Academic literature on the topic 'Services de renseignements – 1900-1945'

Fin août 2009, à la veille du 70 e anniversaire du déclenchement de la Deuxième Guerre mondiale, les journalistes polonais accrédités à Moscou nous apprennent que le site Internet officiel du Service des renseignements étrangers de la Fédération de Russie affirme que le colonel Józef Beck, ancien ministre des Affaires étrangères polonais (1932-1939), était un agent secret allemand. Les Russes disposant d’un grand nombre de documents des services secrets allemands, transférés à Moscou après 1945, certains espéraient y trouver des preuves de l’espionnage de Beck. Cependant, cela n’a pas eu lieu.

The objective of this study was to characterize tuberculosis mortality trends in the Municipality of São Paulo, Brazil, from 1900 to 1997. Standardized tuberculosis mortality rates and proportional mortality ratios were calculated and stratified by gender and age group based on data provided by government agencies. These measures were submitted to time-series analysis. We verified distinct trends: high mortality and a stationary trend from 1900 to 1945, a heavy reduction in mortality (7.41% per year) from 1945 to 1985, and a resumption of increased mortality (4.08% per year) from 1985 to 1995. In 1996 and 1997 we observed a drop in tuberculosis mortality rates, which may be indicating a new downward trend for the disease. The period from 1945 to 1985 witnessed a real reduction in tuberculosis, brought about by social improvements, the introduction of therapeutic resources, and expansion of health services. Recrudescence of tuberculosis mortality from 1985 to 1995 may reflect the increasing prevalence of Mycobacterium and HIV co-infection, besides loss of quality in specific health programs.

Abstract In 1900 Alphonse Desjardins opened the first caisse populaire at Lévis, a small town located across the St. Lawrence from Quebec City. Many historians have seen the establishment and the early operations of the Caisse populaire de Lévis in heroic terms, as it proved to be the beginning of the development of a vast cooperative movement. Desjardins and his colleagues were described as disinterested men only desirous of providing financial services to the poor. This characterization has a certain validity, as credit was made available that could not have been found elsewhere. Nevertheless, such a perspective ignores the fact that the founders of the caisse and their successors were members of the local petite bourgoisie who were profoundly insecure regarding their place in an industrializing Quebec. As a result, the operations of this caisse up to the end of World War II were not always in the best interests of the poorer elements of Lévis.

During the first third of the twentieth century, U. S. railroad executives offered local collection and delivery trucking operations. Railroad managers claimed, with justification, that these services were necessary to reduce congestion at urban freight terminals, and to increase the operating efficiency. Yet, executives also employed collection and delivery practices to discriminate against shippers and communities, and to draw business away from rival carriers, in violation of the 1887 Interstate Commerce Act, the 1903 Elkins Act, and the Transportation Act of 1920. During the 1920s, as competition from independent truckers became more intense, railroad managers used their inherent advantage in line-haul service to cross-subsidize local delivery services, to the detriment of independent motor carriers—an issue of considerable concern to Interstate Commerce Commission (ICC) commissioners, following the passage of the 1935 Motor Carrier Act. The railroads' emphasis on the productive efficiency associated with local trucking operations conflicted with the allocative efficiency advocated by federal courts and by the ICC. Commissioner Joseph B. Eastman, in particular, emphasized both the potential benefits and the potential dangers associated with coordinated rail-truck service. More broadly, the status of that service, as one of the few forms of transportation that lay beyond the ICC's authority, stemmed from a complex interaction, over several decades, between all three branches of the federal government. By 1938, the ICC commissioners had concluded that the railroads' local delivery operations occupied a nebulous region between rail and truck regulation. While lawful, they did not serve as a model for post-1945 efforts to achieve integrated, multi-modal transportation services.

In Hungary, practices of naming shops and services, as these names typically reflect the social characteristics of a historical era, have changed from time to time in the 20th–21st centuries. This paper presents the name-giving practices concerning shops in Hódmezővásárhely in three different periods: from the beginning of the 20th century to the Second World War (1900–1944), in the socialist era (1945–1989) and in the present day, at the beginning of the 21st century. The characteristics of the name-giving practices are explored with the help of visual and written documentation. Data clarify what trends have dominated in naming shops and services in each period, how name-giving practices have changed and to what extent earlier practices have survived until now. This research gives special attention to the appearance of words of foreign (especially English) origin in names – a characteristic present-day feature hardly observable before the change of the political regime in Hungary.

Abstract Over the past century, precipitation totals in Australia's south-eastern state of Victoria have shown multi-decadal variability without clear trends. This has impacted agriculture, water security, ecosystem services, and flood hazards. Hydrological and meteorological evidence suggests that Victorian precipitation regimes have changed since the beginning of the Millennium Drought in 1997. Until now, Victorian precipitation intensity distributions have not been assessed in detail. We assess the time-varying aspect of observed precipitation intensity distributions by identifying temporal shifts in Victorian precipitation and using those different epochs to assess multi-decadal changes in precipitation characteristics. We used 788 manual rain gauges and 49 automatic weather stations to analyse sub-daily to multi-day precipitation distributions from 1900 to 2020 for three Victorian regions and four seasons. Distributions are significantly different for the three epochs (1900-1945, 1946-1996, and 1997-2020). We summarised precipitation distributions by categorising precipitation intensities, calculating histograms, and fitting gamma distributions. This study provides evidence that Victorian precipitation distributions have shifted over decades, and distributions depend on regional and seasonal differences. Recent precipitation declines are mostly due to decreasing light and moderate precipitation, despite increasing heavy precipitation. Heavy precipitation has shown a tendency to increase in frequency since 1997. Increases were greatest for six-hour springtime and summertime precipitation in northern Victoria and wintertime precipitation in southern and eastern Victoria. Observed precipitation distributions show changes that are consistent with climate projections. To better understand processes driving observed and projected changes to precipitation distributions globally, interdecadal shifts, seasonal variations, and regional climates need to be considered.

When the National Trust was established in 1895 its founders, Canon Rawnsley, Sir Robert Hunter and Octavia Hill, were, as Cannadine notes, “primarily concerned with preserving open spaces of outstanding natural beauty which were threatened with development or spoliation.” This was because, like Ruskin, Morris and “many of their contemporaries, they believed that the essence of Englishness was to be found in the fields and hedgerows, not in the suburbs and slums” (Cannadine 227). It was important to protect these sites of beauty and historical interest from development not only for what they were but for what they purportedly represented—an irreplaceable repository of the nation’s “spiritual values”, and thus a vital antidote to the “base materialism” of the day. G.M. Trevelyan, who I am quoting here, noted in two pieces written on behalf of the Trust in the 1920s and 30s, that the “inexorable rise of bricks and mortar” and the “full development of motor traffic” were laying waste to the English countryside. In the face of this assault on England’s heartland, the National Trust provided “an ark of refuge” safeguarding the nation’s cherished physical heritage and preserving its human cargo from the rising waters of materialism and despair (qtd. in Cannadine 231-2).Despite the extension of the road network and increasing private ownership of cars (up from 200,000 registrations in 1918 to “well over one million” in 1930), physical distance and economic hardship denied the majority of the urban population access to the countryside (Taylor 217). For the urban working classes recently or distantly displaced from the land, the dream of a return to rural roots was never more than a fantasy. Ford Madox Ford observed that “the poor and working classes of the towns never really go back” (Ford 58).Through the later nineteenth century the rural nostalgia once most prevalent among the working classes was increasingly noted as a feature of middle class sensibility. Better educated, with more leisure time and money at their disposal, these sentimental ruralists furnished a ready market for a new consumer phenomenon—the commodification of the English countryside and the packaging of the values it notionally embodied. As Valentine Cunningham observes, this was not always an edifying spectacle. By the late 1920s, “the terrible sounds of ‘Ye Olde England’ can already be heard, just off-stage, knocking together its thatched wayside stall where plastic pixies, reproduction beer-mugs, relics of Shakespeare and corn-dollies would soon be on sale” (Cunningham 229). Alongside the standard tourist tat, and the fiction and poetry that romanticised the rural world, a new kind of travel writing emerged around the turn of the century. Through an analysis of early-twentieth century notions of Englishness, this paper considers how the north struggled to find a place in H.V. Morton’s In Search of England (1927).In Haunts of Ancient Peace (1901), the Poet Laureate, Alfred Austin, described a journey through “Old England” as a cultural pilgrimage in quest of surviving vestiges of the nation’s essential identity, “or so much of it as is left” (Austin 18). Austin’s was an early example of what had, by the 1920s and 30s become a “boom market … in books about the national character, traditions and antiquities, usually to be found in the country” (Wiener 73). Longmans began its “English Heritage” series in 1929, introduced by the Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, with volumes on “English humour, folk song and dance, the public school, the parish church, [and] wild life”. A year later Batsford launched its series of books on “English Life” with volumes featuring “the countryside, Old English household life, inns, villages, and cottages” (Wiener 73). There was an outpouring of books with an overtly conservationist agenda celebrating journeys through or periods of residence in the countryside, many of them written by “soldiers like Henry Williamson and Edmund Blunden, who returned from the First War determined to preserve the rural England they’d known” (Cunningham 229; Blunden, Face, England; Roberts, Pilgrim, Gone ; Williamson). In turn, these books engendered an efflorescence of critical analyses of the construction of England (Hamilton; Haddow; Keith; Cavaliero; Gervais; Giles and Middleton; Westall and Gardiner).By the 1920s it was clear that a great many people thought they knew what England was, where it might be found, and if threatened, which parts of it needed to be rescued in order to safeguard the survival of its essential identity. By the same point, there were large numbers who felt, in Patrick Wright’s words, that “Some areas of the nation had been lost forever and in these no one should expect to find the traditional nation at all” (Wright 87).A key guide to the nation’s sacred sites in this period, an inventory of their relics, and an illustration of how its lost regions might be rescued for or erased from its cultural map, was provided in H.V. Morton’s In Search of England (1927). Initially published as a series of articles in the Daily Express in 1926, In Search of England went through nine editions in the two and a half years after its appearance in book form in 1927. With sales in excess of a million copies, as John Brannigan notes, the book went through a further twenty editions by 1943, and has remained continuously in print since (Brannigan).In his introduction Morton proposes In Search of England is simply “the record of a motor-car journey round England … written without deliberation by the roadside, on farmyard walls, in cathedrals, in little churchyards, on the washstands of country inns, and in many another inconvenient place” (Morton vii). As C.R. Perry notes, “This is a happy image, but also a misleading one” (Perry 434) for there was nothing arbitrary about Morton’s progress. Even a cursory glance at the map of his journey confirms, the England that Morton went in search of was overwhelmingly rural or coastal, and embodied in the historic villages and ancient towns of the Midlands or South.Morton’s biographer, Michael Bartholomew suggests that the “nodal points” of Morton’s journey are the “cathedral cities” (Bartholomew 105).Despite claims to the contrary, his book was written with deliberation and according to a specific cultural objective. Morton’s purpose was not to discover his homeland but to confirm a vision that he and millions of others cherished. He was not in search of England so much as reassuring himself and his readers that in spite of the depredations of the factory and the motor vehicle, it was still out there. These aims determined Morton’s journey; how long he spent in differing parts, what he recorded, and how he presented landscapes, buildings, people and material culture.Morton’s determination to celebrate England as rural and ancient needed to negotiate the journey north into an industrial landscape better known for its manufacturing cities, mining and mill towns, and the densely packed streets of the poor and working classes. Unable to either avoid or ignore this north, Morton needed to settle upon a strategy of passing through it without disturbing his vision of the rural idyll. Narratively, Morton’s touring through the south and west of the country is conducted at a gentle pace. In my 1930 edition of the text, it takes 185 of the book’s 280 pages to bring him from London via the South Coast, Cornwall, the Cotswolds and the Welsh marches, to Chester. The instant Morton crosses the Lancashire border, his bull-nosed Morris accelerates through the extensive northern counties in a mere thirty pages: Warrington to Carlisle (with a side trip to Gretna Green), Carlisle to Durham, and Durham to Lincoln. The final sixty-five pages return to the more leisurely pace of the south and west through Norfolk and the East Midlands, before the journey is completed in an unnamed village somewhere between Stratford upon Avon and Warwick. Morton spends 89 per cent of the text in the South and Midlands (66 per cent and 23 per cent respectively) with only 11 per cent given over to his time in the north.If, as Genette has pointed out, narrative deceleration results in the descriptive pause, it is no coincidence that this is the recurring set piece of Morton’s treatment of the south and west as opposed to the north. His explorations take dwelling moments on river banks and hill tops, in cathedral closes and castle ruins to honour the genius loci and imagine earlier times. On Plymouth Hoe he sees, in his mind’s eye, Sir Walter Raleigh’s fleet set sail to take on the Armada; at Tintagel it is Arthur, wild and Celtic, scaling the cliffs, spear in hand; at Buckler’s Hard amid the rotting slipways he imagines the “stout oak-built ships which helped to found the British Empire”, setting out on their journeys of conquest (Morton 39). At the other extreme, Genette observes, that narrative acceleration produces ellipsis, where details are omitted in order to render a more compact and striking expression. It is the principle of ellipsis, of selective omission, which compresses the geography of Morton’s journey through the north with the effect of shaping reader experiences. Morton hurries past the north’s industrial areas—shuddering at the sight of smoke or chimneys and averting his gaze from factory and slum.As he crosses the border from Cheshire into Lancashire, Morton reflects that “the traveller enters Industrial England”—not that you would know it from his account (Morton 185). Heading north towards the Lake District, he steers a determined path between “red smoke stacks” rising on one side and an “ominous grey haze” on the other, holding to a narrow corridor of rural land where, to his relief, he observes men “raking hay in a field within gunshot of factory chimneys” (Morton 185-6). These redolent, though isolated, farmhands are of greater cultural moment than the citadels of industry towering on either side of them. While the chimneys might symbolise the nation’s economic potency, the farmhands embody the survival of its essential cultural and moral qualities. In an allusion to the Israelites’ passage through the Red Sea from the Book of Exodus, the land that the workers tend holds back the polluted tide of industry, furnishing relief from the factory and the slum, granting Morton safe passage through the perils of modernity and into the Promised Land–or at least the Lake District. In Morton’s view this green belt is not only more essentially English than trade and industry, it is also expresses a nobler and more authentic Englishness.The “great industrial new-rich cities of northern England—vast and mighty as they are,” Morton observes, “fall into perspective as mere black specks against the mighty background of history and the great green expanse of fine country which is the real North of England” (Morton 208). Thus, the rural land between Manchester and Liverpool expands into a sea of green as the great cities shrink on the horizon, and the north is returned to its origins.What Morton cannot speed past or ignore, what he is compelled or chooses to confront, he transforms, through the agency of history, into something that he and England can bear to own. Tempted into Wigan by its reputation as a comic nowhere-land, a place whose name conjured a thousand music hall gags, Morton confesses that he had expected to find there another kind of cliché, “the apex of the world’s pyramid of gloom … dreary streets and stagnant canals and white-faced Wigonians dragging their weary steps along dull streets haunted by the horror of the place in which they are condemned to live” (Morton 187).In the process of naming what he dreads, Morton does not describe Wigan: he exorcises his deepest fears about what it might hold and offers an incantation intended to hold them at bay. He “discovers” Wigan is not the industrial slum but “a place which still bears all the signs of an old-fashioned country town” (Morton 188). Morton makes no effort to describe Wigan as it is, any more than he describes the north as a whole: he simply overlays them with a vision of them as they should be—he invents the Wigan and the north that he and England need.Having surveyed parks and gardens, historical monuments and the half-timbered mock-Tudor High Street, Morton returns to his car and the road where, with an audible sigh of relief, he finds: “Within five minutes of notorious Wigan we were in the depth of the country,” and that “on either side were fields in which men were making hay” (Morton 189).In little more than three pages he passes from one set of haymakers, south of town, to another on its north. The green world has all but smoothed over the industrial eyesore, and the reader, carefully chaperoned by Morton, can pass on to the Lake District having barely glimpsed the realities of industry and urbanism, reassured that if this is the worst that the north has to show then the rural heartland and the essential identity it sustains are safe. Paradoxically, instead of invalidating his account, Morton’s self-evident exclusions and omissions seem only to have fuelled its popularity.For readers of the Daily Express in the months leading up to and immediately after the General Strike of 1926, the myth of England that Morton proffered, of an unspoilt village where old values and traditional hierarchies still held true, was preferable to the violently polarised urban battlefields that the strike had revealed. As the century progressed and the nation suffered depression, war, and a steady decline in its international standing, as industry, suburban sprawl and the irresistible spread of motorways and traffic blighted the land, Morton’s England offered an imagined refuge, a real England that somehow, magically resisted the march of time.Yet if it was Morton’s triumph to provide England with a vision of its ideal spiritual home, it was his tragedy that this portrait of it hastened the devastation of the cultural survivals he celebrated and sought to preserve: “Even as the sense of idyll and peace was maintained, the forces pulling in another direction had to be acknowledged” (Taylor 74).In his introduction to the 1930 edition of In Search of England Morton approvingly acknowledged that a new enthusiasm for the nation’s history and heritage was abroad and that “never before have so many people been searching for England.” In the next sentence he goes on to laud the “remarkable system of motor-coach services which now penetrates every part of the country [and] has thrown open to ordinary people regions which even after the coming of the railways were remote and inaccessible” (Morton vii).Astonishingly, as the waiting charabancs roared their engines and the village greens of England enjoyed the last hours of their tranquillity, Morton somehow failed to make the obvious connection between these unique cultural and social phenomena or take any measure of their potential consequences. His “motoring pastoral” did more than alert the barbarians to the existence of the nation’s hidden treasures, as David Matless notes it provided them with a route map, itinerary and behavioural guide for their pillages (Matless 64; Peach; Batsford).Yet while cultural preservationists wrung their hands in horror at the advent of the day-tripper slouching towards Barnstaple, for Morton this was never a cause for concern. The nature of his journey and the form of its representation demonstrate that the England he worshipped was more an imaginary than a physical space, an ideal whose precise location no chart could fix and no touring party defile. ReferencesAustin, Alfred. Haunts of Ancient Peace. London: Macmillan, 1902.Bartholomew, Michael. In Search of H.V. Morton. London: Methuen, 2004.Batsford, Harry. How to See the Country. London: B.T. Batsford, 1940.Blunden, Edmund. The Face of England: In a Series of Occasional Sketches. London: Longmans, 1932.———. English Villages. London: Collins, 1942.Brannigan, John. “‘England Am I …’ Eugenics, Devolution and Virginia Woolf’s Between the Acts.” The Palgrave Macmillan Literature of an Independent England: Revisions of England, Englishness and English Literature. Eds. Claire Westall and Michael Gardiner. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013.Cannadine, David. In Churchill’s Shadow: Confronting the Past in Modern Britain. London: Penguin, 2002.Cavaliero, Glen. The Rural Tradition in the English Novel 1900-1939. Totowa, NJ: Rowman and Littlefield, 1977.Cunningham, Valentine. British Writers of the Thirties. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988.Ford, Ford Madox. The Heart of the Country: A Survey of a Modern Land. London: Alston Rivers, 1906.Gervais, David. Literary Englands. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993.Giles, J., and T. Middleton, eds. Writing Englishness. London: Routledge, 1995.Haddow, Elizabeth. “The Novel of English Country Life, 1900-1930.” Dissertation. London: University of London, 1957.Hamilton, Robert. W.H. Hudson: The Vision of Earth. New York: Kennikat Press, 1946.Keith, W.J. Richard Jefferies: A Critical Study. Toronto: Toronto University Press, 1965.Lewis, Roy, and Angus Maude. The English Middle Classes. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1949.Matless, David. Landscape and Englishness. London: Reaktion Books, 1998.Morris, Margaret. The General Strike. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1976.Morton, H.V. In Search of England. London: Methuen, 1927.Peach, H. Let Us Tidy Up. Leicester: The Dryad Press, 1930.Perry, C.R. “In Search of H.V. Morton: Travel Writing and Cultural Values in the First Age of British Democracy.” Twentieth Century British History 10.4 (1999): 431-56.Roberts, Cecil. Pilgrim Cottage. London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1933.———. Gone Rustic. London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1934.Taylor, A.J.P. England 1914-1945. The Oxford History of England XV. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975.Taylor, John. War Photography: Realism in the British Press. London: Routledge, 1991.Wiener, Martin. English Culture and the Decline of the Industrial Spirit, 1850-1980. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004.Williamson, Henry. The Village Book. London: Jonathan Cape, 1930.Wright, Patrick. A Journey through Ruins: A Keyhole Portrait of British Postwar Life and Culture. London: Flamingo, 1992.

If the home is traditionally considered to be a space of safety associated with the warm and cosy feeling of the familial hearth, it is also continuously portrayed as a space under threat from the outside from which we must secure ourselves and our families. Securing the home entails a series of material, discursive and performative strategies, a host of precautionary measures aimed at regulating and ultimately producing security. When I was eleven my family returned home from the local fruit markets to find our house had been ransacked. Clothes were strewn across the floor, electrical appliances were missing and my parents’ collection of jewellery – wedding rings and heirlooms – had been stolen. Few things remained untouched and the very thought of someone else’s hands going through our personal belongings made our home feel tainted. My parents were understandably distraught. As Filipino immigrants to Australia the heirlooms were not only expensive assets from both sides of my family, but also signifiers of our homeland. Added to their despair was the fact that this was our first house – we had rented prior to that. During the police interviews, we discovered that our area, Sydney’s Western suburbs, was considered ‘high-risk’ and we were advised to install security. In their panic my parents began securing their home. Grills were installed on every window. Each external wooden door was reinforced by a metal security door. Movement detectors were installed at the front of the house, which were set to blind intruders with floodlights. Even if an intruder could enter the back through a window a metal grill security door was waiting between the backroom and the kitchen to stop them from getting to our bedrooms. In short, through a series of transformations our house was made into a residential fortress. Yet home security had its own dangers. A series of rules and regulations were drilled into me ‘in case of an emergency’: know where your keys are in case of a fire so that you can get out; remember the phone numbers for an emergency and the work numbers of your parents; never let a stranger into the house; and if you need to speak to a stranger only open the inside door but leave the security screen locked. Thus, for my Filipino-migrant family in the 1990s, a whole series of defensive behaviours and preventative strategies were produced and disseminated inside and around the home to regulate security risks. Such “local knowledges” were used to reinforce the architectural manifestations of security at the same time that they were a response to the invasion of security systems into our house that created a new set of potential dangers. This article highlights “the interplay of material and symbolic geographies of home” (Blunt and Varley 4), focusing on the relation between urban fears circulating around and within the home and the spatial practices used to negotiate such fears. In exploring home security systems it extends the exemplary analysis of home technologies already begun in Lynn Spigel’s reading of the ‘smart home’ (381-408). In a similar vein, David Morley’s analysis of mediated domesticity shows how communications technology has reconfigured the inside and outside to the extent that television actually challenges the physical boundary that “protects the privacy and solidarity of the home from the flux and threat of the outside world” (87). Television here serves as a passage in which the threat of the outside is reframed as news or entertainment for family viewing. I take this as a point of departure to consider the ways that this mediated fear unfolds in the technology of our homes. Following Brian Massumi, I read the home as “a node in a circulatory network of many dimensions (each corresponding to a technology of transmission)” (85). For Massumi, the home is an event-space at the crossroads of media technologies and political technologies. “In spite of the locks on the door, the event-space of the home must be seen as one characterized by a very loose regime of passage” (85). The ‘locked door’ is not only a boundary marker that defines the inside from the outside but another technology that leads us outside the home into other domains of inquiry: the proliferation of security technologies and the mundane, fearful intimacies of the home. In this context, we should heed Iris Marion Young’s injunction to feminist critics that the home does provide some positives including a sense of privacy and the space to build relationships and identities. Yet, as Colomina argues, the traditional domestic ideal “can only be produced by engaging the home in combat” (20). If, as Colomina’s comment suggests, ontological security is at least partially dependent on physical security, then this article explores the ontological effects of our home security systems. Houses at War: Targeting the Family As Beatriz Colomina reminds us, in times of war we leave our homelands to do battle on the front line, but battle lines are also being drawn in our homes. Drawing inspiration from Virilio’s claim that contemporary war takes place without fighting, Colomina’s article ‘Domesticity at War’ contemplates the domestic interior as a “battlefield” (15). The house, she writes, is “a mechanism within a war where the differences between defense [sic] and attack have become blurred” (17). According to the Home Security Precautions, New South Wales, October 1999 report conducted by the Australian Bureau of Statistics, 47% of NSW dwellings were ‘secure’ (meaning that they either had a burglar alarm, or all entry points were secured or they were inside a security block) while only 9% of NSW households had no home security devices present (Smith 3). In a similar report for Western Australia conducted in October 2004, an estimated 71% of WA households had window security of some sort (screens, locks or shutters) while 67% had deadlocks on at least one external door (4). An estimated 27% had a security alarm installed while almost half (49%) had sensor lights (Hubbard 4-5). This growing sense of insecurity means big business for those selling security products and services. By the end of June 1999, there were 1,714 businesses in Australia’s security services industry generating $1,395 million of income during 1998-99 financial year (McLennan 3; see also Macken). This survey did not include locksmith services or the companies dealing with alarm manufacturing, wholesaling or installing. While Colomina’s article focuses on the “war with weather” and the attempts to control environmental conditions inside the home through what she calls “counterdomesticity” (20), her conceptualisation of the house as a “military weapon” (17) provides a useful tool for thinking the relation between the home, architecture and security. Conceiving of the house as a military weapon might seem like a stretch, but we should recall that the rhetoric of war has already leaked into the everyday. One hears of the ‘war on drugs’ and the ‘war on crime’ in the media. ‘War’ is the everyday condition of our urban jungles (see also Diken and Lausten) and in order to survive, let alone feel secure, one must be able to defend one’s family and home. Take, for example, Signal Security’s website. One finds a panel on the left-hand side of the screen to all webpages devoted to “Residential Products”. Two circular images are used in the panel with one photograph overlapping the other. In the top circle, a white nuclear family (stereotypical mum, dad and two kids), dressed in pristine white clothing bare their white teeth to the internet surfer. Underneath this photo is another photograph in which an arm clad in a black leather jacket emerges through a smashed window. In the foreground a black-gloved hand manipulates a lock, while a black balaclava masks an unrecognisable face through the broken glass. The effect of their proximity produces a violent juxtaposition in which the burglar visually intrudes on the family’s domestic bliss. The panel stages a struggle between white and black, good and bad, family and individual, security and insecurity, recognisability and unidentifiability. It thus codifies the loving, knowable family as the domestic space of security against the selfish, unidentifiable intruder (presumed not to have a family) as the primary reason for insecurity in the family home – and no doubt to inspire the consumption of security products. Advertisements of security products thus articulate the family home as a fragile innocence constantly vulnerable from the outside. From a feminist perspective, this image of the family goes against the findings of the National Homicide Monitoring Program, which shows that 57% of the women killed in Australia between 2004 and 2005 were killed by an intimate partner while 17% were killed by a family member (Mouzos and Houliaras 20). If, on the one hand, the family home is targeted by criminals, on the other, it has emerged as a primary site for security advertising eager to exploit the growing sense of insecurity – the family as a target market. The military concepts of ‘target’ and ‘targeting’ have shifted into the benign discourse of strategic advertising. As Dora Epstein writes, “We arm our buildings to arm ourselves from the intrusion of a public fluidity, and thus our buildings, our architectures of fortification, send a very clear message: ‘avoid this place or protect yourself’” (1997: 139). Epstein’s reference to ‘architectures of fortification’ reminds us that the desire to create security through the built environment has a long history. Nan Ellin has argued that fear’s physical manifestation can be found in the formation of towns from antiquity to the Renaissance. In this sense, towns and cities are always already a response to the fear of foreign invaders (Ellin 13; see also Diken and Lausten 291). This fear of the outsider is most obviously manifested in the creation of physical walls. Yet fortification is also an effect of spatial allusions produced by the configuration of space, as exemplified in Fiske, Hodge and Turner’s semiotic reading of a suburban Australian display home without a fence. While the lack of a fence might suggest openness, they suggest that the manicured lawn is flat so “that eyes can pass easily over it – and smooth – so that feet will not presume to” (30). Since the front garden is best viewed from the street it is clearly a message for the outside, but it also signifies “private property” (30). Space is both organised and lived, in such a way that it becomes a medium of communication to passers-by and would-be intruders. What emerges in this semiotic reading is a way of thinking about space as defensible, as organised in a way that space can begin to defend itself. The Problematic of Defensible Space The incorporation of military architecture into civil architecture is most evident in home security. By security I mean the material systems (from locks to electronic alarms) and precautionary practices (locking the door) used to protect spaces, both of which are enabled by a way of imagining space in terms of risk and vulnerability. I read Oscar Newman’s 1972 Defensible Space as outlining the problematic of spatial security. Indeed, it was around that period that the problematic of crime prevention through urban design received increasing attention in Western architectural discourse (see Jeffery). Newman’s book examines how spaces can be used to reinforce human control over residential environments, producing what he calls ‘defensible space.’ In Newman’s definition, defensible space is a model for residential environments which inhibits crime by creating the physical expression of a social fabric that defends itself. All the different elements which combine to make a defensible space have a common goal – an environment in which latent territoriality and sense of community in the inhabitants can be translated into responsibility for ensuring a safe, productive, and well-maintained living space (3). Through clever design space begins to defend itself. I read Newman’s book as presenting the contemporary problematic of spatialised security: how to structure space so as to increase control; how to organise architecture so as to foster territorialism; how to encourage territorial control through amplifying surveillance. The production of defensible space entails moving away from what he calls the ‘compositional approach’ to architecture, which sees buildings as separate from their environments, and the ‘organic approach’ to architecture, in which the building and its grounds are organically interrelated (Newman 60). In this approach Newman proposes a number of changes to space: firstly, spaces need to be multiplied (one no longer has a simple public/private binary, but also semi-private and semi-public spaces); secondly, these spaces must be hierarchised (moving from public to semi-public to semi-private to private); thirdly, within this hierarchy spaces can also be striated using symbolic or material boundaries between the different types of spaces. Furthermore, spaces must be designed to increase surveillance: use smaller corridors serving smaller sets of families (69-71); incorporate amenities in “defined zones of influence” (70); use L-shaped buildings as opposed to rectangles (84); use windows on the sides of buildings to reveal the fire escape from outside (90). As he puts it, the subdivision of housing projects into “small, recognisable and comprehensible-at-a-glance enclaves is a further contributor to improving the visual surveillance mechanism” (1000). Finally, Newman lays out the principle of spatial juxtaposition: consider the building/street interface (positioning of doors and windows to maximise surveillance); consider building/building interface (e.g. build residential apartments next to ‘safer’ commercial, industrial, institutional and entertainment facilities) (109-12). In short, Newman’s book effectively redefines residential space in terms of territorial zones of control. Such zones of influence are the products of the interaction between architectural forms and environment, which are not reducible to the intent of the architect (68). Thus, in attempting to respond to the exigencies of the moment – the problem of urban crime, the cost of housing – Newman maps out residential space in what Foucault might have called a ‘micro-physics of power’. During the mid-1970s through to the 1980s a number of publications aimed at the average householder are printed in the UK and Australia. Apart from trade publishing (Bunting), The UK Design Council released two small publications (Barty, White and Burall; Design Council) while in Australia the Department of Housing and Construction released a home safety publication, which contained a small section on security, and the Australian Institute of Criminology published a small volume entitled Designing out Crime: Crime prevention through environmental design (Geason and Wilson). While Newman emphasised the responsibility of architects and urban planners, in these publications the general concerns of defensible space are relocated in the ‘average homeowner’. Citing crime statistics on burglary and vandalism, these publications incite their readers to take action, turning the homeowner into a citizen-soldier. The householder, whether he likes it or not, is already in a struggle. The urban jungle must be understood in terms of “the principles of warfare” (Bunting 7), in which everyday homes become bodies needing protection through suitable architectural armour. Through a series of maps and drawings and statistics, the average residential home is transformed into a series of points of vulnerability. Home space is re-inscribed as a series of points of entry/access and lines of sight. Simultaneously, through lists of ‘dos and don’ts’ a set of precautionary behaviours is inculcated into the readers. Principles of security begin codifying the home space, disciplining the spatial practices of the intimate, regulating the access and mobility of the family and guests. The Architectural Nervous System Nowadays we see a wild, almost excessive, proliferation of security products available to the ‘security conscious homeowner’. We are no longer simply dealing with security devices designed to block – such as locks, bolts and fasteners. The electronic revolution has aided the production of security devices that are increasingly more specialised and more difficult to manipulate, which paradoxically makes it more difficult for the security consumer to understand. Detection systems now include continuous wiring, knock-out bars, vibration detectors, breaking glass detectors, pressure mats, underground pressure detectors and fibre optic signalling. Audible alarm systems have been upgraded to wire-free intruder alarms, visual alarms, telephone warning devices, access control and closed circuit television and are supported by uninterruptible power supplies and control panels (see Chartered Institution of Building Service Engineers 19-39). The whole house is literally re-routed as a series of relays in an electronic grid. If the house as a security risk is defined in terms of points of vulnerability, alarm systems take these points as potential points of contact. Relays running through floors, doors and windows can be triggered by pressure, sound or dislocation. We see a proliferation of sensors: switching sensors, infra-red sensors, ultrasonic sensors, microwave radar sensors, microwave fence sensors and microphonic sensors (see Walker). The increasing diversification of security products attests to the sheer scale of these architectural/engineering changes to our everyday architecture. In our fear of crime we have produced increasingly more complex security products for the home, thus complexifying the spaces we somehow inherently feel should be ‘simple’. I suggest that whereas previous devices merely reinforced certain architectural or engineering aspects of the home, contemporary security products actually constitute the home as a feeling, architectural body capable of being affected. This recalls notions of a sensuous architecture and bodily metaphors within architectural discourse (see Thomsen; Puglini). It is not simply our fears that lead us to secure our homes through technology, but through our fears we come to invest our housing architecture with a nervous system capable of fearing for itself. Our eyes and ears become detection systems while our screams are echoed in building alarms. Body organs are deterritorialised from the human body and reterritorialised on contemporary residential architecture, while our senses are extended through modern security technologies. The vulnerable body of the family home has become a feeling body conscious of its own vulnerability. It is less about the physical expression of fear, as Nan Ellin has put it, than about how building materialities become capable of fearing for themselves. What we have now are residential houses that are capable of being more fully mobilised in this urban war. Family homes become bodies that scan the darkness for the slightest movements, bodies that scream at the slightest possibility of danger. They are bodies that whisper to each other: a house can recognise an intrusion and relay a warning to a security station, informing security personnel without the occupants of that house knowing. They are the newly produced victims of an urban war. Our homes are the event-spaces in which mediated fear unfolds into an architectural nervous system. If media plug our homes into one set of relations between ideologies, representations and fear, then the architectural nervous system plugs that back into a different set of relations between capital, fear and the electronic grid. The home is less an endpoint of broadcast media than a node in an electronic network, a larger nervous system that encompasses the globe. It is a network that plugs architectural nervous systems into city electronic grids into mediated subjectivities into military technologies and back again, allowing fear to be disseminated and extended, replayed and spliced into the most banal aspects of our domestic lives. References Barty, Euan, David White, and Paul Burall. Safety and Security in the Home. London: The Design Council, 1980. Blunt, Alison, and Ann Varley. “Introduction: Geographies of Home.” Cultural Geographies 11.1 (2004): 3-6. Bunting, James. The Protection of Property against Crime. Folkestone: Bailey Brothers & Sinfen, 1975. Chartered Institution of Building Service Engineers. Security Engineering. London: CIBSE, 1991. Colomina, Beatriz. “Domesticity at War.” Assemblage 16 (1991): 14-41. Department of Housing and Construction. Safety in and around the Home. Canberra: Australian Government Publishing Service, 1981. Design Council. The Design Centre Guide to Domestic Safety and Security. London: Design Council, 1976. Diken, Bülent, and Carsten Bagge Lausten. “Zones of Indistinction: Security and Terror, and Bare Life.” Space and Culture 5.3 (2002): 290-307. Ellin, Nan. “Shelter from the Storm or Form Follows Fear and Vice Versa.” Architecture of Fear. Ed. Nan Ellin. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1997. Epstein, Dora. “Abject Terror: A Story of Fear, Sex, and Architecture.” Architecture of Fear. Ed. Nan Ellin. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1997. Fiske, John, Bob Hodge, and Graeme Turner. Myths of Oz: Reading Australian Popular Culture. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1987. Geason, Susan, and Paul Wilson. Designing Out Crime: Crime Prevention through Environmental Design. Canberra: Australian Institute of Criminology, 1989. Hubbard, Alan. Home Safety and Security, Western Australia. Canberra: Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2005. Jeffery, C. Ray. Crime Prevention through Environmental Design. Beverley Hills: Sage, 1971. Macken, Julie. “Why Aren’t We Happier?” Australian Financial Review 26 Nov. 1999: 26. Mallory, Keith, and Arvid Ottar. Architecture of Aggression: A History of Military Architecture in North West Europe, 1900-1945. Hampshire: Architectural Press, 1973. Massumi, Brian. Parables of the Virtual: Movement, Affect, Sensation. Durham: Duke University Press, 2002. McLennan, W. Security Services, Australia, 1998-99. Canberra: Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2000. Morley, David. Home Territories: Media, Mobility and Identity. London and New York: Routledge, 2000. Mouzos, Jenny, and Tina Houliaras. Homicide in Australia: 2004-05 National Homicide Monitoring Program (NHMP) Annual Report. Research and Public Policy Series 72. Canberra: Australian Institute of Criminology, 2006. Newman, Oscar. Defensible Space: Crime Prevention through Urban Design. New York: Collier, 1973. Puglini, Luigi. HyperArchitecture: Space in the Electronic Age. Basel: Bikhäuser, 1999. Signal Security. 13 January 2007 http://www.signalsecurity.com.au/securitysystems.htm>. Smith, Geoff. Home Security Precautions, New South Wales, October 1999. Canberra: Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2000. Spigel, Lynn. Welcome to the Dreamhouse: Popular Media and Postwar Suburbs. Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2001. Thomsen, Christian W. Sensuous Architecture: The Art of Erotic Building. Munich and New York: Prestel, 1998. Walker, Philip. Electronic Security Systems: Better Ways to Crime Prevention. London: Butterworths, 1983. Young, Iris Marion. “House and Home: Feminist Variations on a Theme.” Feminist Interpretations of Martin Heidegger. Eds. Nancy J. Holland and Patricia Huntington. University Park, Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State UP, 2001. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Caluya, Gilbert. "The Architectural Nervous System: Home, Fear, Insecurity." M/C Journal 10.4 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/05-caluya.php>. APA Style Caluya, G. (Aug. 2007) "The Architectural Nervous System: Home, Fear, Insecurity," M/C Journal, 10(4). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/05-caluya.php>.

Cette thèse retrace un changement majeur dans l'Etat fédéral américain qui s'effectue au long d'un moment que l'on suppose immobile et inerte. C'est l'histoire de trois ruptures liées au point de n'en faire qu'une, celle d'une reconfiguration de la relation du gouvernement à son peuple, ou plutôt : de l'État fédéral à sa population. C'est l'histoire de la constitution d'un espace de l'appareil d'État soustrait à l'impératif de publicité, occupé par des organes s'affranchissant des contraintes pesant habituellement sur l'action publique, pour faire et envisager l'impensable et l'indicible. A partir d'une vaste quantité d'archives parlementaires, judiciaires et militaires, cette recherche retrace la constitution d'un système contemporain de confidentialité, fondé sur la loi, décliné en règles, procédures et pratiques, et garanti par la perspective de sanctions. Elle relate comment, à l'abri de ce voile opaque qu'ils contribuent à mettre en place, les services de renseignement militaires - la Military Intelligence Division et Office of Naval Intelligence - se mettent à opérer structurellement dans la « zone grise » pour maintenir sous surveillance la population civile américaine. Elle explique enfin que cette accumulation de savoirs est conduite au nom - et en fonction - d'un raisonnement inédit sur les menaces que représente leur propre population. On assiste ainsi à l'émergence silencieuse d'un État secret américain, c'est-à-dire d'un espace délimité par le secret d'État, incarné par des bureaucraties secrètes radicalement autonomes qui élaborent, formulent et opèrent une rationalité inavouable, ce qu'il est convenu d'appeler : une forme contemporaine de raison d'État
This dissertation contends that a major change took place in the U. S. Federal government during a period supposed to be still and inert. It recounts three breaks intertwined to the point of making one, that is a reconfiguration of the relation between the Government and the People, or to put it more accurately: between the federal state apparatus and the population. It narrates the emergence of a portion of the state apparatus shielded from the imperative of publicity, occupied by bureaucratie organs thus freed from the usual constraints usually weighing on government actions, doing and contemplating the unthinkable and the unspeakable. Using a wide variety of congressional, judicial, and military archives, we retrace the building of a "secrecy System" based on the law, on regulations, procedures, and practices, and guaranteed by the possibility of punishment. We show how, behind this impenetrable veil of secrecy, the military intelligence services - the Military Intelligence Division (MID) and the Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI) - started to operate structurally in the "grey zone" in order to keep their own civilian population under watch. And we explain that this accumulation of knowledge is conducted in the name - and according to - a new reasoning on the threats the population may represent. This is the silent emergence of an American "Secret State", that is: a portion of the apparatus defined by state secrecy, embodied by secret and radically autonomous bureaucracies, elaborating, formulating and operating an undisclosable rationality, what one may call a contemporary form of reason of state

Parmi les raisons évoquées pour expliquer la défaite française en Indochine, la déficience des services de renseignement à été avancée. Nous voulons démontrer que cela n’a pas été le cas. Lorsque les troupes françaises reviennent en Indochine en 1945 tout doit être reconstruit, c’est en particulier le cas des services de renseignement. Peu à peu, toute la gamme des sources d’informations se met en place, mais a des rythmes différents. Si les services de la sûreté sont rétablis dès 1946, il faut attendre 1949 pour que le renseignement aérien devienne autonome. Il y a un accroissement des moyens à partir de 1951, lors du commandement du général de Lattre. Son successeur, le général Salan, poursuit son œuvre mais en suivant une orientation très technique qui entraîne une perte d’efficacité des services. Le général Navarre va tenter de remédier à cette situation en remettant le renseignement sur ses deux jambes (humain et technique) et tente d’insuffler une « mystique du renseignement ». En définitive, les services fonctionnent et alimentent le commandement en informations qui lui permettent d’éviter une surprise stratégique. Les organes de contre-espionnage de la RDVN, ne peuvent l’empêcher, malgré une couverture totalitaire de la population. La guerre d’Indochine s’internationalise et dès les premières années, de fructueux échanges de renseignements existent entre la France et ses alliés (GB, EU et Siam). Nous étudions le fonctionnement des services au quotidien, aussi bien dans le fonctionnement des réseaux d’agents de renseignements dirigés par les OR territoriaux, que dans les relations parfois difficiles entre les différents services
Among reasons whose explain the French defeat in Indochina, insufficiency of intelligence services has been put forward. We want to show that it was not case. When the French expeditionary corps landed in Saigon, in October of 1945, the new commander in chief had to rebuild the French military structure. It was particularly the case of intelligence services. Little by little, all range of the sources of information was put in place. If the security service was restored from 1946, it was only in 1949 that the air-force intelligence service became autonomous. The means were increased in 1951, during the command of the general of Lattre. His successor, the general Salan, followed a very technical orientation which caused a loss of effectiveness of the services. The general Navarre tried to redress this situation. He developed the human sources and attempted to instil an «intelligence mystic ». The intelligence services were operated and gave information to the different commander in chief, which allowed them to avoid a strategical surprise. The organs of the DRV’s counterespionage could not prevent it, in spite of a totalitarian coverage of the population. From the first years, the Indochina war became international. A productive exchange of information existed between France and his allies (GB, United States and Siam). We study the functioning of services in the daily, as well in the functioning of intelligence agent networks directed by the territorial intelligence officers, that in the relations between the different services

Entre 1940 et 1944, le Bureau Central de Renseignement et d’Action (BCRA) assura la liaison entre la France Libre – à Londres et à Alger – et les résistants qui, en France, luttaient contre l’occupant. Ce service secret d’un type nouveau fut créé et dirigé par André Dewavrin (Passy). Tout au long de la guerre, il s’attacha avec succès à mettre sur pied des réseaux de renseignement avec le soutien de l’Intelligence Service. A partir de 1941, il entreprit de mener une action de type paramilitaire en collaboration avec le Special Operations Executive (SOE). Il s’agissait de créer une Armée Secrète obéissant au général de Gaulle et d’élaborer et mettre en œuvre des plans de destruction afin d’entraver la capacité de réaction de l’occupant au moment du débarquement. A partir de juin 1942, il fut en outre chargé de mettre en œuvre les missions politiques élaborées par le Commissariat National à l’Intérieur. Ce service aux fonctions étendues suscita convoitises et critiques. Les adversaires du général de Gaulle lui reprochèrent d’être un puissant instrument au service des ambitions politiques du chef de la France Libre. De fait, de Gaulle veilla toujours à en conserver le contrôle, s’assurant ainsi le contrôle de l’action en France. Le BCRA servait sa politique d’affirmation de la souveraineté française vis-à-vis des Alliés et sa politique d’affirmation de l’autorité de l’Etat vis-à-vis des résistants métropolitains. Parmi les gaullistes, on reprocha au BCRA de s’être mué en Etat dans l’Etat. De fait, l’importance que revêtait l’action de ce service pour le succès du projet politique gaulliste permit à ses dirigeants de se ménager une place de choix au sein de l’Etat gaulliste
From 1940 to 1944, the Bureau Central de Renseignement et d’Action (BCRA) was the link between the Free French – in London and Algiers – and those who, in France, committed themselves in the resistance against the occupying forces. This service of a new type was created and managed by André Dewavrin (Passy). Throughout the war, an important and successful part of its activities has been to collaborate with the Intelligence Service to create intelligence networks. In 1941, it started to collaborate with the Special Operations Executive (SOE) in order to create a Secret Army under the orders of general de Gaulle as well as to conceive and to implement destruction plans so that the reaction of the enemy would be delayed when the allied landing happens. After June 1942, the BCRA was also in charge of implementing the political missions that the Commissariat National à l’Intérieur was working out. A service with so wide functions was subject to covetousness and criticisms. It was accused by de Gaulle’s enemies to be a powerful instrument that served the political ambitions of the Free French leader. It is a fact that de Gaulle has always been anxious to keep his control on the BCRA, consequently on action in France. This service served his will to assert French sovereignty towards the Allies and to assert the state authority towards the leaders of resistance organisations in France. Among de Gaulle’s followers, some accused the BCRA to turn into a law under itself. It is a fact that the activities of this service were so important for the success of de Gaulle’s political plans that its leaders could secure themselves an important position in the gaullist state

Redécouverte à la fin du XIXe siècle, à la faveur de l’évolution des télécommunications, la cryptologie, ou science des écritures secrètes, connaît un intérêt croissant dans les milieux militaires et navals. Son développement accéléré en temps de guerre se traduit chez les Français et les Britanniques par la création ou l’élargissement de plusieurs services dits « du Chiffre », spécialisés dans la protection des communications nationales et alliées et dans l’attaque des codes ennemis. Une telle évolution illustre l’émergence d’une nouvelle branche du renseignement et de son reflet dans le contre-espionnage pendant la Première Guerre mondiale : le renseignement technique. La comparaison des Chiffres français et britanniques au sein des forces armées établit des temporalités certes différentes dans l’apparition de certaines missions, mais met en lumière les similitudes dans l’instauration de ces services, notamment dans le recrutement d’un personnel soumis au secret. Au sein de l’Entente cordiale, une coopération secrète, interarmes et interalliée, se noue entre les services du Chiffre français et britanniques. Cette alliance comprend autant la construction de codes secrets communs que le partage d’informations issues de l’interception et du décryptement des messages ennemis. Elle permet ainsi de souligner l’importance de la cryptologie pour l’alliance franco-britannique, mais aussi pour leurs autres alliés comme les Américains, dans la lutte contre les Empires centraux. L’ampleur que cette spécialité du renseignement prend dans la conduite de la guerre explique dès lors la forme prise par les Chiffres français et britanniques d’après-guerre
At the end of the 19th century, thanks to the evolution of telecommunications, military and naval circles rediscover cryptology, also known as “science of secret writing”, and become more and more interested by it. Its quick development in wartime can be depicted by the creation or expansion of several units, called “Cipher services”, in France and in the United Kingdom. These services have two missions: protecting the national and allied communications, and attacking the secret codes of the enemy. Their growth during the First World War illustrates the emergence of a brand new branch of intelligence and its reflection in counter-espionage: signals intelligence, or SIGINT. A comparison between the French and British Cipher services within their armed forces shows that there were similarities in the establishment of these services, particularly in recruiting personnel whom were subject to secrecy, although the temporalities of certain missions differed. Within the Entente Cordiale, a secret, joint and allied cooperation was established between the various French and British signals intelligence services. This alliance included the creation of shared codes, as well as the sharing of information resulting from the interception and decrypting of enemy communications. It thus highlights the importance of cryptology for the Franco-British alliance in the fight against the Central Empires, which can also be observed in their other alliances, such as the one with the Americans. It also sheds light on the extent to which this intelligence specialty took on in the conduct of the war, which explains the shape taken by the French and British Ciphers after the war

Au travers de l’étude du renseignement aérien en France de 1945 à 1994, il s’agit de replacer l’emploi de cet outil décisionnel sur une échelle de temps longue afin d’en comprendre sa perception chez les décideurs français. Pour analyser les évolutions du renseignement aérien, nous avons comparé les expériences opérationnelles avec les corpus doctrinaux et les innovations technologiques du système de collecte. Notre étude s’est appesantie sur les implications tactiques, stratégiques et politiques de notre objet d’étude pour expliciter les différentes dimensions de ses perceptions d’emploi. Afin de mieux comprendre ces facteurs évolutifs dans le contexte français, nous avons également introduit des points comparatifs avec les Etats-Unis et la Grande-Bretagne. C’est également un moyen d’entrevoir l’influence de facteurs étrangers sur les évolutions d’emploi et de perceptions du renseignement aériens français, tout en précisant les spécificités françaises. Entre la mission de collecte, défini comme la reconnaissance et l’ensemble du renseignement aérien, la question qui se pose est de savoir ce qui doit être compris comme objet focalisant la perception du décideur militaire ou politique. Le renseignement aérien peut-il être compris, en France, comme un service de renseignement à part entière ou juste comme un système de collecte au service d’un acteur décisionnel ? L’autre question est de savoir comment les différentes évolutions qui ont touché notre objet d’étude ont influencé ses perceptions d’emploi. Au-delà de ces problématiques, celle du rapport entre l’image et le décideur, spécifique au renseignement aérien, influence t-elle également sa perspective d’utilisation ?
Through the study of the Aerial Intelligence in France from 1945 to 1994, is to replace the use of this decision making tool on a long time scale to understand his perception among French policymakers. To analyze the evolution of Aerial Intelligence, we compared operational experiences with the doctrinal corpus and technological innovations of the collection system. We worked on tactical, strategic and political implications of our object of study to clarify the various aspects of his job perceptions. To better understand these evolutionary factors in the French context, we also introduced comparative points with the United States and Britain. It's also a way to perceive the influence of foreign factors on the using developments and perceptions of French aerial intelligence, but while specifying the French specificities. Between the collecting mission, defined as the reconnaissance and the entire Aerial Intelligence, the question arises is to know what is understood like the object to the perception of military or political decision maker. The Aerial Intelligence can it be understood in France as a separate intelligence service or just as a collection system at the service of decision-actor? The other question is how the various developments that have affected our object of study have influenced his using perceptions. Beyond these issues, the relationship between the image and the decision maker, specific to Aerial Intelligence, influences also its perspective of use?

Durant la période de l’Occupation de la France, la frontière franco-suisse est bien gardée par les Allemands, secondés par les douaniers français, et les Suisses. Ses franchissements sont sévèrement réglementés. Les autorisations sont délivrées au compte-goutte. Elle se veut une barrière hermétique pour lutter par exemple, du côté allemand, contre la fuite de prisonniers de guerre ou de gens persécutés, l’espionnage, le marché noir, et, du côté suisse, contre l’afflux de réfugiés clandestins et la contrebande. Elle est doublée d’une zone interdite, sur sol français, dans laquelle il faut montrer patte blanche pour circuler. En principe donc, l’espace à proximité de la frontière est supposé être un no man’s land mort, occupé uniquement par les sentinelles.Mais, dans la réalité, cet objectif est bien loin d’être atteint. L’espace de la frontière est le lieu d’une intense activité clandestine. L’élément clé en est le passeur. Ce dernier est généralement soutenu par les « by-standers », soit les frontaliers qui, sans franchir eux-mêmes la frontière, leur offrent une assistance logistique (hébergement, nourriture, …). Grâce à ces réseaux, une masse hétéroclite de personnes et de choses, voire d’animaux, franchissent la frontière dans les deux sens : réfugiés juifs, prisonniers de guerre français ou polonais, espions suisses et alliés, résistants et maquisards français, marchandises de tous genres, courrier, etc.La mission du Service de renseignements suisse (SR) est de fournir au commandant en chef de l’armée et à l’Etat-major général les informations dont ils ont besoin pour prendre leurs décisions. L’acquisition de l’information est en théorie la tâche des postes extérieurs répartis le long de la frontière, ainsi que des centrales de collecte. Parmi les différentes méthodes employées pour rassembler les renseignements figurent l’étude des rapports des attachés militaires à l’étranger, l’exploitation des lignes de renseignement, mais aussi l’envoi de l’autre côté de la frontière suisse d’agents en mission.Les bons résultats du SR obtenus entre 1940 et 1944 sont dus en grande partie à la collaboration mise en place, à tous les niveaux, avec les services de renseignement étrangers et les réseaux de résistance. La Suisse a en effet été choisie par bon nombre d’organisations alliées comme plaque-tournante pour leurs réseaux de renseignement. Les informations convergent de toute l’Europe vers les représentations diplomatiques établies en Suisse avant d’être transmises par celles-ci, via des postes émetteurs, à destination de Londres, Moscou ou Washington.Que ce soit au niveau du commandement du SR ou des postes extérieurs, les hommes de Roger Masson tirent avantage de ce flux et établissent un rapport de donnant-donnant avec les réseaux étrangers. En échange d’informations pouvant intéresser la défense nationale, ils organisent le franchissement de la frontière aux agents étrangers et laissent les agents de la communauté internationale du renseignement vaquer à leurs occupations en toute impunité sur le territoire helvétique.Le SR est parfaitement intégré dans la communauté internationale du renseignement établie sur le territoire suisse durant la Seconde Guerre mondiale. Sur le terrain, il partage ses agents et ses passeurs avec les réseaux étrangers
The Franco-Swiss border was well guarded during the French occupation, on the one side by the Germans, seconded by the French customs and on the other, by the Swiss. Border crossings were strictly controlled and the border was supposed to be water-tight. The French side of the border was doubled by a first zone accessible only by special authorisation, and a second forbidden zone 1 to 3 km wide stretching along the frontier. In the minds of the German occupying forces, this corridor along the border was supposed to be a no man’s land in which only the border guards patrolled.This ideal was a long way from being the achieved, since the corridor was the scene of intense clandestine activity. The key player was the ‘passeur’ who smuggled across the border and who was usually assisted by by-standers, residents on both sides of the border-zone who did not cross the border themselves, but who supplied the logistical support of safe houses, food etc… Thanks to this network of smugglers and by-standers, a heterogeneous mass of people, objects and even animals crossed the border in both directions – French and Polish POWs, Jewish refugees, Allied airmen, Swiss and Allied spies, French resistance fighters, post, and all sorts of merchandise…The Swiss Intelligence Service (SR) was tasked with supplying the commander-in-chief and the AHQ with the information which would allow them to lead the army. The collection of information was in theory the task of the outposts spread along the border as well as of the central stations. Amongst the various methods used to collect the raw information – such as the questioning of travellers and deserters, the study of reports issued by Swiss military attachés abroad and the exploitation of intelligence lines– the SR sent agents on missions beyond the Swiss borders.Part of the mechanism which allowed the SR to be well informed between 1940 and 1944, was its collaboration at all levels with the foreign secret services and the resistance networks. In fact a number of Allied organisations chose Switzerland as the hub of their intelligence networks. Information converged from all over Europe towards the embassies and consulates established in Switzerland, and these in turn transmitted it via radio emitters from their delegations, or via clandestine ones, to London, Moscow or Washington.Whether it was at the level of the head of the SR, or of the listening posts, Roger Masson’s men took advantage of this flow and set up relationships on a give and take basis with the foreign networks. In exchange for information affecting the security of the nation, they organized the border crossings of foreign agents and of documents coming from abroad, and allowed the international intelligence community agents to go about their business with almost total impunity on Swiss soil.The SR was perfectly integrated into the international ‘intelligence community’ established on Swiss soil during World War II. In the field, it ‘shared’ its agents and smugglers with the foreign networks

Cette thèse s’inscrit dans la continuité d’un champ historiographique très riche traitant de la politique étrangère de la France dans les années trente. Elle entend explorer le rôle particulier des états-majors généraux dans l’élaboration de cette politique étrangère, notamment sur la base de sources récemment mises au jour. Conduite sur une période de cinq années et croisant analyse structurelle et études de cas, elle vise à mettre en évidence l’action des états-majors généraux au sein du processus décisionnel, tant sur le moyen terme que lors des différentes crises diplomatiques, de la proclamation du réarmement allemand à l’offensive de la Wehrmacht en Pologne. L’organisation, la composition et le fonctionnement des états-majors généraux, ainsi que leurs relations avec le ministère des Affaires étrangères et leur place dans le processus décisionnel, constituent le premier axe de cette étude. En outre, l’analyse de leurs perceptions de la situation diplomatique et stratégique et de l’évolution politique nationale et internationale permet d’éclairer les motivations multiples, complexes et, parfois, contradictoires à l’origine de leurs interventions dans le processus décisionnel. Enfin, l’étude des modalités et l’observation des résultats de ces interventions permettent de saisir la nature et l’ampleur du rôle, parfois déterminant, joué par les états-majors-généraux dans le parcours qui conduisit la diplomatie française, de Rome en janvier 1935 à Moscou en août 1939, en passant par Stresa, Londres et Munich
This dissertation is a contribution to the rich historiography of France’s foreign policy in the 1930s. Its aim is to explore the specific role played by France’s general staffs in shaping foreign policy, drawing largely on sources that have recently come to light. Employing a combination of structural analysis and case studies, it focuses on a five-year period for the purpose of examining the role played by France’s general staffs in the decision-making process, both in routine affairs and in each succeeding diplomatic crisis, from the proclamation of Germany’s rearmament to the Wehrmacht’s offensive in Poland. The study begins by exploring the general staffs’organization, composition, and functioning, as well as their relations with the Foreign Affairs Ministry and the place they occupied in the decision-making process. An analysis of their perceptions of the diplomatic and strategic situation, and of domestic and international political developments, sheds light on the multiple, complex, and occasionally contradictory motives behind their interventions in foreign policy. Lastly, a study of the forms of intervention and a review of their results reveal the significance and, in some cases, the decisiveness of the general staffs’ role in shaping French diplomacy from Rome in January 1935 to Moscow in August 1939, by way of Stresa, London, and Munich

Au travers de l’étude du renseignement aérien en France de 1945 à 1994, il s’agit de replacer l’emploi de cet outil décisionnel sur une échelle de temps longue afin d’en comprendre sa perception chez les décideurs français. Pour analyser les évolutions du renseignement aérien, nous avons comparé les expériences opérationnelles avec les corpus doctrinaux et les innovations technologiques du système de collecte. Notre étude s’est appesantie sur les implications tactiques, stratégiques et politiques de notre objet d’étude pour expliciter les différentes dimensions de ses perceptions d’emploi. Afin de mieux comprendre ces facteurs évolutifs dans le contexte français, nous avons également introduit des points comparatifs avec les Etats-Unis et la Grande-Bretagne. C’est également un moyen d’entrevoir l’influence de facteurs étrangers sur les évolutions d’emploi et de perceptions du renseignement aériens français, tout en précisant les spécificités françaises. Entre la mission de collecte, défini comme la reconnaissance et l’ensemble du renseignement aérien, la question qui se pose est de savoir ce qui doit être compris comme objet focalisant la perception du décideur militaire ou politique. Le renseignement aérien peut-il être compris, en France, comme un service de renseignement à part entière ou juste comme un système de collecte au service d’un acteur décisionnel ? L’autre question est de savoir comment les différentes évolutions qui ont touché notre objet d’étude ont influencé ses perceptions d’emploi. Au-delà de ces problématiques, celle du rapport entre l’image et le décideur, spécifique au renseignement aérien, influence t-elle également sa perspective d’utilisation ?
Through the study of the Aerial Intelligence in France from 1945 to 1994, is to replace the use of this decision making tool on a long time scale to understand his perception among French policymakers. To analyze the evolution of Aerial Intelligence, we compared operational experiences with the doctrinal corpus and technological innovations of the collection system. We worked on tactical, strategic and political implications of our object of study to clarify the various aspects of his job perceptions. To better understand these evolutionary factors in the French context, we also introduced comparative points with the United States and Britain. It's also a way to perceive the influence of foreign factors on the using developments and perceptions of French aerial intelligence, but while specifying the French specificities. Between the collecting mission, defined as the reconnaissance and the entire Aerial Intelligence, the question arises is to know what is understood like the object to the perception of military or political decision maker. The Aerial Intelligence can it be understood in France as a separate intelligence service or just as a collection system at the service of decision-actor? The other question is how the various developments that have affected our object of study have influenced his using perceptions. Beyond these issues, the relationship between the image and the decision maker, specific to Aerial Intelligence, influences also its perspective of use?