Articles de revues sur le sujet « Eastern Church Association »

Objective. The creation of the Orthodox Church of Ukraine is the reason of religious discourse investigation. The aim of this research is to analyze concept “religion” in the consciousness of young people. Materials & Methods. Free word association test (WAT) has been used for psycholinguistic analysis. The respondents have been received a questionnaire with ten words-stimuli (related to religious discourse: clergyman, priest, theologian, church, religion, preaching, sacraments, faith, sin, prayer). In this article, we only analyzed associations for “religion”. The sample consisted of 246 students (biologists, psychologists and publishers) from Lesya Ukrainka Eastern European National University. Results. As a result of the free WAT, 258 responses to the stimulus word “religion” were, among them 106 different associations. Among the most frequent responses were “faith”, “Christianity”, “church” and “orthodoxy”. In general, respondents often associate religion with the church and specific faiths (in this case, Christianity and Orthodoxy). The grammar and logical characteristics of the obtained associations have been analyzed. It has been shown that central paradigmatic reactions to the stimulus word “religion” predominate. The thematic features of the associations to “religion” have been analyzed. Ten different thematic groups have been identified: faith; types and directions of religion; outlook; church; morality; emotions; people; negative evaluations. The most numerous thematic group is “faith” which binds “religion” with faith in God and higher powers. The least numerous thematic groups are “morality”, “emotions” and “people”. Conclusions. Students view religion on two sides. On the one hand, as a set of beliefs or a certain outlook. On the other hand, they restrict this concept to the community of like-minded, who meet in the church. In general, this thematic variety of the associations indicates a high level of students' awareness of the concept of “religion”. Prospects for further study of this problem lie in an in-depth psycholinguistic analysis of religious discourse.

Many scholars of Byzantine architecture have theorised about the reasons for church form and structure, with most relating them to sources in pagan architecture or local traditional construction methods (Krautheimer, Crowfoot, Ward-Perkins, Mango and Hill) ); to aspects of provincialism, regional independence or location peripheral to empire (Megaw, Delvoye, Wharton), or to environmental constraints such as frequent earthquakes (Curcic). But just as the wording of the various creeds and ecumenical statements responded to aspects of contemporary non-orthodox beliefs or “heresies”, so did the theological debate inform the liturgical practices and consequently church planning. It could be expected that these responses would also be reflected in the architectural approach to form and symbolism. Thus a contextual typological framework is proposed, based on the association of different architectural approaches to church planning and form in the 4th to the 6th centuries with the contemporary doctrinal disputes over the true nature of Christ.

The existence of an Independent church at Stepney presided over by William Greenhill is already well known as too is the association of the eastern suburbs generally with religious and political radicalism in the 1640s. What is less familiar, however, is the fact that Stepney's neighbouring parish, St Mary Matfellon, Whitechapel, also came to possess an Independent church gathered under the divine Thomas Walley (or Whalley), and that prominent members of that church and their sectarian allies had for some time assumed key roles in local politics and were eventually to engineer an Independent take-over of the parish after a protracted struggle. This article will focus upon the composition of the Whitechapel Independents, the form taken by the parochial factionalism, the identities and reactions of their local opponents and the way in which events and personalities in Whitechapel related to broader religious and political themes in the capital.

Abstract At the end of the First World War, a profoundly transformed Middle East faced massive population displacements and health crises, which presented crucial challenges for humanitarian actors. North American philanthropy and charity played a decisive role in this context. Among the organisations involved, the Catholic Near East Welfare Association (cnewa) is not well known. It was established by American Catholics to help Eastern Christians – especially Greek Catholics – and to thwart the influence of Protestantism in the region, mainly by supporting local Churches and missions in their humanitarian and welfare work. cnewa was quickly placed under the supervision of the US episcopate and the Vatican, partly transforming its operations and purposes. Its activity became closely involved with the Eastern policy of the Holy See, which primarily focused on the “return” of Orthodox Christians to the Roman Church. This article, at the crossroads of the history of mission and humanitarian aid, examines the early developments of cnewa and highlights how the Catholic Church dealt with the emergence of modern humanitarian aid in the mid-twentieth century.

Theology in the 20th century witnessed a shift in emphasis: The talk about the last things did not have to come last any more as the traditional handbooks of systematic theology would have it; eschatology was no longer one branch of theology among others but lay at the center of our understanding of the Christian faith. My purpose in this essay is to go a step further than this rearrangement in theological discourse and examine a reversal within the theological understanding of eschatology itself. In the wake of the work of the Metropolitan of Pergamon John (Zizioulas), a different understanding of eschatology has emerged, one that recognizes in the Parousia not only the event that stands at the end of history (the apocalyptic closure of time with which certain Christian groups have always had a fascination), but also as that event that, grounded in the Eucharist, flows continuously from the and permeates every moment in history. In the following discussion I wish to trace and spell out the implications of such a novel understanding of eschatology for our theologies today. As my guides in this exploration, I take the theology of John Zizioulas and certain insights that recent research in phenomenology has placed at theology's service. This association might seem strange to the reader: What does the theology of things-to-come have in common with the philosophy of things-themselves? I would like to propose that phenomenology, especially as it has been recently formulated by a new generation of phenomenologists, such as Jean-Luc Marion, Jean-Yves Lacoste, and Richard Kearney, can be a very helpful instrument in the hands of eucharistic eschatology in its effort to rescue eschatology from the twin risks of either immanentizing it or relegating it to an end-of-times utopia. Furthermore, the structure of an “inverted intentionality,” as exemplified by certain liturgical forms such as hymnology and iconography, will be suggested as the precise point of phenomenology's convergence with eucharistic eschatology. I write with the conviction that eschatology is in essence a “liberation” theology (freeing us from the moralistic and sociological constellations of this world) and that, as my concluding remarks illustrate, it has real, practical, day-to-day consequences for the ways we conduct our lives and our relationships with others.

The present study examines the association between risk factors and alcohol use for a sample of young adolescents in a rural eastern community. Family relations, family structure, marks in school, participation in academic activities, frequency of church attendance, and deviant behavior were found to be significantly associated with alcohol use two years later. No gender or age differences were found in these predictors of alcohol use. These six risk variables were combined to form a risk index. A 3 × 2 × 2 (User group by Gender by Grade) ANOVA was used to examine the association between the risk index score at Year 1 and level of alcohol use at Year 3. Only the main effect for User group was significant. Thus, the number of risk factors at Year 1 was predictive of alcohol use at Year 3. The risk index also predicted frequency of alcohol use in a replication sample. Implications for the risk factor approach, prevention, and intervention are discussed.

Isolation and integration are two sides of the same coin, the former denoting negativity with the latter denoting positivity. The penetration of the LDS church into Nigeria in general and south-western Nigeria in particular has been faced with a considerable amount of opposition from the populace and the government. Nigeria is one of the most religious countries in Africa. Due to the vast demographic space, I am limiting our study to the south-western states, where it seems the church is growing more. The eastern region, to an extent, has also been experiencing considerable growth. Our queries are: what are the elements that depict isolation from other religious sects and society? What are the parameters for this phenomenon? Is there any evidence of integration? If so, how is this manifested? How are the male and female members of the LDS church trying to integrate into society and how has the response been? These among other questions are examined. Nigeria is originally a Catholic and Pentecostal religious environment, where open miracles, wonders and other phenomena are visible. These are hardly visible in LDS services, and this serves as motivation for non-members to oppose and isolate members of the LDS church from the fibers of society. The undetermined position of the LDS church and its non-registration with the Christian Association of Nigeria (CAN) has and continues to have relevant effects on the integration of the church and its members into the Christian circle of the country in general and the south-west in particular. I have discovered that, though the church’s growth in the south-west is visible, the possibility of integration has proven difficult. Due to the limited literature on this subject in the country, I have utilized semi-structured direct and indirect interviews of pioneers of the wards/units in the south-west, and also those who have investigated the church, many of whom still view the church as a cult. I also used an analytic approach that straddles critical discourse analysis and postcolonial theory. This paper proposes ways in which the members of the LDS church can better integrate themselves in a society that has a very different religious and cultural background to that of American society, where the church has more fully moved from isolation to integration.

AbstractVincent McCauley, bishop and missionary, was a great champion of the Second Vatican Council (1962–1965). As Bishop of Fort Portal, Uganda, a new diocese in the Western portion of the country (1961–1971), McCauley was instrumental in the full implementation of the 16 documents of Vatican II, but his principal legacy will be his work in the area of ecumenism. Overcoming significant and long standing hostility between Roman Catholics and Anglicans, McCauley was able to forge ecumenical dialogue and programs on various levels. Beginning simply through prayer services and a vernacular translation of the New Testament, he graduated to be a founder and initial chairman of the Uganda Joint Christian Council (UJCC), an organization which made great strides in removing government opposition to religion and forging dialogue between Christians in areas of sacraments and social justice. Both simultaneously and after his tenure in Fort Portal, McCauley served as chairman and secretary general of the Association of Member Episcopal Conferences of Eastern Africa (AMECEA). These positions allowed him to continue his ecumenical work on a broader scope.He was instrumental in setting up numerous conferences to foster ecumenical dialogue, various pastoral programs and certain educational initiatives, including the Interdisciplinary Urban Seminar, for which McCauley served as a member of the Academic Board. He was also integrally involved as a member of the advisory board of the Christian Organization Research and Advisory Trust (CORAT), an organization that sought to train church members in organization and management.Vincent McCauley stands as a significant example of one who implemented the ecumenical teachings of Vatican II on local and regional levels. His contribution continues to serve the church in Eastern Africa today.

The college accreditation movement that arose at the turn of the twentieth century had an important antecedent in the Society for the Promotion of Collegiate and Theological Education at the West. Founded in 1843, this nondenominational philanthropy aspired to direct the development of higher education by dispersing eastern funds to Protestant colleges that met its standards for instruction, administration, and piety. For all its ambitions, the Society did not always offer dependable or disinterested supervision. Its relationships with Knox College and Iowa College (now Grinnell) exposed its shortcomings. Coinciding with the rising sectional conflict over slavery, the activities of these institutions forced the regulatory association to engage in the very brand of ecclesiastical politics it had vowed to transcend. This article shows how institutional resistance and church rivalry helped delay the growth of accreditation until the turn of the twentieth century, when secular organizations took up the reins of regulation.

В статье дается обзор полемических моментов, присущих современной протестантской критике православной экклесиологии, и ответы на эту критику со стороны православных полемистов. Исследование экклесиологических вопросов церковной самоидентичности привели в недавнее время большую группу евангелистов из Северной Америки в Право- славие. Эта тема является перспективной с точки зрения ведения диалога с протестан- тизмом в будущем. Одновременно с протестантской стороны появились публикации с разнообразными аргументами против православного учения, включая учение о Церкви. Протестанты выдвигают против православных обвинения в этнической раздробленности, в завышенной важности епископа, в учении о необходимости Таинств, эксклюзив- ности Церкви, ее единоспасительности, неопределенности взгляда на инославных в православном богословии и другие обвинения «по ассоциации» с Римо-католической церковью. Именно с этим приходится иметь дело в современных публикациях и от этого защищаться. В статье рассматриваются антиправославные публикации в рефор- маторском журнале “Credenda Agenda” и их критика в статье «Нереформированная истина» на православном ресурсе. Также изучается исповедь известного евангелистского исследователя Православия Дэниела Кленденина. Рассматривается статья ректора баптистского румынского университета «Эммануил» Пола Негруца и ответ на нее Джоэла Калвесмаки. Приводится отчет комиссии Лос-Анджелесского библейскогоинститута о несовместимости православной веры с «исповеданием» университета. Также изучается баптистская методичка по обращению православных. Отмечаются тенденции православно-протестантской полемики. Разбор дискуссий в порядке их возникновения в печати и на академическом уровне иллюстрирует степень расхождения во взглядах на современном этапе. The article provides a review of polemical issues of contemporary Protestant critique of Eastern Orthodox ecclesiology and various responses from Orthodox polemists. Researches on the topic of ecclesial identity have recently led a large group of North American evangelicals to Eastern Orthodoxy. This is why this topic is quite promising especially in regard to future dialogues with Protestants. At the same time as the conversions reported by Fr. Peter Guillquist took place a number of publications of Protestant authors arose which questioned and criticized Eastern Orthodox essentials including teaching on the Church. Charges of guilt “by association” with Roman Catholicism, nationalism, bishop prerogatives, necessity of Sacraments, exclusiveness of the Church, unclear status of the non-Orthodox, these are some of important claims which one encounters in press and which require a rebuttal. The article on contemporary polemics includes a review of anti-Orthodox publications in a Reformed magazine “Credenda Agenda” and a response to them called “UnReformed Truth” from an Orthodox resource; an article of a famous evangelical researcher of Eastern Orthodoxy Daniel Clendenin “Why I am not Orthodox” and responses on it; “What Evangelicals should know about Eastern Orthodoxy” by Paul Negrut and responses on it; Biola University Task Force Report on compliance of Orthodoxy with the “Statement of Faith” of the University and comments on it; Baptist Manual “Witnessing people of Eastern Orthodox Background” and a response to it. The various tendencies of the polemics are described.

Nikolai Velimirovich was one of the most influential bishops of the Serbian Orthodox Church in the twentieth century. His stay in Britain in 1908/9 influenced his theological views and made him a proponent of an Anglican-Orthodox church reunion. As a known proponent of close relations between different Christian churches, he was sent by the Serbian Prime Minister Pasic to the United States (1915) and Britain (1915-1919) to work on promoting Serbia and the cause of Yugoslav unity. His activities in both countries were very successful. In Britain he closely collaborated with the Serbian Relief Fund and ?British friends of Serbia? (R. W. Seton-Watson, Henry Wickham Steed and Sir Arthur Evans). Other Serbian intellectuals in London, particularly the brothers Bogdan and Pavle Popovic, were in occasional collision with the members of the Yugoslav Committee over the nature of the future Yugoslav state. In contrast, Velimirovich remained committed to the cause of Yugoslav unity throughout the war with only rare moments of doubt. Unlike most other Serbs and Yugoslavs in London Father Nikolai never grew unsympathetic to the Serbian Prime Minister Pasic, although he did not share all of his views. In London he befriended the churchmen of the Church of England who propagated ecclesiastical reunion and were active in the Anglican and Eastern Association. These contacts allowed him to preach at St. Margaret?s Church, Westminster and other prominent Anglican churches. He became such a well-known and respected preacher that, in July 1917, he had the honour of being the first Orthodox clergyman to preach at St. Paul?s Cathedral. He was given the same honour in December 1919. By the end of the war he had very close relations with the highest prelates of the Church of England, the Catholic cardinal of Westminster, and with prominent clergymen of the Church of Scotland and other Protestant churches in Britain. Based on Velimirovich?s correspondence preserved in Belgrade and London archives, and on very wide coverage of his activities in The Times, in local British newspapers, and particularly in the Anglican journal The Church Times, this paper describes and analyses his wide-ranging activities in Britain. The Church of England supported him wholeheartedly in most of his activities and made him a celebrity in Britain during the Great War. It was thanks to this Church that some dozen of his pamphlets and booklets were published in London during the Great War. What made his relations with the Church of England so close was his commitment to the question of reunion of Orthodox churches with the Anglican Church. He suggested the reunion for the first time in 1909 and remained committed to it throughout the Great War. Analysing the activities of Father Nikolai, the paper also offers a survey of the very wide-ranging forms of help that the Church of England provided both to the Serbian Orthodox Church and to Serbs in by the end of the Great War he became a symbol of Anglican-Orthodox rapprochement. general during the Great War. Most of these activities were channelled through him. Thus, by the end of the Great War he became a symbol of Anglican-Orthodox rapprochement.

This article explores the background leading to the Polotsk Unification Council (also known as the Synod of Polotsk) convened in 1839. It delves into the proceedings of the council and evaluates its importance within the context of the Russian Orthodox Church and the Belarusian Exarchate. The conclusion drawn is that the abolition of the Uniate church association within the Russian Empire during the second quarter of the 19th century stemmed from a distinctive convergence of historical factors. These included shifts in Russian governmental policy, apprehensions regarding the Uniates within the Catholic Church leadership, and internal conflicts among the Greek Catholic clergy. The significance of the Polotsk Unification Council of 1839 encompasses several dimensions. Firstly, this event expanded the sphere of influence of Orthodoxy in the western provinces of the Russian Empire in the 19th century, fostering the state, religious, and cultural integration of the western and eastern segments of the Russian people up to the present day. Secondly, the Polotsk Council marked the conclusion of an era in the history of the Russian Orthodox Church known as the era of division. It commenced in the mid-15th century with the canonical division of the Kiev Metropolia, which remained under the jurisdiction of the Patriarchate of Constantinople, from the autocephalous Moscow Metropolia. This resulted in the decline of church activity in the Belarusian-Ukrainian territories and culminated in the establishment of the Brest Church Union at the end of the 16th century. The Brest Church Union aimed to supplant Orthodoxy and permanently eliminate it from the lives of the Western Russian populace. In reality, it further fragmented the population along religious lines, while also serving as a tool for the denationalization of the ancestors of modern Belarusians and Ukrainians. Formally, the canonical division of the Russian Church was resolved by the end of the 17th century when, in 1686, the Orthodox Christians of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth joined the Moscow Patriarchate. But the outcome of the canonical division, the division of the Belarusian-Ukrainian population into Orthodox and Uniates, was only finally reconciled at the Polotsk Council of the Uniate clergy in 1839. Thirdly, the significance of the Polotsk Council lies in its profound impact on the modern Belarusian sector of the Russian Orthodox Church, as well as its role in shaping the spiritual, cultural, and national identity of the Belarusian people. At the beginning of the 21st century, in the Republic of Belarus, approximately 85% of believers identify themselves as Orthodox Christians, a trend largely attributed to the events surrounding the preparation and execution of the Polotsk Council, and subsequently, the integration of former Uniates into the Russian Orthodox Church. The strength of the Orthodox Church's position in Belarus has endured the test of time and significant trials in the mid-19th and 20th centuries, affirming the religious and popular validity of the abolition of the union in Russia in 1839.

The Western campaign of the Mongols in Eastern and Central Europe in 1236–1242, led by Batu and the military commander Subedei, has long been imprinted in the memory of contemporaries and descendants. The central place in the historical literary and visual monuments of the Late Middle Ages was occupied by the Battle of Legnica — a battle between the Polish-German army and the Mongols on April 9, 1241. This article examines the image of the Mongols in book min-iatures of the Shlakenwerter Codex, presented in the Getty Museum (USA), on an altar painting created in the 30–40s. The 15th century is currently in the collection of the National Museum in Warsaw and in the images of the Freytag Codex, stored in the collections of the library of the University of Wroclaw (Poland). The author notes the preserved interest of Europeans in the Gentiles and in the events of the past centuries. The corpus of ethnic markers used by European artists to designate “strangers” is highlighted. Also, an association is made between the creation of images with Mongols in regard to the invasions of Tatar and Hussite troops in Silesia in the 14th–15th centuries and the struggle with the Moors on the Iberian Peninsula as well as the need to consolidate Christian society in the fight against the enemies of the Catholic Church.

AbstractThe church of Sint-Jan in the town of ‘s-Hertogenbosch, on the northern frontier of the medieval diocese of Liège, cultivated unique local devotions to the widely venerated apostle St John the Evangelist. Most notable are five annual feasts, two of which are unknown elsewhere in Western Christendom – John's Exile on the Island of Patmos (27 September) and Return from Exile (3 December). Although Patmos figured prominently in the Western iconography of John's prophetic vision and writing of the Apocalypse, this event was largely overlooked in the Western Johannine liturgy. Drawing from an exhaustive study of all extant service books, my comparative analysis of the office chants and readings for John's Exile and Return examines how the ‘s-Hertogenbosch clergy synthesised Eastern and Western narratives of John's evangelical and prophetic activities on Patmos. A previously ignored liturgical imprint sheds new light on local reception of a fifth-century text of Syrian origin – the Acts of John by Prochorus – widely disseminated in Byzantium but little known in the Latin West. The Matins readings from this source contradict the Western prophetic association of Patmos by imagining this island as the locus for John's preaching and writing of the Gospel, yet the concluding versified responsories, unique to ‘s-Hertogenbosch, call on John as both a preacher and a prophet – attributes that merge in the musical form and melodic embellishment of these previously unstudied chants. More broadly, this case study demonstrates how the office liturgy might conflate different hagiographic narratives.

Differently from most of Estonia, in the south-easternmost peripheries of the country – in the western border areas of Setomaa, as well as in the eastern and southern borderlands of Võrumaa – it is possible to distinguish sacred sites of regional meaning, i.e. those where popular religious assemblies related to offering took place on holidays. In the Orthodox Seto culture area where medieval way of life survived until the 1920s, such sites are represented by the sacral complex of Miikse (offering stone, healing stream, cemetery hill, formerly also sacred oak and spring), St Anne’s stone (Annekivi) in Pelsi and Päevapööramise mägi (‘The Hill Where the Sun Turns’) in Hinniala village. Two major Orthodox religious centres of Setomaa have been founded on pre-Christian sacred sites. The church of Saatse was preceded by a sacred pine tree. On the site of the famous monastery of Pechory (Petseri) there was probably a large sacral complex of a sacred hill with a grove and cave, as well as a sacred spring and offering stone. The site of religious assemblies called Bohomola mägi (‘The hill of praying to God’) was located somewhere on the forested borderlands of the Lutheran province of Livonia and the Orthodox province of Pskov, being attended by peasants from both regions. In Lutheran areas where the modernization of culture started since the 1850s and 1860s already, folkloric evidence is fragmentary and has preserved more poorly. There sites of popular assemblies related to offering on holidays are known from Viitina Vana-mõisa, Villa, Viitka, Paidra, Kuutsi and Linte, and a sacred site of central importance was located also on God’s hill of Vana-Laitsna (presently Vēclaicene municipality in Latvia). Most of these the sites lie in the extreme peripheries of medieval parishes – the churches of Räpina, Vastseliina and Hargla were founded only in the 17th century The hinterlands of regional holiday assemblies probably correspond to regional identity units based of village groups called “corners” (nulk, kolk). Judging by the location of regional assembly sites of central meaning, their influence radius stretched until 6–10 kilometres. However, the system was not of symmetric character: some sites evidently had larger hinterlands than others and the hinterlands may also have been overlapped. The religious gatherings were often related to the solstices in the natural calendar or church holidays replacing them. Existing data give evidence of the intertwining of pre-Christian and Christian elements, especially in the Orthodox areas. In some cases the assembly tradition at sacred natural site has been transformed into local church holidays on the name days of the sanctuary. The strong and long-term preservation of tradition in some holy places of Setomaa results from their association with Christianity and pilgrimages inherent in popular Orthodoxy.

The Reverend Charles Grenfell Nicolay (1815-1897) made an important contribution to early geological work in Western Australia as a scientific adviser to the Colonial government and founder of the Colony's first public collection of rocks, minerals and fossils. During his early career he taught geography at King's and Queen's Colleges in London, before leaving London in 1858 to serve as the Anglican Church Chaplain to the British residents in the city of Salvador, Bahia, Brazil. We describe here some of his geological activities in Brazil over the period 1858-1869. He assisted Charles Frederick Hartt (1840-1878) and Louis Agassiz (1807-1873) on the Thayer Expedition of 1865-1866 in their geological investigations of the province of Bahia, most notably providing geological descriptions of the diamond deposits of the Chapada Diamantina, then a diamond province of world importance. After returning to England, he presented his findings on the Chapada Diamantina to the British Association for the Advancement of Science meeting in Norwich in 1868. From May to August 1869, he made a brief return visit to Brazil acting as a geological advisor to the Brazilian Turba Company, who were hoping to exploit bituminous sedimentary deposits adjacent to the Bahia de Camamu, Bahia, in the production of oil and gas. Following his arrival in Western Australia, he corresponded with the Reverend William B. Clarke (1798-1878), in 1871-1872, on the subject of Brazilian diamonds, as Clarke sought to understand the diamond occurrences in eastern Australia. Through Clarke, Nicolay's description of the geology of the Chapada Diamantina was circulated to the Australian scientific community.

The events taking place in Central and Eastern Europe (primarily in Ukraine and Latvia) indicate a serious problem facing believers in these States, and are also a signi cant challenge to the adopted approach regarding the right to autonomy of religious associations, a ecting and having signi cance for the entire European continent. Currently, the state authorities of Ukraine and Latvia are taking measures aimed at signi cantly limiting the activities of religious associations that have historically been in churchcanonical connection with the Russian Orthodox Church. It seems that the actions of the State authorities of these countries can be characterized as excessive interference in the autonomy of religious organizations guaranteed by the Constitution of Ukraine and the Republic of Latvia, as well as the European Convention on Human Rights. Meanwhile, the ECHR has formed a stable practice defending the right to autonomy of religious associations in the states of Central and Eastern Europe, as well as guaranteeing protection from unjusti ed state interference in the internal a airs of the church. In this article, the author attempts not only to analyze the precedents already considered in the practice of the ECHR, but also to predict a possible Court decision regarding the actions of state authorities of Ukraine and Latvia on the way from politics to law

ABSTRACT Agnes Blannbekin’s description of her mystical experience on Easter morning, 1293, is a rare medieval account not only of the affective consequences of a spatial transgression in a church building but also of its direct implication in a spiritual revelation. According to her Life and Revelations, she heard a command to conceal herself behind an altar in the church of St. Michael, Vienna, where she would feel the pain of the Crucifixion. Her anguish at being so out of place in the church drove her to pray for her revelation to end and to be given the strength to leave. She provides, thus, a rare first-person account of how the gendered regulation of church space, so often in evidence in sources written by men, was manifested in an embodied, affective experience. The incident develops themes that extend across the Life, especially to other Easter-time revelations, and demonstrates the close attention Blannbekin often gave to architectural organization and ornamentation. This article describes how her account drew together associations that stretched across liturgical time, architectural setting, and literary precedent in order to evoke the profundity, and significance, of her bodily identification with the Passion.

In this paper, the transition to democracy by Eastern European local governments is outlined. First, the 1990 elections are analyzed, the first democratic elections in half a century. Strategies of candidates and parties to gain power, and pressures toward privatization and economic development are discussed, drawing on fieldwork by Eastern European teams in the Local Democracy and Innovation Project. To clarify future directions of these new democracies, eight options are discussed—reliance on the traditional Soviet model, unions, clientelism, ethnic or regional identification, the church, the populist leader, voluntary associations, and the new political culture. These eight options constitute distinct rules of eight separate games. Rather than a single game or model predominating, continuity in these eight over time is expected. Still, the first games are likely to be superseded by those further down the list.

We analyzed data from line-transect aerial surveys for marine mammals conducted in the eastern Chukchi Sea (67˚–72˚ N, 157˚–169˚ W) in July to October of 2009–15 to investigate bowhead and gray whale distributions, behaviors, sighting rates, and habitat selection preferences, the last of which allowed direct comparison with results from data collected in this area in 1982–91. Bowhead whales use the eastern Chukchi Sea primarily for migrating between the Beaufort Sea and the Bering Sea, while gray whales use the area to feed on locally abundant benthic amphipods and other prey. Bowhead whales were observed during all survey months and were distributed up to 300 km offshore west and southwest of Point Barrow, Alaska, but without a defined migratory corridor in either summer (July-August) or fall (September-October). Bowhead whale sighting rates (whales per km on effort) were highest in the shelf/trough (51–200 m North) depth zone in the northeastern Chukchi Sea in both summer and fall. This pattern was reflected in habitat selection ratios, which found bowhead whales in summer and fall selecting primarily shelf/trough habitat in the northeastern Chukchi Sea, with shelf habitat (36 – 50 m) being preferred secondarily. Gray whales were observed in all survey months and were distributed primarily within ~95 km of shore between Point Barrow and Icy Cape in the northeastern Chukchi Sea, and about 60–115 km southwest of Point Hope in the southern Chukchi Sea. In both summer and fall, gray whale sighting rates and habitat selection ratios were highest in the shelf/trough (51–200 m South) depth zone in the southern Chukchi Sea. In the northeastern part of the study area, gray whale sighting rates and habitat selection ratios both identified coastal habitat (≤ 35 m) as preferred habitat in summer and shelf/trough (51–200 m North) as preferred habitat in fall. Distribution and habitat associations of bowhead and gray whales remained similar over the 34-year time span with one exception: gray whale preference for shelf/trough habitat in the southern Chukchi Sea is now evident throughout summer and fall, whereas three decades ago gray whale preference for that area was limited to fall only.

Throughout history, Dutch maritime endeavours have been sparked by political, economic, military and sociocultural factors. This article focuses on the relationship between religion and maritime entrepreneurship in the Dutch Republic during the Early Modern period, at sea and in overseas territories. For almost two centuries, the deputies of a number of classis assemblies (departments) of the Dutch Reformed Church corresponded with representatives of the Dutch East and West India Companies and with merchant associations trading with Russia, the Baltic, and the Eastern Mediterranean, but also with the board members of the five admiralties in the Netherlands. This article is about the performance of the deputies within the framework of their global maritime and Dutch Reformed network; the construction of this network within the maritime communities in the Republic and abroad; and about the results of the deputies’ involvement.

In a recent study of the iconographic character of the cross-carpet page (lv) opening the Book of Durrow (Dublin, Trinity College A. 4. 5 (57)), I suggested that the miniature and its facing evangelist symbols page (2r) were intended to call to mind images of adjacentloca sanctaof the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem – the relic of the True Cross exhibited on the altar of Golgotha church for the sombre Good FridayAdoratio crucisand the monumental cross on Golgotha Hill, the site of the Crucifixion. These and other references I claimed for Adomnán, the scholarly abbot of the Columban foundation of Iona, who, very likely, sponsored the creation of the gospelbook between 682 and 686. Besides the opening miniatures just cited, the codex contains separate evangelist symbol pages, elaborately decorated incipits, small ornamental initials and five carpet pages. Given the great and unusual weight which the Durrow introductory sequence places on the iconographic explication of the Easter theme, an examination of the possibility that other of the decorated pages in the manuscript develop or reiterate Easter associations seems warranted.

The present article can be considered a contribution to the oral history and contains the description of the fields of duty that a protestant pastor’s wife had in a Transylvanian Saxon parish until the beginning of the 21st century. As an introduction there is a brief overview over the evolution of the parsonage as a religious institution beneath the church beginning with the Lutheran Reformation in the 16th century in Germany. The author is a protestant pastor’s wife herself and recounts some of her experiences living in a village parish where the pastor and his wife were seen as the father and mother of the parish. Among the wife’s duties was the organizing of the women’s association in the village, baking gingerbread for all children at Christmas and Easter, teaching religion at school but also privately (the only possibility in communist Romania), being a good host to all arriving guests, whether invited or not, and many other activities. After the fall of communism through the revolution in December 1989, almost  Dr. Sunhild Galter, Lucian-Blaga-Universität Sibiu/Hermannstadt; E-Mail: sunhild.galter@ulbsibiu.ro. 128 Sunhild Galter 90% of the German speaking population of Romania, the so-called Transylvanian Saxons, left for Germany. This historical event meant the end of the parsonage as an institution within the parishes and the Evangelical church.

The most extensive early test of the American dogma of the separation of church and state seems to me to have taken place in pioneer Ohio, where a complete range of the plurality of America's religious associations first confronted public consciousness. Unlike Kentucky, whose many Protestant denominations had a largely southern cast, and unlike upstate New York, whose culture was heavily under New England influence (or, at least, appeared to literate Yankees to be so), Ohio's early citizens came from a wide mix of puritan, mid-Atlantic, and southern backgrounds. For example, every sect of Pennsylvania Germans established major outposts in Ohio's developing counties. The Buckeye State early brought together several concentrations of Roman Catholics. Early and late, diverse communities of Jews also settled there, both in smaller towns as well as in Cincinnati, Columbus, and Cleveland. Also at the end of the nineteenth century, Eastern Orthodox Christians began a migration to Cleveland that later expanded into the larger industrial towns that grew southward, in such places as Toledo, Canton, and Youngstown.

With the increasing number of Timorese Dawan who are married they are not in accordance with what is right before God today. Certainly making the servants of God must pay special attention and focus looking for various ways how to prevent and overcome the situation. And this is also very important to be studied. Why? Because of the habits that practiced by the Timor Dawan tribe rampant until now and this has a negative impact on the generation of teenagers and youth of the Dawan Timor tribe. And keep in mind that habits like this are also something evil in God's eyes. Therefore, as people who believe in God need to pay attention to this problem and find ways to prevent and improve this habit because this is something that is wrong and that is not pleasing before God. With this, the author is burdened to examine this problem with qualitative method. So that if you wish through this research, the people of Timor Dawan can turn those bad habits into habits that are in accordance with Genesis 1: 27-28. And this also needs to be applied by God's servants especially for God's servants who come from the Eastern Dawan tribe so that young people can see and apply their marriage properly and correctly before God and avoid bad associations that commit adultery before being blessed in the church.

The article examines the main publications covering the centuries-old history of the Catholic Church in the lands of modern Bashkortostan, as well as partly affecting the interaction of local Catholic communities with coreligionists from other cities located in the South Urals, as well as in the Middle Volga region. Unfortunately, there are quite a few special studies on the history of this Christian denomination in our republic. Many works, in one way or another related to this issue, are of a general nature and contain a schematic listing of factual information, or are more devoted to the history of national communities, for which this religion is, to a certain extent, one of the most important elements of traditional ethnic culture. Here it is necessary to note, first of all, publications on the history of the Polish and German diaspora, which provide information about the participation of representatives of these communities in the creation of Catholic parishes and public associations associated with charity and education. At the same time, the significance of the confessional aspect is to a much lesser extent revealed in works on the history of Latvian immigrants from Latgale, Belarusians and Ukrainians from Volyn and Eastern Galicia, who, due to various circumstances, left their homes during the First World War, as well as other Catholic emigrants from Central and Western Europe, located in the Ufa province at the beginning of the XX century. In some articles on demography and striking features of social stratification, one can find indirect references to the presence of Catholics, but this information only It is noteworthy that most publications indicate the middle of the 17th century as the earliest dating of the appearance of believing Catholics in the South Urals, and evidence of missionary trips to the Eastern Hungarians during the 13th-15th centuries allows us to make hypothetical assumptions about their role in the life of the local religious community. It can be noted that the presence of a certain part of Catholics on the territory of Bashkiria during the 16th20th centuries. was associated with forced migration due to the fact that, as a result of military clashes, some of them were captured, as well as due to participation in activities that conflicted with the interests of the Russian leadership are considered, with a few exceptions, only in the context of the problem of the origin of the Bashkir people, most likely due to the modest results of the preaching.

Interannual variability in euphausiid (krill) abundance and population structure and associations of those measures with environmental drivers were investigated in an 11-year study conducted in late August–early September 2005–2015 in offshelf waters (bottom depth > 40 m) in Barrow Canyon and the Beaufort Sea just downstream of Distributed Biological Observatory site 5 (DBO5) near Pt. Barrow, Alaska. Statistically-significant positive correlations were observed among krill population structure (proportion of juveniles and adults), the volume of Late Season Melt Water (LMW), and late-spring Chukchi Sea sea ice extent. High proportions of juvenile and adult krill were seen in years with larger volumes of LMW and greater spring sea ice extents (2006, 2009, 2012–2014) while the converse, high proportions of furcilia, were seen in years with smaller volumes of LMW and lower spring sea ice extent (2005, 2007, 2010, 2011, 2015). These different life stage, sea ice and water mass regimes represent integrated advective responses to mean fall and/or spring Chukchi Sea winds, driven by prevailing atmospheric pressure distributions in the two sets of years. In years with high proportions of juveniles and adults, late-spring and preceding-fall winds were weak and variable while in years with high proportions of furcilia, late-spring and preceding-fall winds were strong, easterly and consistent. The interaction of krill life history with yearly differences in the northward transports of krill and water masses along with sea ice retreat determines the population structure of late-summer krill populations in the DBO5 region near Pt. Barrow. Years with higher proportions of mature krill may provide larger prey to the Pt. Barrow area bowhead whale prey hotspot. The characteristics of prey near Pt. Barrow is dependent on krill abundance and size, large-scale environmental forcing, and interannual variability in recruitment success of krill in the Bering Sea.

Young scholars from Moscow, St. Petersburg, Smolensk, Kazan, Minsk (Republic of Belarus), Budapest (Hungary) took part in the “Linguistics” section. A wide range of topical issues of Slavic linguistics were discussed in four thematic sessions. The first was devoted to contact linguistics and language policy issues. The results of field and corpus research were presented. The speakers paid special attention to issues of epigraphy in ethnically mixed regions. Language policy in Upper Silesia after World War II was also discussed. The analysis of the accent system of the Upper Sorbian language and the study of contact phenomena in the Czech language were based on corpus material. The next session brought together reports that developed the problems of ethnolinguistics and toponymy of Slavic areas. The features of the folk culture of the Macedonians, Bulgarians, and Eastern Slavs were highlighted. Chinese folk ideas about the crane were presented against the background of associations that arise in connection with this bird among modern Belarusians. On the second day of the conference, issues of grammar, lexicology and pragmatics were discussed. Borrowings in the Czech and Bulgarian languages were examined, the pragmatics of the headlines of the modern Polish press were analyzed, archaic and innovative phenomena in the system of Slovenian clitics were discussed, strategies were proposed to help the teacher of the Russian language in a Serbian-speaking audience explain the correspondences between Russian and Serbian verbs of speech. The final session was devoted to the language of written and printed documents, as well as the diachronic study of the semantics of some lexemes. The features of the Slavic translation of the life of St. Gregory of Sinai, the graphic and orthographic features of the Apostolus Christinopolitanus of the 12th century were discussed in detail, and a strategy for studying biblical quotations in Church Slavonic grammars of the 16th–17th centuries was proposed. Versions of the origin of the adjective “хороший” (“good”) and the adverb “зря” (“in vain”) were also analyzed. Active discussion of reports within the framework of discussions in the hall and during informal communication between sessions indicates the relevance of the scientific event.

Artykuł opisuje genezę pojawienia się społeczności protestanckiej w Wielkopolsce Wschodniej. Rzeczą charakterystyczną, wyróżniającą tę część Wielkopolski, jest istnienie nieprzerwalnie od czasów Reformacji parafii kalwińskiej w Żychlinie, sprawującej opiekę duszpasterską nad olędrami, przybywającymi na te tereny w XVIII-XIX wieku, do czasu powstania w początkach XIX wieku parafii luterańskiej w Koninie. Dziedzictwo protestanckie w Wielkopolsce Wschodniej ma więc podwójną genezę, związane jest z zarówno z osadnikami przybywającymi na te tereny z zachodu (rolnikami i przemysłowcami), ale także z miejscowymi rodami szlachty kalwińskiej. W czasie okupacji, część społeczności ewangelickiej niemieckojęzycznej podjęła współpracę z nowymi władzami. Próbowano zdiagnozować stan zachowania materialnych pamiątek po protestantach obecnie. Wiele z wiejskich nekropolii protestanckich zostało zdewastowanych po 1945 roku. Walczono z dorobkiem olędrów utożsamiając ich jako kolaborantów. Zachowały się tylko trzy parafie ewangelickie: jedna kaliwńska w Żychlinie i dwie luterańskie w Koninie i Turku. Społeczność ewangelicka nie jest liczna, brakuje pieniędzy. Odnowiono kościół ewangelicki w Żychlinie, prowadzone są prace renowacyjne na pobliskim lapidarium. Wiele jednak świątyń, zwłaszcza filialnych, wymaga nakładów finansowych na naprawy. Stan opuszczonych domów modlitw jest krytyczny (Młyny Piekarskie, Janów), część obiektów jest wynajmowanych. W ostatnich trzech latach podjęto próby oczyszczenia i oznaczenia części cmentarzy wiejskich ewangelickich (np. w okolicach Zagórowa, Krzymowa, czy Dobrej), dokonano tego staraniem lokalnych stowarzyszeń i osób prywatnych. Prowadzone są akcje edukacyjne. Część z cmentarzy ma niestety nieuregulowany status prawny, co komplikuje ich pielęgnację. Dziedzictwo protestanckie powoli wychodzi z niebytu, przestaje być niechciane. Wzrasta troska ludzi o zachowanie różnorodności kulturowej najbliższej okolicy, lecz takie obiekty jak kamienica Essowej, czy pałacyk Reymonda w Koninie nadal niszczeją. Aby uratować materialne dziedzictwo olędrów potrzeba wsparcia samorządu, społeczników, bowiem społeczność ewangelicka jest mało liczna. Potomkowie osadników pomagają, na tyle na ile ich stać – ich podróże mają jednak często charakter wspomieniowy. Z opisywanych elementów niewątpliwie można uczynić cenny walor turystyczny Wielkopolski Wschodniej. Selected aspects of the protestant heritage in Eastern Greater Poland The article describes the genesis of the emergence of the Protestant community in Eastern Greater Poland. A characteristic thing that distinguishes this part of Greater Poland is the existence of the Calvinist parish in Żychlin existing continuously since the Reformation, which has been providing pastoral care over olęder people, who came to these areas in the 18th and 19th centuries, until the beginning of the 19th century, a Lutheran parish in Konin. The Protestant heritage in Eastern Greater Poland has a double genesis, it is associated with both settlers coming to these areas from the west (farmers and industrialists), but also with local families of calvinist gentry. During the occupation, part of the german-speaking evangelical community collaborated with the new administration. Attempts were made to diagnose the state of preservation of material souvenirs of protestants today. Many of the villages protestant cemeteries were devastated after 1945. The achievements of the olęder were fought by identifying them as collaborators. Only three evangelical parishes have survived: one calvinist in Żychlin and two lutheran parishes in Konin and Turek. The evangelical community is not large, there is not enough money. The evangelical church in Żychlin was renovated, renovation works are carried out at the nearby lapidary. However, many temples, especially affiliate ones, require financial cost for repairs.The condition of abandoned prayer houses is critical (Młyny Piekarskie, 65 Wybrane aspekty dziedzictwa protestanckiego w Wielkopolsce Wschodniej. Janów), some of the facilities are rented. In the last three years, attempts have been made to clean and mark some of the protestant villages cemeteries (e.g. in the vicinity of Zagórów, Krzymów or Dobra), and this has been done through the efforts of local associations and private individuals. Educational campaigns are under way. Some of the cemeteries, unfortunately, have unregulated legal status, which complicates their care.Protestant heritage is slowly comming out of non-existence from oblivion, ceases to be unwanted. People’s concern is growing to preserve the cultural diversity of the surrounding area, but such objects as the Essowa tenement house or Reymond’s palace in Konin are still deteriorating.To save the material heritage of the olęder it is necessary to support local government and social activists, because the evangelical community is small. Descendants of the settlers help as much as they can - however, their travels are often memories-like. The elements described can undoubtedly be turned into a valuable tourist asset of Eastern Greater Poland.

Background Manicaland province in eastern Zimbabwe has a high incidence of HIV. Completion of the seventh round of the Manicaland Survey in 2018–2019 provided the opportunity to assess the state of the epidemic prior to the start of the COVID-19 pandemic. The study aims were to: a) estimate HIV seroprevalence and assess whether prevalence has declined since the last round of the survey (2012–2013), b) describe and analyse the socio-demographic and behavioural risk factors for HIV infection and c) describe the HIV treatment cascade. Methods Participants were administered individual questionnaires collecting data on socio-demographic characteristics, sexual relationships, HIV prevention methods and treatment access, and were tested for HIV. Descriptive analyses were followed by univariate and multivariate analyses of risk factors for HIV seropositvity using logistic regression modelling based on the proximate-determinants framework. Results HIV prevalence was 11.3% [95% CI; 10.6–12.0] and was higher in females than males up to 45–49 years. Since 2012–2013 HIV prevalence has significantly declined in 30–44 year-olds in males, and 20–44 year-olds in females. The HIV epidemic has aged since 2012–2013, with an increase in the mean age of HIV positive persons from 38 to 41 years. Socio-demographic determinants of HIV prevalence were church denomination in males, site-type, wealth-status, employment sector and alcohol use in females, and age and marital status in both sexes. Behavioural determinants associated with increased odds of HIV were a higher number of regular sexual partners (lifetime), non-regular sexual partners (lifetime) and condom use in both sexes, and early sexual debut and concomitant STIs in females; medical circumcision was protective in males. HIV status awareness among participants testing positive in our study was low at 66.2%. ART coverage amongst all participants testing positive for HIV in our study was 65.0% and was lower in urban areas than rural areas, particularly in males. Conclusions Prevalence has declined, and ART coverage increased, since 2012–2013. Majority of the associations with prevalence hypothesised by the theoretical framework were not observed in our data, likely due to underreporting of sexual risk behaviours or the treatment-as-prevention effect of ART curtailing the probability of transmission despite high levels of sexual risk behaviour. Further reductions in HIV incidence require strengthened primary prevention, HIV testing and linkage to risk behaviour counselling services. Our results serve as a valuable baseline against which to measure the impact of the COVID-19 pandemic on HIV prevalence and its determinants in Manicaland, Zimbabwe, and target interventions appropriately.

Gevninge – the gateway to LejreGevninge is one of many Danish villages characterised by having extensive modern housing estates built around a medieval core. The oldest part of the village, with a late Romanesque church, lies on the west side of a small river, Lejre Å, about 2 km from its mouth at Roskilde Fjord (fig. 1).Both in the 1880s and in the 1970s, remains of human skeletons were found in Grydehøj to the west of the old village core (fig. 2). These clearly originate from burials, but the finds are undated. In 1974, remains of an inhumation grave from Viking times were found a short distance from a sunken road which, up until the 18th century, was part of the main road between Kalundborg and Roskilde. In 1979, a gilded bronze strap-end mount from the 8th century AD was found less than 200 m south of the sunken road, but it was first in the winter of 1999-2000 that settlement remains from Viking times were discovered.The archaeological investigationsThe excavation in 2000 uncovered 3600 m2 of settlement remains; these had been heavily damaged by site development in the 1960s and 1970s (fig. 3). On the basis of the evidence available, it is impossible to determine whether these represent several phases of a single farmstead or a portion of a larger settlement. The absence of any traces of structures in the northern evaluation trenches indicates that the settlement did not extend to the north of the sunken road where the graves were found. The terrain falls relatively steeply away from the excavation to the east towards Gevninge Bygade and, although it is possible, it seems rather unlikely that the Viking Age settlement extended in this direction. Relative to the topography, an extension to the south and west seems most obvious.There is no doubt that the site should be assigned to the Viking period. House I is unlikely to be earlier than 10th century (fig. 4), whereas the rectangular pit-house belongs to the end of the same century or the subsequent one. House II (fig. 5) and the other pit-houses are – typologically – less useful for a precise dating of the site. The metal artefacts, including the strap-end mount and a handful of coins from the time of the Civil War, span the period from the 8th to the 14th century, but the majority belong in the 9th-10th centuries (figs. 9-13). Pottery is the most common artefact type and occurs as un-ornamented flat-bottomed settlement wares and Baltic ware (fig. 8). The former have typically inwardly curved rim sections, the sides of the vessels are un-ornamented and they are generally bucket-shaped (fig. 14). The Baltic ware pottery is characterised by more angular rims, which have often been finished off using a wooden shaping tool. Decoration is mostly in the form of encircling grooves, waved furrows and a series of slanting or circular impressions. Compared with the other finds from the structures, the Baltic ware from the excavation belongs in the latter part of the 10th century and up into the 11th century.Traces of crafts were not conspicuous. In one pit-house there were several un-fired clay loom weights, while two deep postholes in the bottom of another pit-house are interpreted as the base for a loom. The distaff whorls and – possibly – the few bone and antler needles also belong to textile production (fig. 7). Iron slag, which definitely was not one of the most conspicuous aspects, originates from “fire-based” crafts. Textile production and iron working are the crafts typically seen at agrarian sites, with the former occurring most frequently.On the basis of the buildings, the traces of crafts and the majority of the finds, the site must be categorised as an average farmstead from Viking times. The site did, however, include four unusual finds: a gold armring (figs. 12 and 13), part of a gilded bronze helmet (fig. 10), a bronze bucket and a winged spearhead. These finds give food for thought, nourished by Gevninge’s location in the landscape, combined with its proximity to the legendary Lejre.A main transport junctionThe area south of Gevninge is characterised by a series of branching streams which meet at Gammel Lejre and continue towards Roskilde Fjord in the form of Lejre Å. To the west and southwest there is an area of about 50 km2 with a more-or-less pronounced moraine landscape. Large parts of this have lain through historical times as rough ground, common and forest. This landscape type forms a very clear contrast to the area east of Lejre Å - a flat and fertile plain extending out to the Øresund and Køge Bugt. In landscape terms, this is a border area, running north-south, where crossing points had to be chosen with care. Gammel Lejre, which from the 5th to the 10th century was an important chieftain’s or royal farmstead with magnificent halls, huge long-houses and a cult site, is well-suited to the passage of east-westbound traffic (fig. 15). In the flat terrain to the east of Lejre Å, maps from the end of the 18th century and the beginning of the 19th century show no road network prior to the construction of two highways in the second half of the 18th century. These run in a straight line from Roskilde to Ringsted and Kalundborg, respectively. Between them, Ledreborg Allé can be seen; it was constructed at the same time and probably replaced a road running eastwards from Gammel Lejre. To the west of Lejre Å, the undulating landscape, with its numerous small, steep hills, small lakes, watercourses and wetlands, presented greater challenges. There was an alternative crossing point about 4 km to the northwest, close to the fjord. Today, this place is called Borrevejle, which means “the ford at the edge” (fig. 16). From Borrevejle, the road led to Gevninge and – via the sunken road to the north of the Viking Age settlement – down to Lejre Å. Here lay the ford Langvad, from where the road ran eastwards, south of Lyngbjerg Mose, towards Kattinge. The fact that the roads around 1800 led towards Kattinge is linked with the opportunity here to cross the system of watercourses and lakes which extended from Gammel Lejre and past Kor­nerup to a lake, Store Kattinge Sø, by Roskilde Fjord. At both ends of the lake there were lock bridges to allow passage. Store Kattinge Sø was originally a bay which was dammed in the High Middle Ages so that the water level today lies at +2.5 m. In Viking times the lock bridges at Store Kattinge Sø did not exist, the amount of water on the Kornerup Å drainage system was therefore less, and the possibilities for passage were decidedly different.The road eastwards from the ford in Gevninge could well have gone via Kattinge and crossed the watercourse between Lille Kattinge Sø and the bay. Around 1800, the road continued through Kongemarken, where a Viking Age inhumation grave, a Christian burial ground from the Late Viking and Early Medieval times, as well as remains of a settlement from the same time, have all been found. From here, the road swings northwards, across Gedevad and onwards to the east to the bishop’s thorp, Bistrup, and the village of Bjerget (St. Jørgensbjerg) with St. Clemens’ church on Roskilde Fjord. Neither of these two settlements can, with certainty, be traced back to before AD 1000. It is therefore an obvious possibility that eastward traffic from Kongemarken took a more southerly route, which – perhaps – is indicated by settlement remains and stray finds between Roskilde and Svogerslev Sø (see fig. 16). In this respect, it is worth mentioning that the two stray finds from Viking times from the Borrevejle area lie in association with the old road routes. Similarly, the small hoard of silver rings from Lyngbjerg Mose was found where the road from Gevninge to Kattinge ran from about 1800.From the above, it is apparent that there were two significant possibilities for the passage of east-west land traffic in the Gevninge-Lejre area. Both have topographic advantages and disadvantages, and identification of one as being more important than the other can be based on no more than a guess. However, inclusion of the waterways does contribute a new angle when addressing this question.The sea route to LejreThe Isefjord complex comprises a western and an eastern branch which both extend more than 35 km inland into Zealand. The western arm, Isefjord, is deep and wide and only has narrow passages around Orø (fig. 17). Despite the fact that Isefjord is the most accessible route from a seaward perspective, it is unlikely to have been the route taken by people travelling to Gammel Lejre. The distance over land to the Isefjord is almost three times as great as the shortest route between Gammel Lejre and Roskilde Fjord, and more than half of this distance comprises gently undulating rough ground with numerous ponds and wetlands.Roskilde Fjord is characterised by narrow navigation channels and variable water depth, but these naturally-determined sailing conditions would not have been a problem for people who knew the fjord. The bay, Lejre Vig, is the place closest to Gammel Lejre. The sea route leading to the bay is protected by a natural feature – a transverse bar, which extends from Bognæs in the south to Selsø in the north. The mouth of Lejre Å is, in topographical terms, a well-suited site for a landing place, but there is a lack of archaeological evidence for the existence of such a feature. Given the lack of a demonstrable landing place by the fjord, attention can be focussed on Lejre Å as being Gammel Lejre’s link with the sea.Streams and rivers as travel routesToday, very few watercourses in Denmark appear as being navigable. A very great proportion of them no longer have a natural appearance or water flow. This is primarily due to intensive efforts during the last 200 years to drain wet meadows and fields. Any evaluation of the navigability of a watercourse in Viking times is associated with a number of variable and, in part, unknown factors. Accordingly, any conclusions are vitiated by a degree of uncertainty, not least in the case of smaller watercourses. The width and depth of the stream or river is decisive in determining the size of vessel which can be navigated. The fall and natural course of a watercourse, which in places is sharply meandering with a variable water depth, will be limiting factors relative to the size of the vessel which is able to pass (fig. 18).The appearance of Lejre Å on maps from the 19th century can give some indication of the conditions prior to the time when drainage and water extraction were initiated. It seems that the course of the stream was relatively straight from its mouth up to Gevninge. However, at Gevninge Church there was a very sharp turn and this is still in existence. To the south of the village, the stream is considerably narrower and substantially more winding. Particularly from Kornerup and southwards towards Gammel Lejre, the course is, in places, strongly meandering. Overall, the stream has a fall from Gammel Lejre to its mouth of 7 m, which corresponds to a gradient of 1‰. The fall is not, however, evenly distributed. From Gammel Lejre, and about 1.5 km down its course, the stream falls 2.79‰, whereas the fall over the next 750 m is 1.31‰. From here to the ford in Gevninge, the fall is 0.5‰, with the last section to the mouth of the river having a fall of 0.34‰. Ole Crumlin-Pedersen has suggested that a watercourse is navigable – all things being equal – as long as the fall is less than 2‰. Alone on this basis, it is unlikely in the past that vessels sailed all the way to Gammel Lejre. It is therefore an obvious possibility that Gevninge was the place where the change was made from waterway to roadway.The distance from Gevninge to Gammel Lejre is 3.7 km by road, as shown on maps from around 1800. The road departs from an area where Viking Age settlement has been excavated and it follows the contours of the landscape in such a way that steep passages are avoided. The route taken by this road, rather than the river, constitutes the probable link between the two places.ConclusionGammel Lejre was not established at some random place in the landscape. With regard to resources, it was a border area between the hamlets of the Eastern Zealand plain and the Central Zealand forest settlements. In addition, it provided a satisfactory, potential crossing point east-west over the steam systems from the south. There is archaeological, legendary and historical evidence showing that Gammel Lejre was a very special place in the Late Iron Age and Viking times. This special position arose from its role as a cultic and power-political centre.The same situation was probably the case at the Tissø complex in Western Zealand, which was established at the beginning of the Late Germanic Iron Age. Tissø lies slightly more than 6 km from the coast, and both its name and finds from the lake demonstrate the cultic significance of the site. Almuth Schülke has pointed out that the Tissø complex lies virtually on an island, with the lake to one side and wetlands and watercourses to the other. Access to Tissø was made difficult by natural barriers in the landscape which conferred exclusiveness and – not least – the possibility of controlling traffic to the settlement.The topographically determined limitations on potential access to Gammel Lejre are not as clear as in the case of the Tissø complex. Watercourses and wetlands to the south and east form a natural border, and the rough ground of the common landscape to the west contains its own obstacles. None of these barriers was insurmountable but they could well have functioned as a border zone around Gammel Lejre. In the area of common from Borrevejle in the north to Ledreborg Castle in the south, a couple of settlements have been demonstrated along with three graves and a few stray finds from the Roman Iron Age. Similarly, in the Middle Ages there were at least five thorps here, which were later abandoned. For the central period relative to Gammel Lejre, the 5th-10th centuries AD, there are no finds from this area. It was not necessarily a conscious choice that the area lay abandoned. The same tendency to abandon poorer soils at the beginning of the Late Iron Age can be seen elsewhere, such as, for example, in Nordskoven at Jægerspris and on Halsnæs at the northernmost part of Roskilde Fjord. Neither is it unusual that areas such as these were then re-occupied for thorp settlement in the Early Middle Ages. This does not, however, change the fact that the area to the west of Gammel Lejre appears to have lain as a wilderness in Viking times. Apart from one artefact with no details of its exact find spot, there are no recorded finds from the Late Iron Age bet­ween the central site and Elverdamsåen, a watercourse lying about 10 km to the west.Access to Gammel Lejre was obviously regulated so that approved people could enter and intruders were held at a distance. Gevninge was a link in this invisible fence. Gevninge is located where roads running east-west meet to avoid Central Zealand’s areas of hilly rough ground, and where watercourses could be crossed relatively unproblematically. Furthermore, Gevninge was a landing place and offloading point for vessels that were able to enter the lower part of Lejre Å. Larger vessels could perhaps have lain at the mouth of the stream or innermost in Lejre Vig, but from here people would anyway have been directed to follow the road from Gevninge to Gammel Lejre.Seen in the light of this situation, Gevninge could have been the home of the Lejre King’s entrusted servant. He not only controlled the traffic through the area and access to Gammel Lejre, he also represented the Lejre king and, on his behalf, received distinguished personages and – who knows – perhaps escorted them to important meetings in the exclusivity of the magnificent hall. With this position in society, Lejre’s gatekeeper probably received gifts of golden rings, magnificent weapons and vessels from Lejre’s pugnacious king.Jens UlriksenRoskilde Museum

Viking Age burial practices in DenmarkTraces of burial rituals in inhumation gravesThe hypothesis examined in this article is that the broad impression of grave forms and burial traditions gained from a comparison of contemporaneous inhumation cemeteries of the Viking Age also includes coincidences in the actions and rituals that can be deduced from the remains present in the graves. A mapping of the traces left by these actions is based on evidence from a number of Viking Age cemeteries in present-day Denmark, Scania and Southern Schleswig, excavated between 1895 and 2007. The resulting record reveals some regional differences but also includes some clear traits that are found repeated at numerous cemetery sites. In the present context, attention is focussed on a number of elements seen in the graves which are then presented, exemplified and discussed. In an attempt to interpret these traces, use is made of Nordic mythology, written sources from the Viking Age and Middle Ages and comparative religious studies relating to the mentality and cosmology of the Viking Age.As a starting point, two recently excavated cemeteries on Zealand are presented, namely Kirke Hyllinge Kirkebakke and Trekroner-Grydehøj near Roskilde (fig. 1). Both contain significant information with respect to burial rituals in the Viking Age.Kirke Hyllinge KirkebakkeKirke Hyllinge Church stands on the highest point in the area, c. 43 m above sea level (fig. 2). The cemetery here had at its core an older barrow and from here the graves extended out over an area measuring 80 m E-W and about 35 m N-S (fig. 3). In all, 28 burials were investigated, of which two were double graves, one contained the remains of three people and yet another the remains of four individuals. Further to these were three presumed inhumation graves and a cremation burial. About 80% of the graves were oriented N-W or NW-SE. Analysis of the human bones revealed that these represented the remains of two males, two females and 13 individuals of indeterminable gender. Of the skeletal remains for which it was possible to determine age, two were of children between the ages of seven and ten, three individuals were less than 20 years old, ten were between 20 and 35 and one person was 35-45 years old (fig. 4). There were artefacts in 17 of the graves and it became apparent that the equipment had been placed in two different locations in the grave (fig. 5). Accompanying the deceased on the floor of the grave lay artefacts such as knife, distaff whorl, whetstone, belt buckle or glass beads. Similar artefacts could also be found distributed through the grave fill above the deceased, often in a more or less damaged state. A particular phenomenon which emerged was the presence of skeletal parts that had been placed in the grave fill. An example of this is grave A590, which was 70 cm deep. On the base of this grave lay the remains of a woman with her equipment. Distributed through the fill above her were teeth from two different adult individuals and three further molars from a c. 8-year-old child. There was also burnt human bone. Another example is grave A569 which, in addition to the deceased at the base of the grave, contained parts of an adult and a c. 10-year-old child.Small pieces of burnt bone were found in 16 of the 31 definite or presumed inhumation graves. The quantity of bone varied from just a few grams to more than 200. Burnt human bone only occurred in two inhumation graves, A590 and A594, and in cremation grave A629.Stones of varying size were found in the fill or at the base of eight graves. The quantity – in terms of both number and weight – varied greatly. Most striking was their presence in A590 and A608. In a couple of cases the stones showed the effects of fire.The distribution of graves across the excavated area showed a tendency towards clustering but no systematic pattern emerged with regard to gender or grave orientation within these groups.Immediately to the south of inhumation grave A583 there were two identical constructions, each comprised of four posts (fig. 6). The two four-poster constructions are so similar, and are situated in such a way, that it seems very likely that one replaced the other. Four-poster constructions can represent a light building, a tent or a frame in, or on, which the deceased was placed for a shorter or longer period prior to actual burial.Trekroner-Grydehøj, RoskildeGrydehøj is a small hill on the eastern periphery of Roskilde. At the beginning of the Viking Age, the west-facing slope of the hill in particular was used as a burial ground (fig. 7). The cemetery had as its core a cluster of earlier burial monuments from the Neolithic and Early Bronze Age located on the top of the hill (fig. 8). Of the 27 inhumation graves detected, 25 lay within an area measuring c. 50 x 33 m running down the west-facing hillside. Most of the graves, c. 80%, were oriented N-S or NW-SE.In addition to single graves there were also double graves in which one body had been placed on top of the other. However, there was also an example where they lay in continuation of one another (fig. 9). Three inhumation graves, of which one was a double grave, had burnt human bone in the grave fill (fig. 10). The results of the analyses of human bone are shown in figures 11 and 12.There were artefacts in 21 graves; these were partly associated with the deceased on the base of the grave and partly found distributed through the overlying fill.A505 differed from the other graves. At the top there were many fieldstones and flint nodules and along its eastern side were three large boulders. The upper part of the grave was found to contain most of the skeleton of a female and parts of a skeleton of a male (fig. 13). At the base of the grave was the skeleton of a female (fig. 14). By her right thigh was an iron point fitted into a solid cast bronze socket which originally had a wooden shaft (fig. 15). This presumably represents a ceremonial object, perhaps a symbol of Odin, master of sorcery. In other words, the artefact could be a völva’s staff. At the foot of the grave, a menhir had been erected over the rear half of a medium-sized dog which had been severed in the middle (fig. 16). Along the eastern side of the grave lay the remains of an old stallion; these partially covered the woman’s left side from the waist downwards.Stones were found in eight graves: in the fill, at the base of the grave or over the skeleton (fig. 18). The most striking of these were the large boulders and the many smaller stones seen in the fill of grave A505. A total of 18 of the 27 inhumation graves were found to contain burnt bone fragments; in the great majority of cases these could not be identified to species. It was, however, possible to establish that there were burnt human remains in graves A2036, A2047 and A2059.The distribution of the graves showed a weak tendency towards grouping. There was no systematic pattern with respect to gender or grave orientation within these groups (see fig. 8).There was a four-poster construction by grave group C and inhumation graves A2030 and A2079, but it is unclear to what degree this was associated with the Viking Age cemetery.Traces of rituals in the Viking Age inhumation gravesThe grave pitThe orientation of the grave pit relative to the points of the compass shows some regional differences. In Northern Zealand and Scania graves orientated N-S are dominant, whereas in Southern and Western Zealand they are more mixed with E-W oriented graves (figs. 20 and 21). The tendency to orientate graves in an E-W direction is more pronounced on Funen (fig. 22), and in Jutland E-W orientated burials are clearly dominant. The orientation of the grave pit appears not to be founded on very fixed perceptions of a religious character. It seems rather to be an expression of local or regional tradition.CoffinsExtensive use was made of the ‘available box’ principle when a coffin was needed for a burial. In general, there appears not to have been any immediate status-related link between coffin form and grave content with respect to simple coffins.Double graves, secondary burials and bone depositionsMost of the graves in which there was a secondary burial above a primary interment reveal clear evidence of the care taken to ensure that the new grave lay within the limits of the original grave pit. We can only speculate as to the background for the double and secondary burials. There could have been a ritual killing, but this is unlikely to have been the case in all instances. The reason for human body parts having been included as grave goods could be an expression of ancestor worship; the graves of particularly important people within or outside the family could have been dug up and the bones and artefacts removed in order for them subsequently to be included in the graves of other deceased members of the family.Burnt bone in the grave fillSmall pieces of white calcined bone are a familiar phenomenon in Viking Age inhumation graves. It seems obvious that the burnt bone represents a ritual. The bones have been crushed before being scattered into the grave as it was back-filled. In fortunate cases the bone can be identified to species and both humans and animals are represented. The unburnt corpse at the base of the grave should be considered as the actual primary occupant of grave, whereas the cremated bone constitutes part of the burial fittings. In ‘Odin’s Law’, which is reproduced in the Ynglinga Saga, cremation is prescribed, but inhumation burial increased in dominance during the course of the Late Germanic Iron Age and Viking Age. The burnt bone in the inhumation graves could, however, be a relic of an older tradition and use – a tribute to Odin.Unburnt animal boneThe unburnt animal bones in the inhumation graves represent a broad spectrum of domestic animals such as pigs, cattle, poultry and sheep/goats. It seems obvious to perceive these bones as representing offerings of food, but the animals could have had further symbolic meaning than food alone. The pig has a role in Nordic mythology, including in the form of the hog Gyldenbørste, Frey’s attribute. Similarly, a hog is sacrificed to Frey. Cattle also had a role as offering in the sacrifice (blot), which is reflected in the term blótnaut, i.e. cattle intended for blot.Dogs do not occupy a prominent role in Nordic mythology but occur commonly in Viking Age graves, both in a cremated and an unburnt state. It is possible that the dog performed the role of spiritual guardian on the journey to the Kingdom of the Dead, or that it symbolised the transition from life to death.The horse encompasses symbolic elements which it is important to note. Sleipner was Odin’s eight-legged horse, and it carried him to and from the Underworld. The horse is, accordingly, perceived as an important auxiliary spirit for those skilled in sorcery in their contacts with the afterlife. The horse was also an important animal in the blot and formed part of ritual meals in connection with this.The presence of animals in the graves is equivocal. There is an explanation which immediately springs to the mind of a modern person but the significance can be accentuated and expanded both mythologi­cally and ritually. It seems clear that there is an embedded symbolism in at least some of the animals placed in the graves and in the treatment of these animals prior to burial. An example of a grave containing several animal offerings is A505 at Trekroner-Grydehøj (see figs. 13, 14 and 16).Stones in the grave pitThe purpose of covering or filling graves with stone packings and the placing of boulders of various sizes in the fill, on the base of the grave or directly on the corpse, does not appear immediately evident on the basis of the archaeological evidence. There are descriptions from the saga litera­ture in which burials and stones belong together, for example in Gisli Sursson’s Saga. It seems obvious that the stones are intended to prevent the corpse returning from the dead.In grave A505 at Trekroner-Grydehøj a small square ‘menhir’ had been set on edge on top of the dog’s corpse (see fig. 16). Similarly, a stone was placed on top of the animal bones at the foot of grave A590 at Kirke Hyllinge Kirkebakke. On the face of it, the menhir on the floor of the grave makes most sense if the grave had stood open, or was only partially back-filled, for a period during which the stone was, as a consequence, fully visible.Artefacts in the grave fillThe deposition of artefacts, whether intact, damaged or unfinished, in the grave fill, reflects burial rituals in which the actual back-filling process was important. The significance of the damaged artefacts is not immediately clear. A situation worthy of note is that, in several instances, damaged distaff whorls and brooches, i.e. female-related artefacts, are found in graves where the deceased interred on the base of the grave was a man. It seems entirely possible that the destruction of feminine artefacts and their deposition high up in the grave fill should be seen in a gender-related context. Spinning and weaving were very strongly linked to the female sphere and the tools associated with these activities can be perceived as a metaphor for performance of magic. Accordingly, the fact that the artefacts are damaged could have been linked with the perception of magic as being strongly effeminate and, in reality, a taboo for men.ConclusionAn interesting aspect of Viking Age burial practices is that it can be shown that rituals and ceremonies took place over longer periods – days, weeks, months and years. This is apparent partly from the presence of artefacts, evenly distributed burnt bone fragments and remains of animals and humans in the grave fill, and partly from the traces of the careful re-opening of a grave in order to inter a further corpse precisely within the limits of the original grave pit. Another thought-provoking aspect relates to the human and animal body parts, both burnt and unburnt, which were added to the grave fill during the back-filling pro­cess. It is obvious that there must have been a well-defined difference between whether bones were cremated or unburnt.Another practice, for which the background does not seem immediately clear, is that stones in various amounts and of various sizes were added to some graves. It must be presumed that the purpose of a packing of fist- to head-sized stones differed from that of a heavy boulder placed directly on the body.Stones erected on the base of a grave did not arrive there by chance. They apparently occur particularly at the head and feet of the deceased and, in some instances, in association with animal bones.Artefacts do not occur exclusively on the base of the grave together with the deceased, but can also be present up in the grave fill. Often the artefacts are fragmented and all the evidence suggests that this destruction took place intentionally prior to deposition. It is difficult to say anything about the powers which may have been ­ascribed to these everyday artefacts, and perhaps it is not the object in its usual surroundings which constitutes a problem. It could, to a greater degree, be the object in association with something unusual which constituted a potential risk. Examples include artefacts such as ornaments and distaff whorls which are associated with women and, as such, could have been more or less taboo for men.Despite these variations, the perception of behaviour and customs was uniform over great distances, both in time and space. The common denominator is not always the most conspicuous aspect but can be deduced from the details which are revealed by archaeological excavations of the cemeteries of the period. What these traces as a consequence actually represent with respect to this world and the next is something, as children of the 20th century, we can only attempt to understand and argue the case for. But it could very well turn out that it all remains a question of belief.Jens UlriksenNæstved

Recently a monograph appeared dealing with Roman epigraphical monuments from the West-Serbian town of Cacak and its neighbourhood (S. Ferjancic / G. Jeremic / A. Gojgic, Roman Epigraphic Monuments from Cacak and its Vicinity Cacak 2008, Engl. Summary pp. 103-107). Authored by one specialist in Roman history and epigraphy and two archaeologists, the book is rather thin and does not provide much new data, apart from the identification of the equestrian officer Tiberius Claudius Gallus with Severus' senator - which was taken from my PhD thesis without citing it - and from two inscriptions, ? 20 and ? 21, forming the subject of the present paper. Published here for the first time, they both contain important information which the co-authors failed to notice. The consuls of 227 A.D. in an inscription from Cacak The ? 21 (fig. 1) was found in the site of Gradina on the mountain Jelica, S. of Cacak. It is engraved on a whitish limestone monument, apparently an ara, the middle and lower parts of which are preserved after it has been reshaped to be used as building material. The four-line inscription was read by the editors as follows: [- - -] Aur(elius) F[- - - v(otum)] l(ibens) p(osuit) Mal+[- - -]et Al[- - - co(n)s(ulibus)] Idibus [- - -]. Unable to identify the pair of consuls mentioned in lines two and three, the authors interpret the inscription as a funerary one: [- - -]Aur(elius or -elio) F[- - - vix(it) ann(is)] L P. Mal+[- - -]et Al[- - - f(ecerunt) ? die ?] Idibus [- - -]. In fact, they misread the final cluster of the line two, by having mistaken for L the long right serif of M (in ligature with A) together with a trace of a subsequent letter, which proves to be an X. The alignment of the letters at the beginning of the lines suggests that the left side of the inscription is entirely preserved. The inscription reads as folows: ] \ Aur(elius) F+[ -] \ l(ibens) p(osuit) Max[imo] \ et Al[bino co(n)s(ulibus)] \ Idibus [ -]. M. Laelius Maximus Aemilianus (PIR2 L56) - probably son of Marcus Laelius Maximus (PIR2 L55), one of the leading senators under Septimius Severus - and M. Nummius Senecio Albinus (PIR2 N235) were the eponymous consuls of 227. The pair is attested in several inscriptions, e.g. CIL VIII 18831 from Numidia which resembles this one in recording the exact date: Bacaci Aug(usto) \ sac(rum) \ Albino et Ma\ximo co(n)s(ulibus) \ Kal(endis) Mai(is) [3] Si\ttius Novellus \ et Q. Galerius Mu\stianus magg(istri) \ [Thib(ilitanorum?)]. Here Albinus' name precedes that of Maximus, which is usually the case. Nevertheless, a parallel with Maximus named before Albinus is provided by an inscription from Dacia (ILD 774, near Cluj): Deae Ne\mesi sac\rum Aur(elius) Ru[f]inus \ be(ne)f(iciarius) co(n)s(ularis) \ leg(ionis) XIII Gem(inae) \ Sever(ianae) v(otum) l(ibens) p(osuit) Maximo et Albi\[no] co(n)s(ulibus). Consequently, ? 21 is a votive inscription, largely restorable and precisely datable. The Collegium curatorum of the Cohors II Delmatarum in an inscription from Cacak Forty years ago within the Ascension Church yard in Cacak the lower part of a Roman limestone monument has been accidentally unearthed, bearing an inscription, three last lines of which are partially preserved (? 20 of the catalogue, (fig. 2), wherein only the mention of a cohort was recognized by the editors, who read: ]\[- - -]ALB[- - -| -]GIATI +[- - -|- - -co]h(ortis) eiusde(m) [- - -|- - - The elegant, shaded letters are lined up one below the other, which suggests that the text was arranged following the principle of centering. Above the L in the first line there is a trace of an O or a Q, unnoticed by the editors. So, there are 4 lines partially preserved. The space left between the lines 2 and 3 being larger than that between 1-2 and 3-4 respectively, the two last lines seem to constitute a separate entry. The genitive case cohortis eiusdem implies a preceding designation of the dedicant(s), and what we have before is a nominative plural ending in ?giati followed by a word of which only the first letter, C or O, is still discernible. As the most probable, if not the only possible, we propose the following restoration of the last two lines (fig. 8): [colle]giati c[urat(ores)]|[co]h(ortis) eiusde[m] possibly with a p(osuerunt) or d(edicaverunt) in the end. Despite its fragmentariness, the present inscription bears an important testimony to the existence, within the Roman army, of professional associations (collegia militaria) independent of regular military structures. The evidence for them is based solely on epigraphic sources; some hundred inscriptions contradict the paragraph of the Digesta (47.22) forbidding the soldiers to organize corporate associations in the camps. The cohort in question is doubtless the cohors II Aurelia Delmatarum milliaria equitata, which is known to have been stationed permanently, from the seventies of the second century A.D. to the fifties of the third century, in the eastern part of Dalmatia around the modern city of Cacak. It was a mixed infantry and cavalry unit, and the rank of curator (curator equitum singularium, curator alae, curator cohortis) is attested exclusively in the mounted units of the Roman army. It was higher than the simple eques; in the auxiliary troops, the curators may have been charged with special tactical or economic-administrative tasks. The lower officers (principales) and the soldiers with special tasks were allowed to form private associations fostering loyalty to the Emperor. All Roman collegia including the military ones, had their religious purpose and their official meeting room (schola) was also a sanctuary of their patron deity. It might be a part of the headquarters building, as in the case of the Castra Nova equitum singularium in Rome, where, beneath the Basilica of St John Lateran an Ionic capitel was uncovered with inscription on it dated with AD 197 recording the dedication of the schola curatorum to Minerva Augusta (AE 1935 156 = AE 1968, 8b).

The article presents the post-war history of Evangelical population: Germans and Masurians in Ełk county. For this purpose, archival sources and biographical interviews were used. Interviews with the inhabitants of the county were collected as part of two oral history projects carried out by the "Museum for Ełk" Association in 2013-2015.The historical context is complemented by the available literature. One third of post-war Poland consisted of the territories being the part the Third Reich before the World War II, where a considerable part of population were Germans. Masurians formed a borderland group that became the reason of conflict between the Polish and the German. In the first half of the 20th century, both as a result of the nationalistic discourse and the assimilation pressure, most of them declared to maintain German identity. After the war, Masurians were present in the public space of Ełk county as a minority group. There was the inflow of population of the eastern territories of the Second Republic of Poland and people from central Poland. The small Evangelical church in Ełk in Słowackiego street was often filled with the faithful. Numerous processes and phenomena of social marginalization, exclusion and displacements resulted in nearly entire disintegration of Masurian and Evangelical community. The number of the faithful in Evangelical community proves it- there are nearly 150 people and only few of them feel Masurian origin. In the post-war vision of future Poland nationally and religiously homogenous state was believed to be an ideal solution.

Existing literature has long debated on religious beliefs and democracy. However, the implications of religious institutions, which shall internally interpret faith and socialize followers and externally decide its political positions with authorities, have yet to be comprehensively explored. By adopting an inter-religious comparison in Hong Kong, this article argues that religious institutions decided to take different positions in response to democratization: Eastern religious organizations, including Buddhism, Taoism, and Confucianism, act as “state defenders” to legitimate government decisions at critical political moments. However, Christian organizations, including Catholicism and Protestantism, act as “state critics” to promote political justice. The Anglican Church is located at “in-between status” with pro-regime leaders but with pro-democracy followers. Consequently, Eastern religious institutions maintain close relations with the authorities, Christian leaders face criticisms from pro-regime associations, and intra-religious tensions within the Anglican Church are intensified. Theoretically, this article moves beyond that, from a “belief-based” perspective on how faith facilitates/hinders democratization to an “organization-based” perspective on how religious institutions choose their political positions in a sub-national hybrid regime. Empirically, this study examines how historical development in the pre-handover era contributed to different religion–state interactions in the post-handover period.

Patriarch Timothy I and Theodore bar Koni, late eighth-century members of the Church of the East, brand Muslims as “new Jews,” in Timothy’s words, on account of their refusal to accept Christian doctrines about Christ. Like many other Eastern Christians, these authors employ the discourse of anti-Judaism against Muslim targets to reinforce the faith of their Christian audiences. Timothy and Theodore, however, are the only known authors of the initial Islamic centuries who employ the rhetorical device of polemical comparison when associating Muslims with Jews. Analysis of the elements with which Timothy and Theodore construct their comparisons reveals the goals that they hoped to achieve through their innovative use of traditional anti-Jewish discourse as well as the distinctive contributions of this rhetorical device to their arguments on behalf of Christian truth claims. This essay demonstrates a broadly applicable method for rhetorical analysis of polemical comparisons.

I have only ever owned one pig. It didn’t have a name, due as it was for the table. Just pu‘aka. But I liked feeding it; nothing from the household was wasted. I planned not to become attached. We were having a feast and a pig was the one essential requirement. The piglet came to us as a small creature with a curly tail. It would not even live an adult life, as the fully-grown local pig is a fatty beast with little meat. Pigs are mostly killed when partly grown, when the meat/fat ratio is at its optimum. The pig was one of the few animals to accompany Polynesians as they made the slow journey across the islands and oceans from Asia: pigs and chickens and dogs. The DNA of island pigs reveals details about the route taken that were previously hidden (Larsen et al.). Of these three animals, pigs assumed the most ceremonial importance. In Tonga, pigs often live an exalted life. They roam freely, finding food where they can. They wallow. Wherever there is a pool of mud, often alongside a road, there is a pig wallowing. Huge beasts emerge from their pools with dark mud lining their bellies as they waddle off, teats swinging, to another pleasure. Pig snouts are extraordinarily strong; with the strength of a pig behind them, they can dig holes, uproot crops, and generally wreak havoc. How many times have I chased them from my garden, despairing at the loss of precious vegetables I could get no other way? But they must forage. They are fed scraps, and coconut for protein, but often must fend for themselves. Despite the fact that many meet an early death, their lives seem so much more interesting than those lived by the anonymous residents of intensive piggeries in Australia, my homeland. When the time came for the pig to be sacrificed to the demands of the feast, two young Tongan men did the honours. They also cooked the pig on an open fire after skewering it on a pole. Their reward was the roasted sweetmeats. The ‘umu was filled with taro and cassava, yam and sweet potato, along with lū pulu and lū ika: tinned beef and fish cooked in taro leaves and coconut cream. In the first sitting, all those of high status—church ministers, college teachers, important villagers and pālangi like me—had the first pick of the food. Students from the college and lowly locals had the second. The few young men who remained knew it was their task to finish off all of the food. They set about this activity with intense dedication, paying particular attention to the carcass of the pig. By the end of the night, what was left of our little pig was a pile of bones, the skeleton taken apart at every joint. Not a scrap of anything edible remained. In the early 1980s, I went to live on a small island in the Kingdom of Tonga, where my partner was the Principal of an agricultural college, in the main training young men for working small hereditary mixed farms. Memories of that time and a recent visit inform this reflection on the contemporary Tongan diet and problems associated with it. The role of food in a culture is never a neutral issue. Neither is body size, and Tongans have traditionally favoured the large body as an indication of status (Pollock 58). Similarly the capacity to eat has been seen as positive. Many Tongans are larger than is healthy, with 84% of men and 93% of women “considered overweight or obese” (Kirk et al. 36). The rate of diabetes, 80% of it undiagnosed, has doubled since the 1970s to 15% of the adult population (Colagiuri et al. 1378). In the Tongan diaspora there are also high rates of so-called “metabolic syndrome,” leading to this tendency to diabetes and cardiovascular disease. In Auckland, for instance, Pacific Islanders are 2.5 times more likely to suffer from this condition (Gentles et al.). Its chief cause is not, however, genetic, but comes from “differences in obesity,” leading to a much higher incidence of cardiovascular disease and diabetes (Gentles et al.). Deaths from diabetes in Tonga are common. When a minister’s wife in the neighbouring village to mine died, everyone of status on the island attended the putu. Though her gangrenous foot could have been amputated, the family decided against this, and she soon died from the complications of her diabetes. On arrival at the putu, as well as offering gifts such as mats and tapa, participants lined up to pay very personal respects to the dead woman. This took the form of a kiss on her face. I had never touched a dead person before, let alone someone who had died of gangrene, but life in another culture requires many firsts. I bent down and kissed the dry, cold face of a woman who had suffered much before dying. Young men of the family pushed sand over the grave with their own hands as the rest of us stood around, waiting for the funeral food: pigs, yes, but also sweets made from flour and refined sugar. Diet and eating practices are informed by culture, but so are understandings of illness and its management. In a study conducted in New Zealand, sharp differences were seen between the Tongan diaspora and European patients with diabetes. Tongans were more likely “to perceive their diabetes as acute and cyclical in nature, uncontrollable, and caused by factors such as God’s will, pollution in the environment, and poor medical care in the past”, and this was associated “with poorer adherence to diet and medication taking” (Barnes et al. 1). This suggests that as well as being more likely to suffer from illnesses associated with diet and body size, Tongans may also be less likely to manage them, causing these diseases to be even more debilitating. When James Cook visited the Tongan group and naively named them the Friendly Islands, he was given the customary hospitality shown to one of obviously high status. He and his officers were fed regularly by their hosts, even though this must have put enormous pressure on the local food systems, in which later supply was often guaranteed by the imposition of tapu in order to preserve crops and animals. Further pressure was added by exchanges of hogs for nails (Beaglehole). Of course, while they were feeding him royally and entertaining his crew with wrestling matches and dances, the local chiefs of Ha‘apai were arguing about exactly when they were going to kill him. If it were by night, it would be hard to take the two ships. By day, it might be too obvious. They never could agree, and so he sailed off to meet his fate elsewhere (Martin 279-80). As a visitor of status, he was regularly fed pork, unlike most of the locals. Even now, in contemporary Tonga, pigs are killed to mark a special event, and are not eaten as everyday food by most people. That is one of the few things about the Tongan diet that has not changed since the Cook visits. Pigs are usually eaten on formal feasting occasions, such as after church on the Sabbath (which is rigorously kept by law), at weddings, funerals, state occasions or church conferences. During such conferences, village congregations compete with each other to provide the most lavish spreads, with feasting occurring three times a day for a week or more. Though each pola is spread with a range of local root crops, fish and seafood, and possibly beef or even horse, the pola is not complete unless there is at least one pig on it. Pigs are not commercially farmed in Tonga, so these pigs have been hand- and self-raised in and around villages, and are in short supply after these events. And, although feasts are a visible sign of tradition, they are the exception. Tongans are not suffering from metabolic syndrome because they consume too much pork; they are suffering because in everyday life traditional foods have been supplanted by imports. While a range of traditional foods is still eaten, they are not always the first choice. Some imported foods have become delicacies. Mutton flap is a case in point. Known as sipi (sheep), it is mostly fat and bone, and even when barbequed it retains most of its fat. It is even found on outer islands without refrigeration, because it can be transported frozen and eaten when it arrives, thawed. I remember once the local shopkeeper said she had something I might like. A leg of lamb was produced from under the counter, mistakenly packed in the flap box. The cut was so unfamiliar that nobody else had much use for it. The question of why it is possible to get sipi in Tonga and very difficult to get any other kind of fresh meat other than one’s own pigs or chickens raises the question of how Tonga’s big neighbours think of Pacific islands. Such islands are the recipients of Australian and New Zealand aid; they are also the recipients of their waste. It’s not uncommon to find out of date medications, banned agricultural chemicals, and food that is really unsuitable for human consumption. Often the only fresh and affordable meat is turkey tails, chicken backs, and mutton flap. From July 2006 to July 2007, New Zealand exported $73 million worth of sheep off-cuts to the Pacific (Edwardes & Frizelle). Australia and the US account for the supply of turkey tails. Not only are these products some of the few fresh meat sources available, they are also relatively inexpensive (Rosen et al.). These foods are so detrimental to the health of locals that importing them has been banned in Fiji and independent Samoa (Edwardes & Frizelle). The big nations around the Pacific have found a market for the meat by-products their own citizens will not eat. Local food sources have also been supplanted as a result of the high value placed on other foods, like rice, flour and sugar, which from the nineteenth century became associated with “civilisation and progress” (Pollock 233). To counter this, education programs have been undertaken in Tonga and elsewhere in the Pacific in order to promote traditional local foods. These have also sought to address the impact of high food imports on the trade balance (Pollock 232). Food choices are not just determined by preference, but also by cost and availability. Similarly, the Tonga Healthy Weight Loss Program ran during the late 1990s, but it was found that a lack of “availability of healthy low-cost food was a problem” to its success (Englberger et al. 147). In a recent study of Tongan food preferences, it was found that “in general, Tongans prefer healthier traditional, indigenously produced, foods”, but that they are not always available (Evans et al. 170). In the absence of a consistent supply of local protein sources, the often inferior but available imported sources become the default ingredient. Fish in particular are in short supply. Though many Tongans can still be seen harvesting the reef for seafood at low tide, there is no extensive fishing industry capable of providing for the population at large. Intensive farming of pigs has been considered—there was a model piggery on the college where I lived, complete with facilities for methane collection—but it has not been undertaken. Given the strongly ceremonial function of the pig, it would take a large shift in thinking for it to be considered an everyday food. The first cooked pig I encountered arrived at my house in a woven coconut leaf basket, surrounded by baked taro and yam. It was a small pig, given by a family too poor to hold the feast usually provided after church when it was their turn. Instead, they gave the food portion owed directly to the preacher. There’s a faded photo of me squatting on a cracked linoleum floor, examining the contents of the basket, and wondering what on earth I’m going to do with them. I soon learnt the first lesson of island life: food must be shared. With no refrigeration, no family of strapping youths, and no plans to eat the pig myself, it had to be given away to neighbours. It was that simple. Even watermelon went off within the day. In terms of eating, that small pig would have been better kept until a later day, when it reached optimum size, but each family’s obligation came around regularly, and had to be fulfilled. Feasting, and providing for feasting, was a duty, even a fatongia mamafa: a “heavy duty” among many duties, in which the pig was an object deeply “entangled” in all social relations (Thomas). A small pig was big enough to carry the weight of such obligations, even if it could not feed a crowd. Growing numbers of tourists to Tonga, often ignored benignly by their hosts, are keen to snap photos of grazing pigs. It is unusual enough for westerners to see pigs freely wandering, but what is more striking about some pigs on Tongatapu and ‘Eua is that they venture onto the reefs and mudflats at low tide, going after the rich marine pickings, just as their human counterparts do. The silhouette of a pig in the water as the tropical sun sinks behind, caught in a digital frame, it is a striking memory of a holiday in a place that remains largely uninterested in its tourist potential. While an influx of guests is seen by development consultants as the path to the nation’s economic future, Tongans bemusedly refuse to take this possibility seriously (Menzies). Despite a negative trade balance, partly caused by the importation of foreign food, Tonga survives on a combination of subsistence farming and remittances from Tongans living overseas; the tourist potential is largely unrealised. Dirk Spennemann’s work took a strange turn when, as an archaeologist working in Tonga, it became necessary for him to investigate whether these reef-grazing pigs were disturbing midden contents on Tongatapu. In order to establish this, he collected bags of both wet and dry “pig excreta” (107). Spenemann’s methodology involved soaking the contents of these bags for 48 hours, stirring them frequently; “they dissolved, producing considerable smell” (107). Spennemann concluded that pigs do appear to have been eating fish and shellfish, along with grass and “the occasional bit of paper” (107). They also feed on “seaweed and seagrass” (108). I wonder if these food groups have any noticeable impact on the taste of their flesh? Creatures fed particular diets in order to create a certain distinct taste are part of the culinary traditions of the world. The deli around the corner from where I live sells such gourmet items as part of its lunch fare: Saltbush lamb baguettes are one of their favourites. In the Orkneys, the rare and ancient North Ronaldsay Sheep are kept from inland foraging for most of the year by a high stone fence in order to conserve the grass for lambing time. This forces them to eat seaweed on the beach, producing a distinct marine taste, one that is highly valued in certain Parisian restaurants. As an economy largely cut out of the world economic loop, Tonga is unlikely to find select menus on which its reef pigs might appear. While living on ‘Eua, I regularly took a three hour ferry trip to Tongatapu in order to buy food I could not get on my home island. One of these items was wholemeal flour, from which I baked bread in a mud oven we had built outside. Bread was available on ‘Eua, but it was white, light and transported loose in the back of truck. I chose to make my own. The ferry trip usually involved a very rough crossing, though on calmer days, roof passengers would cook sipi on the diesel chimney, added flavour guaranteed. It usually only took about thirty minutes on the way out from Nafanua Harbour before the big waves struck. I could endure them for a while, but soon the waves, combined with a heavy smell of diesel, would have me heading for the rail. On one journey, I tried to hold off seasickness by focussing on an island off shore from Tongatapu. I went onto the front deck of the ferry and faced the full blast of the wind. With waves and wind, it was difficult to stand. I diligently stared at the island, which only occasionally disappeared beneath the swell, but I soon knew that this trip would be like the others; I’d be leaning over the rail as the ocean came up to meet me, not really caring if I went over. I could not bear to share the experience, so in many ways being alone on the foredeck was ideal for me, if I had to be on the boat at all. At least I thought I was alone, but I soon heard a grunt, and looked across to see an enormous sow, trotters tied front and back, lying across the opposite side of the boat. And like me, she too was succumbing to her nausea. Despite the almost complete self-absorption seasickness brings, we looked at each other. I may have imagined an acknowledgement, but I think not. While the status of pigs in Tongan life remains important, in many respects the imposition of European institutions and the availability of imported foods have had an enormous impact on the rest of the Tongan diet, with devastating effects on the health of Tongans. Instead of the customary two slow-cooked meals, one before noon and one in the evening (Pollock 56), consisting mostly of roots crops, plantains and breadfruit, with a relish of meat or fish, most Tongans eat three meals a day in order to fit in with school and work schedules. In current Tongan life, there is no time for an ‘umu every day; instead, quick and often cheaper imported foods are consumed, though local foods can also be cooked relatively quickly. While some still start the day by grabbing a piece of left over cassava, many more would sit down to the ubiquitous Pacific breakfast food: crackers, topped with a slab of butter. Food is a neo-colonial issue. If larger nations stopped dumping unwanted and nutritionally poor food products, health outcomes might improve. Similarly, the Tongan government could tip the food choice balance by actively supporting a local and traditional food supply in order to make it as cheap and accessible as the imported foods that are doing such harm to the health of Tongans References Barnes, Lucy, Rona Moss-Morris, and Mele Kaufusi. “Illness Beliefs and Adherence in Diabetes Mellitus: A Comparison between Tongan and European Patients.” The New Zealand Medical Journal 117.1188 (2004): 1-9. Beaglehole, J.C. Ed. The Journals of Captain James Cook on his Voyages of Discovery: The Voyage of the Resolution and Discovery 1776-1780. Parts I & II. Cambridge: Hakluyt Society, 1967. ­­­____. Ed. The Journals of Captain James Cook on his Voyages of Discovery: The Voyage of the Resolution and Adventure 1772-1775. Cambridge: Hakluyt Society, 1969. Colagiuri, Stephen, Ruth Colgaiuri, Siva Na‘ati, Soana Muimuiheata, Zafirul Hussein, and Taniela Palu. “The Prevalence of Diabetes in the Kingdom of Tonga.” Diabetes Care 28.2 (2002): 1378-83. Edwardes, Brennan, and Frank Frizelle. “Globalisation and its Impact on the South Pacific.” The New Zealand Medical Journal 122.1291 (2009). 4 Aug. 2010 Englberger, L., V. Halavatau, Y. Yasuda, & R, Yamazaki. “The Tonga Healthy Weight Loss Program.” Asia Pacific Journal of Clinical Nutrition 8.2 (1999): 142-48. Gentles, Dudley, et al. “Metabolic Syndrome Prevalence in a Multicultural Population in Auckland, New Zealand.” Journal of the New Zealand Medical Association 120.1248 (2007). 4 Aug. 2010 Kirk, Sara F.L., Andrew J. Cockbain, and James Beasley. “Obesity in Tonga: A cross-sectional comparative study of perceptions of body size and beliefs about obesity in lay people and nurses.” Obesity Research & Clinical Practice 2.1 (2008): 35-41. Larsen, Gregor, et al. “Phylogeny and Ancient DNA of Sus Provides New Insights into Neolithic Expansion in Island Southeast Asia and Oceania.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 104.12 (2007): 4834-39. Martin, John. Tonga Islands: William Mariner’s Account, 1817. Neiafu, Tonga: Vava‘u, 1981. Menzies, Isa. “Cultural Tourism and International Development in Tonga: Notes from the Field”. Unpublished paper. Oceanic Passages Conference. Hobart, June 2010. Pollock, Nancy J. These Roots Remain: Food Habits in Islands of the Central and Eastern Pacific since Western Contact. Honolulu: Institute for Polynesian Studies, 1992. Rosen, Rochelle K., Judith DePue, and Stephen T. McGarvey. “Overweight and Diabetes in American Samoa: The Cultural Translation of Research into Health Care Practice.” Medicine and Health/ Rhode Island 91.12 (2008): 372-78. Spennemann, Dirk H.R. “On the Diet of Pigs Foraging on the Mud Flats of Tongatapu: An Investigation in Taphonomy.” Archaeology in New Zealand 37.2 (1994): 104-10. Thomas, Nicholas. Entangled Objects: Exchange, Material Objects and Colonialism in the Pacific. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard UP, 1991.

In its preamble, The Western Australian Charter of Multiculturalism (WA) commits the state to becoming: “A society in which respect for mutual difference is accompanied by equality of opportunity within a framework of democratic citizenship”. One of the principles of multiculturalism, as enunciated in the Charter, is “equality of opportunity for all members of society to achieve their full potential in a free and democratic society where every individual is equal before and under the law”. An important element of this principle is the “equality of opportunity … to achieve … full potential”. The implication here is that those who start from a position of disadvantage when it comes to achieving that potential deserve more than ‘equal’ treatment. Implicitly, equality can be achieved only through the recognition of and response to differential needs and according to the likelihood of achieving full potential. This is encapsulated in Kymlicka’s argument that neutrality is “hopelessly inadequate once we look at the diversity of cultural membership which exists in contemporary liberal democracies” (903). Yet such a potential commitment to differential support might seem unequal to some, where equality is constructed as the same or equal treatment regardless of differing circumstances. Until the past half-century or more, this problematic has been a hotly-contested element of the struggle for Civil Rights for African-Americans in the United States, especially as these rights related to educational opportunity during the years of racial segregation. For some, providing resources to achieve equal outcomes (rather than be committed to equal inputs) may appear to undermine the very ethos of liberal democracy. In Australia, this perspective has been the central argument of Pauline Hanson and her supporters who denounce programs designed as measures to achieve equality for specific disadvantaged groups; including Indigenous Australians and humanitarian refugees. Nevertheless, equality for all on all grounds of legally-accepted difference: gender, race, age, family status, sexual orientation, political conviction, to name a few; is often held as the hallmark of progressive liberal societies such as Australia. In the matter of religious freedoms the situation seems much less complex. All that is required for religious equality, it seems, is to define religion as a private matter – carried out, as it were, between consenting parties away from the public sphere. This necessitates, effectively, the separation of state and religion. This separation of religious belief from the apparatus of the state is referred to as ‘secularism’ and it tends to be regarded as a cornerstone of a liberal democracy, given the general assumption that secularism is a necessary precursor to equal treatment of and respect for different religious beliefs, and the association of secularism with the Western project of the Enlightenment when liberty, equality and science replaced religion and superstition. By this token, western nations committed to equality are also committed to being liberal, democratic and secular in nature; and it is a matter of state indifference as to which religious faith a citizen embraces – Wiccan, Christian, Judaism, etc – if any. Historically, and arguably more so in the past decade, the terms ‘democratic’, ‘secular’, ‘liberal’ and ‘equal’ have all been used to inscribe characteristics of the collective ‘West’. Individuals and states whom the West ascribe as ‘other’ are therefore either or all of: not democratic; not liberal; or not secular – and failing any one of these characteristics (for any country other than Britain, with its parliamentary-established Church of England, headed by the Queen as Supreme Governor) means that that country certainly does not espouse equality. The West and the ‘Other’ in Popular Discourse The constructed polarisation between the free, secular and democratic West that values equality; and the oppressive ‘other’ that perpetuates theocracies, religious discrimination and – at the ultimate – human rights abuses, is a common theme in much of the West’s media and popular discourse on Islam. The same themes are also applied in some measure to Muslims in Australia, in particular to constructions of the rights of Muslim women in Australia. Typically, Muslim women’s dress is deemed by some secular Australians to be a symbol of religious subjugation, rather than of free choice. Arguably, this polemic has come to the fore since the terrorist attacks on the United States in September 2001. However, as Aly and Walker note, the comparisons between the West and the ‘other’ are historically constructed and inherited (Said) and have tended latterly to focus western attention on the role and status of Muslim women as evidence of the West’s progression comparative to its antithesis, Eastern oppression. An examination of studies of the United States media coverage of the September 11 attacks, and the ensuing ‘war on terror’, reveals some common media constructions around good versus evil. There is no equal status between these. Good must necessarily triumph. In the media coverage, the evil ‘other’ is Islamic terrorism, personified by Osama bin Laden. Part of the justification for the war on terror is a perception that the West, as a force for good in this world, must battle evil and protect freedom and democracy (Erjavec and Volcic): to do otherwise is to allow the terror of the ‘other’ to seep into western lives. The war on terror becomes the defence of the west, and hence the defence of equality and freedom. A commitment to equality entails a defeat of all things constructed as denying the rights of people to be equal. Hutcheson, Domke, Billeaudeaux and Garland analysed the range of discourses evident in Time and Newsweek magazines in the five weeks following September 11 and found that journalists replicated themes of national identity present in the communication strategies of US leaders and elites. The political and media response to the threat of the evil ‘other’ is to create a monolithic appeal to liberal values which are constructed as being a monopoly of the ‘free’ West. A brief look at just a few instances of public communication by US political leaders confirms Hutcheson et al.’s contention that the official construction of the 2001 attacks invoked discourses of good and evil reminiscent of the Cold War. In reference to the actions of the four teams of plane hijackers, US president George W Bush opened his Address to the Nation on the evening of September 11: “Today, our fellow citizens, our way of life, our very freedom came under attack in a series of deliberate and deadly terrorist acts” (“Statement by the President in His Address to the Nation”). After enjoining Americans to recite Psalm 23 in prayer for the victims and their families, President Bush ended his address with a clear message of national unity and a further reference to the battle between good and evil: “This is a day when all Americans from every walk of life unite in our resolve for justice and peace. America has stood down enemies before, and we will do so this time. None of us will ever forget this day. Yet, we go forward to defend freedom and all that is good and just in our world” (“Statement by the President in His Address to the Nation”). In his address to the joint houses of Congress shortly after September 11, President Bush implicated not just the United States in this fight against evil, but the entire international community stating: “This is the world’s fight. This is civilisation’s fight” (cited by Brown 295). Addressing the California Business Association a month later, in October 2001, Bush reiterated the notion of the United States as the leading nation in the moral fight against evil, and identified this as a possible reason for the attack: “This great state is known for its diversity – people of all races, all religions, and all nationalities. They’ve come here to live a better life, to find freedom, to live in peace and security, with tolerance and with justice. When the terrorists attacked America, this is what they attacked”. While the US media framed the events of September 11 as an attack on the values of democracy and liberalism as these are embodied in US democratic traditions, work by scholars analysing the Australian media’s representation of the attacks suggested that this perspective was echoed and internationalised for an Australian audience. Green asserts that global media coverage of the attacks positioned the global audience, including Australians, as ‘American’. The localisation of the discourses of patriotism and national identity for Australian audiences has mainly been attributed to the media’s use of the good versus evil frame that constructed the West as good, virtuous and moral and invited Australian audiences to subscribe to this argument as members of a shared Western democratic identity (Osuri and Banerjee). Further, where the ‘we’ are defenders of justice, equality and the rule of law; the opposing ‘others’ are necessarily barbaric. Secularism and the Muslim Diaspora Secularism is a historically laden term that has been harnessed to symbolise the emancipation of social life from the forced imposition of religious doctrine. The struggle between the essentially voluntary and private demands of religion, and the enjoyment of a public social life distinct from religious obligations, is historically entrenched in the cultural identities of many modern Western societies (Dallmayr). The concept of religious freedom in the West has evolved into a principle based on the bifurcation of life into the objective public sphere and the subjective private sphere within which individuals are free to practice their religion of choice (Yousif), or no religion at all. Secularism, then, is contingent on the maintenance of a separation between the public (religion-free) and the private or non- public (which may include religion). The debate regarding the feasibility or lack thereof of maintaining this separation has been a matter of concern for democratic theorists for some time, and has been made somewhat more complicated with the growing presence of religious diasporas in liberal democratic states (Charney). In fact, secularism is often cited as a precondition for the existence of religious pluralism. By removing religion from the public domain of the state, religious freedom, in so far as it constitutes the ability of an individual to freely choose which religion, if any, to practice, is deemed to be ensured. However, as Yousif notes, the Western conception of religious freedom is based on a narrow notion of religion as a personal matter, possibly a private emotional response to the idea of God, separate from the rational aspects of life which reside in the public domain. Arguably, religion is conceived of as recognising (or creating) a supernatural dimension to life that involves faith and belief, and the suspension of rational thought. This Western notion of religion as separate from the state, dividing the private from the public sphere, is constructed as a necessary basis for the liberal democratic commitment to secularism, and the notional equality of all religions, or none. Rawls questioned how people with conflicting political views and ideologies can freely endorse a common political regime in secular nations. The answer, he posits, lies in the conception of justice as a mechanism to regulate society independently of plural (and often opposing) religious or political conceptions. Thus, secularism can be constructed as an indicator of pluralism and justice; and political reason becomes the “common currency of debate in a pluralist society” (Charney 7). A corollary of this is that religious minorities must learn to use the language of political reason to represent and articulate their views and opinions in the public context, especially when talking with non-religious others. This imposes a need for religious minorities to support their views and opinions with political reason that appeals to the community at large as citizens, and not just to members of the minority religion concerned. The common ground becomes one of secularism, in which all speakers are deemed to be indifferent as to the (private) claims of religion upon believers. Minority religious groups, such as fundamentalist Mormons, invoke secular language of moral tolerance and civil rights to be acknowledged by the state, and to carry out their door-to-door ‘information’ evangelisation/campaigns. Right wing fundamentalist Christian groups and Catholics opposed to abortion couch their views in terms of an extension of the secular right to life, and in terms of the human rights and civil liberties of the yet-to-be-born. In doing this, these religious groups express an acceptance of the plurality of the liberal state and engage in debates in the public sphere through the language of political values and political principles of the liberal democratic state. The same principles do not apply within their own associations and communities where the language of the private religious realm prevails, and indeed is expected. This embracing of a political rhetoric for discussions of religion in the public sphere presents a dilemma for the Muslim diaspora in liberal democratic states. For many Muslims, religion is a complete way of life, incapable of compartmentalisation. The narrow Western concept of religious expression as a private matter is somewhat alien to Muslims who are either unable or unwilling to separate their religious needs from their needs as citizens of the nation state. Problems become apparent when religious needs challenge what seems to be publicly acceptable, and conflicts occur between what the state perceives to be matters of rational state interest and what Muslims perceive to be matters of religious identity. Muslim women’s groups in Western Australia for example have for some years discussed the desirability of a Sharia divorce court which would enable Muslims to obtain divorces according to Islamic law. It should be noted here that not all Muslims agree with the need for such a court and many – probably a majority – are satisfied with the existing processes that allow Muslim men and women to obtain a divorce through the Australian family court. For some Muslims however, this secular process does not satisfy their religious needs and it is perceived as having an adverse impact on their ability to adhere to their faith. A similar situation pertains to divorced Catholics who, according to a strict interpretation of their doctrine, are unable to take the Eucharist if they form a subsequent relationship (even if married according to the state), unless their prior marriage has been annulled by the Catholic Church or their previous partner has died. Whereas divorce is considered by the state as a public and legal concern, for some Muslims and others it is undeniably a religious matter. The suggestion by the Anglican Communion’s Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr Rowan Williams, that the adoption of certain aspects of Sharia law regarding marital disputes or financial matters is ultimately unavoidable, sparked controversy in Britain and in Australia. Attempts by some Australian Muslim scholars to elaborate on Dr Williams’s suggestions, such as an article by Anisa Buckley in The Herald Sun (Buckley), drew responses that, typically, called for Muslims to ‘go home’. A common theme in these responses is that proponents of Sharia law (and Islam in general) do not share a commitment to the Australian values of freedom and equality. The following excerpts from the online pages of Herald Sun Readers’ Comments (Herald Sun) demonstrate this perception: “These people come to Australia for freedoms they have never experienced before and to escape repression which is generally brought about by such ‘laws’ as Sharia! How very dare they even think that this would be an option. Go home if you want such a regime. Such an insult to want to come over to this country on our very goodwill and our humanity and want to change our systems and ways. Simply, No!” Posted 1:58am February 12, 2008 “Under our English derived common law statutes, the law is supposed to protect an individual’s rights to life, liberty and property. That is the basis of democracy in Australia and most other western nations. Sharia law does not adequately share these philosophies and principles, thus it is incompatible with our system of law.” Posted 12:55am February 11, 2008 “Incorporating religious laws in the secular legal system is just plain wrong. No fundamentalist religion (Islam in particular) is compatible with a liberal-democracy.” Posted 2:23pm February 10, 2008 “It should not be allowed in Australia the Muslims come her for a better life and we give them that opportunity but they still believe in covering them selfs why do they even come to Australia for when they don’t follow owe [our] rules but if we went to there [their] country we have to cover owe selfs [sic]” Posted 11:28am February 10, 2008 Conflicts similar to this one – over any overt or non-private religious practice in Australia – may also be observed in public debates concerning the wearing of traditional Islamic dress; the slaughter of animals for consumption; Islamic burial rites, and other religious practices which cannot be confined to the private realm. Such conflicts highlight the inability of the rational liberal approach to solve all controversies arising from religious traditions that enjoin a broader world view than merely private spirituality. In order to adhere to the liberal reduction of religion to the private sphere, Muslims in the West must negotiate some religious practices that are constructed as being at odds with the rational state and practice a form of Islam that is consistent with secularism. At the extreme, this Western-acceptable form is what the Australian government has termed ‘moderate Islam’. The implication here is that, for the state, ‘non-moderate Islam’ – Islam that pervades the public realm – is just a descriptor away from ‘extreme’. The divide between Christianity and Islam has been historically played out in European Christendom as a refusal to recognise Islam as a world religion, preferring instead to classify it according to race or ethnicity: a Moorish tendency, perhaps. The secular state prefers to engage with Muslims as an ethnic, linguistic or cultural group or groups (Yousif). Thus, in order to engage with the state as political citizens, Muslims must find ways to present their needs that meet the expectations of the state – ways that do not use their religious identity as a frame of reference. They can do this by utilizing the language of political reason in the public domain or by framing their needs, views and opinions exclusively in terms of their ethnic or cultural identity with no reference to their shared faith. Neither option is ideal, or indeed even viable. This is partly because many Muslims find it difficult if not impossible to separate their religious needs from their needs as political citizens; and also because the prevailing perception of Muslims in the media and public arena is constructed on the basis of an understanding of Islam as a religion that conflicts with the values of liberal democracy. In the media and public arena, little consideration is given to the vast differences that exist among Muslims in Australia, not only in terms of ethnicity and culture, but also in terms of practice and doctrine (Shia or Sunni). The dominant construction of Muslims in the Australian popular media is of religious purists committed to annihilating liberal, secular governments and replacing them with anti-modernist theocratic regimes (Brasted). It becomes a talking point for some, for example, to realise that there are international campaigns to recognise Gay Muslims’ rights within their faith (ABC) (in the same way that there are campaigns to recognise Gay Christians as full members of their churches and denominations and equally able to hold high office, as followers of the Anglican Communion will appreciate). Secularism, Preference and Equality Modood asserts that the extent to which a minority religious community can fully participate in the public and political life of the secular nation state is contingent on the extent to which religion is the primary marker of identity. “It may well be the case therefore that if a faith is the primary identity of any community then that community cannot fully identify with and participate in a polity to the extent that it privileges a rival faith. Or privileges secularism” (60). Modood is not saying here that Islam has to be privileged in order for Muslims to participate fully in the polity; but that no other religion, nor secularism, should be so privileged. None should be first, or last, among equals. For such a situation to occur, Islam would have to be equally acceptable both with other religions and with secularism. Following a 2006 address by the former treasurer (and self-avowed Christian) Peter Costello to the Sydney Institute, in which Costello suggested that people who feel a dual claim from both Islamic law and Australian law should be stripped of their citizenship (Costello), the former Prime Minister, John Howard, affirmed what he considers to be Australia’s primary identity when he stated that ‘Australia’s core set of values flowed from its Anglo Saxon identity’ and that any one who did not embrace those values should not be allowed into the country (Humphries). The (then) Prime Minister’s statement is an unequivocal assertion of the privileged position of the Anglo Saxon tradition in Australia, a tradition with which many Muslims and others in Australia find it difficult to identify. Conclusion Religious identity is increasingly becoming the identity of choice for Muslims in Australia, partly because it is perceived that their faith is under attack and that it needs defending (Aly). They construct the defence of their faith as a choice and an obligation; but also as a right that they have under Australian law as equal citizens in a secular state (Aly and Green). Australian Muslims who have no difficulty in reconciling their core Australianness with their deep faith take it as a responsibility to live their lives in ways that model the reconciliation of each identity – civil and religious – with the other. In this respect, the political call to Australian Muslims to embrace a ‘moderate Islam’, where this is seen as an Islam without a public or political dimension, is constructed as treating their faith as less than equal. Religious identity is generally deemed to have no place in the liberal democratic model, particularly where that religion is constructed to be at odds with the principles and values of liberal democracy, namely tolerance and adherence to the rule of law. Indeed, it is as if the national commitment to secularism rules as out-of-bounds any identity that is grounded in religion, giving precedence instead to accepting and negotiating cultural and ethnic differences. Religion becomes a taboo topic in these terms, an affront against secularism and the values of the Enlightenment that include liberty and equality. In these circumstances, it is not the case that all religions are equally ignored in a secular framework. What is the case is that the secular framework has been constructed as a way of ‘privatising’ one religion, Christianity; leaving others – including Islam – as having nowhere to go. Islam thus becomes constructed as less than equal since it appears that, unlike Christians, Muslims are not willing to play the secular game. In fact, Muslims are puzzling over how they can play the secular game, and why they should play the secular game, given that – as is the case with Christians – they see no contradiction in performing ‘good Muslim’ and ‘good Australian’, if given an equal chance to embrace both. Acknowledgements This paper is based on the findings of an Australian Research Council Discovery Project, 2005-7, involving 10 focus groups and 60 in-depth interviews. The authors wish to acknowledge the participation and contributions of WA community members. 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Sydney: University of New South Wales Press, 2001. 206-28.Brown, Chris. “Narratives of Religion, Civilization and Modernity.” Worlds in Collision: Terror and the Future of Global Order. Eds. Ken Booth and Tim Dunne. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002. 293-324. Buckley, Anisa. “Should We Allow Sharia Law?” Sunday Herald Sun 10 Feb. 2008. 8 March 2008 < http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/story/0,21985,231869735000117,00.html >.Bush, George. W. “President Outlines War Effort: Remarks by the President at the California Business Association Breakfast.” California Business Association 2001. 17 April 2007 < http://www.whitehouse.gov/news/releases/2001/10/20011017-15.html >.———. “Statement by the President in His Address to the Nation”. Washington, 2001. 17 April 2007 < http://www.whitehouse.gov/news/releases/2001/09/20010911-16.html >.Charney, Evan. “Political Liberalism, Deliberative Democracy, and the Public Sphere.” The American Political Science Review 92.1 (1998): 97- 111.Costello, Peter. “Worth Promoting, Worth Defending: Australian Citizenship, What It Means and How to Nurture It.” Address to the Sydney Institute, 23 February 2006. 24 Apr. 2008 < http://www.treasurer.gov.au/DisplayDocs.aspx?doc=speeches/2006/004.htm &pageID=05&min=phc&Year=2006&DocType=1 >.Dallmayr, Fred. “Rethinking Secularism.” The Review of Politics 61.4 (1999): 715-36.Erjavec, Karmen, and Zala Volcic. “‘War on Terrorism’ as Discursive Battleground: Serbian Recontextualisation of G. W. Bush’s Discourse.” Discourse and Society 18 (2007): 123- 37.Green, Lelia. “Did the World Really Change on 9/11?” Australian Journal of Communication 29.2 (2002): 1-14.Herald Sun. “Readers’ Comments: Should We Allow Sharia Law?” Herald Sun Online Feb. 2008. 8 March 2008. < http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/comments/0,22023,23186973-5000117,00.html >.Humphries, David. “Live Here, Be Australian.” The Sydney Morning Herald 25 Feb. 2006, 1 ed.Hutcheson, John S., David Domke, Andre Billeaudeaux, and Philip Garland. “U.S. National Identity, Political Elites, and Patriotic Press Following September 11.” Political Communication 21.1 (2004): 27-50.Kymlicka, Will. “Liberal Individualism and Liberal Neutrality.” Ethics 99.4 (1989): 883-905.Modood, Tariq. “Establishment, Multiculturalism and British Citizenship.” The Political Quarterly (1994): 53-74.Osuri, Goldie, and Subhabrata B. Banerjee. “White Diasporas: Media Representations of September 11 and the Unbearable Whiteness of Being in Australia.” Social Semiotics 14.2 (2004): 151- 71.Rawls, John. A Theory of Justice. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1971.Said, Edward. Orientalism. New York: Vintage Books 1978.Western Australian Charter of Multiculturalism. WA: Government of Western Australia, Nov. 2004. 11 March 2008 < http://www.equalopportunity.wa.gov.au/pdf/wa_charter_multiculturalism.pdf >.Yousif, Ahmad. “Islam, Minorities and Religious Freedom: A Challenge to Modern Theory of Pluralism.” Journal of Muslim Minority Affairs 20.1 (2000): 30-43.

IntroductionThe “North” is given explicitly “Nordic” value in extreme metal, as a vehicle for narratives of identity, nationalism and ideology. However, we also contend that “Nordicness” is articulated in diverse and contradictory ways in extreme metal contexts. We examine Nordicness in three key iterations: firstly, Nordicness as a brand tied to extremity and “authenticity”; secondly, Nordicness as an expression of exclusory ethnic belonging and ancestry; and thirdly, Nordicness as an imagined community of liberal democracy.In situating Nordicness across these iterations, we call into focus how the value of the “North” in metal discourse unfolds in different contexts with different implications. We argue that “Nordicness” as it is represented in extreme metal scenes cannot be considered as a uniform, essential category, but rather one marked by tensions and paradoxes that undercut the possibility of any singular understanding of the “North”. Deploying textual and critical discourse analysis, we analyse what Nordicness is made to mean in extreme metal scenes. Furthermore, we critique understandings of the “North” as a homogenous category and instead interrogate the plural ways in which “Nordic” meaning is articulated in metal. We focus specifically on Nordic Extreme Metal. This subgenre has been chosen with an eye to the regional complexities of the Nordic area in Northern Europe, the popularity of extreme metal in Nordic markets, and the successful global marketing of Nordic metal bands and styles.We use the term “Nordic” in line with Loftsdóttir and Jensen’s definition, wherein the “Nordic countries” encompass Norway, Sweden, Iceland, Denmark and Finland, and the autonomous regions of Greenland: the Faroe Islands and the Aland Islands (3). “Nordic-ness”, they argue, is the cultural identity of the Nordic countries, reified through self-perception, internationalisation and “national branding” (Loftsdóttir and Jensen 2).In referring to “extreme metal”, we draw from Kahn-Harris’s characterisation of the term. “Extreme metal” represents a cluster of heavy metal subgenres–primarily black metal, death metal, thrash metal, doom metal and grindcore–marked by their “extremity”; their impetus towards “[un]conventional musical aesthetics” (Kahn-Harris 6).Nonetheless, we remain acutely aware of the complexities that attend both terms. Just as extreme metal itself is “exceptionally diverse” (Kahn-Harris 6) and “constantly developing and reconfiguring” (Kahn-Harris 7), the category of the “Nordic” is also a site of “diverse experiences” (Loftsdóttir & Jensen 3). We seek to move beyond any essentialist understanding of the “Nordic” and move towards a critical mapping of the myriad ways in which the “Nordic” is given value in extreme metal contexts.Branding the North: Nordicness as Extremity and AuthenticityMetal’s relationship with the Nordic countries has become a key area of interest for both popular and scholarly accounts of heavy metal as the genre has rapidly expanded in the region. The Nordic countries currently boast the highest rate of metal bands per capita (Grandoni). Since the mid-2000s, metal scholars have displayed an accelerated interest in the “cultural aesthetics and identity politics” of metal in Northern Europe (Brown 261). Wider popular interest in Nordic metal has been assisted by the notoriety of the Norwegian black metal scene of the early 1990s, wherein a series of murders and church arsons committed by scene members formed the basis for popular texts such as Moynihan and Søderlind’s book Lords of Chaos and Aites and Ewell’s documentary Until the Light Takes Us.Invocations of Nordicness in metal music are not a new phenomenon, nor have such allusions been strictly limited to Northern European artists. Led Zeppelin and Iron Maiden displayed an interest in Norse mythology, while Venom and Manowar frequently drew on Nordic imagery in their performance and visual aesthetics.This interest in the North was largely ephemeral–the use of popular Nordic iconography stressed romanticised constructions of the North as a site of masculine liberty, rather than locating such archetypes in a historical context. Such narratives of Nordic masculinity, liberty and heathenry nevertheless become central to heavy metal’s contextual discourses, and point to the ways in which “Nordicness” becomes mobilised as a particular branded category.Whilst Nordic “branding” for earlier heavy metal bands was largely situated in romantic imaginings of the ancient North, in the late 1980s there emerged “a secondary usage” of Nordic identity and iconography by Northern European metal bands (Trafford & Pluskowski 58). Such “Nordicness” laid far more stress on historical context, national identity and notions of ancestry, and, crucially, a sense of extremity and isolation. This emphasis on metal’s extremity beyond the mainstream has long been a crucial component in the marketing of Nordic scenes.Such “extremity” is given mutually supportive value as “authenticity”, where the term is understood as a value judgement (Moore 209) applied by audiences to discern if music remains committed to its own premises (Frith 71). Such questions of sincerity and commitment to metal’s core continue to circulate in the discourses of Nordic extreme metal. Sweden’s death metal underground, for example, was considered at “the forefront of one of the most extreme varieties of music yet conceived” (Moynihan and Søderlind 32), with both the Stockholm and Gothenburg “sounds” proving influential beyond Northern Europe (Kahn-Harris 106).Situating Nordicness as a distinct identity beyond metal’s commercial appeal underscores much of the marketing of Nordic extreme metal to international audiences. Such discourses continue in contemporary contexts–Finland’s official website promotes metal as a form of Finnish art and culture: “By definition, heavy metal fans crave music from outside the mainstream. They champion material that boldly stands out against the normality of pop” (Weaver).The focus on Nordic metal existing “outside” the mainstream is commensurate with understandings of extreme metal as “on the edge of music” (Kahn-Harris 5). Such sentiments are situated in a wider regional narrative that sees the Nordic region at the geographic “edge” of Europe, as remote and isolated (Grimley 2). The apparent isolation that enables the distinctiveness of “Nordic” forms of extreme metal is, however, potentially undercut by the widespread circulation of “Nordicness” as a particular brand.“Nordic extreme metal” can be understood as both a generic and place-based scene, where genre and geography “cross cut and coincide in complex ways” (Kahn-Harris 99). The Bergen black metal sound, for example, much like the Gothenburg death metal sound, is both a geographic and stylistic marker that is replicated in different contexts.This Nordic branding of musical styles is further affirmed by the wider means through which “Nordic”, “Scandinavian” and the “North” become interchangeable frameworks for the marketing of particular styles of extreme metal. “Nordic metal”, Von Helden thus argues, “is a trademark and a best seller” (33).Nordicness as Exclusory Belonging and AncestryMarketing strategies that rely on constructions of Nordic metal as “beyond the mainstream” at once exotify and homogenise the “Nordic”. Sentiments of an “imagined community of Nordicness” (Lucas, Deeks and Spracklen 279) have created problematic boundaries of who, or what, may be represented in such categories.Understandings of “Nordicness” as a site of generic “purity” (Moynihan and Søderlind 32) are therefore both tacitly and explicitly underscored by projections of ethnic purity and “belonging”. As such, where we have previously considered the cultural capital of the “Nordic” as it emerges as a particular branding exercise, here we examine the exclusory impetus of homogenous understandings of the Nordic.Nordicness in this context connotes explicitly racialised value, which interpellates images of Viking heathenry to enable fantasies of the pure, white North. This phenomenon is particularly evident in the context of Norwegian black metal, which bases its own self-mythologising in explicitly Nordic parameters. Norwegian black metal bands and members of the broader scene have often taken steps to continually affirm their Nordicness through various representational strategies. The widespread church burnings associated with the early Norwegian black metal scene, for instance, can be framed as a radical rejection of Christianity and an embracing of Norway’s Viking, pagan past.The ethnoromanticisation of Nordic regions and landscapes is underscored by problematic projections of national belonging. An interest in pagan mythology, as Kahn-Harris notes, can easily become an interest in racism and fascism (41). The “uncritical celebration of pagan pasts, the obsession with the unpolluted countryside and the distrust of the cosmopolitan city” that mark much Norwegian black metal were also common features of early fascist and racist movements (Kahn-Harris 41).Norwegian black metal has thus been able to link the genre, as a global music commodity, to “the conscious revival of myths and ideologies of an ancient northern European history and nationalist culture” (Lucas, Deeks and Spracklen 279). The conscious revival of such myths materialised in the early Norwegian scene in deliberately racist sentiments. Mayhem drummer Jan Axel Blomberg (“Hellhammer”) demonstrates this in his brief declaration that “Black metal is for white people” (in Moynihan and Søderlind 305); similarly, Darkthrone’s original back cover of Transylvanian Hunger (1994) prominently featured the phrase “Norsk Arisk Black Metal” (“Norwegian Aryan Black Metal”). Nordicness as exclusory white, Aryan identity is further mobilised in the National Socialist Black Metal scene, which readily caters to ontological constructions of Nordic whiteness (Spracklen, True Aryan; Hagen).However, Nordicness is also given racialised value in more tacit, but nonetheless troubling ways in wider Nordic folk and Viking metal scenes. The popular association of Vikings with Nordic folk metal has enabled such figures to be dismissed as performative play or camp romanticism, ostensibly removed from the extremity of black metal. Such metal scenes and their appeals to ethnosymbolic patriarchs nevertheless remain central to the ongoing construction of Nordic metal as a site that enables the instrumentality of Northern European whiteness precisely through hiding such whiteness in plain sight (Spracklen, To Holmgard, 359).The ostensibly “camp” performance of bands such as Sweden’s Amon Amarth, Faroese act Týr, or Finland’s Korpiklaani distracts from the ways in which Nordicness, and its realisations through Viking and Pagan symbolism, emerges as a claim to ethnic exclusivity. Through imagining the Viking as an ancestral, genetic category, the “common past” of the Nordic people is constructed as a self-identity apart from other people (Blaagaard 11).Furthermore, the “Viking” itself has cultural capital that has circulated beyond Northern Europe in both inclusive and exclusive ways. Nordic symbolism and mythologies are invoked within the textual aesthetics of heavy metal communities across the globe–there are Viking metal bands in Australia, for instance. Further, the valorising of the “North” in metal discourse draws on the symbols of particular ethnic traditions to give historicity and local meaning to white identity.Lucas, Deeks and Spracklen map the rhetorical power of the “North” in English folk metal. However, the same international flows of Nordic cultural capital that have allowed for the success and distinctiveness of Nordic extreme metal have also enabled the proliferation of increasingly exclusionary practices. A flyer signed by the “Wiking Hordes” in May of 1995 (in Moynihan and Søderlind 327) warns that the expansion of black and death metal into Asia, Eastern Europe and South America posed a threat to the “true Aryan” metal community.Similarly, online discussions of the documentary Pagan Metal, in which an interviewee states that a Brazilian Viking metal band is “a bit funny”, shifted between assertions that enjoyment should not be restricted by cultural heritage and declarations that only Nordic bands could “legitimately” support Viking metal. Giving Nordicness value as a form of insular, ethnic belonging has therefore had exclusory and problematic implications for how metal scenes market their dominant symbols and narratives, particularly as scenes continue to grow and diversify across multiple national contexts.Nordicness as Liberal DemocracyNordicness in heavy metal, as we have argued, has been ascribed cultural capital as both a branded, generic phenomenon and as a marker of ancestral, ethnonational belonging. Understandings of “Nordic” as an exclusory ethnic category marked by strict boundaries however come into conflict with the Nordic region’s self-perceptions as a liberal democracy.We propose an additional iteration for “Nordicness” as a means of pointing to the tensions that emerge between particular metallic imaginings of the “North” as a remote, uncompromising site of pagan liberty, and the material realities of modern Nordic nation states. We consider some new parameters for articulations of “Nordicness” in metal scenes: Nordicness as material and political conditions that have enabled the popularity of heavy metal in the region, and furthermore, the manifestations of such liberal democratic discourses in Nordic extreme metal scenes.Nordicness as a cultural, political brand is based in perceptions of the Nordic countries as “global good citizens”, “peace loving”, “conflict-resolution oriented” and “rational” (Loftsdóttir and Jensen 2). This modern conception of Nordicness is grounded in the region’s current political climate, which took its form in the post-World War II rejection of fascism and the following refugee crisis.Northern Europe’s reputation as a “famously tolerant political community” (Dworkin 487) can therefore be seen, one on hand, as a crucial disconnect from the intolerant North mediated by factions of Nordic extreme metal scenes and on the other, a political community that provides the material conditions which allow extreme metal to flourish. Nordicness here, we argue, is a crucial form of scenic infrastructure–albeit one that has been both celebrated and condemned in the sites and spaces of Nordic extreme metal.The productivity and stability of extreme metal in the Nordic countries has been attributed to a variety of institutional factors: the general relative prosperity of Northern Europe (Terry), Scandinavian legal structures (Maguire 156), universal welfare, high levels of state support for cultural development, and a broad emphasis on musical education in schools.Kahn-Harris argues that the Swedish metal scene is supported by the strength of the Swedish music industry and “Swedish civil society in general” (108). Music education is strongly supported by the state; Sweden’s relatively generous welfare and education system also “provide [an] effective subsidy for music making” (108). Furthermore, he argues that the Swedish scene has benefited from being closer to the “cultural mainstream of the country than is the case in many other countries” (108). Such close relationships to the “cultural mainstream” also invite a critical backlash against the state. The anarchistic anti-government stance of Swedish hardcore bands or the radical individualism of Norwegian black metal embodies this backlash.Early black metal is seen as a targeted response to the “oppressive and numbing social democracy which dominated Norwegian political life” (Moynihan and Søderlind 32). This spurning of social democracy is further articulated by Darkthrone founder Fenriz, who states that black metal “…is every man for himself… It is individualism above all” (True Norwegian Black Metal). Nordic extreme metal’s emphasis on independence and anti-modernity is hence immediately troubled by the material reality of the conditions that allow it to flourish. Nordicness thus gains complex realisation as both radical individualism and democratic infrastructural conditions.In looking towards future directions for expressions of the “Nordic” in extreme metal scenes, we want to consider how Nordicness can be articulated not as exclusory ethnic belonging and individualist misanthropy, but rather illustrate how Nordic scenes have also proffered sites for progressive, anti-racist discourses that speak to the cultural branding of the North as a tolerant political community.Imaginings of the North as ethnically homogenous or pure are complicated by Nordic bands and fans who actively critique such racialised discourses, and instead situate “Nordic” metal as a site of heterogeneity and anti-racist activism. The liberal politics of the region are most clearly articulated in the music of Swedish hardcore and extreme metal bands, particularly those originating in the northern university town of Umeå. Like much of Europe’s underground music scene, Umeå hardcore bands are often aligned with the anti-fascist movement and its message of tolerance and active anti-racist, anti-homophobic and anti-sexist resistance and protest. Refused is the most well-known example, speaking out against capitalism and in favour of animal rights and civil liberties. Scandinavian DIY acts have also long played a crucial role in facilitating the global diffusion of anti-capitalist punk and hardcore music (Haenfler 287).Nonetheless, whilst such acts remain important sites of progressive discourses in homogenous constructions of Nordicness, such an argument for tolerance and diversity is difficult to maintain when the majority of the scene’s successful bands are made up of white, ethnically Scandinavian men. As such, in moving towards future considerations for Nordicness in extreme metal scenes, we thus call into focus a fragmentation of “Nordicness”, precisely to divorce it from homogenous constructions of the “Nordic”, and enable greater critical interrogation and plurality of the notion of the “North” in metal scholarship.ConclusionThis article has pointed towards a multiplicity of Nordic discourses that unfold in metal: Nordic as a marketing tool, Nordic as an ethnic signifier, and Nordic as the political reality of liberal democratic Northern Europe–and the tensions that emerge in their encounters and intersections. In arguing for multiple understandings of “Nordicness” in metal, we contend that the cultural capital that accompanies the “Nordic” actually emerges as a series of fragmented, often conflicting categories.In examining how images of the North as an isolated location at the edge of the world inform the branded construction of Nordic metal as sites of presumed authenticity, we considered how scenes such as Swedish death metal and Norwegian black metal were marketed precisely through their Nordicness, where their geographic isolation from the commercial centre of heavy metal was used to affirm their “Otherness” to their mainstream metal counterparts. This “otherness” has in turn enabled constructions of Nordic metal scenes as sites of not only metallic purity in their isolation from “commercial” metal scenes, but also ethnic homogeneity. Nordicness, in this instance, becomes inscribed with explicitly racialised value that interpellates images of Viking heathenry to bolster phantasmic imaginings of the pure, white North.However, as we argue in the third section, such exclusory narratives of Nordic belonging come into conflict with Northern Europe’s own self image as a site of progressive liberal democracy. We argue that Nordicness here can be taken as a political imperative towards socialist democracy, wherein such conditions have enabled the widespread viability of extreme metal; yet also invited critical backlashes against the modern political state.Ultimately, in responding to our own research question–what is the cultural capital of “Nordicness” in metal?–we assert that such capital is realised in multiple iterations, undermining any possibility of a uniform category of “Nordicness”, and exposing its political tensions and paradoxes. 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IntroductionIn the year 2000, a group of likeminded individuals got together and convened the first annual World Barista Championship in Monte Carlo. With twelve competitors from around the globe, each competitor was judged by seven judges: one head judge who oversaw the process, two technical judges who assessed technical skills, and four sensory judges who evaluated the taste and appearance of the espresso drinks. Competitors had fifteen minutes to serve four espresso coffees, four cappuccino coffees, and four “signature” drinks that they had devised using one shot of espresso and other ingredients of their choice, but no alcohol. The competitors were also assessed on their overall barista skills, their creativity, and their ability to perform under pressure and impress the judges with their knowledge of coffee. This competition has grown to the extent that eleven years later, in 2011, 54 countries held national barista championships with the winner from each country competing for the highly coveted position of World Barista Champion. That year, Alejandro Mendez from El Salvador became the first world champion from a coffee producing nation. Champion baristas are more likely to come from coffee consuming countries than they are from coffee producing countries as countries that produce coffee seldom have a culture of espresso coffee consumption. While Ireland is not a coffee-producing nation, the Irish are the highest per capita consumers of tea in the world (Mac Con Iomaire, “Ireland”). Despite this, in 2008, Stephen Morrissey from Ireland overcame 50 other national champions to become the 2008 World Barista Champion (see, http://vimeo.com/2254130). Another Irish national champion, Colin Harmon, came fourth in this competition in both 2009 and 2010. This paper discusses the history and development of coffee and coffee houses in Dublin from the 17th century, charting how coffee culture in Dublin appeared, evolved, and stagnated before re-emerging at the beginning of the 21st century, with a remarkable win in the World Barista Championships. The historical links between coffeehouses and media—ranging from print media to electronic and social media—are discussed. In this, the coffee house acts as an informal public gathering space, what urban sociologist Ray Oldenburg calls a “third place,” neither work nor home. These “third places” provide anchors for community life and facilitate and foster broader, more creative interaction (Oldenburg). This paper will also show how competition from other “third places” such as clubs, hotels, restaurants, and bars have affected the vibrancy of coffee houses. Early Coffee Houses The first coffee house was established in Constantinople in 1554 (Tannahill 252; Huetz de Lemps 387). The first English coffee houses opened in Oxford in 1650 and in London in 1652. Coffee houses multiplied thereafter but, in 1676, when some London coffee houses became hotbeds for political protest, the city prosecutor decided to close them. The ban was soon lifted and between 1680 and 1730 Londoners discovered the pleasure of drinking coffee (Huetz de Lemps 388), although these coffee houses sold a number of hot drinks including tea and chocolate as well as coffee.The first French coffee houses opened in Marseille in 1671 and in Paris the following year. Coffee houses proliferated during the 18th century: by 1720 there were 380 public cafés in Paris and by the end of the century there were 600 (Huetz de Lemps 387). Café Procope opened in Paris in 1674 and, in the 18th century, became a literary salon with regular patrons: Voltaire, Rousseau, Diderot and Condorcet (Huetz de Lemps 387; Pitte 472). In England, coffee houses developed into exclusive clubs such as Crockford’s and the Reform, whilst elsewhere in Europe they evolved into what we identify as cafés, similar to the tea shops that would open in England in the late 19th century (Tannahill 252-53). Tea quickly displaced coffee in popularity in British coffee houses (Taylor 142). Pettigrew suggests two reasons why Great Britain became a tea-drinking nation while most of the rest of Europe took to coffee (48). The first was the power of the East India Company, chartered by Elizabeth I in 1600, which controlled the world’s biggest tea monopoly and promoted the beverage enthusiastically. The second was the difficulty England had in securing coffee from the Levant while at war with France at the end of the seventeenth century and again during the War of the Spanish Succession (1702-13). Tea also became the dominant beverage in Ireland and over a period of time became the staple beverage of the whole country. In 1835, Samuel Bewley and his son Charles dared to break the monopoly of The East India Company by importing over 2,000 chests of tea directly from Canton, China, to Ireland. His family would later become synonymous with the importation of coffee and with opening cafés in Ireland (see, Farmar for full history of the Bewley's and their activities). Ireland remains the highest per-capita consumer of tea in the world. Coffee houses have long been linked with social and political change (Kennedy, Politicks; Pincus). The notion that these new non-alcoholic drinks were responsible for the Enlightenment because people could now gather socially without getting drunk is rejected by Wheaton as frivolous, since there had always been alternatives to strong drink, and European civilisation had achieved much in the previous centuries (91). She comments additionally that cafés, as gathering places for dissenters, took over the role that taverns had long played. Pennell and Vickery support this argument adding that by offering a choice of drinks, and often sweets, at a fixed price and in a more civilized setting than most taverns provided, coffee houses and cafés were part of the rise of the modern restaurant. It is believed that, by 1700, the commercial provision of food and drink constituted the second largest occupational sector in London. Travellers’ accounts are full of descriptions of London taverns, pie shops, coffee, bun and chop houses, breakfast huts, and food hawkers (Pennell; Vickery). Dublin Coffee Houses and Later incarnations The earliest reference to coffee houses in Dublin is to the Cock Coffee House in Cook Street during the reign of Charles II (1660-85). Public dining or drinking establishments listed in the 1738 Dublin Directory include taverns, eating houses, chop houses, coffee houses, and one chocolate house in Fownes Court run by Peter Bardin (Hardiman and Kennedy 157). During the second half of the 17th century, Dublin’s merchant classes transferred allegiance from taverns to the newly fashionable coffee houses as places to conduct business. By 1698, the fashion had spread to country towns with coffee houses found in Cork, Limerick, Kilkenny, Clonmel, Wexford, and Galway, and slightly later in Belfast and Waterford in the 18th century. Maxwell lists some of Dublin’s leading coffee houses and taverns, noting their clientele: There were Lucas’s Coffee House, on Cork Hill (the scene of many duels), frequented by fashionable young men; the Phoenix, in Werburgh Street, where political dinners were held; Dick’s Coffee House, in Skinner’s Row, much patronized by literary men, for it was over a bookseller’s; the Eagle, in Eustace Street, where meetings of the Volunteers were held; the Old Sot’s Hole, near Essex Bridge, famous for its beefsteaks and ale; the Eagle Tavern, on Cork Hill, which was demolished at the same time as Lucas’s to make room for the Royal Exchange; and many others. (76) Many of the early taverns were situated around the Winetavern Street, Cook Street, and Fishamble Street area. (see Fig. 1) Taverns, and later coffee houses, became meeting places for gentlemen and centres for debate and the exchange of ideas. In 1706, Francis Dickson published the Flying Post newspaper at the Four Courts coffee house in Winetavern Street. The Bear Tavern (1725) and the Black Lyon (1735), where a Masonic Lodge assembled every Wednesday, were also located on this street (Gilbert v.1 160). Dick’s Coffee house was established in the late 17th century by bookseller and newspaper proprietor Richard Pue, and remained open until 1780 when the building was demolished. In 1740, Dick’s customers were described thus: Ye citizens, gentlemen, lawyers and squires,who summer and winter surround our great fires,ye quidnuncs! who frequently come into Pue’s,To live upon politicks, coffee, and news. (Gilbert v.1 174) There has long been an association between coffeehouses and publishing books, pamphlets and particularly newspapers. Other Dublin publishers and newspapermen who owned coffee houses included Richard Norris and Thomas Bacon. Until the 1850s, newspapers were burdened with a number of taxes: on the newsprint, a stamp duty, and on each advertisement. By 1865, these taxes had virtually disappeared, resulting in the appearance of 30 new newspapers in Ireland, 24 of them in Dublin. Most people read from copies which were available free of charge in taverns, clubs, and coffee houses (MacGiolla Phadraig). Coffee houses also kept copies of international newspapers. On 4 May 1706, Francis Dickson notes in the Dublin Intelligence that he held the Paris and London Gazettes, Leyden Gazette and Slip, the Paris and Hague Lettres à la Main, Daily Courant, Post-man, Flying Post, Post-script and Manuscripts in his coffeehouse in Winetavern Street (Kennedy, “Dublin”). Henry Berry’s analysis of shop signs in Dublin identifies 24 different coffee houses in Dublin, with the main clusters in Essex Street near the Custom’s House (Cocoa Tree, Bacon’s, Dempster’s, Dublin, Merchant’s, Norris’s, and Walsh’s) Cork Hill (Lucas’s, St Lawrence’s, and Solyman’s) Skinners’ Row (Bow’s’, Darby’s, and Dick’s) Christ Church Yard (Four Courts, and London) College Green (Jack’s, and Parliament) and Crampton Court (Exchange, and Little Dublin). (see Figure 1, below, for these clusters and the locations of other Dublin coffee houses.) The earliest to be referenced is the Cock Coffee House in Cook Street during the reign of Charles II (1660-85), with Solyman’s (1691), Bow’s (1692), and Patt’s on High Street (1699), all mentioned in print before the 18th century. The name of one, the Cocoa Tree, suggests that chocolate was also served in this coffee house. More evidence of the variety of beverages sold in coffee houses comes from Gilbert who notes that in 1730, one Dublin poet wrote of George Carterwright’s wife at The Custom House Coffee House on Essex Street: Her coffee’s fresh and fresh her tea,Sweet her cream, ptizan, and whea,her drams, of ev’ry sort, we findboth good and pleasant, in their kind. (v. 2 161) Figure 1: Map of Dublin indicating Coffee House clusters 1 = Sackville St.; 2 = Winetavern St.; 3 = Essex St.; 4 = Cork Hill; 5 = Skinner's Row; 6 = College Green.; 7 = Christ Church Yard; 8 = Crampton Court.; 9 = Cook St.; 10 = High St.; 11 = Eustace St.; 12 = Werburgh St.; 13 = Fishamble St.; 14 = Westmorland St.; 15 = South Great George's St.; 16 = Grafton St.; 17 = Kildare St.; 18 = Dame St.; 19 = Anglesea Row; 20 = Foster Place; 21 = Poolbeg St.; 22 = Fleet St.; 23 = Burgh Quay.A = Cafe de Paris, Lincoln Place; B = Red Bank Restaurant, D'Olier St.; C = Morrison's Hotel, Nassau St.; D = Shelbourne Hotel, St. Stephen's Green; E = Jury's Hotel, Dame St. Some coffee houses transformed into the gentlemen’s clubs that appeared in London, Paris and Dublin in the 17th century. These clubs originally met in coffee houses, then taverns, until later proprietary clubs became fashionable. Dublin anticipated London in club fashions with members of the Kildare Street Club (1782) and the Sackville Street Club (1794) owning the premises of their clubhouse, thus dispensing with the proprietor. The first London club to be owned by the members seems to be Arthur’s, founded in 1811 (McDowell 4) and this practice became widespread throughout the 19th century in both London and Dublin. The origin of one of Dublin’s most famous clubs, Daly’s Club, was a chocolate house opened by Patrick Daly in c.1762–65 in premises at 2–3 Dame Street (Brooke). It prospered sufficiently to commission its own granite-faced building on College Green between Anglesea Street and Foster Place which opened in 1789 (Liddy 51). Daly’s Club, “where half the land of Ireland has changed hands”, was renowned for the gambling that took place there (Montgomery 39). Daly’s sumptuous palace catered very well (and discreetly) for honourable Members of Parliament and rich “bucks” alike (Craig 222). The changing political and social landscape following the Act of Union led to Daly’s slow demise and its eventual closure in 1823 (Liddy 51). Coincidentally, the first Starbucks in Ireland opened in 2005 in the same location. Once gentlemen’s clubs had designated buildings where members could eat, drink, socialise, and stay overnight, taverns and coffee houses faced competition from the best Dublin hotels which also had coffee rooms “in which gentlemen could read papers, write letters, take coffee and wine in the evening—an exiguous substitute for a club” (McDowell 17). There were at least 15 establishments in Dublin city claiming to be hotels by 1789 (Corr 1) and their numbers grew in the 19th century, an expansion which was particularly influenced by the growth of railways. By 1790, Dublin’s public houses (“pubs”) outnumbered its coffee houses with Dublin boasting 1,300 (Rooney 132). Names like the Goose and Gridiron, Harp and Crown, Horseshoe and Magpie, and Hen and Chickens—fashionable during the 17th and 18th centuries in Ireland—hung on decorative signs for those who could not read. Throughout the 20th century, the public house provided the dominant “third place” in Irish society, and the drink of choice for itd predominantly male customers was a frothy pint of Guinness. Newspapers were available in public houses and many newspapermen had their own favourite hostelries such as Mulligan’s of Poolbeg Street; The Pearl, and The Palace on Fleet Street; and The White Horse Inn on Burgh Quay. Any coffee served in these establishments prior to the arrival of the new coffee culture in the 21st century was, however, of the powdered instant variety. Hotels / Restaurants with Coffee Rooms From the mid-19th century, the public dining landscape of Dublin changed in line with London and other large cities in the United Kingdom. Restaurants did appear gradually in the United Kingdom and research suggests that one possible reason for this growth from the 1860s onwards was the Refreshment Houses and Wine Licences Act (1860). The object of this act was to “reunite the business of eating and drinking”, thereby encouraging public sobriety (Mac Con Iomaire, “Emergence” v.2 95). Advertisements for Dublin restaurants appeared in The Irish Times from the 1860s. Thom’s Directory includes listings for Dining Rooms from the 1870s and Refreshment Rooms are listed from the 1880s. This pattern continued until 1909, when Thom’s Directory first includes a listing for “Restaurants and Tea Rooms”. Some of the establishments that advertised separate coffee rooms include Dublin’s first French restaurant, the Café de Paris, The Red Bank Restaurant, Morrison’s Hotel, Shelbourne Hotel, and Jury’s Hotel (see Fig. 1). The pattern of separate ladies’ coffee rooms emerged in Dublin and London during the latter half of the 19th century and mixed sex dining only became popular around the last decade of the 19th century, partly infuenced by Cesar Ritz and Auguste Escoffier (Mac Con Iomaire, “Public Dining”). Irish Cafés: From Bewley’s to Starbucks A number of cafés appeared at the beginning of the 20th century, most notably Robert Roberts and Bewley’s, both of which were owned by Quaker families. Ernest Bewley took over the running of the Bewley’s importation business in the 1890s and opened a number of Oriental Cafés; South Great Georges Street (1894), Westmoreland Street (1896), and what became the landmark Bewley’s Oriental Café in Grafton Street (1927). Drawing influence from the grand cafés of Paris and Vienna, oriental tearooms, and Egyptian architecture (inspired by the discovery in 1922 of Tutankhamen’s Tomb), the Grafton Street business brought a touch of the exotic into the newly formed Irish Free State. Bewley’s cafés became the haunt of many of Ireland’s leading literary figures, including Samuel Becket, Sean O’Casey, and James Joyce who mentioned the café in his book, Dubliners. A full history of Bewley’s is available (Farmar). It is important to note, however, that pots of tea were sold in equal measure to mugs of coffee in Bewley’s. The cafés changed over time from waitress- to self-service and a failure to adapt to changing fashions led to the business being sold, with only the flagship café in Grafton Street remaining open in a revised capacity. It was not until the beginning of the 21st century that a new wave of coffee house culture swept Ireland. This was based around speciality coffee beverages such as espressos, cappuccinos, lattés, macchiatos, and frappuccinnos. This new phenomenon coincided with the unprecedented growth in the Irish economy, during which Ireland became known as the “Celtic Tiger” (Murphy 3). One aspect of this period was a building boom and a subsequent growth in apartment living in the Dublin city centre. The American sitcom Friends and its fictional coffee house, “Central Perk,” may also have helped popularise the use of coffee houses as “third spaces” (Oldenberg) among young apartment dwellers in Dublin. This was also the era of the “dotcom boom” when many young entrepreneurs, software designers, webmasters, and stock market investors were using coffee houses as meeting places for business and also as ad hoc office spaces. This trend is very similar to the situation in the 17th and early 18th centuries where coffeehouses became known as sites for business dealings. Various theories explaining the growth of the new café culture have circulated, with reasons ranging from a growth in Eastern European migrants, anti-smoking legislation, returning sophisticated Irish emigrants, and increased affluence (Fenton). Dublin pubs, facing competition from the new coffee culture, began installing espresso coffee machines made by companies such as Gaggia to attract customers more interested in a good latté than a lager and it is within this context that Irish baristas gained such success in the World Barista competition. In 2001 the Georges Street branch of Bewley’s was taken over by a chain called Café, Bar, Deli specialising in serving good food at reasonable prices. Many ex-Bewley’s staff members subsequently opened their own businesses, roasting coffee and running cafés. Irish-owned coffee chains such as Java Republic, Insomnia, and O’Brien’s Sandwich Bars continued to thrive despite the competition from coffee chains Starbucks and Costa Café. Indeed, so successful was the handmade Irish sandwich and coffee business that, before the economic downturn affected its business, Irish franchise O’Brien’s operated in over 18 countries. The Café, Bar, Deli group had also begun to franchise its operations in 2008 when it too became a victim of the global economic downturn. With the growth of the Internet, many newspapers have experienced falling sales of their printed format and rising uptake of their electronic versions. Most Dublin coffee houses today provide wireless Internet connections so their customers can read not only the local newspapers online, but also others from all over the globe, similar to Francis Dickenson’s coffee house in Winetavern Street in the early 18th century. Dublin has become Europe’s Silicon Valley, housing the European headquarters for companies such as Google, Yahoo, Ebay, Paypal, and Facebook. There are currently plans to provide free wireless connectivity throughout Dublin’s city centre in order to promote e-commerce, however, some coffee houses shut off the wireless Internet in their establishments at certain times of the week in order to promote more social interaction to ensure that these “third places” remain “great good places” at the heart of the community (Oldenburg). Conclusion Ireland is not a country that is normally associated with a coffee culture but coffee houses have been part of the fabric of that country since they emerged in Dublin in the 17th century. These Dublin coffee houses prospered in the 18th century, and survived strong competition from clubs and hotels in the 19th century, and from restaurant and public houses into the 20th century. In 2008, when Stephen Morrissey won the coveted title of World Barista Champion, Ireland’s place as a coffee consuming country was re-established. 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Introduction Special occasion cookery has been a staple of the cookbook writing in the English speaking Western world for decades. This includes providing catering for personal milestones as well as religious and secular festivals. Yet, in an era when the culinary publishing sector is undergoing considerable expansion and market segmentation, narratives of foods marking of one of life’s central and inescapable rites—death—are extremely rare. This discussion investigates examples of food writing related to death and funeral rites in contemporary cookbooks. Funeral feasts held in honour of the dead date back beyond recorded history (Luby and Gruber), and religious, ceremonial and community group meals as a component of funeral rites are now ubiquitous around the world. In earlier times, the dead were believed to derive both pleasure and advantage from these offerings (LeClercq), and contemporary practice still reflects this to some extent, with foods favoured by the deceased sometimes included in such meals (see, for instance, Varidel). In the past, offering some sustenance as a component of a funeral was often necessary, as mourners might have travelled considerable distances to attend the ceremony, and eateries outside the home were not as commonplace or convenient to access as they are today. The abundance and/or lavishness of the foods provided may also have reflected the high esteem in which the dead was held, and offered as a mark of community respect (Smith and Bird). Following longstanding tradition, it is still common for Western funeral attendees to gather after the formal parts of the event—the funeral service and burial or cremation —in a more informal atmosphere to share memories of the deceased and refreshments (Simplicity Funerals 31). Thursby notes that these events, which are ostensibly about the dead, often develop into a celebration of the ties between living family members and friends, “times of reunions and renewed relationships” (94). Sharing food is central to this celebration as “foods affirm identity, strengthen kinship bonds, provide comfortable and familiar emotional support during periods of stress” (79), while familiar dishes evoke both memories and promising signals of the continued celebration of life” (94). While in the southern states and some other parts of the USA, it is customary to gather at the church premises after the funeral for a meal made up of items contributed by members of the congregation, and with leftovers sent home with the bereaved family (Siegfried), it is more common in Australasia and the UK to gather either in the home of the principal mourners, someone else’s home or a local hotel, club or restaurant (Jalland). Church halls are a less common option in Australasia, and an increasing trend is the utilisation of facilities attached to the funeral home and supplied as a component of a funeral package (Australian Heritage Funerals). The provision of this catering largely depends on the venue chosen, with the cookery either done by family and/or friends, the hotel, club, restaurant or professional catering companies, although this does not usually affect the style of the food, which in Australia and New Zealand is often based on a morning or afternoon tea style meal (Jalland). Despite widespread culinary innovation in other contexts, funeral catering bears little evidence of experimentation. Ash likens this to as being “fed by grandmothers”, and describes “scones, pastries, sandwiches, biscuits, lamingtons—food from a fifties afternoon party with the taste of Country Women’s Association about it”, noting that funerals “require humble food. A sandwich is not an affront to the dead” (online). Numerous other memoirists note this reliance on familiar foods. In “S is for Sad” in her An Alphabet for Gourmets (1949), food writer M.F.K. Fisher writes of mourners’s deep need for sustenance at this time as a “mysterious appetite that often surges in us when our hearts seem breaking and our lives too bleakly empty” (135). In line with Probyn’s argument that food foregrounds the viscerality of life (7), Fisher notes that “most bereaved souls crave nourishment more tangible than prayers: they want a steak. […] It is as if our bodies, wiser than we who wear them, call out for encouragement and strength and […] compel us […] to eat” (135, 136). Yet, while funerals are a recurring theme in food memoirs (see, for example, West, Consuming), only a small number of Western cookbooks address this form of special occasion food provision. Feast by Nigella Lawson Nigella Lawson’s Feast: Food that Celebrates Life (2004) is one of the very few popular contemporary cookbooks in English that includes an entire named section on cookery for funerals. Following twenty-one chapters that range from the expected (Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, and wedding) to more original (children’s and midnight) feasts, Lawson frames her discussion with an anthropological understanding of the meaning of special occasion eating. She notes that we use food “to mark occasions that are important to us in life” (vii) and how eating together “is the vital way we celebrate anything that matters […] how we mark the connections between us, how we celebrate life” (vii). Such meals embody both personal and group identities because both how and what is eaten “lies at the heart of who we are-as individuals, families, communities” (vii). This is consistent with her overall aims as a food writer—to explore foods’ meanings—as she states in the book’s introduction “the recipes matter […] but it is what the food says that really counts” (vii). She reiterates this near the end of the book, adding, almost as an afterthought, “and, of course, what it tastes like” (318). Lawson’s food writing also reveals considerable detail about herself. In common with many other celebrity chefs and food writers, Lawson continuously draws on, elaborates upon, and ultimately constructs her own life as a major theme of her works (Brien, Rutherford, and Williamson). In doing so, she, like these other chefs and food writers, draws upon revelations of her private life to lend authenticity to her cooking, to the point where her cookbooks could be described as “memoir-illustrated-with-recipes” (Brien and Williamson). The privileging of autobiographical information in Lawson’s work extends beyond the use of her own home and children in her television programs and books, to the revelation of personal details about her life, with the result that these have become well known. Her readers thus know that her mother, sister and first and much-loved husband all died of cancer in a relatively brief space of time, and how these tragedies affected her life. Her first book, How to Eat: The Pleasures and Principles of Good Food (1998), opened with the following dedication: “In memory of my mother, Vanessa (1936–1985) and my sister Thomasina (1961–1993)” (dedication page). Her husband, BBC broadcaster and The Times (London) journalist John Diamond, who died of throat cancer in 2001, furthered this public knowledge, writing about both his illness and at length about Lawson in his column and his book C: Because Cowards Get Cancer Too (1999). In Feast, Lawson discusses her personal tragedies in the introduction of the ‘Funeral Foods’ chapter, writing about a friend's kind act of leaving bags of shopping from the supermarket for her when she was grieving (451). Her first recipe in this section, for a potato topped fish pie, is highly personalised in that it is described as “what I made on the evening following my mother’s funeral” (451). Following this, she again uses her own personal experience when she notes that “I don’t think anyone wants to cook in the immediate shock of bereavement […] but a few days on cooking can be a calming act, and since the mind knows no rest and has no focus, the body may as well be busy” (451). Similarly, her recipe for the slowly hard-boiled, dark-stained Hamine Eggs are described as “sans bouche”, which she explains means “without mouths to express sorrow and anguish.” She adds, drawing on her own memories of feelings at such times, “I find that appropriate: there is nothing to be said, or nothing that helps” (455). Despite these examples of raw emotion, Lawson’s chapter is not all about grief. She also comments on both the aesthetics of dishes suitable for such times and their meanings, as well as the assistance that can be offered to others through the preparation and sharing of food. In her recipe for a lamb tagine that includes prunes, she notes, for example, that the dried plums are “traditionally part of the funeral fare of many cultures […] since their black colour is thought to be appropriate to the solemnity of the occasion” (452). Lawson then suggests this as a suitable dish to offer to someone in mourning, someone who needs to “be taken care of by you” (452). This is followed by a lentil soup, the lentils again “because of their dark colour … considered fitting food for funerals” (453), but also practical, as the dish is “both comforting and sustaining and, importantly, easy to transport and reheat” (453). Her next recipe for a meatloaf containing a line of hard-boiled eggs continues this rhetorical framing—as it is “always comfort food […] perfect for having sliced on a plate at a funeral tea or for sending round to someone’s house” (453). She adds the observation that there is “something hopeful and cheering about the golden yolk showing through in each slice” (453), noting that the egg “is a recurring feature in funeral food, symbolising as it does, the cycle of life, the end and the beginning in one” (453). The next recipe, Heavenly Potatoes, is Lawson’s version of the dish known as Mormon or Utah Funeral potatoes (Jensen), which are so iconic in Utah that they were featured on one of the Salt Lake City Olympic Games souvenir pins (Spackman). This tray of potatoes baked in milk and sour cream and then topped with crushed cornflakes are, she notes, although they sound exotic, quite familiar, and “perfect alongside the British traditional baked ham” (454), and reference given to an earlier ham recipe. These savoury recipes are followed by those for three substantial cakes: an orange cake marbled with chocolate-coffee swirls, a fruit tea loaf, and a rosemary flavoured butter cake, each to be served sliced to mourners. She suggests making the marble cake (which Lawson advises she includes in memory of the deceased mother of one of her friends) in a ring mould, “as the circle is always significant. There is a cycle that continues but—after all, the cake is sliced and the circle broken—another that has ended” (456). Of the fruitcake, she writes “I think you need a fruit cake for a funeral: there’s something both comforting and bolstering (and traditional) about it” (457). This tripartite concern—with comfort, sustenance and tradition—is common to much writing about funeral foods. Cookbooks from the American South Despite this English example, a large proportion of cookbook writing about funeral foods is in American publications, and especially those by southern American authors, reflecting the bountiful spreads regularly offered to mourners in these states. This is chronicled in novels, short stories, folk songs and food memoirs as well as some cookery books (Purvis). West’s memoir Consuming Passions: A Food Obsessed Life (2000) has a chapter devoted to funeral food, complete with recipes (132–44). West notes that it is traditional in southern small towns to bring covered dishes of food to the bereaved, and that these foods have a powerful, and singular, expressive mode: “Sometimes we say all the wrong things, but food […] says, ‘I know you are inconsolable. I know you are fragile right now. And I am so sorry for your loss’” (139). Suggesting that these foods are “concern and sympathy in a Pyrex bowl” (139), West includes recipes for Chess pie (a lemon tart), with the information that this is known in the South as “funeral pie” (135) and a lemon-flavoured slice that, with a cup of tea, will “revive the spirit” (136). Like Lawson, West finds significance in the colours of funeral foods, continuing that the sunny lemon in this slice “reminds us that life continues, that we must sustain and nourish it” (139). Gaydon Metcalf and Charlotte Hays’s Being Dead is No Excuse: The Official Southern Ladies Guide to Hosting the Perfect Funeral (2005), is one of the few volumes available dedicated to funeral planning and also offers a significant cookery-focused section on food to offer at, and take to, funeral events. Jessica Bemis Ward’s To Die For: A Book of Funeral Food, Tips, and Tales from the Old City Cemetery, Lynchburg, Virginia (2004) not only contains more than 100 recipes, but also information about funeral customs, practical advice in writing obituaries and condolence notes, and a series of very atmospheric photographs of this historic cemetery. The recipes in the book are explicitly noted to be traditional comfort foods from Central Virginia, as Ward agrees with the other writers identified that “simplicity is the by-word when talking about funeral food” (20). Unlike the other examples cited here, however, Ward also promotes purchasing commercially-prepared local specialties to supplement home-cooked items. There is certainly significantly more general recognition of the specialist nature of catering for funerals in the USA than in Australasia. American food is notable in stressing how different ethnic groups and regions have specific dishes that are associated with post-funeral meals. From this, readers learn that the Amish commonly prepare a funeral pie with raisins, and Chinese-American funerals include symbolic foods taken to the graveside as an offering—including piles of oranges for good luck and entire roast pigs. Jewish, Italian and Greek culinary customs in America also receive attention in both scholarly studies and popular American food writing (see, for example, Rogak, Purvis). This is beginning to be acknowledged in Australia with some recent investigation into the cultural importance of food in contemporary Chinese, Jewish, Greek, and Anglo-Australian funerals (Keys), but is yet to be translated into local mainstream cookery publication. Possible Publishing Futures As home funerals are a growing trend in the USA (Wilson 2009), green funerals increase in popularity in the UK (West, Natural Burial), and the multi-million dollar funeral industry is beginning to be questioned in Australia (FCDC), a more family or community-centered “response to death and after-death care” (NHFA) is beginning to re-emerge. This is a process whereby family and community members play a key role in various parts of the funeral, including in planning and carrying out after-death rituals or ceremonies, preparing the body, transporting it to the place of burial or cremation, and facilitating its final disposition in such activities as digging the grave (Gonzalez and Hereira, NHFA). Westrate, director of the documentary A Family Undertaking (2004), believes this challenges us to “re-examine our attitudes toward death […] it’s one of life’s most defining moments, yet it’s the one we typically prepare for least […] [and an indication of our] culture of denial” (PBS). With an emphasis on holding meaningful re-personalised after-disposal events as well as minimal, non-invasive and environmentally friendly treatment of the body (Harris), such developments would also seem to indicate that the catering involved in funeral occasions, and the cookbooks that focus on the provision of such food, may well become more prominent in the future. References [AHF] Australian Heritage Funerals. “After the Funeral.” Australian Heritage Funerals, 2013. 10 Mar. 2013 ‹http://www.ahfunerals.com.au/services.php?arid=31›. Ash, Romy. “The Taste of Sad: Funeral Feasts, Loss and Mourning.” Voracious: Best New Australian Food Writing. Ed. Paul McNally. Richmond, Vic.: Hardie Grant, 2011. 3 Apr. 2013 ‹http://www.romyash.com/non-fiction/the-taste-of-sad-funeral-feasts-loss-and-mourning›. Brien, Donna Lee, Leonie Rutherford, and Rosemary Williamson. "Hearth and Hotmail: The Domestic Sphere as Commodity and Community in Cyberspace." M/C Journal 10.4 (2007). 28 Apr. 2013 ‹http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/10-brien.php›. Brien, Donna Lee, and Rosemary Williamson. “‘Angels of the Home’ in Cyberspace: New Technologies and Biographies of Domestic Production”. Biography and New Technologies. Australian National University. Humanities Research Centre, Canberra, ACT. 12-14 Sep. 2006. Conference Presentation. Diamond, John. C: Because Cowards Get Cancer Too… . London: Vermilion, 1998. Fisher, M.F.K. “S is for Sad.” An Alphabet for Gourmets. New York, North Point P, 1989. 1st. pub. New York, Viking: 1949. Gonzalez, Faustino, and Mildreys Hereira. “Home-Based Viewing (El Velorio) After Death: A Cost-Effective Alternative for Some Families.” American Journal of Hospice & Pallative Medicine 25.5 (2008): 419–20. Harris, Mark. Grave Matters: A Journey Through the Modern Funeral Industry to a Natural Way of Burial. New York: Scribner, 2007. Jalland, Patricia. Australian Ways of Death: A Social and Cultural History 1840-1918. Melbourne: Oxford UP, 2002. Jensen, Julie Badger. The Essential Mormon Cookbook: Green Jell-O, Funeral Potatoes, and Other Secret Combinations. Salt Lake City: Deseret, 2004. Keys, Laura. “Undertaking a Jelly Feast in Williamstown.” Hobsons Bay Leader 28 Mar. 2011. 2 Apr. 2013 ‹http://hobsons-bay-leader.whereilive.com.au/news/story/undertaking-a-jelly-feast-in-williamstown›. Lawson, Nigella. How to Eat: The Pleasures and Principles of Good Food. London: Chatto & Windus, 1998. ---. Feast: Food that Celebrates Life. London: Chatto & Windus, 2004. LeClercq, H. “The Agape Feast.” The Catholic Encyclopedia I, New York: Robert Appleton, 1907. 3 Apr. 2013. ‹http://www.piney.com/AgapeCE.html›. Luby, Edward M., and Mark F. Gruber. “The Dead Must Be Fed: Symbolic Meanings of the Shellmounds of the San Francisco Bay Area.” Cambridge Archaeological Journal 9.1 (1999): 95–108. Metcalf, Gaydon, and Charlotte Hays. Being Dead Is No Excuse: The Official Southern Ladies Guide to Hosting the Perfect Funeral. New York: Miramax, 2005. [NHFA] National Home Funeral Alliance. “What is a Home Funeral?” National Home Funeral Alliance, 2012. 3 Apr. 2013. ‹http://homefuneralalliance.org›. PBS. “A Family Undertaking.” POV: Documentaries with a Point of View. PBS, 2004. 3 Apr. 2013 ‹http://www.pbs.org/pov/afamilyundertaking/film_description.php#.UYHI2PFquRY›. Probyn, Elspeth. Carnal Appetites: Food/Sex/Identities. London: Routledge, 2000. Purvis, Kathleen. “Funeral Food.” The Oxford Companion to American Food and Drink. Ed. Andrew F. Smith. New York: Oxford UP, 2007. 247–48. Rogak, Lisa. Death Warmed Over: Funeral Food, Rituals, and Customs from Around the World. Berkeley: Ten Speed P, 2004. Siegfried, Susie. Church Potluck Carry-Ins and Casseroles: Homestyle Recipes for Church Suppers, Gatherings, and Community Celebrations. Avon, MA.: Adams Media, 2006. Simplicity Funerals. Things You Need To Know About Funerals. Sydney: Simplicity Funerals, 1990. Smith, Eric Alden, and Rebecca L. Bliege Bird. “Turtle Hunting and Tombstone Opening: Public Generosity as Costly Signaling.” Evolution and Human Behavior 21.4 (2000): 245–61.Spackman, Christy. “Mormonism’s Jell-O Mold: Why Do We Associate the Religion With the Gelatin Dessert?” Slate Magazine 17 Aug. (2012). 3 Apr. 2013.Thursby, Jacqueline S. Funeral Festivals in America: Rituals for the Living. Lexington: UP of Kentucky, 2006. Varidel, Rebecca. “Bompas and Parr: Funerals and Food at Nelson Bros.” Inside Cuisine 12 Mar. (2011). 3 Apr. 2013 ‹http://insidecuisine.com/2011/03/12/bompas-and-parr-funerals-and-food-at-nelson-bros›. Ward, Jessica Bemis. Food To Die for: A Book of Funeral Food, Tips, and Tales from the Old City Cemetery, Lynchburg, Virginia. Lynchburg: Southern Memorial Association, 2004. West, Ken. A Guide to Natural Burial. Andover UK: Sweet & Maxwell, 2010. West, Michael Lee. Consuming Passions: A Food Obsessed Life. New York: Perennial, 2000. Wilson, M.T. “The Home Funeral as the Final Act of Caring: A Qualitative Study.” Master in Nursing thesis. Livonia, Michigan: Madonna University, 2009.

The term “coffee palace” was primarily used in Australia to describe the temperance hotels that were built in the last decades of the 19th century, although there are references to the term also being used to a lesser extent in the United Kingdom (Denby 174). Built in response to the worldwide temperance movement, which reached its pinnacle in the 1880s in Australia, coffee palaces were hotels that did not serve alcohol. This was a unique time in Australia’s architectural development as the economic boom fuelled by the gold rush in the 1850s, and the demand for ostentatious display that gathered momentum during the following years, afforded the use of richly ornamental High Victorian architecture and resulted in very majestic structures; hence the term “palace” (Freeland 121). The often multi-storied coffee palaces were found in every capital city as well as regional areas such as Geelong and Broken Hill, and locales as remote as Maria Island on the east coast of Tasmania. Presented as upholding family values and discouraging drunkenness, the coffee palaces were most popular in seaside resorts such as Barwon Heads in Victoria, where they catered to families. Coffee palaces were also constructed on a grand scale to provide accommodation for international and interstate visitors attending the international exhibitions held in Sydney (1879) and Melbourne (1880 and 1888). While the temperance movement lasted well over 100 years, the life of coffee palaces was relatively short-lived. Nevertheless, coffee palaces were very much part of Australia’s cultural landscape. In this article, I examine the rise and demise of coffee palaces associated with the temperance movement and argue that coffee palaces established in the name of abstinence were modelled on the coffee houses that spread throughout Europe and North America in the 17th and 18th centuries during the Enlightenment—a time when the human mind could be said to have been liberated from inebriation and the dogmatic state of ignorance. The Temperance Movement At a time when newspapers are full of lurid stories about binge-drinking and the alleged ill-effects of the liberalisation of licensing laws, as well as concerns over the growing trend of marketing easy-to-drink products (such as the so-called “alcopops”) to teenagers, it is difficult to think of a period when the total suppression of the alcohol trade was seriously debated in Australia. The cause of temperance has almost completely vanished from view, yet for well over a century—from 1830 to the outbreak of the Second World War—the control or even total abolition of the liquor trade was a major political issue—one that split the country, brought thousands onto the streets in demonstrations, and influenced the outcome of elections. Between 1911 and 1925 referenda to either limit or prohibit the sale of alcohol were held in most States. While moves to bring about abolition failed, Fitzgerald notes that almost one in three Australian voters expressed their support for prohibition of alcohol in their State (145). Today, the temperance movement’s platform has largely been forgotten, killed off by the practical example of the United States, where prohibition of the legal sale of alcohol served only to hand control of the liquor traffic to organised crime. Coffee Houses and the Enlightenment Although tea has long been considered the beverage of sobriety, it was coffee that came to be regarded as the very antithesis of alcohol. When the first coffee house opened in London in the early 1650s, customers were bewildered by this strange new drink from the Middle East—hot, bitter, and black as soot. But those who tried coffee were, reports Ellis, soon won over, and coffee houses were opened across London, Oxford, and Cambridge and, in the following decades, Europe and North America. Tea, equally exotic, entered the English market slightly later than coffee (in 1664), but was more expensive and remained a rarity long after coffee had become ubiquitous in London (Ellis 123-24). The impact of the introduction of coffee into Europe during the seventeenth century was particularly noticeable since the most common beverages of the time, even at breakfast, were weak “small beer” and wine. Both were safer to drink than water, which was liable to be contaminated. Coffee, like beer, was made using boiled water and, therefore, provided a new and safe alternative to alcoholic drinks. There was also the added benefit that those who drank coffee instead of alcohol began the day alert rather than mildly inebriated (Standage 135). It was also thought that coffee had a stimulating effect upon the “nervous system,” so much so that the French called coffee une boisson intellectuelle (an intellectual beverage), because of its stimulating effect on the brain (Muskett 71). In Oxford, the British called their coffee houses “penny universities,” a penny then being the price of a cup of coffee (Standage 158). Coffee houses were, moreover, more than places that sold coffee. Unlike other institutions of the period, rank and birth had no place (Ellis 59). The coffee house became the centre of urban life, creating a distinctive social culture by treating all customers as equals. Egalitarianism, however, did not extend to women—at least not in London. Around its egalitarian (but male) tables, merchants discussed and conducted business, writers and poets held discussions, scientists demonstrated experiments, and philosophers deliberated ideas and reforms. For the price of a cup (or “dish” as it was then known) of coffee, a man could read the latest pamphlets and newsletters, chat with other patrons, strike business deals, keep up with the latest political gossip, find out what other people thought of a new book, or take part in literary or philosophical discussions. Like today’s Internet, Twitter, and Facebook, Europe’s coffee houses functioned as an information network where ideas circulated and spread from coffee house to coffee house. In this way, drinking coffee in the coffee house became a metaphor for people getting together to share ideas in a sober environment, a concept that remains today. According to Standage, this information network fuelled the Enlightenment (133), prompting an explosion of creativity. Coffee houses provided an entirely new environment for political, financial, scientific, and literary change, as people gathered, discussed, and debated issues within their walls. Entrepreneurs and scientists teamed up to form companies to exploit new inventions and discoveries in manufacturing and mining, paving the way for the Industrial Revolution (Standage 163). The stock market and insurance companies also had their birth in the coffee house. As a result, coffee was seen to be the epitome of modernity and progress and, as such, was the ideal beverage for the Age of Reason. By the 19th century, however, the era of coffee houses had passed. Most of them had evolved into exclusive men’s clubs, each geared towards a certain segment of society. Tea was now more affordable and fashionable, and teahouses, which drew clientele from both sexes, began to grow in popularity. Tea, however, had always been Australia’s most popular non-alcoholic drink. Tea (and coffee) along with other alien plants had been part of the cargo unloaded onto Australian shores with the First Fleet in 1788. Coffee, mainly from Brazil and Jamaica, remained a constant import but was taxed more heavily than tea and was, therefore, more expensive. Furthermore, tea was much easier to make than coffee. To brew tea, all that is needed is to add boiling water, coffee, in contrast, required roasting, grinding and brewing. According to Symons, until the 1930s, Australians were the largest consumers of tea in the world (19). In spite of this, and as coffee, since its introduction into Europe, was regarded as the antidote to alcohol, the temperance movement established coffee palaces. In the early 1870s in Britain, the temperance movement had revived the coffee house to provide an alternative to the gin taverns that were so attractive to the working classes of the Industrial Age (Clarke 5). Unlike the earlier coffee house, this revived incarnation provided accommodation and was open to men, women and children. “Cheap and wholesome food,” was available as well as reading rooms supplied with newspapers and periodicals, and games and smoking rooms (Clarke 20). In Australia, coffee palaces did not seek the working classes, as clientele: at least in the cities they were largely for the nouveau riche. Coffee Palaces The discovery of gold in 1851 changed the direction of the Australian economy. An investment boom followed, with an influx of foreign funds and English banks lending freely to colonial speculators. By the 1880s, the manufacturing and construction sectors of the economy boomed and land prices were highly inflated. Governments shared in the wealth and ploughed money into urban infrastructure, particularly railways. Spurred on by these positive economic conditions and the newly extended inter-colonial rail network, international exhibitions were held in both Sydney and Melbourne. To celebrate modern technology and design in an industrial age, international exhibitions were phenomena that had spread throughout Europe and much of the world from the mid-19th century. According to Davison, exhibitions were “integral to the culture of nineteenth century industrialising societies” (158). In particular, these exhibitions provided the colonies with an opportunity to demonstrate to the world their economic power and achievements in the sciences, the arts and education, as well as to promote their commerce and industry. Massive purpose-built buildings were constructed to house the exhibition halls. In Sydney, the Garden Palace was erected in the Botanic Gardens for the 1879 Exhibition (it burnt down in 1882). In Melbourne, the Royal Exhibition Building, now a World Heritage site, was built in the Carlton Gardens for the 1880 Exhibition and extended for the 1888 Centennial Exhibition. Accommodation was required for the some one million interstate and international visitors who were to pass through the gates of the Garden Palace in Sydney. To meet this need, the temperance movement, keen to provide alternative accommodation to licensed hotels, backed the establishment of Sydney’s coffee palaces. The Sydney Coffee Palace Hotel Company was formed in 1878 to operate and manage a number of coffee palaces constructed during the 1870s. These were designed to compete with hotels by “offering all the ordinary advantages of those establishments without the allurements of the drink” (Murdoch). Coffee palaces were much more than ordinary hotels—they were often multi-purpose or mixed-use buildings that included a large number of rooms for accommodation as well as ballrooms and other leisure facilities to attract people away from pubs. As the Australian Town and Country Journal reveals, their services included the supply of affordable, wholesome food, either in the form of regular meals or occasional refreshments, cooked in kitchens fitted with the latest in culinary accoutrements. These “culinary temples” also provided smoking rooms, chess and billiard rooms, and rooms where people could read books, periodicals and all the local and national papers for free (121). Similar to the coffee houses of the Enlightenment, the coffee palaces brought businessmen, artists, writers, engineers, and scientists attending the exhibitions together to eat and drink (non-alcoholic), socialise and conduct business. The Johnson’s Temperance Coffee Palace located in York Street in Sydney produced a practical guide for potential investors and businessmen titled International Exhibition Visitors Pocket Guide to Sydney. It included information on the location of government departments, educational institutions, hospitals, charitable organisations, and embassies, as well as a list of the tariffs on goods from food to opium (1–17). Women, particularly the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union (WCTU) were a formidable force in the temperance movement (intemperance was generally regarded as a male problem and, more specifically, a husband problem). Murdoch argues, however, that much of the success of the push to establish coffee palaces was due to male politicians with business interests, such as the one-time Victorian premiere James Munro. Considered a stern, moral church-going leader, Munro expanded the temperance movement into a fanatical force with extraordinary power, which is perhaps why the temperance movement had its greatest following in Victoria (Murdoch). Several prestigious hotels were constructed to provide accommodation for visitors to the international exhibitions in Melbourne. Munro was responsible for building many of the city’s coffee palaces, including the Victoria (1880) and the Federal Coffee Palace (1888) in Collins Street. After establishing the Grand Coffee Palace Company, Munro took over the Grand Hotel (now the Windsor) in 1886. Munro expanded the hotel to accommodate some of the two million visitors who were to attend the Centenary Exhibition, renamed it the Grand Coffee Palace, and ceremoniously burnt its liquor licence at the official opening (Murdoch). By 1888 there were more than 50 coffee palaces in the city of Melbourne alone and Munro held thousands of shares in coffee palaces, including those in Geelong and Broken Hill. With its opening planned to commemorate the centenary of the founding of Australia and the 1888 International Exhibition, the construction of the Federal Coffee Palace, one of the largest hotels in Australia, was perhaps the greatest monument to the temperance movement. Designed in the French Renaissance style, the façade was embellished with statues, griffins and Venus in a chariot drawn by four seahorses. The building was crowned with an iron-framed domed tower. New passenger elevators—first demonstrated at the Sydney Exhibition—allowed the building to soar to seven storeys. According to the Federal Coffee Palace Visitor’s Guide, which was presented to every visitor, there were three lifts for passengers and others for luggage. Bedrooms were located on the top five floors, while the stately ground and first floors contained majestic dining, lounge, sitting, smoking, writing, and billiard rooms. There were electric service bells, gaslights, and kitchens “fitted with the most approved inventions for aiding proficients [sic] in the culinary arts,” while the luxury brand Pears soap was used in the lavatories and bathrooms (16–17). In 1891, a spectacular financial crash brought the economic boom to an abrupt end. The British economy was in crisis and to meet the predicament, English banks withdrew their funds in Australia. There was a wholesale collapse of building companies, mortgage banks and other financial institutions during 1891 and 1892 and much of the banking system was halted during 1893 (Attard). Meanwhile, however, while the eastern States were in the economic doldrums, gold was discovered in 1892 at Coolgardie and Kalgoorlie in Western Australia and, within two years, the west of the continent was transformed. As gold poured back to the capital city of Perth, the long dormant settlement hurriedly caught up and began to emulate the rest of Australia, including the construction of ornately detailed coffee palaces (Freeman 130). By 1904, Perth had 20 coffee palaces. When the No. 2 Coffee Palace opened in Pitt Street, Sydney, in 1880, the Australian Town and Country Journal reported that coffee palaces were “not only fashionable, but appear to have acquired a permanent footing in Sydney” (121). The coffee palace era, however, was relatively short-lived. Driven more by reformist and economic zeal than by good business sense, many were in financial trouble when the 1890’s Depression hit. Leading figures in the temperance movement were also involved in land speculation and building societies and when these schemes collapsed, many, including Munro, were financially ruined. Many of the palaces closed or were forced to apply for liquor licences in order to stay afloat. Others developed another life after the temperance movement’s influence waned and the coffee palace fad faded, and many were later demolished to make way for more modern buildings. The Federal was licensed in 1923 and traded as the Federal Hotel until its demolition in 1973. The Victoria, however, did not succumb to a liquor licence until 1967. The Sydney Coffee Palace in Woolloomooloo became the Sydney Eye Hospital and, more recently, smart apartments. Some fine examples still survive as reminders of Australia’s social and cultural heritage. The Windsor in Melbourne’s Spring Street and the Broken Hill Hotel, a massive three-story iconic pub in the outback now called simply “The Palace,” are some examples. Tea remained the beverage of choice in Australia until the 1950s when the lifting of government controls on the importation of coffee and the influence of American foodways coincided with the arrival of espresso-loving immigrants. As Australians were introduced to the espresso machine, the short black, the cappuccino, and the café latte and (reminiscent of the Enlightenment), the post-war malaise was shed in favour of the energy and vigour of modernist thought and creativity, fuelled in at least a small part by caffeine and the emergent café culture (Teffer). Although the temperance movement’s attempt to provide an alternative to the ubiquitous pubs failed, coffee has now outstripped the consumption of tea and today’s café culture ensures that wherever coffee is consumed, there is the possibility of a continuation of the Enlightenment’s lively discussions, exchange of news, and dissemination of ideas and information in a sober environment. References Attard, Bernard. “The Economic History of Australia from 1788: An Introduction.” EH.net Encyclopedia. 5 Feb. (2012) ‹http://eh.net/encyclopedia/article/attard.australia›. Blainey, Anna. “The Prohibition and Total Abstinence Movement in Australia 1880–1910.” Food, Power and Community: Essays in the History of Food and Drink. Ed. Robert Dare. Adelaide: Wakefield Press, 1999. 142–52. Boyce, Francis Bertie. “Shall I Vote for No License?” An address delivered at the Convention of the Parramatta Branch of New South Wales Alliance, 3 September 1906. 3rd ed. Parramatta: New South Wales Alliance, 1907. Clarke, James Freeman. Coffee Houses and Coffee Palaces in England. Boston: George H. Ellis, 1882. “Coffee Palace, No. 2.” Australian Town and Country Journal. 17 Jul. 1880: 121. Davison, Graeme. “Festivals of Nationhood: The International Exhibitions.” Australian Cultural History. Eds. S. L. Goldberg and F. B. Smith. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1989. 158–77. Denby, Elaine. Grand Hotels: Reality and Illusion. London: Reaktion Books, 2002. Ellis, Markman. The Coffee House: A Cultural History. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2004. Federal Coffee Palace. The Federal Coffee Palace Visitors’ Guide to Melbourne, Its Suburbs, and Other Parts of the Colony of Victoria: Views of the Principal Public and Commercial Buildings in Melbourne, With a Bird’s Eye View of the City; and History of the Melbourne International Exhibition of 1880, etc. Melbourne: Federal Coffee House Company, 1888. Fitzgerald, Ross, and Trevor Jordan. Under the Influence: A History of Alcohol in Australia. Sydney: Harper Collins, 2009. Freeland, John. The Australian Pub. Melbourne: Sun Books, 1977. Johnson’s Temperance Coffee Palace. International Exhibition Visitors Pocket Guide to Sydney, Restaurant and Temperance Hotel. Sydney: Johnson’s Temperance Coffee Palace, 1879. Mitchell, Ann M. “Munro, James (1832–1908).” Australian Dictionary of Biography. Canberra: National Centre of Biography, Australian National U, 2006-12. 5 Feb. 2012 ‹http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/munro-james-4271/text6905›. Murdoch, Sally. “Coffee Palaces.” Encyclopaedia of Melbourne. Eds. Andrew Brown-May and Shurlee Swain. 5 Feb. 2012 ‹http://www.emelbourne.net.au/biogs/EM00371b.htm›. Muskett, Philip E. The Art of Living in Australia. New South Wales: Kangaroo Press, 1987. Standage, Tom. A History of the World in 6 Glasses. New York: Walker & Company, 2005. Sydney Coffee Palace Hotel Company Limited. Memorandum of Association of the Sydney Coffee Palace Hotel Company, Ltd. Sydney: Samuel Edward Lees, 1879. Symons, Michael. One Continuous Picnic: A Gastronomic History of Australia. Melbourne: Melbourne UP, 2007. Teffer, Nicola. Coffee Customs. Exhibition Catalogue. Sydney: Customs House, 2005.

Introduction Many people interpret the word ‘cult’ through specific connotations, including, but not limited to, a community of like-minded people on the edge of civilization, often led by a charismatic leader, with beliefs that are ‘other’ to societal ‘norms’. Cults are often perceived as deviant, regularly incorporating elements of crime, especially physical and sexual violence. The adoption by some cults of a special uniform or dress code has been readily picked up by popular culture and has become a key ‘defining’ characteristic of the nature of a cult. In this article, we use the semiotic framework of myth, as discussed by Barthes, to demonstrate how cult uniforms become semiotic myths of popular culture. Narratively, the myth of the cult communicates violence, deviance, manipulation, and brainwashing. The myth of on-screen cults has derived itself from a reflexive pop culture foundation. From popular culture inspiring cults to cults inspiring popular culture and back again, society generates its cult myth through three key mechanisms: medicalisation, deviance amplification, and convergence. This means we are at risk of misrepresenting the true nature of cults, creating a definition incongruent with reality. This article traces the history of cults, the expectations of cult behaviour, and the semiotics of uniforms to start the discussion on why society is primed to accept a confusion between nature and the semiotic messaging of “what-goes-without-saying” (Barthes Mythologies 11). Semiotics and Myth Following the basic groundwork of de Saussure in the early 1900s, semiotics is the study of signs and how we use signs to derive meaning from the external world (de Saussure). Barthes expanded on this with his series of essays in Mythologies, adding a layer of connotation that leads to myth (Barthes Mythologies). Connotation, as described by Barthes, is the interaction between signs, feelings, and values. The connotations assigned to objects and concepts become a system of communication that is a message, the message becomes myth. The myth is not defined by the object or concept, but by the way society collectively understands it and all its connotations (Barthes Elements of Semiology 89-91). For scholars like Barthes, languages and cultural artifacts lend themselves to myth because many of our concepts are vague and abstract. Because the concept is vague, it is easy to impose our own values and ideologies upon it. This also means different people can interpret the same concept in different ways (Barthes Mythologies 132). The concept of a cult is no exception. Cults mean different things to different people and the boundaries between cults and religious or commercial organisations are often contested. As a pop culture artifact, the meaning of cults has been generated through repeated exposure in different media and genres. Similarly, pop culture (tv, films, news, etc.) often has the benefit of fiction, which separates itself from the true nature of cults (sensu Barthes Mythologies). Yet, through repeated exposure, we begin to share a universal meaning for the term and all the behaviours understood within the myth. Our repeated exposure to the signs of cults in pop culture is the combined effect of news media and fiction slowly building upon itself in a reflexive manner. We hear news reports of cults behaving in obscure ways, followed by a drama, parody, critique, or satire in a fictitious story. The audience then begins to see the repeated narrative as evidence to the true nature of cults. Over time the myth of the cult naturalises into the zeitgeist as concretely as any other sign, word, or symbol. Once the myth is naturalised, it is better used as a narrative device when affixed to a universally recognised symbol, such as the uniform. The uniform becomes an efficient device for communicating meaning in a short space of time. We argue that the concept of cult as myth has entered a collective understanding, and so, it is necessary to reflect on the mechanisms that drove the correlations which ultimately created the myth. Barthes’s purpose for analysing myth was “to track down, in the decorative display of what-goes-without-saying, the ideological abuse which, in my view, is hidden there” (Barthes Mythologies 11). For this reason, we must briefly look at the history of cults and their relationship with crime. A Brief History of Cults ‘Cult’ derives from the Latin root, cultus, or cultivation, and initially referred to forms of religious worship involving special rituals and ceremonies directed towards specific figures, objects, and/or divine beings. Early to mid-twentieth century sociologists adopted and adapted the term to classify a kind of religious organisation and later to signal new forms of religious expression not previously of primary or singular interest to the scholar of religion (Campbell; Jackson and Jobling; Nelson). The consequences were such that ‘cult’ came to carry new weight in terms of its meaning and reception, and much like other analytical concepts developed an intellectual significance regarding religious innovation it had not previously possessed. Unfortunately, this was not to last. By the early 1990s, ‘cult’ had become a term eschewed by scholars as pejorative, value-laden, and disparaging of its supposed subject matter; a term denuded of technical and descriptive meaning and replaced by more value-neutral alternatives (Dillon and Richardson; Richardson; Chryssides and Zeller). Results from well-published surveys (Pfeifer; Olson) and our own experience in teaching related subject matter revealed predominantly negative attitudes towards the term ‘cult’, with the inverse true for the alternative descriptors. Perhaps more importantly, the surveys revealed that for the public majority, knowledge of ‘cults’ came via media reportage of particularly the sensational few, rather than from direct experience of new religions or their members more generally (Pfeifer). For example, the Peoples Temple, Branch Davidian, and Heaven’s Gate groups featured heavily in news and mass media. Importantly, reporting of each of the tragic events marking their demise (in 1978, 1993, and 1997 respectively) reinforced a burgeoning stereotype and escalated fears about cults in our midst. The events in Jonestown, Guyana (Peoples Temple), especially, bolstered an anticult movement of purported cult experts and deprogrammers offering to save errant family members from the same fate as those who died [there]. The anticult movement portrayed all alleged cults as inherently dangerous and subject only to internal influences. They figured the charismatic leader as so powerful that he could take captive the minds of his followers and make them do whatever he wanted. (Crockford 95) While the term ‘new religious movement’ (NRM) has been used in place of cults within the academic sphere, ‘cult’ is still used within popular culture contexts precisely because of the connotations it inspires, with features including charismatic leaders, deprogrammers, coercion and mind-control, deception, perversion, exploitation, deviance, religious zealotry, abuse, violence, and death. For this reason, we still use the word cult to mean the myth of the cult as represented by popular culture. Representations of Cults and Expectations of Crime Violence and crime can be common features of some cults. Most NRMs “stay within the boundaries of the law” and practice their religion peacefully (Szubin, Jensen III, and Gregg 17). Unfortunately, it is usually those cults that are engaged in violence and crime that become newsworthy, and thus shape public ‘knowledge’ about the nature of cults and drive public expectations. Two of America’s most publicised cults, Charles Manson and the Manson Family and the Peoples Temple, are synonymous with violence and crime. Prior to committing mass suicide by poison in Jonestown, the Peoples Temple accumulated many guns as well as killing Congressman Leo Ryan and members of his party. Similarly, Charles Manson and the Manson Family stockpiled weapons, participated in illegal drug use, and murdered seven people, including Hollywood actor Sharon Tate. The high-profile victims of both groups ensured ongoing widespread media attention and continuous popular culture interest in both groups. Other cults are more specifically criminal in nature: for example, the Constanzo group in Matamoros, while presenting as a cult, are also a drug gang, leading to many calling these groups narco-cults (Kail 56). Sexual assault and abuse are commonly associated with cults. There have been numerous media reports worldwide on the sexual abuse of (usually) women and/or children. For example, a fourteen-year-old in the Children of God group alleged that she was raped when she disobeyed a leader (Rudin 28). In 2021, the regional city of Armidale, Australia, became national news when a former soldier was arrested on charges of “manipulating a woman for a ‘cult’ like purpose” (McKinnell). The man, James Davis, styles himself as the patriarch of a group known as the ‘House of Cadifor’. Police evidence includes six signed “slavery contracts”, as well as 70 witnesses to support the allegation that Mr Davis subjected a woman to “ongoing physical, sexual and psychological abuse and degradation” as well as unpaid prostitution and enslavement (McKinnell). Cults and Popular Culture The depiction of cults in popular culture is attracting growing attention. Scholars Lynn Neal (2011) and Joseph Laycock (2013) have initiated this research and identified consistent stereotypes of 'cults’ being portrayed throughout popular media. Neal found that cults began to be featured in television shows as early as the 1950s and 1960s, continually escalating until the 1990s before dropping slightly between 2000 and 2008 (the time the research was concluded). Specifically, there were 10 episodes between 1958-1969; 19 in the 1970s, which Neal attributes to the “rise of the cult scare and intense media scrutiny of NRMs” (97); 25 in the 1980s; 72 in the 1990s; and 59 between 2000 and 2008. Such academic research has identified that popular culture is important in the formation of the public perception, and social definition, of acceptable and deviant religions (Laycock 81). Laycock argues that representations of cults in popular culture reinforces public narratives about cults in three important ways: medicalisation, deviance amplification, and convergence. Medicalisation refers to the depiction of individuals becoming brainwashed and deprogrammed. The medicalisation of cults can be exacerbated by the cult uniform and clinical, ritualistic behaviours. Deviance amplification, a term coined by Leslie Wilkins in the 1960s, is the phenomenon of ‘media hype’, where the media selects specific examples of deviant behaviour, distorting them (Wilkins), such that a handful of peripheral cases appears representative of a larger social problem (Laycock 84). Following the deviance amplification, there is then often a 'moral panic' (a term coined by Stanley Cohen in 1972) where the problem is distorted and heightened within the media. Cults are often subject to deviance amplification within the media, leading to moral panics about the ‘depraved’, sexual, criminal, and violent activities of cults preying on and brainwashing innocents. Convergence “is a rhetorical device associated with deviance amplification in which two or more activities are linked so as to implicitly draw a parallel between them” (Laycock 85). An example of convergence occurred when the Branch Davidians were compared to the Peoples Temple, ultimately leading the FBI “to end the siege through an aggressive ‘dynamic entry’ in part because they feared such a mass suicide” (Laycock 85). The FBI transferred responsibility for the deaths to ‘mass suicide’, which has become the common narrative of events at Waco. Each of the three mechanisms have an important role to play in the popular culture presentation of cults to audiences. Popular media sources, fictional or not, are incentivised to present the most diabolical cult to the audience – and this often includes the medicalised elements of brainwashing and manipulation. This presentation reinforces existing deviance amplification and moral panics around the depraved activities of cults, and in particular sexual and criminal activities. And finally, convergence acts as a 'cultural script’ where the portrayal of these types of characteristics (brainwashing, criminal or violent behaviour, etc.) is automatically associated with cults. As Laycock argues, “in this way, popular culture has a unique ability to promote convergence and, by extension, deviance amplification” (85). The mechanisms of medicalisation, deviance amplification and convergence are important to the semiotic linking of concepts, signs, and signifiers in the process of myth generation. In efficiently understanding the message of the myth, the viewer must have a sign they can affix to it. In the case of visual mediums this must be immediate and certain. As many of the convergent properties of cults are behavioural (acts of violence and depravity, charismatic leaders, etc.), we need a symbol that audiences can understand immediately. Uniforms achieve this with remarkable efficiency. Upon seeing a still, two-dimensional image of people wearing matching garb it can be made easily apparent that they are part of a cult. Religious uniforms are one of the first visual images one conjures upon hearing the word cult: “for most people the word ‘cult’ conjures up ‘60s images of college students wearing flowing robes, chanting rhythmically and spouting Eastern philosophy” (Salvatore cited in Petherick 577; italics in original). The impact is especially pronounced if the clothes are atypical, anachronistic, or otherwise different to the expected clothes of the context. This interpretation then becomes cemented through the actions of the characters. In Rick and Morty, season 1, episode 10, Morty is imprisoned with interdimensional versions of himself. Despite some morphological differences, each Morty is wearing his recognisable yellow top and blue pants. While our Morty’s back is turned, five hooded, robed figures in atypical garb with matching facial markings approach Morty. The audience is immediately aware that this is a cult. The comparison between the uniform of Morty and the Morty cult exemplifies the use of cult uniform in the myth of Cults. The cult is then cemented through chanting and a belief in the “One true Morty” (Harmon et al.). Semiotics, Clothes, and Uniforms The semiotics of clothes includes implicit, explicit, and subliminal signs. The reasons we choose to wear what we wear is governed by multiple factors both within our control and outside of it: for instance, our body shape, social networks and economic status, access to fashion and choice (Barthes The Fashion System; Hackett). We often choose to communicate aspects of our identity through what we wear or what we choose not to wear. Our choice of clothing communicates aspects of who we are, but also who we want to be (Hackett; Simmel; Veblen) Uniforms are an effective and efficient communicative device. Calefato’s classification of uniforms is not only as those used by military and working groups, but also including the strictly coded dress of subcultures. Unlike other clothes which can be weakly coded, uniforms differentiate themselves through their purposeful coded signalling system (Calefato). To scholars such as Jennifer Craik, uniforms intrigue us because they combine evident statements as well as implied and subliminal communications (Craik). Theories about identity predict that processes similar to the defining of an individual are also important to group life, whereby an individual group member's conceptualisation of their group is derived from the collective identity (Horowitz; Lauger). Collective identities are regularly emphasised as a key component in understanding how groups gain meaning and purpose (Polletta and Jasper). The identity is generally constructed and reinforced through routine socialisation and collective action. Uniforms are a well-known means of creating collective identities. They restrict one’s clothing choices and use boundary-setting rituals to ensure commitment to the group. In general, the more obvious the restriction, the easier it is to enforce. Demanding obvious behaviours from members, unique to the community, simultaneously generates a differentiation between the members and non-members, while enabling self-enforcement and peer-to-peer judgments of commitment. Leaders of religious movements like cults and NRMs will sometimes step back from the punitive aspects of nonconformity. Instead, it falls to the members to maintain the discipline of the collective (Kelley 109). This further leads to a sense of ownership and therefore belonging to the community. Uniforms are an easy outward-facing signal that allows for ready discrimination of error. Because they are often obvious and distinctive dress, they constrain and often stigmatise members. In other collective situations such as with American gangs, even dedicated members will deny their gang affiliation if it is advantageous to do so (Lauger Real Gangstas). While in uniform, individuals cannot hide their membership, making the sacrifice more costly. Members are forced to take one hundred percent of the ownership and participate wholly, or not at all. Through this mechanism, cults demonstrate the medicalisation of the members. Leaders may want their members to be unable to escape or deny affiliation. Similarly, their external appearances might invite persecution and therefore breed resilience, courage, and solidarity. It is, in essence, a form of manipulation (see for instance Iannaccone). Alternatively, as Melton argues, members may want to be open and proud of their organisation, as displayed through them adopting their uniforms (15). The uniform of cults in popular media is a principal component of medicalisation, deviance amplification, and convergence. The uniform, often robes, offers credence to the medicalisation aspect: members of cults are receiving ‘treatment’ — initially, negative treatment while being brainwashed, and then later helpful/saving treatment when being deprogrammed, providing they survive a mass suicide attempt and/or, criminal, sexual, or violent escapades. Through portraying cult members in a distinctive uniform, there is no doubt for the audience who is receiving or in need of treatment. Many of the cults portrayed on screen can easily communicate the joining of a cult by changing the characters' dress. Similarly, by simply re-dressing the character, it is communicated that the character has returned to normal, they have been saved, they are a survivor. In Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, while three of the four ‘Mole women’ integrate back into society, Gretchen Chalker continues to believe in their cult; as such she never takes of her cult uniform. In addition, the employment of uniforms for cult members in popular culture enables an instant visual recognition of ‘us’ and ‘them’, or ‘normal’ and ‘abnormal’, and reinforces stereotypical notions of social order and marginalised, deviant (religious) groups (Neal 83). The clothing differences are obvious in The Simpsons season 9, episode 13, “Joy of Sect”: ‘Movementarian’ members, including the Simpsons, don long flowing robes. The use of cult uniform visualises their fanatical commitment to the group. It sets them apart from the rest of Springfield and society (Neal 88-89). The connection between uniforms and cults derives two seemingly paradoxical meanings. Firstly, it reduces the chances of the audience believing that the cult employed ‘deceptive recruiting’ techniques. As Melton argues, because of the association our society has with uniforms and cults, “it is very hard for someone to join most new religions, given their peculiar dress and worship practices, without knowing immediately its religious nature” (14). As such, within popular media, the presence of the uniform increases the culpability of those who join the cult. Contrarily, the character in uniform is a sign that the person has been manipulated and/or brainwashed. This reduces the culpability of the cult member. However, the two understandings are not necessarily exclusive. It is possible to view the cult member as a naïve victim, someone who approached the cult as an escape from their life but was subsequently manipulated into behaving criminally. This interpretation is particularly powerful because it indicates cults can prey on anyone, and that anyone could become a victim of a cult. This, in turn, heightens the moral panic surrounding cults and NRMs. The on-screen myth of the cult as represented by its uniform has a basis in the real-life history of NRMs. Heaven’s Gate members famously died after they imbibed fatal doses of alcohol and barbiturates to achieve their ‘final exit’. Most members were found laid out on beds covered in purple shrouds, all wearing matching black shirts, black pants, and black and white Nike shoes. The famous photos of Warren Jeffs’s polygamous Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, the subject of Netflix’s Keep Sweet: Pray and Obey, depict multiple women in matching conservative dresses with matching hairstyles gathered around a photo of Jeffs. The image and uniform are a clear influence on the design of Unbreakable’s ‘Mole women’. A prime example of the stereotype of cult uniforms is provided by the Canadian comedy program The Red Green Show when the character Red tells Harold “cults are full of followers, they have no independent thought, they go to these pointless meetings ... they all dress the same” (episode 165). The statement is made while the two main characters Red and Harold are standing in matching outfits. Blurring Nature and Myth Importantly, the success of these shows very much relies on audiences having a shared conception of NRMs and the myth of the cult. This is a curious combination of real and fictional knowledge of the well-publicised controversial events in history. Fictional cults frequently take widely held perspectives of actual religious movements and render them either more absurd or more frightening (Laycock 81). Moreover, the blurring of fictional and non-fictional groups serves to reinforce the sense that all popular culture cults and their real-world counterparts are the same; that they all follow a common script. In this, there is convergence between the fictional and the real. The myth of the cult bleeds from the screen into real life. The Simpsons’ “The Joy of Sect” was televised in the year following the suicide of the 39 members of the Heaven’s Gate group, and the storyline in part was influenced by it. Importantly, as a piercing, satirical critique of middle-class America, the “Joy of Sect” not only parodied traditional and non-traditional religion generally (as well as the ‘cult-like’ following of mass media such as Fox); scholars have shown that it also parodied the ‘cult’ stereotype itself (Feltmate). While Heaven’s Gate influenced to a greater or lesser extent each of the TV shows highlighted thus far, it was also the case that the group incorporated into its eschatology aspects of popular culture linked primarily to science fiction. For example, group members were known to have regularly watched and discussed episodes of Star Trek (Hoffmann and Burke; Sconce), adopting aspects of the show’s vernacular in “attempts to relate to the public” (Gate 163). Words such as ‘away-team’, ‘prime-directive’, ‘hologram’, ‘Captain’, ‘Admiral’, and importantly ‘Red-Alert’ were adopted; the latter, often signalling code-red situations in Star Trek episodes, appeared on the Heaven’s Gate Website in the days just prior to their demise. Importantly, allusions to science fiction and Star Trek were incorporated into the group’s self-styled ‘uniform’ worn during their tragic ritual-suicide. Stitched into the shoulders of each of their uniforms were triangular, Star Trek-inspired patches featuring various celestial bodies along with a tagline signalling the common bond uniting each member: “Heaven’s Gate Away Team” (Sconce). Ironically, with replica patches readily for sale online, and T-shirts and hoodies featuring modified though similar Heaven’s Gate symbolism, this ‘common bond’ has been commodified in such a way as to subvert its original meaning – at least as it concerned ‘cult’ membership in the religious context. The re-integration of cult symbols into popular culture typifies the way we as a society detachedly view the behaviours of cults. The behaviour of cults is anecdotally viewed through a voyeuristic lens, potentially exacerbated by the regular portrayals of cults through parody. Scholars have demonstrated how popular culture has internationally impacted on criminological aspects of society. For instance, there was a noted, international increase in unrealistic expectations of jurors wanting forensic evidence during court cases after the popularity of forensic science in crime dramas (Franzen; Wise). After the arrest of James Davis in Armidale, NSW, Australia, the Sydney Morning Herald reported that Davis was the patriarch of the “House of Cadifor” and he was part of a “cult” (both reported in inverted commas). The article also includes an assumption from Davis's lawyer that, in discussing the women of the group, “the Crown might say ‘they’ve been brainwashed’”. Similarly, the article references the use of matching collars by the women (Mitchell). Nine News reported that the “ex-soldier allegedly forced tattooed, collared sex slave into prostitution”, bringing attention to the clothing as part of the coercive techniques of Davis. While the article does not designate the House of Cadifor as a cult, they include a quote from the Assistant Commissioner Justine Gough, “Mr Davis' group has cult-like qualities”, and included the keyword ‘cults’ for the article. Regrettably, the myth of cults and real-world behaviours of NRMs do not always align, and a false convergence is drawn between the two. Furthermore, the consistent parodying and voyeuristic nature of on-screen cults means we might be at fault of euphemising the crimes and behaviours of those deemed to be part of a ‘cult’. Anecdotally, the way Armidale locals discussed Davis was through a lens of excitement and titillation, as if watching a fictional story unfold in their own backyard. The conversations and news reporting focussed on the cult-like aspects of Davis and not the abhorrence of the alleged crimes. We must remain mindful that the cinematic semiology of cults and the myth as represented by their uniform dress and behaviours is incongruent with the nature of NRMs. However, more work needs to be done to better understand the impact of on-screen cults on real-world attitudes and beliefs. Conclusion The myth of the cult has entered a shared understanding within today’s zeitgeist, and the uniform of the cult stands at its heart as a key sign of the myth. Popular culture plays a key role in shaping this shared understanding by following the cultural script, slowly layering fact with fiction, just as fact begins to incorporate the fiction. The language of the cult as communicated through their uniforms is, we would argue, universally understood and purposeful. The ubiquitous representation of cults portrays a deviant group, often medicalised, and subject to deviance amplification and convergence. When a group of characters is presented to the audience in the same cult dress, we know what is being communicated to us. Fictional cults in popular culture continue to mirror the common list of negative features attributed to many new religious movements. Such fictional framing has come to inform media-consumer attitudes in much the same way as news media, reflecting as they do the cultural stock of knowledge from which our understandings are drawn, and which has little grounding in the direct or immediate experience of the phenomena in question. In short, the nature of NRMs has become confused with the myth of the cult. More research is needed to understand the impact of the myth of the cult. However, it is important to ensure “what-goes-without-saying” is not obfuscating, euphemising, or otherwise misrepresenting nature. References Barthes, Roland. Elements of Semiology. London: Jonathon Cape, 1967. ———. The Fashion System. U of California P, 1990. ———. Mythologies. Trans. 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