Artículos de revistas sobre el tema "Bonds (Government), Great Britain, 1919"

This is a history of life after death—not the life of a disembodied soul, but of the body left behind in a prison yard, buried in quicklime. It is a history composed of family members, friends, politicians, and bureaucrats drawn into cooperation and conflict by the politics of rebellion, partition, and sexuality in Ireland and Great Britain. The deceased in dispute, Roger Casement, had been a controversial figure during the later years of his life, knighted by the British Crown in 1911 for his advocacy of humanitarian causes in Africa and South America and then hanged by the British government on 3 August 1916 for conspiring with Germany to mobilize and arm Irish separatists. Casement had requested that his body be buried at Murlough Bay, near his family's home in County Antrim in the province of Ulster. Instead, Casement's body was buried at Pentonville Prison in London, and for almost fifty years the British government rejected the appeals of Casement's family and supporters for the repatriation of his body to Ireland. In 1965, the body was finally exhumed and reinterred at Glasnevin Cemetery in Dublin, following a state funeral.Why did the British government take over fifty years to disinter Casement's body from Pentonville, and why was his request to be buried at Murlough Bay not honored? In exploring the answers to these questions, I focus on negotiations between the British and Irish governments, and the terms of their final agreement over the present location of Casement's remains.

The celebrated ‘Cambridge five’ have hitherto been believed to be the first long-term communist penetration agents in HM government, beginning with Donald Maclean in 1935. However, new research indicates that by 1919 another Cambridge man – like four of the ‘five’, a Trinity graduate – had already begun working for Moscow. This article is the first to examine how William Norman Ewer, known as ‘Trilby’ to his co-conspirators, organized networks in Great Britain and France to target the governments of those two powers. Under close Soviet supervision, Ewer's subordinates infiltrated half-a-dozen Whitehall departments, foremost among them Scotland Yard. Operating under the aegis of the home office, the Yard was a vital cog in the machinery of government set up to combat the ‘red menace’ in this country immediately after the First World War. By compromising the lead agency tasked with fighting them, the Bolsheviks thus created the requisite conditions for the metastasis in Great Britain of Soviet espionage in the 1920s.

This article analyzes the position of Great Britain towards the union of Bessarabia with the mother country, Romania, at the Paris Peace Conference of 1919-1920. It is emphasized that English diplomacy firmly supported Romania’s rights over its province between the Prut and Dniester, also formulating certain conditionalities that the Romanian government had to take into account. England had a primary role in the drafting and signing of the Paris Treaty of Bessarabia on October 28, 1920. Among the Great Powers that signed the Treaty, Great Britain was the first to ratify it in 1922, urging the rest of the signatories to follow suit.

The article focuses on the contradictions in the British regarding the continuation of military operations against the Soviet Republic at the end of 1919 and the participation of Estonia in the White struggle. Documents of British archives, and transcripts of proceedings of Parliament shows that after a series of military setbacks of the White forces, and the failure of formation with the direct pressure from the British military advisers of the government of the North-West Russia to create anti-Bolshevik coalition under the political control of the British commissioners in the Baltic countries, the mood in Parliament and the War Cabinet of Britain has changed. Speeches of liberal members of Parliament at the meetings of 1919-1920, note that the issue of concluding a Bolshevik-Estonian peace Treaty has become positively evaluated in wide circles of British society. Criticism of the «militarism» of the government became particularly acute after the peace of Tartu in January 1920, and the firmness of the Estonian government, which had making peace, was welcomed by a number of deputies. Minutes of meetings of the British Imperial War Cabinet and documents of the War Council also shows a shift from the policy of active involvement of the Baltic countries in the anti-Bolshevik struggle to recognition of the failure of this struggle and the impossibility of its revival by spending the financial and material resources, which were strongly necessary to solve other problems that arose in the British government after the end of the First world war.

This paper would like to analyze the development of study of International Relations in Indonesia which has progressed very rapidly. The science of lucrative International Relations since April 1919 in Britain and into Indonesian territory since the 1945�s, has been in great demand by the public, gaining a place in the hearts of the social scientific community, and contributing a lot to the foreign decision-making played by the government. Therefore, it is important to look at opportunities, challenges, and prospects for the development of International Relations studies in Indonesia to date.

AbstractFrom the end of the Great War to the onset of the Second World War, Great Britain and British India clashed over the Indian Army's role in imperial defence. Britain increasingly sought an imperial fighting force that it could deploy across the globe, but the government of India, limited by the growing independence movements, financial constraints, and—particularly—renewed tribal unrest on its North-West Frontier, refused to meet these demands. Attempts to reconcile Britain's and India's conflicting strategies made little headway until the late 1930s when compromise ultimately emerged with the establishment of the Expert Committee on the Defence of India 1938–39. While the Committee refuted India's traditional focus on the subcontinent's own security, importantly it recognized the necessity of British financial support for the Indian Army and the maintenance of a large local fighting force to prevent North-West Frontier unrest from disrupting imperial military planning at a time of global war.

The diplomatic documents from the U.S. Department of State stored at the National Archives of the USA in Washington and Republic of Armenia in Yerevan, which were officially published in volumes by the U.S. Government yet in 1931-1947, contain remarkable material on Cilicia. They throw light upon the negotiations between the leaders of the United States, Great Britain, France, Italy and delegations representing those countries at the 1919-1920 Paris International Peace Conference on political status and borders of Cilicia, establishment of a mandate for it, withdrawal of British troops from the region, occupation of Cilicia and Syria by French troops. The documents of the State Department reveal the contradictions between the Great Powers on the above-mentioned issues, describe their interests in the region. Records for the meetings of the Council of Ten of February 4, Council of Four of March 20, May 14, 21, 31 and Council of Five of July 18, August 25, 1919 are valuable from this point of view. The “Scheme for settlement in the Turkish Empire” of May 21, 1919, reflects the position of the Prime Minister of Great Britain D. Lloyd George on Cilicia. The U.S. President W. Wilson’s approaches concerning Cilicia are reflected in reports of the U.S. Commissioners in Turkey C. Crane and H. King of August 28, 1919, and the chief of the military mission to Armenia General J. Harbord of October 16, 1919. The difficulty of the Turkish border demarcation through Cilicia is presented in a note issued by the Allied Supreme Council on April 26, 1920, to U.S. Secretary of State B. Colby. The U.S. State Department diplomatic documents confirm that the Allies were practically not interested in resolving the issue of ensuring the security of Cilicia and its Armenian population. Based on the 1916 Sykes-Picot Anglo-French secret agreement, the 1920 Treaty of Sèvres provided for the transference of the mandate of Cilicia to France. It became the beginning of handing over the land to the Kemalist Turkey. Thus France, seeking to receive its state debt from Turkey, became an accomplice to the new genocide of Cilicia Armenians.

Using materials from Russian archives as well as from the Leeds Russian Archive (Great Britain), this article traces stages of activity of the Russian Political Delegation (RPD). The Delegation was established in 1919 by the Russian Political Meeting (RPM) in Paris for direct participation in the Versailles Peace Conference. Its activities were authorized by Admiral Kolchak, Supreme Ruler of Russia. The article covers the formation of the RPD, which included Prince Lvov, N. V. Tchaikovsky, V. A. Maklakov, and S. D. Sazonov. Due to circumstances beyond its control, the Delegation did not get the opportunity to participate in the conference, and its international activities were quite limited. However, after the dissolution of the Russian Political Meeting, the Russian Political Delegation continued its activities, claiming the status of the foreign center of a White Movement. Its ranks aggravated the split between public figures and the Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Movement: social activists wanted the government of Omsk to remove S. D. Sazonov. Admiral Kolchak decided to retain control of his government over foreign missions, keep S. D. Sazonov as Minister, and asked the delegation to continue its work. In fact, in late 1919 and early 1920, the Russian Political Delegation managed to head the foreign mission of the White Movement. However, it was unable to cope with problems standing on its agenda. G. E. Lvov and N. V. Tchaikovsky, who used the situation of the Delegation members to influence affairs, diligently supported its existence. The last statements of the Russian Political Delegation refer to the end of 1920, the period of evacuation of the Wrangel’s army from Crimea. Analysis of the RPD’s activities provides an insight into challenges that in general were characteristic of the Movement and that eventually played their role in its defeat.

Abstract In 1919, the Forestry Commission of Great Britain embarked on a successful program of increasing Scotland's domestic wood supply by establishing plantations of nonnative conifers. Softwood plantation silviculture remains the cornerstone of Scottish forestry, but Scots are increasingly seeking a variety of nontimber benefits. Nonindustrial private landowners are planting native hardwoods for diversity, landscape, and heritage values, and the Forestry Commission is supporting their efforts through government policy, research, and cost-share programs. “Continuous cover forestry” is becoming a popular alternative to clearcutting; this silvicultural concept uses partial harvests and natural regeneration to transform even-aged, simply structured forests to multiaged, more structurally complex forests.

Abstract This article considers the breakdown in discipline in the British Army which occurred in Britain and on the Western Front during the process of demobilization at the end of the First World War. Many soldiers, retained in the army immediately after the Armistice, went on strike, and some formed elected committees, demanding their swifter return to civilian life. Their perception was that the existing demobilization system was unjust, and men were soon organized by those more politically conscious members of the armed forces who had enlisted for the duration of the war. At one stage in January 1919, over 50,000 soldiers were out on strike, a fact that was of great concern to the British civilian and military authorities who miscalculated the risk posed by soldiers. Spurred on by many elements of the press, especially the Daily Mail and Daily Herald, who both fanned and dampened the flames of discontent, soldiers’ discipline broke down, demonstrating that the patriotism which had for so long kept them in line could only extend so far. Though senior members of the government, principally Winston Churchill, and the military, especially Douglas Haig and Henry Wilson, were genuinely concerned that Bolshevism had ‘infected’ the army, or, at the very least, the army had been unionized, their fears were not realized. The article examines the government’s strategy regarding demobilization, its efforts to assess the risk of politicization and manage the press, and its responses to these waves of strikes, arguing that, essentially, these soldiers were civilians first and simply wanted to return home, though, in the post-war political climate, government fears were very real.

The Curzon Line is usually identified as the line of 8 December 1919 (similar to the current eastern border of Poland), running to the east of the Daugavpils-Vilnius-Hrodna railway. Typical historiographical texts state that the Soviet government decided to ignore the Curzon Line after 17 July 1920. But in fact, the Red Army crossed the Curzon Line on 13–14 July and continued to occupy Vilna (Vilnius). Another inaccuracy follows from this one. The prevailing trend is to interpret the Lithuanian state’s situation in 1920 as facing one of two ideology-based alternatives: either Lithuania is sovietised, or it is ‘saved’ by Poland, which occupies Vilnius and separates Lithuania from contact with Soviet Russia. But this raises a whole swathe of questions: how should the Lithuanians’ struggle for Vilnius during the whole interwar period be viewed? How should assistance to Lithuanians from other countries, such as Germany, the USSR and Great Britain, be assessed? Finally, how should the return of Vilnius to Lithuania in 1939 be viewed? There is no answer to these questions, but the possibility of Lithuania as a buffer zone thanks to the Curzon Line, is ignored or hardly analysed at all. Using historical documents from Lithuania, Great Britain and Russia, and referring to the studies by Alfred Erich Senn, this article aims to find an answer to the question, why was the idea of Lithuania as a buffer state not realised in the summer of 1920? The idea that it would be more appropriate to call the line alongside Lithuania established at the Spa Conference ‘the Lloyd George Line’ is also discussed.

The implementation of advanced digital technologies and innovations in smart cities for the provision of more efficient, sustainable, and inclusive city services, the development of infrastructure, and the improvement of citizens’ quality of life require appropriate financing technologies. In addition to purely public (for example, green bonds, social impact bonds, state subsidies, etc.) and purely private (venture investments, leasing, etc.) financial instruments, various options for public-private partnerships and financing with and against the participation of the community (participatory ), which increase the efficiency of budget financing due to the agreed distribution of risks and responsibilities between stakeholders. The bibliometric analysis of publications indexed by Scopus using the keywords “smart city” and “public-private partnership” using the VOSviwer tool allowed establishing the periods of growth (2013-2019 and 2022-2023) and decline (2019-2022) of the popularity of this topic among scientists, countries-leaders of research activity (USA, India, China, Italy, Spain, Great Britain, Canada and Germany), dominant directions of cross-sectoral research. The analysis of the Smart City Index Report (IMD Smart City Index Report) showed that in 2023, the top 5 leaders were Switzerland (Zurich), Norway (Oslo), Australia (Canberra), Denmark (Copenhagen), and Great Britain (London). With the help of the Google Trends toolkit, an analysis of the dynamics of Internet requests over the past 10 years from citizens of these countries, as well as Ukraine and the world, was carried out using identical keywords. The analysis proved that both in these countries and in the world as a whole, public interest in the development of the smart grid was recorded (in Ukraine, the highest peak (100 GT Scale) was in 2019; in Great Britain and Switzerland – in 2018, in Denmark – in 2017 and 2022, in Australia and Norway – in 2016) against the background of an almost absolute (except for Great Britain and Australia) lack of public interest in issues of public-private partnership. A regression model was developed to study the impact of participatory financing on the readiness level of Ukraine’s regions (as of 2020) to implement smart local development technologies. An integral indicator was used as the resulting variable, within which data on the assessment of the availability of electronic public services and the level of automation and digitization of public services (the number of state and local self-government bodies that provided the possibility of using electronic democracy tools), the level of use electronic platforms for communication with state bodies (the number of registered “E-appeals”, published “E-petitions” and reports on “E-consultations”), the availability of the Internet (the number of Internet subscribers and the share of households that have access to Internet services home). In the modeling process, adjustments were made for the gross regional product and the population of the respective region, the weighting factors were determined by the method of principal components, the estimation of the model parameters was carried out by the method of least squares, the calculations were made using the MS Excel spreadsheet and the Statistica application program package.

This publication is devoted to the mission undertaken by Ignacy Jan Paderewski in December 1918, his arrival in Poland, through his visit to Poznań, until the successful political talks with Józef Piłsudski and the formation of a coalition government, which led to the recognition of the Warsaw authorities by the Entente countries and establishing the composition of the Polish delegation to the Paris peace conference shown the French and British press. The chronological scope of the article covers a relatively short period, which is, however, crucial for the reconstruction of independent Poland. For its needs, the outgoing press in France and Great Britain was reviewed and articles describing Paderewski’s activities at that time were analyzed. To achieve this purpose, the French and British newspaper titles were selected that represented different political circles and achieved a significant circulation. This publication is mainly based on the method of analyzing press sources, using the philological method, which in this case involves translating the texts of press articles from French and English. However, the key research method used to write this article is the comparative method, consisting in juxtaposing information relating to the same events at the turn of 1918 and 1919 in the French and British press, and pointing to similarities and differences in the terminology used and the assessment of Ignacy Paderewski and its activities.

At the beginning of the twentieth century, the industrialised countries had no guidelines for protecting children. From the time of its creation, the League of Nations has been interested in improving the situation of children and expanding their rights. To accomplish just that, the Child Welfare Committee was created in 1919. The creation of said Committee was the first action taken by the international community in a matter that was not to be left to the sole discretion of the states. That same year, the Englishwoman Eglantyne Jebb and her sister Dorothy founded Save the Children, which evolved very quickly and, in 1920, gave way to the establishment of the International Save the Children Union, headquartered in Geneva. In 1924, the League of Nations approved the Geneva Declaration of the Rights of the Child, drafted by Eglantyne Jebb herself. The first big challenge that said legal doctrine and the partnership in favour of children's rights came up against was the Spanish Civil War. The first great movement of refugee children featured the children of the Basque Country, who were welcomed in Great Britain. Let us take a look at this case as an example of the practical side of the first legal doctrine on children’s rights. On 21 May 1937, over 3,800 Basque children arrived at the port of Southampton, accompanied by just over two hundred adults. The British created the “Basque Children’s Committee”, chaired by the Duchess of Atholl, and the Basque government was in charge of organising the escape expedition. These children lived for four months in tents in a camp in Eastleigh, supported by voluntary contributions, particularly by left-wing English organisations, before they were sent to homes and organised ‘colonies’ spread throughout the United Kingdom.

AbstractIndia was still a British colony when the International Astronomical Union was born in 1919. India did not have a national science academy nor a national research council at the time. The Royal Society, London, which was the adhering body of Great Britain to IAU, handled matters of the colony too. India formally joined the IAU in 1948 as an independent nation through an initiative taken by the Government of India. In 1968, the National Institute of Sciences of India (NISI) became the adhering organisation to the IAU, as did the other affiliate Unions of ICSU. Soon after, its name was changed to Indian National Science Academy (INSA).Till the nineteen-sixties, individual Indian membership in the IAU grew rather tardily but the situation changed with the rapid growth of astronomical activities in the country. In 1967, M.K. Vainu Bappu, the then Director of the Kodaikanal Observatory, was elected a Vice-President of the Union. In 1979, he was elected the President of IAU for the triennium 1979–1982, and during the same period, V. Radhakrishnan and Govind Swarup were elected Presidents respectively of the Commisions 34 and 40. In 1985, the General Assembly of the Union was held in New Delhi. It was dedicated to the memory of Vainu Bappu who had initiated the process of inviting the Union to hold its GA in India. A few years later the Sixth Asian-Pacific Regional IAU Meeting was held in Pune. A number of IAU symposia and colloquia have also been held in the country. During the last three decades, the engagement of the Indian astronomers with IAU has increased a great deal with a large number of them taking on important official roles in the IAU. Currently, India has close to 300 individual members.

Long-term military aggression has required updating approaches to budget revenue forma­tion to increase the fiscal effectiveness of taxes and ensure budget sustainability. The article is aimed to substantiate the main priorities for boosting the efficiency of the central budget revenue formation system in combating full-scale military aggression, which involves compliance with the principle of fiscal suffi­ciency in financing defense and security needs and fostering economic recovery. Syste­matic and logical approaches were used in the article. Various methods were applied, including gene­ralization, comparison, analysis and syn­the­sis, scientific abstraction and expert eva­luations. The USA’s experience in the field of budget revenues formation during wars shows that the authorities tried to design the taxpayer’s trust and ensure a fair cost for conducting a war for every citizen. The classic measures were increased tax rates on income and profits, and the active sale of government bonds. Great Britain has applied identical measures. The budget revenues formation policy has demon­strated significant changes since the full-scale invasion. The percentage of GDP redistribution through the central budget revenues in 2023 equaled 41.76%. The main features of tax revenues shaping (into a central budget) in 2022–2023 have been identified. Priority measures to raise the fiscal significance of tax revenues have been substantiated. This concerns the decrease of the shadow part of the gambling business; the excise goods markets; and labor incomes. In addition, the prerequisites for introducing a progressive personal income tax scheme have been determined.

В статье анализируется современная отечественная и зарубежная историография (2000-е гг. – настоящее время) взаимоотношений Коммунистического Интернационала – международной организации, объединявшей коммунистические партии в 1919–1943 гг., и Коммунистической партии Испании (КПИ) в период от ее основания (1921 г.) до окончания Гражданской войны в стране (1939 г.). Рассмотрены мнения историков из России, Испании, Великобритании, США и Италии. Выбор обусловлен тем, что именно в указанных странах за последние десятилетия был опубликован ряд интересных работ по данной тематике. По мнению лидеров Коммунистического Интернационала, Испания не входила в число тех стран, где были созданы предпосылки для осуществления революции на протяжении всего срока деятельности этой международной организации, за исключением периода Гражданской войны (1936–1939 гг.). Поэтому большинство исследований, рассматриваемых в статье, касаются в основном данного хронологического этапа. Историки расширяют диапазон тем, в первую очередь это касается попыток переосмысления событий Гражданской войны в Испании и политики Народного фронта. Многие прежде неисследованные сюжеты подвергаются глубокому анализу благодаря открытию архивов. В статье рассматриваются вопросы о полномочиях Коминтерна по отношению к КПИ и Испанскому правительству, главным образом, во время Гражданской войны; о помощи Испании, оказываемой Коминтерном и Советским правительством и о планах И.В. Сталина по установлению союзнических отношений с Францией, Великобританией и США в этот же период. Делаются выводы о том, что по данным вопросам существуют различные, в том числе абсолютно противоположные, мнения, что подтверждает актуальность данной темы, а также о том, что современные российские историки чаще придерживаются мнения о прямой зависимости КПИ от решений Коминтерна, принимаемых главным образом И.В. Сталиным, зарубежные же историки, напротив, приходят к выводам об определенной самостоятельности испанских коммунистов, в том числе и в период Гражданской войны. The article analyzes modern Russian and foreign historiography (2000s – present day), devoted to the relationship of the Communist International (the Comintern, an international organization that united the communist parties in 1919–43) and the Communist Party of Spain (the PCE) from its founding (1921) till the end of the Spanish Civil War (1939). The opinions of historians from Russia, Spain, Great Britain, the USA, and Italy are considered. The choice of countries is due to the fact that a number of works on this topic have been published there over the past decades. According to the leaders of the Communist International, Spain was not among the countries in which the preconditions for a revolution were created throughout the entire period of the activity of this international organization, with the exception of the period of the Civil War (1936–39). Therefore, most of the studies taken into account in the article relate mainly to this period. Historians are expanding the range of their research, first of all, in the area that concerns attempts to rethink the events of the Spanish Civil War and the politics of the Popular Front. Many previously unexplored questions and topics are subject to significant analysis thanks to the opening of archives. The article deals with several questions: the powers of the Comintern in relation to the PCE and the Spanish government, mainly during the Civil War; assistance to Spain provided by the Comintern and the Soviet government; the plans of Joseph Stalin to establish allied relations with France, Great Britain, and the USA in the same period. Conclusions are drawn that there are various opinions on these issues, including contrary ones, which indicates the continued relevance of this topic, and that the contemporary Russian historians more often adhere to the opinion that the CPE was directly dependent on the decisions of the Comintern taken mainly by J. Stalin, while foreign historians, on the contrary, conclude that the Spanish Communists were independent to a certain extent and preserved their independence during the Civil War as well.

The Tartu Peace Treaty of 1920, signed between Estonia and Soviet Russia, has been credited with laying the foundation for stability in Eastern Europe in the interwar period. Ants Piip, a member of the Estonian delegation at Tartu, attributed this achievement to the equitable character of the agreement, comparing it favourably with the Treaty of Versailles, widely seen as a dictated peace already in the immediate aftermath of its signature. A similar view was expounded by the Soviet government, which portrayed the Tartu Peace Treaty as an expression of the principles underlying the November Revolution. It especially emphasised the self-determination of peoples, proclaimed repeatedly by the Soviet government as a sine qua non for a just peace. According to the Soviet narrative, the principle of selfdetermination had been hailed by the Entente only to be later betrayed at the Paris Peace Conference. The Tartu Peace Treaty, where the principle of self-determination figured prominently in Article II, thus became, in this telling, an ideological counter model to the results of the Paris Peace Conference. Despite their anti-Bolshevik outlook, Estonian diplomats and politicians inclined towards a comparable interpretation: they had accepted the Soviet peace proposal, with the offer to recognise their right to selfdetermination and independent statehood, only after the Allies had failed to live up to their promises at Paris. The refence to the principle of self-determination in the Tartu Peace Treaty has not received much attention from historians. As Lauri Mälksoo has noted, it remains a well-nigh forgotten chapter in the history of international law. Mälksoo argued that the reference is all the more noteworthy since the Soviet government gave the principle a remarkably wide scope, joining to it the right to secession, which was not yet enshrined in general international law at the time. Assuming that the principle of selfdetermination was mentioned in the Tartu Peace Treaty at the initiative of the Soviet side, Mälksoo suggested two motives that might have prompted it: the need to recognise the fait accompli of Estonian independence, and the wish to justify within Russia itself the decision to relinquish territories that had formerly belonged to the Tsarist Empire. This article shows that the Estonian side was also keen to refer to the principle of self-determination, quite independently of Soviet wishes, as demonstrated by a draft peace treaty drawn up two months prior to the start of the Tartu negotiations by a commission of experts convened by the Estonian Minister of Foreign Affairs. This fact is indicative of the broader diplomatic significance that the Estonian delegation – and its head, Jaan Poska, in particular – attached to peace talks with the Bolsheviks. The article demonstrates that Poska did not start the negotiations in December of 1919 with the sõle aim of signing a peace treaty with Soviet Russia. Just as important, if not more so, was the prospect of using the talks to convince the Entente to recognise Estonian independence de jure. The Estonian government had founded its claim to international recognition on the principle of self-determination. Upon the outbreak of the Bolshevik revolution, the Estonian Provisional Assembly had availed itself of the Soviet decree proclaiming the right of all peoples of Russia to selfdetermination, including secession and the formation of a separate state. Without being confident in the resolve of the Soviet government to adhere to the letter of its public pronouncements, Estonian politicians nonetheless saw the usefulness of invoking the decree, since the latter could be seen as ratifying Estonia’s decision to secede from Russia. They were already positioning themselves vis-à-vis the Entente Powers, whose freedom to recognise the nascent republic was constrained by rules of international law regarding the validity of secession. The principle of self-determination had great value for a seceding state, especially in circumstances where the mother country did not have a lawful government and was thus unable to consent to any separation of territories (as Russia was regarded in the eyes of most governments at the end of 1917). The Estonian position was buttressed by a string of diplomatic statements made by the Entente Powers in 1918, assuring Estonia that its status would be determined at a forthcoming peace conference in accordance with the principle of self-determination. Such assurances filled Estonian diplomats with great optimism when they set out for the Paris Peace Conference at the beginning of 1919. The principle of self-determination was tantamount to independence in their mind. It was therefore with growing disappointment that they observed the unwillingness of France and Great Britain to recognise their independence at Paris, intent as the latter were to reconstitute their former eastern ally. This is not to say that Estonian claims were completely ignored. British politicians did not think that they were failing to honour their promises when offering Estonia internationally guaranteed autonomy, under the aegis of the League of Nations, instead of independence. Autonomy did not satisfy Estonians, however, who were canvassing all options at their disposal to arrive at their aim. The quest for ‘other ways’, beginning in earnest in the summer of 1919, has been mostly interpreted by scholars as a decision to reach a peace settlement with the Bolsheviks. The article shows that the Estonian strategy was more multi-faceted. International recognition remained their chief aim, and their receptiveness to Bolshevik peace feelers should be seen in this light. The emphasis placed on the principle of self-determination from the very start of negotiations with Soviet Russia in September of 1919 was a part of this Western-directed diplomatic approach. The Bolsheviks had their own aims in mind when foregrounding this principle. The consternation that the Treaty of Versailles had caused in Germany offered them an opportunity to depict the Paris Peace Conference as the latest manifestation of Great Power imperialism, to which the Soviet proposal of a ‘democratic peace’ (no annexations, no contributions, self-determination to all peoples) was allegedly the only viable alternative. The peace talks between Estonia and Soviet Russia were thus caught in an ideological struggle between the Soviet government and the Western Allies concerning ‘just peace’. But they also fitted in with the – apparently contrary – Soviet strategy of abandoning outright military aggression and preparing the ground for ‘peaceful coexistence’ with capitalist states, with a view to buttressing the Soviet regime economically. The reference to the principle of self-determination in the Tartu Peace Treaty can be explained by all the considerations mentioned above. The Estonians had their sights set on reinforcing their international status by tying it to the principle. The Bolsheviks were showcasing their adherence to ‘democratic peace’ and contrasting their favourable attitude to small peoples with the hypocrisy of the Great Powers (the fact that it was Soviet Russia that had initiated the war with unprovoked military aggression in 1918 was conveniently ignored). Moreover, on a less public level, Soviet Russia was signalling that it was willing to consent to self-determination in the Russian borderlands in order to reach an agreement with its Western foes, and that it would rely on the long-term superiority of the Bolshevik system in lieu of head-to-head collision with capitalist states. In this last sense, the Treaty of Tartu marks a strategic turn for the Soviet government that became so consequential for the 20th century that the treaty with Estonia acquires truly foundational significance.

In the last eighty years, an enormous amount of scholarly attention has been devoted to explaining why Europe was at the centre of two cataclysmic conflicts in the first half of the twentieth century. The books considered here represent part of a resurgence of interest in British foreign policy in the interwar period and are primarily concerned with the policy of reconciliation towards the former Central Powers after the First World War, especially the appeasement of Germany. They offer a further opportunity to challenge the still-held misapprehension that appeasement was a strand of British policy that only appeared after Hitler's rise to power. They also offer a means of examining British foreign policy through sources inside and outside the government. Gordon Martel's volume illustrates the amount of journalistic pressure that was put on the British government to recognize and act on the likely threats to international peace. Austen and Neville Chamberlain, the sons of the great nineteenth-century Conservative politician, Joseph Chamberlain, were at the centre of the British foreign policy making process during the interwar period. Indeed, Robert Self's two volumes of letters written by Neville Chamberlain to his sisters illustrate how steeped in foreign and domestic politics the whole Chamberlain family was. Richard Grayson sees a long, unbroken attempt to accommodate Germany diplomatically starting with Austen Chamberlain and the treaty of Locarno. The importance of Neville Chamberlain's contribution to the history of British foreign policy is offered further recognition through surveys of the historiography of his premiership by David Dutton and Robert Caputi.

Each state chooses a certain type of monetary policy, which varies depending on external conditions, the state of the national economy, the level of technical and technological development of public production, employment, income level and other factors. Restrictive monetary policy is primarily aimed at suppressing inflation and reducing the money supply; it is carried out by restricting the possibilities of lending to legal and natural persons by commercial banks; it leads to a decrease in investments, a decrease in production, an increase in unemployment, and a decrease in savings of the population. As a result, the decrease in consumer demand slows down economic development. Expansionist monetary policy, on the contrary, is aimed at expanding the scale of lending to legal entities and individuals by lowering interest rates, reducing mandatory reserve norms, and easing control over the growth rate of the money supply in circulation. Its implementation leads to an increase in the amount of loans and investments allocated to the development of production, which creates conditions for the increase in the volume of production, jobs, incomes and savings of the population. As a result, the increase in consumer demand stimulates the growth of production. The article is devoted to monetary policy and reactions of world central banks during the pandemic. The study analyzed the Japanese government's monetary policy during the Covid-19 pandemic, the Bank of England's response to Covid-19, and the Federal Reserve's policy response to the pandemic. Since the emergence of COVID-19, central banks around the world have taken emergency measures in coordination with fiscal authorities to mitigate negative effects on the economy and promote recovery. While monetary authorities have largely followed the scenario of the global financial crisis, the scope, scale and speed of the policy response to the pandemic has been unprecedented. Many central banks are turning to increasingly unorthodox approaches to monetary policy, particularly large-scale asset purchases, to boost economic growth. The central banks of Japan, Great Britain, the United States and the Eurozone have bought about $10.2 trillion worth of securities from their already large balance sheets since the outbreak, bringing their combined holdings to $25.9 trillion. The Fed has been buying $120 billion worth of securities each month, accumulating a total of $2.6 trillion in mortgage-backed securities and $5.5 trillion in US Treasuries. In addition to the current Asset Purchase Program (APP), the European Central Bank (ECB) has developed a €1.85 trillion Pandemic Emergency Purchase Program, which includes purchases of private and public sector securities. The recovery of the Japanese economy remains fragile due to low rates of vaccination of the population and restrictions on the pandemic. The shortage of electronic components in the world can negatively affect the production of cars and their foreign deliveries. At the same time, a worrying factor is the emergence of signs of a slowdown in the Chinese economy. On April 7, 2020, the Japanese government adopted a 117.1 trillion-yen (20.9% of 2019 GDP) emergency economic relief package against COVID-19 and included the remainder of previously announced packages. Key measures included issuing cash to everyone and affected firms, tax and social security deferrals, and soft loans from public and private financial institutions. The Government of Japan announced the Second Draft Supplementary Budget for Fiscal Year 2020 on May 27, 2020. The government has increased the amount of soft loans (interest-free and unsecured) primarily for micro, small and medium-sized enterprises affected by COVID-19. As a precautionary measure, the Parliament also approved an increase in the limit of government guarantees on capital injections in regional banks from 12 trillion yen to 15 trillion yen. On September 22, 2021, the Bank of Japan announced that it was keeping its monetary policy unchanged, but at the same time reported that the bank was carefully assessing the prospects for production and exports. The Bank of Japan maintained its assessment of the economic situation, saying that "the growth trend is strengthening, although the economy remains difficult". The bank is expected to keep the interest rate on short term deposits at minus 0.1% and on bonds maturing in 10 years at around 0%. Analysts note that this assessment was given on the eve of a change in the leadership of the ruling Liberal Democratic Party (LDP). Inflation is a limited phenomenon that manifests itself in a limited way in the markets for real goods and services. It can be provoked, among other things, by credit and deposit operations of commercial banks. Measures to combat inflation should be developed, as well as measures to measure it. US government debts are so large, so clearly unpaid, that the question of applying the institution of bankruptcy to individual municipalities has repeatedly arisen. Inflation-induced rise in interest rates will inevitably lead to an increase in the burden of servicing public debt. With a monetary policy aimed at targeting inflation in the region of 2%, the cost of attracting bond loans already at 7% will become the marginal value, after which a default is inevitable. The pandemic, and now its fourth wave is already underway, has objectively strengthened the trend of fencing off not only neighbors (Mexico and Canada), but also from the rest of the world. Keywords: monetary policy, world economy, budget, money supply, national market

The geopolitical interests of Great Britain in Azerbaijan, as well as the policy of the Caucasus in general, are considered an integral part of the historical Eastern question. It is an undeniable fact that historically every great power has used various pretexts and factors to maintain its own imperialist policy. These factors can be observed in the geopolitical interests of the great powers in current events in the world. XX. at the beginning of the XIX century, Armenians were one of the main factors in the pursuit of Britain's geopolitical interests both in the Ottoman geography and in the South Caucasus. The priority of the UK was to decipher which nation among the various ethnic and religious groups in the Caucasus could seriously resist the Turks. They did not trust the Azerbaijani Turks, who sympathized with the Ottomans because they were Turks. In turn, the Azerbaijani Turks were very worried about the British assistance to the Armenians. This aid was even used by the Armenians to annoy the Azerbaijanis. These actions of the Armenians have created public opinion that the British government is pursuing an openly anti-Islamic policy. In this study, information is discussed that the UK plays a key role in the emergence of the Armenian problem and its transnational problems, including its expansionism, and uses Armenians as the main tool in its geopolitical interests in the South Caucasus.

During 1918 – 1920s the Republic of Armenia made huge efforts in preventing hostile forces and intrigues especially in the regions of Surmalu, Kars, Aralich, Zangibasar, Vedibasar, Boyuk Vedi, Nachijevan, Zangezur, Zod Basargechar and in other areas. From the existing archives and other documents it follows what difficulties of Armenian government went for preventing Azerbaijan-Turkish special activities. In the days of the First Republic of Armenia, the successful activity of the Armenian government had considerable results in the cause of revealing the evident anti-Armenian intrigues and espionage activity of the Azerbaijan in Yerevan to undermine the bases of Armenian Statehood and bring about anti-Armenian revolts in Zangibasar, Boyuk-Vedi as well as in Zod and other Armenian districts by directly bribing the local Azerbaijanians for the purpose of tearing away the primordial Armenian territories in the presence of the British representative, Colonel C. Temperley.

The War of 1812 was a very expensive conflict for the United States. In 1813, three foreign-born investors, among them David Parish from Hamburg, Germany, saved the US government from bankruptcy by providing a sixteen-million dollar loan. This article focuses on the reasons why Parish – who strongly opposed the war – agreed to take a major share in the loan. At the same time, it examines the ways in which the Hamburg merchant tried to sell a large share of his US government bonds in Great Britain – America’s wartime enemy. Parish’s actions make it obvious that he promoted the idea of a supranational mercantile community that was not bound by patriotic considerations even during war times. Consequently, it was the British merchant banker Alexander Baring who stood at the core of Parish’s plans to sell US bonds in London. By contrasting Baring’s room for manoeuvre during these financial transactions with that of Parish this article shows that in the British context public expectations of loyalty and patriotism could indeed limit the abilities of local merchants in financing the opponent of war. Thus, the comparison of Parish’s and Baring’s experiences highlights the importance of local factors such as a consolidated public opinion and a strong nation state in setting the limits of the sphere of activity for internationally operating merchants in times of war.

The following papers were presented to the Canadian Society of Church History in 2012, but were not made available for publication: Ian Hesketh, “‘Vomited from the Jaws of Hell’: The Controversy of Ecce Homo in Mid-Victorian Britain”; Geoff Read, “Echoes of 1905-Secular Conflict in Interwar France, 1919-40”; Amy Von Heyking, “‘It is a privilege to have a Christian Government’: William Aberhart and the Place of Religion in Alberta’s Public Schools”; Lucille Marr, “Church Women, the Home Front, and the Great War”; Gordon Heath, “Whatever Happened to the British Empire? A Canadian Baptist Case Study”; Melissa Davidson, “Enduing the Cause with Righteousness: Canadian Anglican Views of the Great War, 1914-18”; James T. Robertson, “Anglican and Presbyterian Churches and a Loyalist Theology During the War of 1812”; Scott McLaren, “Rekindling the Canadian Fire: Print Culture and the Reconstruction of Upper Canadian Methodism After the War of 1812”; Denis McKim, “Contesting Christian Loyalty: Religion and Meanings of Britishness in Upper Canada”; Robynne Rogers Healey, “Reconciling Approaches to Non-Violence and Apartheid: Pacifist Conflict among Friends in the 1970s and 1980s”; Indre Cuplinskas, “Doing it Rite: Catholic Action and Liturgical Renewal in Quebec”; Christo Aivalis, “In Service of the Lowly Nazarene: The Canadian Labour Press and a Case for Radical Christianity, 1926-39”; Andrew M. Eason, “Missions, Race and Representation: The Salvation Army’s Portrayal of Africa and India in Victorian Britain”; Bruce Douville, “The Via Media and the Evangelical Road: The Attitudes of Anglican Church Newspapers in Canada West Towards American Slavery and Related Issues, 1837-65”; Nathan Dirks, “An Unknown Legacy: Canadian Mennonite Enlistments During the Second World War”; James Enns, “From Heartland of the Reformation to Post-Christian Mission Field: North American Conservative Protestants and the Mission to West Germany, 1945-74.”

In 1918-1920s, the Republic of Armenia made huge efforts to prevent hostile forces and conspiracies, especially in Surmalu, Kars, Aralitch, Zangibasar, Vedibasar, Böyük-Vedi, Nakhijevan, Zangezur, Zod, Basargechar and other regions. Available archives and other documents show the difficulties the Armenian government faces in preventing the special operations of Azerbaijani-Turkish activities. During the days of the First Republic of Armenia, the successful activity of the Armenian government had significant results in revealing the apparent anti-Armenian intrigues and espionage activities of Azerbaijan in Yerevan aimed at undermining the foundations of Armenian statehood. The anti-Armenian uprisings in Zangibasar, BöyükVedi, as well as in Zod and other Armenian territories, directly sought to separate these territories from Armenia, and this took place in the immediate presence of the British military representative, Colonel C. Temperley.

The article examines the current state of Ukraine's debt policy during the war. It was found that public debt is an integral part of the financial system not only of countries with a transitory economy, but also of highly developed ones. The reasons for the rapid growth of the national debt of Ukraine from 2014–2015 to the present are analyzed. The main sources of financing of the state budget of Ukraine are presented, which in turn were formed from external foreign cash flows and corresponding internal borrowings: military bonds, loans from international financial organizations, as well as bilateral loans and grants. It was established that Ukraine received about $4.2 billion in aid from four international organizations – the IMF, the European Union, the World Bank and the European Investment Bank, and these were loans received on preferential terms. At the same time, Ukraine received considerable loans from the governments of such foreign countries: Canada, Great Britain, France, Germany, Japan, the Netherlands, Sweden, Italy, and others. The most profitable assistance is a grant, because this money does not have to be returned. According to the analysis, America takes a leading position in this type of aid. It was also analyzed that at the moment the economic situation in Ukraine is difficult, but not yet critical, as there is $22 billion in state reserves. The main strategic directions and step-by-step actions of the Government of Ukraine in the context of optimizing the management of the public debt of Ukraine are highlighted, namely: the approval of the medium-term Strategy for the management of the public debt for 2021–2024, which is the basic document regarding the debt policy of Ukraine. In addition, according to the forecasts of leading economic experts, in order to improve the debt and budget policy, the state cannot issue national currency through the banking system (printing press) on a permanent basis, receiving financial assistance from international partners, and ultimately reducing non-priority state budget expenses, remains important. The strategy defines 4 main goals of public debt management for the next three years: increase in the share of state debt in the national currency; extension of the average term to repayment and provision of a uniform repayment schedule of the state debt; attraction of long-term preferential financing; continued development of strong relationships with investors and further improvement of the public debt management policy. The strategy also contains an analysis of forecast debt indicators and conclusions on debt sustainability, as well as an action plan for 2021–2024 and indicators of achieving goals — in particular, reducing the ratio of the amount of public debt to GDP by the end of 2024 to 47%. However, the strategy in an updated format, closer to global practices, was approved in 2019 and has proven its effectiveness as a tool for increasing the transparency of decision-making and improving communication with both investors and international partners. Thus, as a result of its implementation, it has already been possible to achieve important goals: an increase in the share of the state debt in the national currency (from 33.4% in 2018 to 38.2% in 2020), an improvement in the structure of the state debt in terms of repayment terms, and an increase in international ratings of Ukraine. Ukraine also received recognition at the international level: the international publication GlobalMarkets awarded Ukraine in the nomination "The best public debt management office in Central and Eastern Europe".

Introduction In November 2020, upon learning that the company’s Covid-19 vaccine trial had been successful, the head of Pfizer’s Vaccine Research and Development, Kathrin Jansen, celebrated with champagne – “some really good stuff” (Cohen). Bubbles seem to go naturally with celebration, and champagne is fundamentally associated with bubbles. Yet, until the late-seventeenth century, champagne was a still wine, and it only reached the familiar levels of bubbliness in the late-nineteenth century (Harding). During this period and on into the early twentieth century, “champagne” was in many ways created, defined, and defended. A “champagne bubble” was created, within which the “nature” of champagne was contested and constructed. Champagne today is the result of hundreds of years of labour by many sorts of bubble-makers: those who make the bubbly drink, and those who construct, maintain, and defend the champagne bubble. In this article, I explore some elements of the champagne bubble, in order to understand both its fragility and rigidity over the years and today. Creating the Champagne Bubble – the Labour of Centuries It is difficult to separate the physical from the mythical as regards champagne. Therefore the categorisations below are always overlapping, and embedded in legal, political, economic, and socio-cultural factors. Just as assemblage – the mixing of wine from different grapes – is an essential element of champagne wine, the champagne bubble may be called heterogeneous assemblage. Indeed, the champagne bubble, as we will see below, is a myriad of different sorts of bubbles, such as terroir, appellation, myth and brand. And just as any assemblage, its heterogeneous elements exist and operate in relation to each other. Therefore the “champagne bubble” discussed here is both one and many, all of its elements fundamentally interconnected, constituting that “one” known as “champagne”. It is not my intention to be comprehensive of all the elements, historical and contemporary. Indeed, that would not be possible within such a short article. Instead, I seek to demonstrate some of the complexity of the champagne bubble, noting the elaborate labour that has gone into its creation. The Physical Champagne and Champagne – from Soil to Bubbles Champagne means both a legally protected geographical area (Champagne), and the wine (here: champagne) produced in this area from grapes defined as acceptable: most importantly pinot noir, pinot meunier (“black” grapes), and chardonnay (“white” grape). The method of production, too, is regulated and legally protected: méthode champenoise. Although the same method is used in numerous locations, these must be called something different: metodo classico (Italy), método tradicional (Spain), Methode Cap Classique (South Africa). The geographical area of Champagne was first legally defined in 1908, when it only included the areas of Marne and Aisne, leaving out, most importantly, the area of Aube. This decision led to severe unrest and riots, as the Aube vignerons revolted in 1911, forcing the inclusion of “zone 2”: Aube, Haute-Marne, and Seine-et-Marne (Guy). Behind these regulations was a surge in fraudulent production in the early twentieth century, as well as falling wine prices resulting from increasing supply of cheap wines (Colman 18). These first appellations d’origine had many consequences – they proved financially beneficial for the “zone 1”, but less so for the “zone 2”. When both these areas were brought under the same appellation in 1927, the financial benefits were more limited – but this may have been due to the Great Depression triggered in 1929 (Haeck et al.). It is a long-standing belief that the soil and climate of Champagne are key contributors to the quality of champagne wines, said to be due to “conditions … most suitable for making this type of wine” (Simon 11). Already in the end of the nineteenth century, the editor of Vigneron champenois attributed champagne’s quality to “a fortunate combination of … chalky soil … [and] unrivalled exposure [to the sun]” (Guy 119) among other things. Factors such as soil and climate, commonly included in and expressed through the idea of terroir, undoubtedly influence grapes and wines made thereof, but the extent remains unproven. Indeed, terroir itself is a very contested concept (Teil; Inglis and Almila). It is also the case that climate change has had, and will continue to have, devastating effects on wine production in many areas, while benefiting others. The highly successful English sparkling wine production, drawing upon know-how from the Champagne area, has been enabled by the warming climate (Inglis), while Champagne itself is at risk of becoming too hot (Robinson). Champagne is made through a process more complicated than most wines. I present here the bare bones of it, to illustrate the many challenges that had to be overcome to enable its production in the scale we see today. Freshly picked grapes are first pressed and the juice is fermented. Grape juice contains natural yeasts and therefore will ferment spontaneously, but fermentation can also be started with artificial yeasts. In fermentation, alcohol and carbon dioxide (CO2) are formed, but the latter usually escapes the liquid. The secret of champagne is its second fermentation, which happens in bottles, after wines from different grapes and/or vineyards have been blended for desired characteristics (assemblage). For the second fermentation, yeast and sugar are added. As the fermentation happens inside a bottle, the CO2 that is created does not escape, but dissolves into the wine. The average pressure inside a champagne bottle in serving temperature is around 5 bar – 5 times the pressure outside the bottle (Liger-Belair et al.). The obvious challenge this method poses has to do with managing the pressure. Exploding bottles used to be a common problem, and the manner of sealing bottles was not very developed, either. Seventeenth-century developments in bottle-making, and using corks to seal bottles, enabled sparkling wines to be produced in the first place (Leszczyńska; Phillips 137). Still today, champagne comes in heavy-bottomed bottles, sealed with characteristically shaped cork, which is secured with a wire cage known as muselet. Scientific innovations, such as calculating the ideal amount of sugar for the second fermentation in 1836, also helped to control the amount of gas formed during the second fermentation, thus making the behaviour of the wine more predictable (Leszczyńska 265). Champagne is characteristically a “manufactured” wine, as it involves several steps of interference, from assemblage to dosage – sugar added for flavour to most champagnes after the second fermentation (although there are also zero dosage champagnes). This lends champagne particularly suitable for branding, as it is possible to make the wine taste the same year after year, harvest after harvest, and thus create a distinctive and recognisable house style. It is also possible to make champagnes for different tastes. During the nineteenth century, champagnes of different dosage were made for different markets – the driest for the British, the sweetest for the Russians (Harding). Bubbles are probably the most striking characteristic of champagne, and they are enabled by the complicated factors described above. But they are also formed when the champagne is poured in a glass. Natural impurities on the surface of the glass provide channels through which the gas pockets trapped in the wine can release themselves, forming strains of rising bubbles (Liger-Belair et al.). Champagne glasses have for centuries differed from other wine glasses, often for aesthetic reasons (Harding). The bubbles seem to do more than give people aesthetic pleasure and sensory experiences. It is often claimed that champagne makes you drunk faster than other drinks would, and there is, indeed, some (limited) research showing that this may well be the case (Roberts and Robinson; Ridout et al.). The Mythical Champagne – from Dom Pérignon to Modern Wonders Just as the bubbles in a champagne glass are influenced by numerous forces, so the metaphorical champagne bubble is subject to complex influences. Myth-creation is one of the most significant of these. The origin of champagne as sparkling wine is embedded in the myth of Dom Pérignon of Hautvillers monastery (1638–1715), who according to the legend would have accidentally developed the bubbles, and then enthusiastically exclaimed “I am drinking the stars!” (Phillips 138). In reality, bubbles are a natural phenomenon provoked by winter temperatures deactivating the fermenting yeasts, and spring again reactivating them. The myth of Dom Pérignon was first established in the nineteenth century and quickly embraced by the champagne industry. In 1937, Moët et Chandon launched a premium champagne called Dom Pérignon, which enjoys high reputation until this day (Phillips). The champagne industry has been active in managing associations connected with champagne since the nineteenth century. Sparkling champagnes had already enjoyed fashionability in the later seventeenth and early eighteenth century, both in the French Court, and amongst the British higher classes. In the second half of the nineteenth century, champagne found ever increasing markets abroad, and the clientele was not aristocratic anymore. Before the 1860s, champagne’s association was with high status celebration, as well as sexual activity and seduction (Harding; Rokka). As the century went on, and champagne sales radically increased, associations with “modernity” were added: “hot-air balloons, towering steamships, transcontinental trains, cars, sports, and other ‘modern’ wonders were often featured in quickly proliferating champagne advertising” (Rokka 280). During this time, champagne grew both drier and more sparkling, following consumer tastes (Harding). Champagne’s most important markets in later nineteenth century included the UK, where the growing middle classes consumed champagne for both celebration and hospitality (Harding), the US, where (upper) middle-class women were served champagne in new kinds of consumer environments (Smith; Remus), and Russia, where the upper classes enjoyed sweeter champagne – until the Revolution (Phillips 296). The champagne industry quickly embraced the new middle classes in possession of increasing wealth, as well as new methods of advertising and marketing. What is remarkable is that they managed to integrate enormously varied cultural thematics and still retain associations with aristocracy and luxury, while producing and selling wine in industrial scale (Harding; Rokka). This is still true today: champagne retains a reputation of prestige, despite large-scale branding, production, and marketing. Maintaining and Defending the Bubble: Formulas, Rappers, and the Absolutely Fabulous Tipplers The falling wine prices and increasing counterfeit wines coincided with Europe’s phylloxera crisis – the pest accidentally brought over from North America that almost wiped out all Europe’s vineyards. The pest moved through Champagne in the 1890s, killing vines and devastating vignerons (Campbell). The Syndicat du Commerce des vins de Champagne had already been formed in 1882 (Rokka 280). Now unions were formed to fight phylloxera, such as the Association Viticole Champenoise in 1898. The 1904 Fédération Syndicale des Vignerons was formed to lobby the government to protect the name of Champagne (Leszczyńska 266) – successfully, as we have seen above. The financial benefits from appellations were certainly welcome, but short-lived. World War I treated Champagne harshly, with battle lines stuck through the area for years (Guy 187). The battle went on also in the lobbying front. In 1935, a new appellation regime was brought into law, which came to be the basis for all European systems, and the Comité National des appellations d'origine (CNAO) was founded (Colman 1922). Champagne’s protection became increasingly international, and continues to be so today under EU law and trade deals (European Commission). The post-war recovery of champagne relied on strategies used already in the “golden years” – marketing and lobbying. Advertising continued to embrace “luxury, celebration, transport (extending from air travel to the increasingly popular automobile), modernity, sports” (Guy 188). Such advertisement must have responded accurately to the mood of post-war, pre-depression Europe. Even in the prohibition US it was known that the “frivolous” French women might go as far as bathe in champagne, like the popular actress Mistinguett (Young 63). Curiously, in the 1930s Soviet Russia, “champagne” (not produced in Champagne) was declared a sign of good living, symbolising the standard of living that any Soviet worker had access to (at least in theory) (Gronow). Today, the reputation of champagne is fiercely defended in legal terms. This is not only in terms of protection against other sparkling wine making areas, but also in terms of exploitation of champagne’s reputation by actors in other commercial fields, and even against mass market products containing genuine champagne (Mahy and d’Ath; Schneider and Nam). At the same time, champagne has been widely “democratised” by mass production, enabled partly by increasing mechanisation and scientification of champagne production from the 1950s onwards (Leszczyńska 266). Yet champagne retains its association with prestige, luxury, and even royalty. This has required some serious adaptation and flexibility. In what follows, I look into three cultural phenomena that illuminate processes of such adaptation: Formula One (F1) champagne spraying, the 1990s sitcom Absolutely Fabulous, and the Cristal racism scandal in 2006. The first champagne bottle is said to have been presented to F1 grand prix winner in Champagne in 1950 (Wheels24). Such a gesture would have been fully in line with champagne’s association with cars, sport, and modernity. But what about the spraying? Surely that is not in line with the prestige of the wine? The first spraying is attributed to Jo Siffert in 1966 and Dan Gurney in 1967, the former described as accidental, the latter as a spontaneous gesture of celebration (Wheels24; Dobie). Moët had become the official supplier of F1 champagnes in 1966, and there are no signs that the new custom would have been problematic for them, as their sponsorship continued until 1999, after which Mumm sponsored the sport for 15 years. Today, the champagne to be popped and sprayed is Chanson, in special bottles “coated in the same carbon fibre that F1 cars are made of” (Wheels24). Such an iconic status has the spraying gained that it features in practically all TV broadcasts concerning F1, although non-alcoholic substitute is used in countries where sale of alcohol is banned (Barker et al., “Quantifying”; Barker et al., “Alcohol”). As disturbing as the champagne spraying might look for a wine snob, it is perfectly in line with champagne’s marketing history and entrepreneurial spirit shown since the nineteenth century. Nor is it unheard of to let champagne spray. The “art” of sabrage, opening champagne bottle with a sable, associated with glamour, spectacle, and myth – its origin is attributed to Napoleon and his officers – is perfectly acceptable even for the snob. Sparkling champagne was always bound up with joy and celebration, not a solemn drink, and the champagne bubble was able to accommodate middle classes as well as aristocrats. This brings us to our second example, the British sitcom Absolutely Fabulous. The show, first released in 1992, featured two women, “Eddy” (Jennifer Saunders) and “Patsy” (Joanna Lumley), who spent their time happily smoking, taking drugs, and drinking large quantities of “Bolly” (among other things). Bollinger champagne may have initially experienced “a bit of a shock” for being thus addressed, but soon came to see the benefits of fame (French). In 2005, they hired PR support to make better use of the brand’s “Ab Fab” recognisability, and to improve its prestige reputation in order to justify their higher price range (Cann). Saunders and Lumley were warmly welcomed by the Bollinger house when filming for their champagne tour Absolutely Champers (2017). It is befitting indeed that such controversial fame came from the UK, the first country to discover sparkling champagne outside France (Simon 48), and where the aspirational middle classes were keen to consume it already in the nineteenth century (Harding). More controversial still is the case of Cristal (made by Louis Roederer) and the US rap world. Enthusiastically embraced by the “bling-bling” world of (black) rappers, champagne seems to fit their ethos well. Cristal was long favoured as both a drink and a word in rap lyrics. But in 2006, the newly appointed managing director at the family owned Roederer, Frédéric Rouzaud, made comments considered racist by many (Woodland). Rouzard told in an interview with The Economist that the house observed the Cristal-rap association “with curiosity and serenity”. He reportedly continued: “but what can we do? We can’t forbid people from buying it. I’m sure Dom Pérignon or Krug would be delighted to have their business”. It was indeed those two brands that the rapper Jay-Z replaced Cristal with, when calling for a boycott on Cristal. It would be easy to dismiss Rouzard’s comments as snobbery, or indeed as racism, but they merit some more reflection. Cristal is the premium wine of a house that otherwise does not enjoy high recognisability. While champagne’s history involves embracing new sorts of clientele, and marketing flexibly to as many consumer groups as possible (Rokka), this was the first spectacular crossing of racial boundaries. It was always the case that different houses and their different champagnes were targeted at different clienteles, and it is apparent that Cristal was not targeted at black rap artists. Whereas Bollinger was able to turn into a victory the questionable fame brought by the white middle-class association of Absolutely Fabulous, the more prestigious Cristal considered the attention of the black rapper world more threatening and acted accordingly. They sought to defend their own brand bubble, not the larger champagne bubble. Cristal’s reputation seems to have suffered little – its 2008 vintage, launched in 2018, was the most traded wine of that year (Schultz). Jay-Z’s purchase of his own champagne brand (Armand de Brignac, nicknamed Ace of Spades) has been less successful reputation-wise (Greenburg). It is difficult to break the champagne bubble, and it may be equally difficult to break into it. Conclusion In this article, I have looked into the various dilemmas the “bubble-makers” of Champagne encountered when fabricating what is today known as “champagne”. There have been moments of threat to the bubble they formed, such as in the turn of nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and eras of incomparable success, such as from the 1860s to 1880s. The discussion has demonstrated the remarkable flexibility with which the makers and defenders of champagne have responded to challenges, and dealt with material, socio-cultural, economic, and other problems. It feels appropriate to end with a note on the current challenge the champagne industry faces: Covid-19. The pandemic hit champagne sales exceptionally hard, leaving around 100 million bottles unsold (Micallef). This was not very surprising, given the closure of champagne-selling venues, banning of public and private celebrations, and a general mood not particularly prone to (or even likely to frown upon) such light-hearted matters as glamour and champagne. Champagne has survived many dramatic drops in sales during the twentieth century, such as the Great Depression of the 1930s, and the post-financial crisis collapse in 2009. Yet they seem to be able to make astonishing recoveries. 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Introduction I am a transmigrant who has moved back and forth between the West and the Rest. I was born and raised in a Muslim family in a predominantly Muslim country, Bangladesh, but I spent several years of my childhood in Pakistan. After my marriage, I lived in the United States for a year and a half, the Middle East for 5 years, Australia for three years, back to the Middle East for another 5 years, then, finally, in Australia for the last 12 years. I speak Bengali (my mother tongue), Urdu (which I learnt in Pakistan), a bit of Arabic (learnt in the Middle East); but English has always been my medium of instruction. So where is home? Is it my place of origin, the Muslim umma, or my land of settlement? Or is it my ‘root’ or my ‘route’ (Blunt and Dowling)? Blunt and Dowling (199) observe that the lives of transmigrants are often interpreted in terms of their ‘roots’ and ‘routes’, which are two frameworks for thinking about home, homeland and diaspora. Whereas ‘roots’ might imply an original homeland from which people have scattered, and to which they might seek to return, ‘routes’ focuses on mobile, multiple and transcultural geographies of home. However, both ‘roots’ and ‘routes’ are attached to emotion and identity, and both invoke a sense of place, belonging or alienation that is intrinsically tied to a sense of self (Blunt and Dowling 196-219). In this paper, I equate home with my root (place of birth) and route (transnational homing) within the context of the ‘diaspora and belonging’. First I define the diaspora and possible criteria of belonging. Next I describe my transnational homing within the framework of diaspora and belonging. Finally, I consider how Australia can be a ‘home’ for me and other Muslim Australians. The Diaspora and Belonging Blunt and Dowling (199) define diaspora as “scattering of people over space and transnational connections between people and the places”. Cohen emphasised the ethno-cultural aspects of the diaspora setting; that is, how migrants identify and position themselves in other nations in terms of their (different) ethnic and cultural orientation. Hall argues that the diasporic subjects form a cultural identity through transformation and difference. Speaking of the Hindu diaspora in the UK and Caribbean, Vertovec (21-23) contends that the migrants’ contact with their original ‘home’ or diaspora depends on four factors: migration processes and factors of settlement, cultural composition, structural and political power, and community development. With regard to the first factor, migration processes and factors of settlement, Vertovec explains that if the migrants are political or economic refugees, or on a temporary visa, they are likely to live in a ‘myth of return’. In the cultural composition context, Vertovec argues that religion, language, region of origin, caste, and degree of cultural homogenisation are factors in which migrants are bound to their homeland. Concerning the social structure and political power issue, Vertovec suggests that the extent and nature of racial and ethnic pluralism or social stigma, class composition, degree of institutionalised racism, involvement in party politics (or active citizenship) determine migrants’ connection to their new or old home. Finally, community development, including membership in organisations (political, union, religious, cultural, leisure), leadership qualities, and ethnic convergence or conflict (trends towards intra-communal or inter-ethnic/inter-religious co-operation) would also affect the migrants’ sense of belonging. Using these scholarly ideas as triggers, I will examine my home and belonging over the last few decades. My Home In an initial stage of my transmigrant history, my home was my root (place of birth, Dhaka, Bangladesh). Subsequently, my routes (settlement in different countries) reshaped my homes. In all respects, the ethno-cultural factors have played a big part in my definition of ‘home’. But on some occasions my ethnic identification has been overridden by my religious identification and vice versa. By ethnic identity, I mean my language (mother tongue) and my connection to my people (Bangladeshi). By my religious identity, I mean my Muslim religion, and my spiritual connection to the umma, a Muslim nation transcending all boundaries. Umma refers to the Muslim identity and unity within a larger Muslim group across national boundaries. The only thing the members of the umma have in common is their Islamic belief (Spencer and Wollman 169-170). In my childhood my father, a banker, was relocated to Karachi, Pakistan (then West Pakistan). Although I lived in Pakistan for much of my childhood, I have never considered it to be my home, even though it is predominantly a Muslim country. In this case, my home was my root (Bangladesh) where my grandparents and extended family lived. Every year I used to visit my grandparents who resided in a small town in Bangladesh (then East Pakistan). Thus my connection with my home was sustained through my extended family, ethnic traditions, language (Bengali/Bangla), and the occasional visits to the landscape of Bangladesh. Smith (9-11) notes that people build their connection or identity to their homeland through their historic land, common historical memories, myths, symbols and traditions. Though Pakistan and Bangladesh had common histories, their traditions of language, dress and ethnic culture were very different. For example, the celebration of the Bengali New Year (Pohela Baishakh), folk dance, folk music and folk tales, drama, poetry, lyrics of poets Rabindranath Tagore (Rabindra Sangeet) and Nazrul Islam (Nazrul Geeti) are distinct in the cultural heritage of Bangladesh. Special musical instruments such as the banshi (a bamboo flute), dhol (drums), ektara (a single-stringed instrument) and dotara (a four-stringed instrument) are unique to Bangladeshi culture. The Bangladeshi cuisine (rice and freshwater fish) is also different from Pakistan where people mainly eat flat round bread (roti) and meat (gosh). However, my bonding factor to Bangladesh was my relatives, particularly my grandparents as they made me feel one of ‘us’. Their affection for me was irreplaceable. The train journey from Dhaka (capital city) to their town, Noakhali, was captivating. The hustle and bustle at the train station and the lush green paddy fields along the train journey reminded me that this was my ‘home’. Though I spoke the official language (Urdu) in Pakistan and had a few Pakistani friends in Karachi, they could never replace my feelings for my friends, extended relatives and cousins who lived in Bangladesh. I could not relate to the landscape or dry weather of Pakistan. More importantly, some Pakistani women (our neighbours) were critical of my mother’s traditional dress (saree), and described it as revealing because it showed a bit of her back. They took pride in their traditional dress (shalwar, kameez, dopatta), which they considered to be more covered and ‘Islamic’. So, because of our traditional dress (saree) and perhaps other differences, we were regarded as the ‘Other’. In 1970 my father was relocated back to Dhaka, Bangladesh, and I was glad to go home. It should be noted that both Pakistan and Bangladesh were separated from India in 1947 – first as one nation; then, in 1971, Bangladesh became independent from Pakistan. The conflict between Bangladesh (then East Pakistan) and Pakistan (then West Pakistan) originated for economic and political reasons. At this time I was a high school student and witnessed acts of genocide committed by the Pakistani regime against the Bangladeshis (March-December 1971). My memories of these acts are vivid and still very painful. After my marriage, I moved from Bangladesh to the United States. In this instance, my new route (Austin, Texas, USA), as it happened, did not become my home. Here the ethno-cultural and Islamic cultural factors took precedence. I spoke the English language, made some American friends, and studied history at the University of Texas. I appreciated the warm friendship extended to me in the US, but experienced a degree of culture shock. I did not appreciate the pub life, alcohol consumption, and what I perceived to be the lack of family bonds (children moving out at the age of 18, families only meeting occasionally on birthdays and Christmas). Furthermore, I could not relate to de facto relationships and acceptance of sex before marriage. However, to me ‘home’ meant a family orientation and living in close contact with family. Besides the cultural divide, my husband and I were living in the US on student visas and, as Vertovec (21-23) noted, temporary visa status can deter people from their sense of belonging to the host country. In retrospect I can see that we lived in the ‘myth of return’. However, our next move for a better life was not to our root (Bangladesh), but another route to the Muslim world of Dhahran in Saudi Arabia. My husband moved to Dhahran not because it was a Muslim world but because it gave him better economic opportunities. However, I thought this new destination would become my home – the home that was coined by Anderson as the imagined nation, or my Muslim umma. Anderson argues that the imagined communities are “to be distinguished, not by their falsity/genuineness, but by the style in which they are imagined” (6; Wood 61). Hall (122) asserts: identity is actually formed through unconscious processes over time, rather than being innate in consciousness at birth. There is always something ‘imaginary’ or fantasized about its unity. It always remains incomplete, is always ‘in process’, always ‘being formed’. As discussed above, when I had returned home to Bangladesh from Pakistan – both Muslim countries – my primary connection to my home country was my ethnic identity, language and traditions. My ethnic identity overshadowed the religious identity. But when I moved to Saudi Arabia, where my ethnic identity differed from that of the mainstream Arabs and Bedouin/nomadic Arabs, my connection to this new land was through my Islamic cultural and religious identity. Admittedly, this connection to the umma was more psychological than physical, but I was now in close proximity to Mecca, and to my home of Dhaka, Bangladesh. Mecca is an important city in Saudi Arabia for Muslims because it is the holy city of Islam, the home to the Ka’aba (the religious centre of Islam), and the birthplace of Prophet Muhammad [Peace Be Upon Him]. It is also the destination of the Hajj, one of the five pillars of Islamic faith. Therefore, Mecca is home to significant events in Islamic history, as well as being an important present day centre for the Islamic faith. We lived in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia for 5 years. Though it was a 2.5 hours flight away, I treasured Mecca’s proximity and regarded Dhahran as my second and spiritual home. Saudi Arabia had a restricted lifestyle for women, but I liked it because it was a Muslim country that gave me the opportunity to perform umrah Hajj (pilgrimage). However, Saudi Arabia did not allow citizenship to expatriates. Saudi Arabia’s government was keen to protect the status quo and did not want to compromise its cultural values or standard of living by allowing foreigners to become a permanent part of society. In exceptional circumstances only, the King granted citizenship to a foreigner for outstanding service to the state over a number of years. Children of foreigners born in Saudi Arabia did not have rights of local citizenship; they automatically assumed the nationality of their parents. If it was available, Saudi citizenship would assure expatriates a secure and permanent living in Saudi Arabia; as it was, there was a fear among the non-Saudis that they would have to leave the country once their job contract expired. Under the circumstances, though my spiritual connection to Mecca was strong, my husband was convinced that Saudi Arabia did not provide any job security. So, in 1987 when Australia offered migration to highly skilled people, my husband decided to migrate to Australia for a better and more secure economic life. I agreed to his decision, but quite reluctantly because we were again moving to a non-Muslim part of the world, which would be culturally different and far away from my original homeland (Bangladesh). In Australia, we lived first in Brisbane, then Adelaide, and after three years we took our Australian citizenship. At that stage I loved the Barossa Valley and Victor Harbour in South Australia, and the Gold Coast and Sunshine Coast in Queensland, but did not feel at home in Australia. We bought a house in Adelaide and I was a full time home-maker but was always apprehensive that my children (two boys) would lose their culture in this non-Muslim world. In 1990 we once again moved back to the Muslim world, this time to Muscat, Sultanate of Oman. My connection to this route was again spiritual. I valued the fact that we would live in a Muslim country and our children would be brought up in a Muslim environment. But my husband’s move was purely financial as he got a lucrative job offer in Muscat. We had another son in Oman. We enjoyed the luxurious lifestyle provided by my husband’s workplace and the service provided by the housemaid. I loved the beaches and freedom to drive my car, and I appreciated the friendly Omani people. I also enjoyed our frequent trips (4 hours flight) to my root, Dhaka, Bangladesh. So our children were raised within our ethnic and Islamic culture, remained close to my root (family in Dhaka), though they attended a British school in Muscat. But by the time I started considering Oman to be my second home, we had to leave once again for a place that could provide us with a more secure future. Oman was like Saudi Arabia; it employed expatriates only on a contract basis, and did not give them citizenship (not even fellow Muslims). So after 5 years it was time to move back to Australia. It was with great reluctance that I moved with my husband to Brisbane in 1995 because once again we were to face a different cultural context. As mentioned earlier, we lived in Brisbane in the late 1980s; I liked the weather, the landscape, but did not consider it home for cultural reasons. Our boys started attending expensive private schools and we bought a house in a prestigious Western suburb in Brisbane. Soon after arriving I started my tertiary education at the University of Queensland, and finished an MA in Historical Studies in Indian History in 1998. Still Australia was not my home. I kept thinking that we would return to my previous routes or the ‘imagined’ homeland somewhere in the Middle East, in close proximity to my root (Bangladesh), where we could remain economically secure in a Muslim country. But gradually I began to feel that Australia was becoming my ‘home’. I had gradually become involved in professional and community activities (with university colleagues, the Bangladeshi community and Muslim women’s organisations), and in retrospect I could see that this was an early stage of my ‘self-actualisation’ (Maslow). Through my involvement with diverse people, I felt emotionally connected with the concerns, hopes and dreams of my Muslim-Australian friends. Subsequently, I also felt connected with my mainstream Australian friends whose emotions and fears (9/11 incident, Bali bombing and 7/7 tragedy) were similar to mine. In late 1998 I started my PhD studies on the immigration history of Australia, with a particular focus on the historical settlement of Muslims in Australia. This entailed retrieving archival files and interviewing people, mostly Muslims and some mainstream Australians, and enquiring into relevant migration issues. I also became more active in community issues, and was not constrained by my circumstances. By circumstances, I mean that even though I belonged to a patriarchally structured Muslim family, where my husband was the main breadwinner, main decision-maker, my independence and research activities (entailing frequent interstate trips for data collection, and public speaking) were not frowned upon or forbidden (Khan 14-15); fortunately, my husband appreciated my passion for research and gave me his trust and support. This, along with the Muslim community’s support (interviews), and the wider community’s recognition (for example, the publication of my letters in Australian newspapers, interviews on radio and television) enabled me to develop my self-esteem and built up my bicultural identity as a Muslim in a predominantly Christian country and as a Bangladeshi-Australian. In 2005, for the sake of a better job opportunity, my husband moved to the UK, but this time I asserted that I would not move again. I felt that here in Australia (now in Perth) I had a job, an identity and a home. This time my husband was able to secure a good job back in Australia and was only away for a year. I no longer dream of finding a home in the Middle East. Through my bicultural identity here in Australia I feel connected to the wider community and to the Muslim umma. However, my attachment to the umma has become ambivalent. I feel proud of my Australian-Muslim identity but I am concerned about the jihadi ideology of militant Muslims. By jihadi ideology, I mean the extremist ideology of the al-Qaeda terrorist group (Farrar 2007). The Muslim umma now incorporates both moderate and radical Muslims. The radical Muslims (though only a tiny minority of 1.4 billion Muslims worldwide) pose a threat to their moderate counterparts as well as to non-Muslims. In the UK, some second- and third-generation Muslims identify themselves with the umma rather than their parents’ homelands or their country of birth (Husain). It should not be a matter of concern if these young Muslims adopt a ‘pure’ Muslim identity, providing at the same time they are loyal to their country of residence. But when they resort to terrorism with their ‘pure’ Muslim identity (e.g., the 7/7 London bombers) they defame my religion Islam, and undermine my spiritual connection to the umma. As a 1st generation immigrant, the defining criteria of my ‘homeliness’ in Australia are my ethno-cultural and religious identity (which includes my family), my active citizenship, and my community development/contribution through my research work – all of which allow me a sense of efficacy in my life. My ethnic and religious identities generally co-exist equally, but when I see some Muslims kill my fellow Australians (such as the Bali bombings in 2002 and 2005) my Australian identity takes precedence. I feel for the victims and condemn the perpetrators. On the other hand, when I see politics play a role over the human rights issues (e.g., the Tampa incident), my religious identity begs me to comment on it (see Kabir, Muslims in Australia 295-305). Problematising ‘Home’ for Muslim Australians In the European context, Grillo (863) and Werbner (904), and in the Australian context, Kabir (Muslims in Australia) and Poynting and Mason, have identified the diversity within Islam (national, ethnic, religious etc). Werbner (904) notes that in spite of the “wishful talk of the emergence of a ‘British Islam’, even today there are Pakistani, Bangladeshi and Arab mosques, as well as Turkish and Shia’a mosques”; thus British Muslims retain their separate identities. Similarly, in Australia, the existence of separate mosques for the Bangladeshi, Pakistani, Arab and Shia’a peoples indicates that Australian Muslims have also kept their ethnic identities discrete (Saeed 64-77). However, in times of crisis, such as the Salman Rushdie affair in 1989, and the 1990-1991 Gulf crises, both British and Australian Muslims were quick to unite and express their Islamic identity by way of resistance (Kabir, Muslims in Australia 160-162; Poynting and Mason 68-70). In both British and Australian contexts, I argue that a peaceful rally or resistance is indicative of active citizenship of Muslims as it reveals their sense of belonging (also Werbner 905). So when a transmigrant Muslim wants to make a peaceful demonstration, the Western world should be encouraged, not threatened – as long as the transmigrant’s allegiances lie also with the host country. In the European context, Grillo (868) writes: when I asked Mehmet if he was planning to stay in Germany he answered without hesitation: ‘Yes, of course’. And then, after a little break, he added ‘as long as we can live here as Muslims’. In this context, I support Mehmet’s desire to live as a Muslim in a non-Muslim world as long as this is peaceful. Paradoxically, living a Muslim life through ijtihad can be either socially progressive or destructive. The Canadian Muslim feminist Irshad Manji relies on ijtihad, but so does Osama bin Laden! Manji emphasises that ijtihad can be, on the one hand, the adaptation of Islam using independent reasoning, hybridity and the contesting of ‘traditional’ family values (c.f. Doogue and Kirkwood 275-276, 314); and, on the other, ijtihad can take the form of conservative, patriarchal and militant Islamic values. The al-Qaeda terrorist Osama bin Laden espouses the jihadi ideology of Sayyid Qutb (1906-1966), an Egyptian who early in his career might have been described as a Muslim modernist who believed that Islam and Western secular ideals could be reconciled. But he discarded that idea after going to the US in 1948-50; there he was treated as ‘different’ and that treatment turned him against the West. He came back to Egypt and embraced a much more rigid and militaristic form of Islam (Esposito 136). Other scholars, such as Cesari, have identified a third orientation – a ‘secularised Islam’, which stresses general beliefs in the values of Islam and an Islamic identity, without too much concern for practices. Grillo (871) observed Islam in the West emphasised diversity. He stressed that, “some [Muslims were] more quietest, some more secular, some more clamorous, some more negotiatory”, while some were exclusively characterised by Islamic identity, such as wearing the burqa (elaborate veils), hijabs (headscarves), beards by men and total abstinence from drinking alcohol. So Mehmet, cited above, could be living a Muslim life within the spectrum of these possibilities, ranging from an integrating mode to a strict, militant Muslim manner. In the UK context, Zubaida (96) contends that marginalised, culturally-impoverished youth are the people for whom radical, militant Islamism may have an appeal, though it must be noted that the 7/7 bombers belonged to affluent families (O’Sullivan 14; Husain). In Australia, Muslim Australians are facing three challenges. First, the Muslim unemployment rate: it was three times higher than the national total in 1996 and 2001 (Kabir, Muslims in Australia 266-278; Kabir, “What Does It Mean” 63). Second, some spiritual leaders have used extreme rhetoric to appeal to marginalised youth; in January 2007, the Australian-born imam of Lebanese background, Sheikh Feiz Mohammad, was alleged to have employed a DVD format to urge children to kill the enemies of Islam and to have praised martyrs with a violent interpretation of jihad (Chulov 2). Third, the proposed citizenship test has the potential to make new migrants’ – particularly Muslims’ – settlement in Australia stressful (Kabir, “What Does It Mean” 62-79); in May 2007, fuelled by perceptions that some migrants – especially Muslims – were not integrating quickly enough, the Howard government introduced a citizenship test bill that proposes to test applicants on their English language skills and knowledge of Australian history and ‘values’. I contend that being able to demonstrate knowledge of history and having English language skills is no guarantee that a migrant will be a good citizen. Through my transmigrant history, I have learnt that developing a bond with a new place takes time, acceptance and a gradual change of identity, which are less likely to happen when facing assimilationist constraints. I spoke English and studied history in the United States, but I did not consider it my home. I did not speak the Arabic language, and did not study Middle Eastern history while I was in the Middle East, but I felt connected to it for cultural and religious reasons. Through my knowledge of history and English language proficiency I did not make Australia my home when I first migrated to Australia. Australia became my home when I started interacting with other Australians, which was made possible by having the time at my disposal and by fortunate circumstances, which included a fairly high level of efficacy and affluence. If I had been rejected because of my lack of knowledge of ‘Australian values’, or had encountered discrimination in the job market, I would have been much less willing to embrace my host country and call it home. I believe a stringent citizenship test is more likely to alienate would-be citizens than to induce their adoption of values and loyalty to their new home. Conclusion Blunt (5) observes that current studies of home often investigate mobile geographies of dwelling and how it shapes one’s identity and belonging. Such geographies of home negotiate from the domestic to the global context, thus mobilising the home beyond a fixed, bounded and confining location. Similarly, in this paper I have discussed how my mobile geography, from the domestic (root) to global (route), has shaped my identity. Though I received a degree of culture shock in the United States, loved the Middle East, and was at first quite resistant to the idea of making Australia my second home, the confidence I acquired in residing in these ‘several homes’ were cumulative and eventually enabled me to regard Australia as my ‘home’. I loved the Middle East, but I did not pursue an active involvement with the Arab community because I was a busy mother. Also I lacked the communication skill (fluency in Arabic) with the local residents who lived outside the expatriates’ campus. 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Citation reference for this article MLA Style Kabir, Nahid. "Why I Call Australia ‘Home’?: A Transmigrant’s Perspective." M/C Journal 10.4 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/15-kabir.php>. APA Style Kabir, N. (Aug. 2007) "Why I Call Australia ‘Home’?: A Transmigrant’s Perspective," M/C Journal, 10(4). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/15-kabir.php>.