassas, and other sacred places Muslims were deprived of their financial resources. This situation harmed the socio-economic life of the peasants who worked on these waqf lands. We investigated this issue based on the principle of historicism. In the study, we used quantitative, systematic, content analysis, and problem-chronological methods of microhistory

يعد النظام السياسي في بريطانيا من اعرق الانظمة السياسية في العالم وذلك لكونه اعتمد على جملة تقاليد افرزتها التطورات السياسية والاجتماعية والاقتصادية التي شهدتها بريطانيا منذ بداية الحياة السياسية فيها على الاسس الاولى للنظام السياسي الملكي منذ ان منح الملك جان سانس تير عهد (الماكناكارتا) سنة1215م، الذي وصف بـ(الميثاق الاعظم-الميثاق العظيم للحريات). وهي وثيقة حقوق لضمان الحقوق الاساسية وعهد بين الملك ونبلاء انكلترا، وتقع في (63) مادة، وقد سبقتها وثيقة هنري الاول للحريات عام 1100م. ويعد السياسي بنجامين دزرائيلي واحدا من السياسيين البريطانيين المرموقين الذين تولوا رئاسة الوزارة البريطانية لمرتين,خلال عهد الملكة فكتوريا (1837-1901), وقد قدم خدمات كبيرة الى الامبراطورية البريطانية طيلة فترة عمله في الحياة السياسية هناك من(1837-1880)، وقام بأهم الاصلاحات البرلمانية في انكلترا. وفي هذا البحث سنستعرض حياة هذا الرجل وابرز ملامح محطات عمله السياسية والاجتماعية والأدبية, التي شكل فيها مع زميله الآخر وليام ايورت كلادستون (1838-1894) علامة فارقة في العهد الفكتوري اذ تناوبا في لعب دور المعارضة للحكومة وقت وجود احدهما في سدة الحكم او خروجه منها,وكانت خلافاتهما ظاهرة بشكل واضح يعود لطبيعة ونشأة كل منهما. يتالف البحث من مقدمة ومبحثين تناول الاول منهما،ولادة بنجامين دزرائيلي ونشأته الاجتماعية واثرهما في وعيه العلمي والسياسي المبكر،بينما عالج المبحث الثاني،حياته السياسية والادبية المبكره ودوره في السياسة البريطانية،فضلا عن خاتمة البحث وثبت بالمصادر المستخدمة فيه والتي كانت متنوعة وذات صلة كبيرة بشخصية دزرائيلي كون اغلب كتاب تلك المصادر كانوا قريبين من المدة التي شهدت حياته ونشاطه السياسي المرموق. Benjamin Disraeli and its role in British politics 1804 – 1881Historical studyDr. Sabah Karem Reah AlfatlawiThe figure Benjamin Disraeli (1804 – 1881 ) important and pivotal figures in the history of British politics. This policy has emerged clearly in the reign of Queen Victoria, who ruled for the period from 1837 m - 1901. Disraeli Conservative Party joined in 1832 and then became the leader of his later, the British took over the Treasury Department in 1852, then became president of the House of Commons, and issued the decree, a decree is important (for parliamentary reform in 1867). Won the admiration of Queen Victoria for his enthusiasm and potential of literary and political. He became president of the British government twice, the first of February - December 1868, and the second from 1874 - 1880. And he had an important role in the issuance of a number of important decisions in health, housing and trade fields, also played an important role in the 1878 Berlin Conference. Period was characterized by his political status of competition and the continuing conflict between him and his political rival Ewert Klahdeston and they take turns as prime minister and the opposition between them, And they were not loved each other. Disraeli died in 1881 after a life full of successes and failures of Queen Victoria was very impressed with his death.

Общественно-политический деятель и ученый Ованнес Тер-Мартиросян, известный под псевдонимом А-До, родился 4 января 1867 г. в г. Нор Баязете. Там же получил начальное образование. В 1881 г. переехал в Ереван, где окончил епархиальную школу, а в дальнейшем учился в Харьковском университете (1905 г.), в Петербургском Психоневрологическом институте (1907 г.). А-До был очевидцем русской революции (1905–1907 гг.), армяно-татарских столкновений (1905‒1906 гг.), почти досконально изучил их причины и написал специальный труд «Армяно-турецкое столкновение 1905–1906 гг.» (1907 г.). С 22 июня по 10 августа 1909 г. А-До побывал в нескольких губерниях Западной Армении, где собирал статистические сведения о численности армян, ремеслах, о сельском хозяйстве, путях сообщений, о турецкой налоговой системе и др. Обобщив данные, издал специальную работу «Вилайеты Вана, Битлиса и Эрзерума» (1912 г.). За исследование «Освободительное движение в России» (1908 г.) был приговорен к тюремному заключению. Во время Первой мировой войны О. Тер-Мартиросян всецело занялся оказанием помощи беженцам, спасшимся от Геноцида, осуществленного младотурецким правительством Османской империи. После победоносной самообороны г. Вана и провинции ( май 1915 г.) поехал в Васпуракан и собрал информацию об армянских погромах, учиненных турками и курдами и самообороне армян. Public-political figure Hovhannes Ter-Martirosyan, known under the pseudonym A-Do, was born on January 4, 1867 in Nor Bayazet town. Here he received his primary education. In 1881 he moved to Yerevan where he graduated from a diocesan school and later studied at the Kharkov University (1905), at the St. Petersburg Psychoneurological Institute (1907). A-Do was an eyewitness to the Russian Revolution (1905-1907), the Armenian-Tartar clashes (1905-1906). He thoroughly studied the causes of the clashes and wrote a special work on the conflict ‒ “Armenian-Turkish clash of 1905-1906” (1907). From June 22 to August 10, 1910, A-Do visited several provinces of Western Armenia where he collected statistical information on the number of Armenians, crafts, agriculture, communications, the Turkish tax system, etc. Having summarized the data, he created a special work “Vilayets of Van, Bitlis and Erzurum” (1912). He was sentenced to prison for his study “The Liberation Movement in Russia” (1908). During the First World War I, H. Ter-Martirosyan was fully engaged in helping the refugees who survived the genocide. The latter was organized by the Young Turk government of the Ottoman Empire. After the victorious self-defense of the city and the province of Van (May 1915), he went to Vaspurakan and collected information on the Armenian pogroms committed by the Turks and Kurds as well as the self-defense of Armenians.

The emergence of diplomatic protocol service within the structure of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MFA) of Estonia (1918–40) is a subject that has hitherto not been researched. This is illustrated by the fact that even the complete list of chiefs of protocol (chef du protocole) of the MFA of Estonia has been missing until now. The strengthening of Estonia’s statehood by its international recognition, the accreditation of foreign envoys, and the first state visits brought about the need for a thorough understanding of all nuances of diplomatic protocol and ceremonial. Nevertheless, the office of a separate chief of protocol was created in the structure of the MFA of Estonia only according to the new Foreign Service Act, decreed by the Head of State Konstantin Päts on 13 March 1936; i.e. more than 18 years after the declaration of Estonia’s independence. Prior to 1936, the functions of protocol officers were usually fulfilled by the head of the MFA’s administrative or political department. This article focuses on three core issues: 1) who were the chiefs of protocol? 2) their functions and how diplomatic protocol was regulated in the MFA; 3) the reason why a separate office of the chief of protocol was not created earlier than 1936. The key source for this research is the MFA collection in the Estonian National Archives (RA, ERA.957). There are no clear sources regarding the functions of the chief of protocol before 1922. The field was most probably shaped and shared by several officials, including the head of the political department Hermann Karl Hellat (1872–1953) and William Tomingas (1895–1972), the junior private secretary of Foreign Minister Jaan Tõnisson (1868–1941?). Everything connected to international practices was probably influenced by the most experienced diplomats of the young state, namely the members of Estonia’s foreign delegation, which had already been created in 1917. Another major influence was Foreign Minister Jaan Poska (1866–1920), who as a former mayor of Tallinn, the former governor of the autonomous Governorate of Estonia, and the head of Estonia’s delegation at the peace talks with Soviet Russia, had extensive experience in protocol-related matters. Hans Johannes (Johan) Ernst Markus (1884–1969) can be deemed the first chief of protocol to be mentioned in the hitherto known sources of the MFA. According to an MFA report to the Estonian government from July of 1922, Markus was the head of the MFA’s Western political department and performed the duties of ‘master of ceremonies’ as well. In January of 1923, Markus was appointed head of the MFA’s administrative department. He remained in this office until April of 1927, coordinating the state visits of the President of Latvia Jānis Čakste (February of 1924), the Secretary General of the League of Nations Eric Drummond (February of 1924), and the President of Finland Lauri Kristian Relander (May of 1925), as well as the state visits of Estonia’s Head of State, the presentation of credentials, and day-to-day work regarding diplomatic privileges and immunities. Since the chief of protocol was responsible for organising ceremonies connected to the Head of State (Riigivanem), Markus could be considered not only as a coordinator of the MFA’s protocol matters, but as the chief of state protocol. Markus certainly did not work alone. He could rely on the administrative department and basically the whole MFA in fulfilling his functions, while also counting on the support of the aide-de-camp to the Head of State. Nevertheless, it was Markus who laid the ’cornerstone’ for the best practices that could be systematised and used by his successors. In April of 1927, the functions of the chief of protocol were taken over by Johan Leppik (1894–1965), the former Envoy to Poland and Romania, and Chargé d’Affaires in Czechoslovakia. In August of 1927, Leppik was appointed head of the MFA’s political department. According to the MFA’s working arrangement, Leppik retained the functions of chef du protocole in his new office starting from January of 1928. Since the grand, first-ever state visit of a monarch to Estonia, by King Gustaf V of Sweden in June of 1929, and the visit of the President of Poland Ignacy Mościcki in August of 1930 (which were preceded by the state visits of Estonia’s Head of State to those countries) required extensive preparations, Leppik could rely on the work of his subordinate, the head of the political bureau and deputy chief of protocol Elmar-Johann Kirotar (1899–1985). In June of 1931, Leppik was succeeded by the director of the bureau of law Artur Haman (Tuldava) (1897–1942) in his office as chief of protocol. Haman (Tuldava) put great effort into systematising existing practices related to protocol (incl. Presentation of credentials, and receptions) into a comprehensive compendium, which has been preserved to this day. The efficient work of Kirotar and Tuldava was probably noted by Estonia’s leadership, since once the separaate office of the chief of protocol had been created within the structure of the MFA, the position was filled first by Kirotar (1936–9) and then by Tuldava (1939–40). The quest for stability was most probably connected to the strong presidential power that shaped Estonia’s political life in the latter half of the 1930s. The personal influence of the head of state became more important in filling high-ranking positions in the state structure. According to the Foreign Service Act adopted by Parliament (Riigikogu) on 30 May 1930, departmental directors were appointed by the Foreign Minister. The Foreign Service Act decreed by the Head of State on 13 March 1936 changed this procedure. According to the latter, departmental directors (incl. the chief of protocol) were appointed and dismissed by the Head of State (upon taking into consideration proposals from the Foreign Minister). There is no clear answer to the question of why there was no separate office of the chief of protocol in the 1920s, since these functions needed to be fulfilled anyway. This was most probably connected to budgetary restrictions i.e. the need to avoid all kinds of ’unnecessary’ expenses. In the 1930s, the director of the administrative department Jaan Mölder (1880–1942, in office 1935–6) and the head of the consular bureau August Koern (1900–89, in office 1936) also briefly fulfilled the functions of the chief of protocol. The latter was especially involved in systematising the rules and regulations of diplomatic practices. Like his predecessors and successors, he sent numerous inquiries to Estonia’s representations abroad to collect information on matters connected to privileges and immunities, decorations, preseance, organisation of state funerals, etc. According to sources at the Estonian National Archives, Estonia’s MFA collected information on international diplomatic practice everywhere that it was represented by its missions abroad. Already during the first years of Estonia’s independence, the MFA possessed the popular Guide to Diplomatic Practice by Sir Ernest Mason Satow (first issued in 1917) and several protocol-related compendiums from Finland, the United States of America, Great Britain, etc. It can be concluded that without a rich heritage of diplomatic practice of its own, Estonia was quickly able to successfully adapt to the international environment in matters of diplomatic protocol.

Introduction“From every kind of man obedience I expect; I’m the Emperor of Japan.” (“Miyasama,” from Gilbert and Sullivan’s musical The Mikado, 1885)This commentary is facilitated by—surprisingly resilient—oriental stereotypes of an imagined Japan (think of Oscar Wilde’s assertion, in 1889, that Japan was a European invention). During the Victorian era, in Britain, there was a craze for all things oriental, particularly ceramics and “there was a craze for all things Japanese and no middle class drawing room was without its Japanese fan or teapot.“ (V&A Victorian). These pastoral depictions of the ‘oriental life’ included the figures of men and women in oriental garb, with fans, stilt shoes, kimono-like robes, and appropriate headdresses, engaging in garden-based activities, especially tea ceremony variations (Landow). In fact, tea itself, and the idea of a ceremony of serving it, had taken up a central role, even an obsession in middle- and upper-class Victorian life. Similarly, landscapes with wild seas, rugged rocks and stunted pines, wizened monks, pagodas and temples, and particular fauna and flora (cranes and other birds flying through clouds of peonies, cherry blossoms and chrysanthemums) were very popular motifs (see Martin and Koda). Rather than authenticity, these designs heightened the Western-based romantic stereotypes associated with a stylised form of Japanese life, conducted sedately under rule of the Japanese Imperial Court. In reality, prior to the Meiji period (1868–1912), the Emperor was largely removed from everyday concerns, residing as an isolated, holy figure in Kyoto, the traditional capital of Japan. Japan was instead ruled from Edo (modern day Tokyo) led by the Shogun and his generals, according to a strict Confucian influenced code (see Keene). In Japan, as elsewhere, the presence of feudal-style governance includes policies that determine much of everyday life, including restrictions on clothing (Rall 169). The Samurai code was no different, and included a series of protocols that restricted rank, movement, behaviour, and clothing. As Vincent has noted in the case of the ‘lace tax’ in Great Britain, these restrictions were designed to punish those who seek to penetrate the upper classes through their costume (28-30). In Japan, pre-Meiji sumptuary laws, for example, restricted the use of gold, and prohibited the use of a certain shade of red by merchant classes (V&A Kimono).Therefore, in the governance of pre-globalised societies, the importance of clothing and textile is evident; as Jones and Stallybrass comment: We need to understand the antimatedness of clothes, their ability to “pick up” subjects, to mould and shape them both physically and socially—to constitute subjects through their power as material memories […] Clothing is a worn world: a world of social relations put upon the wearer’s body. (2-3, emphasis added)The significant re-imagining of Japanese cultural and national identities are explored here through the cataclysmic impact of Western ideologies on Japanese cultural traditions. There are many ways to examine how indigenous cultures respond to European, British, or American (hereafter Western) influences, particularly in times of conflict (Wilk). Western ideology arrived in Japan after a long period of isolation (during which time Japan’s only contact was with Dutch traders) through the threat of military hostility and war. It is after this outside threat was realised that Japan’s adoption of military and industrial practices begins. The re-imagining of their national identity took many forms, and the inclusion of a Western-style military costuming as a schoolboy uniform became a highly visible indicator of Japan’s mission to protect its sovereign integrity. A brief history of Japan’s rise from a collection of isolated feudal states to a unified military power, in not only the Asian Pacific region but globally, demonstrates the speed at which they adopted the Western mode of warfare. Gunboats on Japan’s ShorelinesJapan was forcefully opened to the West in the 1850s by America under threat of First Name Perry’s ‘gunboat diplomacy’ (Hillsborough 7-8). Following this, Japan underwent a rapid period of modernisation, and an upsurge in nationalism and military expansion that was driven by a desire to catch up to the European powers present in the Pacific. Noted by Ian Ferguson in Civilization: The West and the Rest, Unsure, the Japanese decided […] to copy everything […] Japanese institutions were refashioned on Western models. The army drilled like Germans; the navy sailed like Britons. An American-style system of state elementary and middle schools was also introduced. (221, emphasis added)This was nothing short of a wide-scale reorganisation of Japan’s entire social structure and governance. Under the Emperor Meiji, who wrested power from the Shogunate and reclaimed it for the Imperial head, Japan steamed into an industrial revolution, achieving in a matter of years what had taken Europe over a century.Japan quickly became a major player-elect on the world stage. However, as an island nation, Japan lacked the essentials of both coal and iron with which to fashion not only industrial machinery but also military equipment, the machinery of war. In 1875 Japan forced Korea to open itself to foreign (read: Japanese) trade. In the same treaty, Korea was recognised as a sovereign nation, separate from Qing China (Tucker 1461). The necessity for raw materials then led to the Sino-Japanese War (1894–95), a conflict between Japan and China that marked the emergence of Japan as a major world power. The Korean Peninsula had long been China’s most important client state, but its strategic location adjacent to the Japanese archipelago, and its natural resources of coal and iron, attracted Japan’s interest. Later, the Russo-Japanese War (1904–05), allowed a victorious Japan to force Russia to abandon its expansionist policy in the Far East, becoming the first Asian power in modern times to defeat a European power. The Russo-Japanese War developed out of the rivalry between Russia and Japan for dominance in Korea and Manchuria, again in the struggle for natural resources (Tucker 1534-46).Japan’s victories, together with the county’s drive for resources, meant that Japan could now determine its role within the Asia-Pacific sphere of influence. As Japan’s military, and their adoption of Westernised combat, proved effective in maintaining national integrity, other social institutions also looked to the West (Ferguson 221). In an ironic twist—while Victorian and Continental fashion was busy adopting the exotic, oriental look (Martin and Koda)—the kimono, along with other essentials of Japanese fashions, were rapidly altered (both literally and figuratively) to suit new, warlike ideology. It should be noted that kimono literally means ‘things that you wear’ and which, prior to exposure to Western fashions, signified all worn clothing (Dalby 65-119). “Wearing Things” in Westernised JapanAs Japan modernised during the late 1800s the kimono was positioned as symbolising barbaric, pre-modern, ‘oriental’ Japan. Indeed, on 17 January 1887 the Meiji Empress issued a memorandum on the subject of women’s clothing in Japan: “She [the Empress] believed that western clothes were in fact closer to the dress of women in ancient Japan than the kimonos currently worn and urged that they be adopted as the standard clothes of the reign” (Keene 404). The resemblance between Western skirts and blouses and the simple skirt and separate top that had been worn in ancient times by a people descended from the sun goddess, Amaterasu wo mikami, was used to give authority and cultural authenticity to Japan’s modernisation projects. The Imperial Court, with its newly ennobled European style aristocrats, exchanged kimono silks for Victorian finery, and samurai armour for military pomp and splendour (Figure 1).Figure 1: The Meiji Emperor, Empress and Crown Prince resplendent in European fashions on an outing to Asukayama Park. Illustration: Toyohara Chikanobu, circa 1890.It is argued here that the function of a uniform is to prepare the body for service. Maids and butlers, nurses and courtesans, doctors, policemen, and soldiers are all distinguished by their garb. Prudence Black states: “as a technology, uniforms shape and code the body so they become a unit that belongs to a collective whole” (93). The requirement to discipline bodies through clothing, particularly through uniforms, is well documented (see Craik, Peoples, and Foucault). The need to distinguish enemies from allies on the battlefield requires adherence to a set of defined protocols, as referenced in military fashion compendiums (see Molloy). While the postcolonial adoption of Western-based clothing reflects a new form of subservience (Rall, Kuechler and Miller), in Japan, the indigenous garments were clearly designed in the interests of ideological allegiance. To understand the Japanese sartorial traditions, the kimono itself must be read as providing a strong disciplinary element. The traditional garment is designed to represent an upright and unbending column—where two meters of under bindings are used to discipline the body into shape are then topped with a further four meters of a stiffened silk obi wrapped around the waist and lower chest. To dress formally in such a garment requires helpers (see Dalby). The kimono both constructs and confines the women who wear it, and presses them into their roles as dutiful, upper-class daughters (see Craik). From the 1890s through to the 1930s, when Japan again enters a period of militarism, the myth of the kimono again changes as it is integrated into the build-up towards World War II.Decades later, when Japan re-established itself as a global economic power in the 1970s and 1980s, the kimono was re-authenticated as Japan’s ‘traditional’ garment. This time it was not the myth of a people descended from solar deities that was on display, but that of samurai strength and propriety for men, alongside an exaggerated femininity for women, invoking a powerful vision of Japanese sartorial tradition. This reworking of the kimono was only possible as the garment was already contained within the framework of Confucian family duty. However, in the lead up to World War II, Japanese military advancement demanded of its people soldiers that could win European-style wars. The quickest solution was to copy the military acumen and strategies of global warfare, and the costumes of the soldiery and seamen of Europe, including Great Britain (Ferguson). It was also acknowledged that soldiers were ‘made not born’ so the Japanese educational system was re-vamped to emulate those of its military rivals (McVeigh). It was in the uptake of schoolboy uniforms that this re-imagining of Japanese imperial strength took place.The Japanese Schoolboy UniformCentral to their rapid modernisation, Japan adopted a constitutional system of education that borrowed from American and French models (Tipton 68-69). The government viewed education as a “primary means of developing a sense of nation,” and at its core, was the imperial authorities’ obsession with defining “Japan and Japaneseness” (Tipton 68-69). Numerous reforms eventually saw, after an abolition of fees, nearly 100% attendance by both boys and girls, despite a lingering mind-set that educating women was “a waste of time” (Tipton 68-69). A boys’ uniform based on the French and Prussian military uniforms of the 1860s and 1870s respectively (Kinsella 217), was adopted in 1879 (McVeigh 47). This jacket, initially with Prussian cape and cap, consists of a square body, standing mandarin style collar and a buttoned front. It was through these education reforms, as visually symbolised by the adoption of military style school uniforms, that citizen making, education, and military training became interrelated aspects of Meiji modernisation (Kinsella 217). Known as the gakuran (gaku: to study; ran: meaning both orchid, and a pun on Horanda, meaning Holland, the only Western country with trading relations in pre-Meiji Japan), these jackets were a symbol of education, indicating European knowledge, power and influence and came to reflect all things European in Meiji Japan. By adopting these jackets two objectives were realised:through the magical power of imitation, Japan would, by adopting the clothing of the West, naturally rise in military power; and boys were uniformed to become not only educated as quasi-Europeans, but as fighting soldiers and sons (suns) of the nation.The gakuran jacket was first popularised by state-run schools, however, in the century and a half that the garment has been in use it has come to symbolise young Japanese masculinity as showcased in campus films, anime, manga, computer games, and as fashion is the preeminent garment for boybands and Japanese hipsters.While the gakuran is central to the rise of global militarism in Japan (McVeigh 51-53), the jacket would go on to form the basis of the Sun Yat Sen and Mao Suits as symbols of revolutionary China (see McVeigh). Supposedly, Sun Yat Sen saw the schoolboy jacket in Japan as a utilitarian garment and adopted it with a turn down collar (Cumming et al.). For Sun Yat Sen, the gakuran was the perfect mix of civilian (school boy) and military (the garment’s Prussian heritage) allowing him to walk a middle path between the demands of both. Furthermore, the garment allowed Sun to navigate between Western style suits and old-fashioned Qing dynasty styles (Gerth 116); one was associated with the imperialism of the National Products Movement, while the other represented the corruption of the old dynasty. In this way, the gakuran was further politicised from a national (Japanese) symbol to a global one. While military uniforms have always been political garments, in the late 1800s and early 1900s, as the world was rocked by revolutions and war, civilian clothing also became a means of expressing political ideals (McVeigh 48-49). Note that Mahatma Ghandi’s clothing choices also evolved from wholly Western styles to traditional and emphasised domestic products (Gerth 116).Mao adopted this style circa 1927, further defining the style when he came to power by adding elements from the trousers, tunics, and black cotton shoes worn by peasants. The suit was further codified during the 1960s, reaching its height in the Cultural Revolution. While the gakuran has always been a scholarly black (see Figure 2), subtle differences in the colour palette differentiated the Chinese population—peasants and workers donned indigo blue Mao jackets, while the People’s Liberation Army Soldiers donned khaki green. This limited colour scheme somewhat paradoxically ensured that subtle hierarchical differences were maintained even whilst advocating egalitarian ideals (Davis 522). Both the Sun Yat Sen suit and the Mao jacket represented the rejection of bourgeois (Western) norms that objectified the female form in favour of a uniform society. Neo-Maoism and Mao fever of the early 1990s saw the Mao suit emerge again as a desirable piece of iconic/ironic youth fashion. Figure 2: An example of Gakuran uniform next to the girl’s equivalent on display at Ichikawa Gakuen School (Japan). Photo: Emerald King, 2015.There is a clear and vital link between the influence of the Prussian style Japanese schoolboy uniform on the later creation of the Mao jacket—that of the uniform as an integral piece of worn propaganda (Atkins).For Japan, the rapid deployment of new military and industrial technologies, as well as a sartorial need to present her leaders as modern (read: Western) demanded the adoption of European-style uniforms. The Imperial family had always been removed from Samurai battlefields, so the adoption of Western military costume allowed Japan’s rulers to present a uniform face to other global powers. When Japan found itself in conflict in the Asia Pacific Region, without an organised military, the first requirement was to completely reorganise their system of warfare from a feudal base and to train up national servicemen. Within an American-style compulsory education system, the European-based curriculum included training in mathematics, engineering and military history, as young Britons had for generations begun their education in Greek and Latin, with the study of Ancient Greek and Roman wars (Bantock). It is only in the classroom that ideological change on a mass scale can take place (Reference Please), a lesson not missed by later leaders such as Mao Zedong.ConclusionIn the 1880s, the Japanese leaders established their position in global politics by adopting clothing and practices from the West (Europeans, Britons, and Americans) in order to quickly re-shape their country’s educational system and military establishment. The prevailing military costume from foreign cultures not only disciplined their adopted European bodies, they enforced a new regime through dress (Rall 157-174). For boys, the gakuran symbolised the unity of education and militarism as central to Japanese masculinity. Wearing a uniform, as many authors suggest, furthers compliance (Craik, Nagasawa Kaiser and Hutton, and McVeigh). As conscription became a part of Japanese reality in World War II, the schoolboys just swapped their military-inspired school uniforms for genuine military garments.Re-imagining a Japanese schoolboy uniform from a European military costume might suit ideological purposes (Atkins), but there is more. The gakuran, as a uniform based on a close, but not fitted jacket, was the product of a process of advanced industrialisation in the garment-making industry also taking place in the 1800s:Between 1810 and 1830, technical calibrations invented by tailors working at the very highest level of the craft [in Britain] eventually made it possible for hundreds of suits to be cut up and made in advance [...] and the ready-to-wear idea was put into practice for men’s clothes […] originally for uniforms for the War of 1812. (Hollander 31) In this way, industrialisation became a means to mass production, which furthered militarisation, “the uniform is thus the clothing of the modern disciplinary society” (Black 102). There is a perfect resonance between Japan’s appetite for a modern military and their rise to an industrialised society, and their conquests in Asia Pacific supplied the necessary material resources that made such a rapid deployment possible. The Japanese schoolboy uniform was an integral part of the process of both industrialisation and militarisation, which instilled in the wearer a social role required by modern Japanese society in its rise for global power. Garments are never just clothing, but offer a “world of social relations put upon the wearer’s body” (Jones and Stallybrass 3-4).Today, both the Japanese kimono and the Japanese schoolboy uniform continue to interact with, and interrogate, global fashions as contemporary designers continue to call on the tropes of ‘military chic’ (Tonchi) and Japanese-inspired clothing (Kawamura). References Atkins, Jaqueline. Wearing Propaganda: Textiles on the Home Front in Japan, Britain, and the United States. Princeton: Yale UP, 2005.Bantock, Geoffrey Herman. Culture, Industrialisation and Education. London: Routledge & K. Paul, 1968.Black, Prudence. “The Discipline of Appearance: Military Style and Australian Flight Hostess Uniforms 1930–1964.” Fashion & War in Popular Culture. Ed. Denise N. Rall. Bristol: Intellect/U Chicago P, 2014. 91-106.Craik, Jenifer. Uniforms Exposed: From Conformity to Transgression. Oxford: Berg, 2005.Cumming, Valerie, Cecil Williet Cunnington, and Phillis Emily Cunnington. “Mao Style.” The Dictionary of Fashion History. Eds. Valerie Cumming, Cecil Williet Cunnington, and Phillis Emily Cunnington. Oxford: Berg, 2010.Dalby, Liza, ed. Kimono: Fashioning Culture. London: Vintage, 2001.Davis, Edward L., ed. Encyclopaedia of Contemporary Chinese Culture. London: Routledge, 2005.Dees, Jan. Taisho Kimono: Speaking of Past and Present. Milan: Skira, 2009.Ferguson, N. Civilization: The West and the Rest. London: Penguin, 2011.Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Trans. Alan Sheridan. London: Penguin, 1997. Gerth, Karl. China Made: Consumer Culture and the Creation of the Nation, Cambridge: East Asian Harvard Monograph 224, 2003.Gilbert, W.S., and Arthur Sullivan. The Mikado or, The Town of Titipu. 1885. 16 Nov. 2015 ‹http://math.boisestate.edu/gas/mikado/mk_lib.pdf›. Hillsborough, Romulus. Samurai Revolution: The Dawn of Modern Japan Seen through the Eyes of the Shogun's Last Samurai. Vermont: Tuttle, 2014.Jones, Anne R., and Peter Stallybrass, Renaissance Clothing and the Materials of Memory. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2000.Keene, Donald. Emperor of Japan: Meiji and His World, 1852-1912. New York: Columbia UP, 2002.King, Emerald L. “Schoolboys and Kimono Ladies.” Presentation to the Un-Thinking Asian Migrations Conference, University of Otago, Dunedin, New Zealand, 24-26 Aug. 2014. Kinsella, Sharon. “What’s Behind the Fetishism of Japanese School Uniforms?” Fashion Theory 6.2 (2002): 215-37. Kuechler, Susanne, and Daniel Miller, eds. Clothing as Material Culture. Oxford: Berg, 2005.Landow, George P. “Liberty and the Evolution of the Liberty Style.” 22 Aug. 2010. ‹http://www.victorianweb.org/art/design/liberty/lstyle.html›.Martin, Richard, and Harold Koda. Orientalism: Vision of the East in Western Dress. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1994.McVeigh, Brian J. Wearing Ideology: State, Schooling, and Self-Presentation in Japan. Oxford: Berg, 2000.Molloy, John. Military Fashion: A Comparative History of the Uniforms of the Great Armies from the 17th Century to the First World War. New York: Putnam, 1972.Peoples, Sharon. “Embodying the Military: Uniforms.” Critical Studies in Men’s Fashion 1.1 (2014): 7-21.Rall, Denise N. “Costume & Conquest: A Proximity Framework for Post-War Impacts on Clothing and Textile Art.” Fashion & War in Popular Culture, ed. Denise N. Rall. Bristol: Intellect/U Chicago P, 2014. 157-74. Tipton, Elise K. Modern Japan: A Social and Political History. 3rd ed. London: Routledge, 2016.Tucker, Spencer C., ed. A Global Chronology of Conflict: From the Ancient World to the Modern Middle East. Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO, 2013.V&A Kimono. Victoria and Albert Museum. “A History of the Kimono.” 2004. 2 Oct. 2015 ‹http://www.vam.ac.uk/content/articles/h/a-history-of-the-kimono/›.V&A Victorian. Victoria and Albert Museum. “The Victorian Vision of China and Japan.” 10 Nov. 2015 ‹http://www.vam.ac.uk/content/articles/t/the-victorian-vision-of-china-and-japan/›.Vincent, Susan J. The Anatomy of Fashion: Dressing the Body from the Renaissance to Today. Berg: Oxford, 2009.Wilde, Oscar. “The Decay of Lying.” 1889. In Intentions New York: Berentano’s 1905. 16 Nov. 2015 ‹http://virgil.org/dswo/courses/novel/wilde-lying.pdf›. Wilk, Richard. “Consumer Goods as a Dialogue about Development.” Cultural History 7 (1990) 79-100.

1909–22: Turkey exterminated over 1.5 million of its ethnically Armenian, and hundreds of thousands of its ethnically Greek and Assyrian, citizens. Most died in 1915. This period of decimation in now widely called the Armenian Genocide (Balakian 179-80).1910: Siamanto first published his poem, The Dance: “The corpses were piled as trees, / and from the springs, from the streams and the road, / the blood was a stubborn murmur.” When springs run red, when the dead are stacked tree-high, when “everything that could happen has already happened,” then time is nothing: “there is no future [and] the language of civilised humanity is not our language” (Nichanian 142).2007: In my novel The Edge of the World a ceramic bowl, luminous blue, recurs as motif. Imagine you are tiny: the bowl is broken but you don’t remember breaking it. You’re awash with tears. You sit on the floor, gather shards but, no matter how you try, you can’t fix it. Imagine, now, that the bowl is the sky, huge and upturned above your head. You have always known, through every wash of your blood, that life is shockingly precarious. Silence—between heartbeats, between the words your parents speak—tells you: something inside you is terribly wrong; home is not home but there is no other home; you “can never be fully grounded in a community which does not share or empathise with the experience of persecution” (Wajnryb 130). This is the stubborn murmur of your body.Because time is nothing, this essay is fragmented, non-linear. Its main characters: my mother, grandmother (Hovsanna), grandfather (Benyamin), some of my mother’s older siblings (Krikor, Maree, Hovsep, Arusiak), and Mustafa Kemal Ataturk (Ottoman military officer, Young Turk leader, first president of Turkey). 1915–2013: Turkey invests much energy in genocide denial, minimisation and deflection of responsibility. 24 April 2012: Barack Obama refers to the Medz Yeghern (Great Calamity). The use of this term is decried as appeasement, privileging political alliance with Turkey over human rights. 2003: Between Genocide and Catastrophe, letters between Armenian-American theorist David Kazanjian and Armenian-French theorist Marc Nichanian, contest the naming of the “event” (126). Nichanian says those who call it the Genocide are:repeating every day, everywhere, in all places, the original denial of the Catastrophe. But this is part of the catastrophic structure of the survivor. By using the word “Genocide”, we survivors are only repeating […] the denial of the loss. We probably cannot help it. We are doing what the executioner wanted us to do […] we claim all over the world that we have been “genocided;” we relentlessly need to prove our own death. We are still in the claws of the executioner. We still belong to the logic of the executioner. (127)1992: In Revolution and Genocide, historian Robert Melson identifies the Armenian Genocide as “total” because it was public policy intended to exterminate a large fraction of Armenian society, “including the families of its members, and the destruction of its social and cultural identity in most or all aspects” (26).1986: Boyajian and Grigorian assert that the Genocide “is still operative” because, without full acknowledgement, “the ghosts won’t go away” (qtd. in Hovannisian 183). They rise up from earth, silence, water, dreams: Armenian literature, Armenian homes haunted by them. 2013: My heart pounds: Medz Yeghern, Aksor (Exile), Anashmaneli (Indefinable), Darakrutiun (Deportation), Chart (Massacre), Brnagaght (Forced migration), Aghed (Catastrophe), Genocide. I am awash. Time is nothing.1909–15: Mustafa Kemal Ataturk was both a serving Ottoman officer and a leader of the revolutionary Young Turks. He led Ottoman troops in the repulsion of the Allied invasion before dawn on 25 April at Gallipoli and other sites. Many troops died in a series of battles that eventually saw the Ottomans triumph. Out of this was born one of Australia’s founding myths: Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZACs), courageous in the face of certain defeat. They are commemorated yearly on 25 April, ANZAC Day. To question this myth is to risk being labelled traitor.1919–23: Ataturk began a nationalist revolution against the occupying Allies, the nascent neighbouring Republic of Armenia, and others. The Allies withdrew two years later. Ataturk was installed as unofficial leader, becoming President in 1923. 1920–1922: The last waves of the Genocide. 2007: Robert Manne published A Turkish Tale: Gallipoli and the Armenian Genocide, calling for a recontextualisation of the cultural view of the Gallipoli landings in light of the concurrence of the Armenian Genocide, which had taken place just over the rise, had been witnessed by many military personnel and widely reported by international media at the time. Armenian networks across Australia were abuzz. There were media discussions. I listened, stared out of my office window at the horizon, imagined Armenian communities in Sydney and Melbourne. Did they feel like me—like they were holding their breath?Then it all went quiet. Manne wrote: “It is a wonderful thing when, at the end of warfare, hatred dies. But I struggle to understand why Gallipoli and the Armenian Genocide continue to exist for Australians in parallel moral universes.” 1992: I bought an old house to make a home for me and my two small children. The rooms were large, the ceilings high, and behind it was a jacaranda with a sturdy tree house built high up in its fork. One of my mother’s Armenian friends kindly offered to help with repairs. He and my mother would spend Saturdays with us, working, looking after the kids. Mum would stay the night; her friend would go home. But one night he took a sleeping bag up the ladder to the tree house, saying it reminded him of growing up in Lebanon. The following morning he was subdued; I suspect there were not as many mosquitoes in Lebanon as we had in our garden. But at dinner the previous night he had been in high spirits. The conversation had turned, as always, to politics. He and my mother had argued about Turkey and Russia, Britain’s role in the development of the Middle East conflict, the USA’s roughshod foreign policy and its effect on the world—and, of course, the Armenian Genocide, and the killingof Turkish governmental representatives by Armenians, in Australia and across the world, during the 1980s. He had intimated he knew the attackers and had materially supported them. But surely it was the beer talking. Later, when I asked my mother, she looked at me with round eyes and shrugged, uncharacteristically silent. 2002: Greek-American diva Diamanda Galas performed Dexifiones: Will and Testament at the Perth Concert Hall, her operatic work for “the forgotten victims of the Armenian and Anatolian Greek Genocide” (Galas).Her voice is so powerful it alters me.1925: My grandmother, Hovsanna, and my grandfather, Benyamin, had twice been separated in the Genocide (1915 and 1922) and twice reunited. But in early 1925, she had buried him, once a prosperous businessman, in a swamp. Armenians were not permitted burial in cemeteries. Once they had lived together in a big house with their dozen children; now there were only three with her. Maree, half-mad and 18 years old, and quiet Hovsep, aged seven,walked. Then five-year-old aunt, Arusiak—small, hungry, tired—had been carried by Hovsanna for months. They were walking from Cilicia to Jerusalem and its Armenian Quarter. Someone had said they had seen Krikor, her eldest son, there. Hovsanna was pregnant for the last time. Together the four reached Aleppo in Syria, found a Christian orphanage for girls, and Hovsanna, her pregnancy near its end, could carry Arusiak no further. She left her, promising to return. Hovsanna’s pains began in Beirut’s busy streets. She found privacy in the only place she could, under a house, crawled in. Whenever my mother spoke of her birth she described it like this: I was born under a stranger’s house like a dog.1975: My friend and I travelled to Albany by bus. After six hours we were looking down York Street, between Mount Clarence and Mount Melville, and beyond to Princess Royal Harbour, sapphire blue, and against which the town’s prosperous life—its shopfronts, hotels, cars, tourists, historic buildings—played out. It took away my breath: the deep harbour, whaling history, fishing boats. Rain and sun and scudding cloud; cliffs and swells; rocky points and the white curves of bays. It was from Albany that young Western Australian men, volunteers for World War I, embarked on ships for the Middle East, Gallipoli, sailing out of Princess Royal Harbour.1985: The Australian Government announced that Turkey had agreed to have the site of the 1915 Gallipoli landings renamed Anzac Cove. Commentators and politicians acknowledged it as historic praised Turkey for her generosity, expressed satisfaction that, 70 years on, former foes were able to embrace the shared human experience of war. We were justifiably proud of ourselves.2005: Turkey made her own requests. The entrance to Albany’s Princess Royal Harbour was renamed Ataturk Channel. A large bronze statue of Ataturk was erected on the headland overlooking the Harbour entrance. 24 April 1915: In the town of Hasan Beyli, in Cilicia, southwest Turkey, my great grandfather, a successful and respected businessman in his 50s, was asleep in his bed beside his wife. He had been born in that house, as had his father, grandfather, and all his children. His brother, my great uncle, had bought the house next door as a young man, brought his bride home to it, lived there ever since; between the two households there had been one child after another. All the cousins grew up together. My great grandfather and great uncle had gone to work that morning, despite their wives’ concerns, but had returned home early. The women had been relieved to see them. They made coffee, talked. Everyone had heard the rumours. Enemy ships were massing off the coast. 1978: The second time in Albany was my honeymoon. We had driven into the Goldfields then headed south. Such distance, such beautiful strangeness: red earth, red rocks; scant forests of low trees, thin arms outstretched; the dry, pale, flat land of Norseman. Shimmering heat. Then the big, wild coast.On our second morning—a cool, overcast day—we took our handline to a jetty. The ocean was mercury; a line of cormorants settled and bobbed. Suddenly fish bit; we reeled them in. I leaned over the jetty’s side, looked down into the deep. The water was clear and undisturbed save the twirling of a pike that looked like it had reversed gravity and was shooting straight up to me. Its scales flashed silver as itbroke the surface.1982: How could I concentrate on splicing a film with this story in my head? Besides the desk, the only other furniture in the editing suite was a whiteboard. I took a marker and divided the board into three columns for the three generations: my grandparents, Hovsanna and Benyamin; my mother; someone like me. There was a lot in the first column, some in the second, nothing in the third. I stared at the blankness of my then-young life.A teacher came in to check my editing. I tried to explain what I had been doing. “I think,” he said, stony-faced, “that should be your third film, not your first.”When he had gone I stared at the reels of film, the white board blankness, the wall. It took 25 years to find the form, the words to say it: a novel not a film, prose not pictures.2007: Ten minutes before the launch of The Edge of the World, the venue was empty. I made myself busy, told myself: what do you expect? Your research has shown, over and over, this is a story about which few know or very much care, an inconvenient, unfashionable story; it is perfectly in keeping that no-one will come. When I stepped onto the rostrum to speak, there were so many people that they crowded the doorway, spilled onto the pavement. “I want to thank my mother,” I said, “who, pretending to do her homework, listened instead to the story her mother told other Armenian survivor-women, kept that story for 50 years, and then passed it on to me.” 2013: There is a section of The Edge of the World I needed to find because it had really happened and, when it happened, I knew, there in my living room, that Boyajian and Grigorian (183) were right about the Armenian Genocide being “still operative.” But I knew even more than that: I knew that the Diaspora triggered by genocide is both rescue and weapon, the new life in this host nation both sanctuary and betrayal. I picked up a copy, paced, flicked, followed my nose, found it:On 25 April, the day after Genocide memorial-day, I am watching television. The Prime Minister stands at the ANZAC memorial in western Turkey and delivers a poetic and moving speech. My eyes fill with tears, and I moan a little and cover them. In his speech he talks about the heroism of the Turkish soldiers in their defence of their homeland, about the extent of their losses – sixty thousand men. I glance at my son. He raises his eyebrows at me. I lose count of how many times Kemal Ataturk is mentioned as the Father of Modern Turkey. I think of my grandmother and grandfather, and all my baby aunts and uncles […] I curl over like a mollusc; the ache in my chest draws me in. I feel small and very tired; I feel like I need to wash.Is it true that if we repeat something often enough and loud enough it becomes the truth? The Prime Minister quotes Kemal Ataturk: the ANZACS who died and are buried on that western coast are deemed ‘sons of Turkey’. My son turns my grandfather’s, my mother’s, my eyes to me and says, It is amazing they can be so friendly after we attacked them.I draw up my knees to my chest, lay my head and arms down. My limbs feel weak and useless. My throat hurts. I look at my Australian son with his Armenian face (325-6).24 April 1915 cont: There had been trouble all my great grandfather’s life: pogrom here, massacre there. But this land was accustomed to colonisers: the Mongols, the Persians, latterly the Ottomans. They invade, conquer, rise, fall; Armenians stay. This had been Armenian homeland for thousands of years.No-one masses ships off a coast unless planning an invasion. So be it. These Europeans could not be worse than the Ottomans. That night, were my great grandfather and great uncle awoken by the pounding at each door, or by the horses and gendarmes’ boots? They were seized, each family herded at gunpoint into its garden, and made to watch. Hanging is slow. There could be no mistakes. The gendarmes used the stoutest branches, stayed until they were sure the men weredead. This happened to hundreds of prominent Armenian men all over Turkey that night.Before dawn, the Allies made landfall.Each year those lost in the Genocide are remembered on 24 April, the day before ANZAC Day.1969: I asked my mother if she had any brothers and sisters. She froze, her hands in the sink. I stared at her, then slipped from the room.1915: The Ottoman government decreed: all Armenians were to surrender their documents and report to authorities. Able-bodied men were taken away, my grandfather among them. Women and children, the elderly and disabled, were told to prepare to walk to a safe camp where they would stay for the duration of the war. They would be accompanied by armed soldiers for their protection. They were permitted to take with them what they could carry (Bryce 1916).It began immediately, pretty young women and children first. There are so many ways to kill. Months later, a few dazed, starved survivors stumbled into the Syrian desert, were driven into lakes, or herded into churches and set alight.Most husbands and fathers were never seen again. 2003: I arrived early at my son’s school, parked in the shade, opened The Silence: How Tragedy Shapes Talk, and began to read. Soon I was annotating furiously. Ruth Wajnryb writes of “growing up among innocent peers in an innocent landscape” and also that the notion of “freedom of speech” in Australia “seems often, to derive from that innocent landscape where reside people who have no personal scars or who have little relevant historical knowledge” (141).1984: I travelled to Vancouver, Canada, and knocked on Arusiak’s door. Afraid she would not agree to meet me, I hadn’t told her I was coming. She was welcoming and gracious. This was my first experience of extended family and I felt loved in a new and important way, a way I had read about, had observed in my friends, had longed for. One afternoon she said, “You know our mother left me in an orphanage…When I saw her again, it was too late. I didn’t know who they were, what a family was. I felt nothing.” “Yes, I know,” I replied, my heart full and hurting. The next morning, over breakfast, she quietly asked me to leave. 1926: When my mother was a baby, her 18 year-old sister, Maree, tried to drown her in the sea. My mother clearly recalled Maree’s face had been disfigured by a sword. Hovsanna, would ask my mother to forgive Maree’s constant abuse and bad behaviour, saying, “She is only half a person.”1930: Someone gave Hovsanna the money to travel to Aleppo and reclaim Arusiak, by then 10 years old. My mother was intrigued by the appearance of this sister but Arusiak was watchful and withdrawn. When she finally did speak to my then five-year-old mother, she hissed: “Why did she leave me behind and keep you?”Soon after Arusiak appeared, Maree, “only half a person,” disappeared. My mother was happy about that.1935: At 15, Arusiak found a live-in job and left. My mother was 10 years old; her brother Hovsep, who cared for her before and after school every day while their mother worked, and always had, was seventeen. She adored him. He had just finished high school and was going to study medicine. One day he fell ill. He died within a week.1980: My mother told me she never saw her mother laugh or, once Hovsep died, in anything other than black. Two or three times before Hovsep died, she saw her smile a little, and twice she heard her singing when she thought she was alone: “A very sad song,” my mother would say, “that made me cry.”1942: At seventeen, my mother had been working as a live-in nanny for three years. Every week on her only half-day off she had caught the bus home. But now Hovsanna was in hospital, so my mother had been visiting her there. One day her employer told her she must go to the hospital immediately. She ran. Hovsanna was lying alone and very still. Something wasn’t right. My mother searched the hospital corridors but found no-one. She picked up a phone. When someone answered she told them to send help. Then she ran all the way home, grabbed Arusiak’s photograph and ran all the way back. She laid it on her mother’s chest, said, “It’s all right, Mama, Arusiak’s here.”1976: My mother said she didn’t like my boyfriend; I was not to go out with him. She said she never disobeyed her own mother because she really loved her mother. I went out with my boyfriend. When I came home, my belongings were on the front porch. The door was bolted. I was seventeen.2003: I read Wajnryb who identifies violent eruptions of anger and frozen silences as some of the behaviours consistent in families with a genocidal history (126). 1970: My father had been dead over a year. My brothers and I were, all under 12, made too much noise. My mother picked up the phone: she can’t stand us, she screamed; she will call an orphanage to take us away. We begged.I fled to my room. I couldn’t sit down. I couldn’t keep still. I paced, pressed my face into a corner; shook and cried, knowing (because she had always told us so) that she didn’t make idle threats, knowing that this was what I had sometimes glimpsed on her face when she looked at us.2012: The Internet reveals images of Ataturk’s bronze statue overlooking Princess Royal Harbour. Of course, it’s outsized, imposing. The inscription on its plinth reads: "Peace at Home/ Peace in the World." He wears a suit, looks like a scholar, is moving towards us, a scroll in his hand. The look in his eyes is all intensity. Something distant has arrested him – a receding or re-emerging vision. Perhaps a murmur that builds, subsides, builds again. (Medz Yeghern, Aksor, Aghed, Genocide). And what is written on that scroll?2013: My partner suggested we go to Albany, escape Perth’s brutal summer. I tried to explain why it’s impossible. There is no memorial in Albany, or anywhere else in Western Australia, to the 1.5 million victims of the Armenian Genocide. ReferencesAkcam, Taner. “The Politics of Genocide.” Online Video Clip. YouTube. YouTube, 11 Dec. 2011. 6 Mar. 2013 ‹http://www.youtube.com/watchv=OxAJaaw81eU&noredirect=1genocide›.Balakian, Peter. The Burning Tigress: The Armenian Genocide. 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