Artykuły w czasopismach na temat „Effect of Hurricane Mitch, 1998 on”

Abstract. In February 2006, a disastrous rockslide-debris avalanche occurred in tropical mountain terrain, on Leyte Island, Central Philippines. Over 1100 people perished when the village of Guinsaugon was overwhelmed directly in the path of the landslide. The landslide was initiated by the failure of a 450 m high rock slope within the damage zone of the Philippine Fault where the rock mass consisted of sheared and brecciated volcanic, sedimentary and volcaniclastic rocks. Tectonic weakening of the failed rock mass had resulted from active strike-slip movements along the Philippine Fault which have been estimated by other workers at 2.5 cm/year. The landslide involved a total volume of 15 Mm3, including significant entrainment from its path, and ran out a horizontal distance of 3800 m over a vertical distance of 810 m, equivalent to a fahrböschung of 12°. Run-out distance was enhanced by friction reduction due to undrained loading when the debris encountered flooded paddy fields in the valley bottom at a path distance of 2600 m. A simulation of the event using the dynamic analysis model DAN indicated a mean velocity of 35 m/s and demonstrated the contribution of the paddy field effect to total run-out distance. There was no direct trigger for the landslide but the landslide did follow a period of very heavy rainfall with a lag time of four days. The rockslide-debris avalanche is one of several disastrous landslides to have occurred in the Philippines in the last twenty years. In terms of loss of life, the Guinsaugon event is the most devastating single-event landslide to have occurred worldwide since the Casita Volcano rock avalanche-debris flow which was triggered by Hurricane Mitch in Nicaragua in 1998.

Abstract Part I of this paper presented a detailed analysis of the boundary layer of Hurricane Georges (1998), based mainly on the newly available high-resolution GPS dropsonde data. Here, similar techniques and data are used to study Hurricane Mitch (1998). In contrast to Hurricane Georges, the flow in the middle to upper boundary layer near the eyewall is found to be strongly supergradient, with the imbalance being statistically significant. The reason for the difference is shown to be the different radial structure of the storms, in that outside of the radius of maximum winds, the wind decreases much more quickly in Mitch than in Georges. Hurricane Mitch was close to inertially neutral at large radius, with a strong angular momentum gradient near the radius of maximum winds. Kepert and Wang predict strongly supergradient flow in the upper boundary layer near the radius of maximum winds in this situation; the observational analysis is thus in good agreement with their theory. The wind reduction factor (i.e., ratio of a near-surface wind speed to that at some level further aloft) is found to increase inward toward the radius of maximum winds, in accordance with theoretical predictions and the analysis by Franklin et al. Marked asymmetries in the boundary layer wind field and in the eyewall convection are shown to be consistent with asymmetric surface friction due to the storm’s proximity to land, rather than to motion. The boundary layer flow was simulated using Kepert and Wang’s model, forced by the observed storm motion, radial profile of gradient wind, and coastline position; and good agreement with the observations was obtained.

The devastation in Central America following the 1998 hurricane (Hurricane Mitch) resulted more from economic and political policies than from “natural” disaster. Over the last 30 or 40 years, huge numbers of poor people in these countries have been forced off good, stable agricultural land onto degraded hillsides and into shanty towns constructed on floodplains—areas known to pose serious hazards of flooding and mudslides. This, together with the failure of impoverished countries to anticipate disaster through mass evacuations or to respond effectively to the hurricane's widespread damage—ensured the loss of thousands of lives.

In response to Hurricane Mitch, which struck Central America in October–November 1998, the American Red Cross (ARC) and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) collaborated on a 3-year evaluation of the public health impact of ARC's water, sanitation and hygiene education activities in eight study areas in Honduras, Nicaragua, El Salvador and Guatemala. The evaluation compared: 1) access to and use of water and sanitation facilities, 2) the use of hygienic behaviours, and 3) diarrhoeal prevalence in children younger than 3 years of age before (February 2000) and after (February 2002) the interventions had been implemented. The evaluation included household and key informant interviews designed to measure these three components. Water quality of community water sources and household water was evaluated by measuring levels of indicator bacteria. During the final survey, an infrastructure evaluation provided a review of the design, construction, and current operation and maintenance of the water systems and latrines. The integrated water and sanitation infrastructure interventions and hygiene education programmes implemented following Hurricane Mitch effectively decreased diarrhoea prevalence in the target communities.

Disasters are always caused by a combination of factors, and the natural phenomenon that brings them on is usually just a catalyst. The underlying cause of most disasters is poverty as mostly the poor segments of the population usually live in high risk areas where their shelter all too often cannot withstand even light winds, small inundations or medium earthquakes. When Hurricane Mitch hit Central America in October 1998, all countries were ill prepared. A few weeks earlier, the authorities of the Honduran capital, Tegucigalpa, had attempted to simulate an evacuation, but it had met with a great degree of resistance from the public. When Mitch hit, unprecedented masses of water raced down the mountainous river beds. People were taken by surprise, as no efficient organisation existed. Everybody ran for their lives. Houses slid down hillsides, rivers swept bridges, houses and people with them. Six years later, Tegucigalpa looks very similar to the days before Mitch. The steep hillsides are covered with a potpourri of dwellings, from miserable huts to solid upmarket houses. Regulations were passed in the year 2002 to prohibit construction in high risk areas; however, enforcement is difficult, especially when existing buildings are renovated and even enlarged. Theoretically it is possible to evacuate high risk areas. Nonetheless, such drastic measures are virtually impossible to implement, as no mayor or police chief would survive such an action in office. The paper presents a case study which shows that the underlying problems of poverty and the non-availability of suitable land for people to relocate from high risk areas can usually not be overcome by post-disaster reconstruction programmes. A mitigation strategy is thus to empower inhabitants of high risk areas to improve their own situation by affordable access to information, advice and suitable low cost construction materials through “Building Advisory Services” and Ecomaterials producers within the neighbourhoods.

The global climate during 1998 was affected by opposite extremes of the ENSO cycle, with one of the strongest Pacific warm episodes (El Niño) in the historical record continuing during January–early May and Pacific cold episode (La Niña) conditions occurring from JulyñDecember. In both periods, regional temperature, rainfall, and atmospheric circulation patterns across the Pacific Ocean and the Americas were generally consistent with those observed during past warm and cold episodes. Some of the most dramatic impacts from both episodes were observed in the Tropics, where anomalous convection was evident across the entire tropical Pacific and in most major monsoon regions of the world. Over the Americas, many of the El Niño– (La Niña–) related rainfall anomalies in the subtropical and extratropical latitudes were linked to an extension (retraction) of the jet streams and their attendant circulation features typically located over the subtropical latitudes of both the North Pacific and South Pacific. The regions most affected by excessive El Niño–related rainfall included 1) the eastern half of the tropical Pacific, including western Ecuador and northwestern Peru, which experienced significant flooding and mudslides; 2) southeastern South America, where substantial flooding was also observed; and 3) California and much of the central and southern United States during January–March, and the central United States during April–June. El Niño–related rainfall deficits during 1998 included 1) Indonesia and portions of northern Australia; 2) the Amazon Basin, in association with a substantially weaker-than-normal South American monsoon circulation; 3) Mexico, which experienced extreme drought throughout the El Niño episode; and 4) the Gulf Coast states of the United States, which experienced extreme drought during April–June 1998. The El Niño also contributed to extreme warmth across North America during January–May. The primary La Niña–related precipitation anomalies included 1) increased rainfall across Indonesia, and a nearly complete disappearance of rainfall across the east-central equatorial Pacific; 2) above-normal rains across northwestern, eastern, and northern Australia; 3) increased monsoon rains across central America and Mexico during October–December; and 4) dryness across equatorial eastern Africa. The active 1998 North Atlantic hurricane season featured 14 named storms (9 of which became hurricanes) and the strongest October hurricane (Mitch) in the historical record. In Honduras and Nicaragua extreme flooding and mudslides associated with Hurricane Mitch claimed more than 11 000 lives. During the peak of activity in August–September, the vertical wind shear across the western Atlantic, along with both the structure and location of the African easterly jet, were typical of other active seasons. Other regional aspects of the short-term climate included 1) record rainfall and massive flooding in the Yangtze River Basin of central China during June–July; 2) a drier and shorter-than-normal 1997/98 rainy season in southern Africa; 3) above-normal rains across the northern section of the African Sahel during June–September 1998; and 4) a continuation of record warmth across Canada during June–November. Global annual mean surface temperatures during 1998 for land and marine areas were 0.56°C above the 1961–90 base period means. This record warmth surpasses the previous highest anomaly of +0.43°C set in 1997. Record warmth was also observed in the global Tropics and Northern Hemisphere extratropics during the year, and is partly linked to the strong El Nino conditions during January–early May.

Abstract The global positioning system dropwindsondes deployed in Hurricane Bonnie on 26 August 1998 with supporting deployments in Hurricanes Mitch (1998) and Humberto (2001) are used to identify three unusual thermodynamic structures in the lower-cloud and subcloud layers. Two of these structures impact the energy content of the inflow and therefore the intensity of the hurricane. First, positive lapse rates of equivalent potential temperature are found near the top of the inflow. These layers insulate the inflow from the negative impacts of entrainment mixing and promote rapid energy increases, especially near the eyewall. The second structure is a rapid decrease of equivalent potential temperature adjacent to the sea surface. This is essentially a prominent surface layer that owes its existence to both higher moisture content and a superadiabatic lapse rate. The steep lapse rate most often occurs under and near the eyewall where wind speeds at the surface exceed hurricane force. The author speculates that water loading from spray increases the residence time of air parcels in the surface layer, contributing to the creation of this structure. The third feature is a moist absolutely unstable layer previously identified by Bryan and Fritsch for the midlatitudes. These layers are found adjacent to the eyewall, in rainbands, and in the hub cloud within the eye and are evidence of mesoscale or vortex-scale convergence and the very modest instabilities often found in the core of a hurricane.

In the first years after Cuba's 1959 revolution, the island's new government provided international medical assistance to countries affected by natural disasters or armed conflicts. Step by step, a more structural complementary program for international collaboration was put in place. The relief operations after Hurricane Mitch, which struck Central America in 1998, were pivotal. From November 1998 onward, the “Integrated Health Program” was the cornerstone of Cuba's international cooperation. The intense cooperation with Hugo Chávez's Venezuela became another cornerstone. Complementary to the health programs abroad, Cuba also set up international programs at home, benefiting tens of thousands of foreign patients and disaster victims. In a parallel program, medical training is offered to international students in the Latin American Medical School in Cuba and, increasingly, also in their home countries. The importance and impact of these initiatives, however, cannot and should not be analyzed solely in public health terms.

Background and Objectives: Mangrove forests offer many essential ecosystem services, including the protection of (sub)tropical coastlines, their inhabitants, and the infrastructure from severe storms and tsunamis. However, mangroves themselves suffer severely from such phenomena. After such events, reforestation efforts are widely undertaken to facilitate the recovery of the mangroves. Many of these laborious activities, however, fail for a number of reasons. Material and Methods: In October 1998, the Honduran Island of Guanaja was severely hit by Hurricane Mitch, and, after the storm, almost all of the mangrove forests (97%) were rated as dead. Seven years after Mitch, a longterm survey on the regeneration of the mangroves started. Field samplings in six variably disturbed mangrove zones was conducted in 2005, 2009, and 2016. Along permanent line-transects, all living plant species were recorded for statistical analyses and for quantifying progress. In this paper, the focus is on the three most severely hit areas. In two of them, planting efforts were carried out while the third one was left to regenerate naturally. This setting allowed a direct comparison between natural and human-assisted regeneration processes under otherwise similar conditions and equally severe previous disturbance. Results: Reforestation measures were characterized by high mortality rates of Rhizophora mangle L. propagules planted predominantly. Some, however, surely survived and might have contributed to regeneration after the disturbance. In 2016, roughly two decades after Hurricane Mitch, low-growing Rhizophora mangle forests, with high ground cover, were found. Surprisingly, the area without any planting also witnessed similar mangrove rejuvenation in the same period. Conclusion: Findings on the recovering mangroves in Guanaja confirm the lessons learned from other mangrove rehabilitation measures: planting mostly fails and commonly does not accelerate the revegetation of disturbed forests. In naturally regenerating forests, recolonization may occur after a certain time-lag only if few diaspore sources survived in the surrounding; as soon as established mangrove plants bear propagules, a quick return to viable forests takes place, proving the high resilience of these coastal ecosystems.

Abstract. In October 1998, Hurricane Mitch triggered numerous landslides (mainly debris flows) in Honduras and Nicaragua, resulting in a high death toll and in considerable damage to property. The potential application of relatively simple and affordable spatial prediction models for landslide hazard mapping in developing countries was studied. Our attention was focused on a region in NW Nicaragua, one of the most severely hit places during the Mitch event. A landslide map was obtained at 1:10 000 scale in a Geographic Information System (GIS) environment from the interpretation of aerial photographs and detailed field work. In this map the terrain failure zones were distinguished from the areas within the reach of the mobilized materials. A Digital Elevation Model (DEM) with 20 m×20 m of pixel size was also employed in the study area. A comparative analysis of the terrain failures caused by Hurricane Mitch and a selection of 4 terrain factors extracted from the DEM which, contributed to the terrain instability, was carried out. Land propensity to failure was determined with the aid of a bivariate analysis and GIS tools in a terrain failure susceptibility map. In order to estimate the areas that could be affected by the path or deposition of the mobilized materials, we considered the fact that under intense rainfall events debris flows tend to travel long distances following the maximum slope and merging with the drainage network. Using the TauDEM extension for ArcGIS software we generated automatically flow lines following the maximum slope in the DEM starting from the areas prone to failure in the terrain failure susceptibility map. The areas crossed by the flow lines from each terrain failure susceptibility class correspond to the runout susceptibility classes represented in a runout susceptibility map. The study of terrain failure and runout susceptibility enabled us to obtain a spatial prediction for landslides, which could contribute to landslide risk mitigation.

Abstract The GPS dropsonde allows observations at unprecedentedly high horizontal and vertical resolution, and of very high accuracy, within the tropical cyclone boundary layer. These data are used to document the boundary layer wind field of the core of Hurricane Georges (1998) when it was close to its maximum intensity. The spatial variability of the boundary layer wind structure is found to agree very well with the theoretical predictions in the works of Kepert and Wang. In particular, the ratio of the near-surface wind speed to that above the boundary layer is found to increase inward toward the radius of maximum winds and to be larger to the left of the track than to the right, while the low-level wind maximum is both more marked and at lower altitude on the left of the storm track than on the right. However, the expected supergradient flow in the upper boundary layer is not found, with the winds being diagnosed as close to gradient balance. The tropical cyclone boundary layer model of Kepert and Wang is used to simulate the boundary layer flow in Hurricane Georges. The simulated wind profiles are in good agreement with the observations, and the asymmetries are well captured. In addition, it is found that the modeled flow in the upper boundary layer at the eyewall is barely supergradient, in contrast to previously studied cases. It is argued that this lack of supergradient flow is a consequence of the particular radial structure in Georges, which had a comparatively slow decrease of wind speed with radius outside the eyewall. This radial profile leads to a relatively weak gradient of inertial stability near the eyewall and a strong gradient at larger radii, and hence the tropical cyclone boundary layer dynamics described by Kepert and Wang can produce only marginally supergradient flow near the radius of maximum winds. The lack of supergradient flow, diagnosed from the observational analysis, is thus attributed to the large-scale structure of this particular storm. A companion paper presents a similar analysis for Hurricane Mitch (1998), with contrasting results.

Abstract Radial profiles of surface winds measured by the Stepped Frequency Microwave Radiometer (SFMR) are compared to radial profiles of flight-level winds to determine the slant ratio of the maximum surface wind speed to the maximum flight-level wind speed, for flight altitude ranges of 2–4 km. The radius of maximum surface wind is found on average to be 0.875 of the radius of the maximum flight-level wind, and very few cases have a surface wind maximum at greater radius than the flight-level maximum. The mean slant reduction factor is 0.84 with a standard deviation of 0.09 and varies with storm-relative azimuth from a maximum of 0.89 on the left side of the storm to a minimum of 0.79 on the right side. Larger slant reduction factors are found in small storms with large values of inertial stability and small values of relative angular momentum at the flight-level radius of maximum wind, which is consistent with Kepert’s recent boundary layer theories. The global positioning system (GPS) dropwindsonde-based reduction factors that are assessed using this new dataset have a high bias and substantially larger RMS errors than the new technique. A new regression model for the slant reduction factor based upon SFMR data is presented, and used to make retrospective estimates of maximum surface wind speeds for significant Atlantic basin storms, including Hurricanes Allen (1980), Gilbert (1988), Hugo (1989), Andrew (1992), and Mitch (1998).

Although religion clearly plays an important role in framing the way people interpret and cope with disasters, religion is virtually absent in policy debates and disaster reconstruction planning. Researchers have also tended to neglect the role of religion as a source of emotional and social support, and a vehicle of community building and group and individual identity for affected populations. This paper examines the connection between post-disaster resettlement and reconstruction, and the changing religious beliefs and practices of the women and men of Morolica, a town in southern Honduras swept away by the floods caused by Hurricane Mitch in October 1998. In Morolica, rates of conversion to Evangelism increased after the disaster, as several Evangelical missions collaborated with the local population on the reconstruction of their community. My data indicate that women and men had different reasons for being attracted to Evangelism, and that conversion entailed a transformation of the social norms and proper behavior that was different for each gender. Furthermore, these conversions can be understood as gendered survival tactics in a context of dislocation and catastrophic loss. Given the multiple and complex processes taking place in Post-Mitch Honduras in general, and Morolica in particular, I suggest that survival strategies and religious conversions are gender-differentiated, and need to be explored within a framework of shifting political ecological conditions, religious pluralism, and displacement.

The American Red Cross and U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention collaborated on a sustainability evaluation of post-hurricane water, sanitation and hygiene (WASH) interventions in Central America. In 2006 and 2009, we revisited six study areas in rural El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras and Nicaragua to assess sustainability of WASH interventions finalized in 2002, after 1998's Hurricane Mitch. We used surveys to collect data, calculate indicators and identify factors that influence sustainability. Regional sustainability indicator results showed there was a statistically significant decline in access to water. The presence of sanitation facilities had not changed since the beginning of the project; however, maintenance and use of latrines declined but continued to meet the goal of 75% use after 7 years. The hygiene indicator, hand washing, initially declined and then increased. Declines in water access were due to operational problems related to storm events and population changes. Sanitation facilities were still present and sometimes used even though they reached or surpassed their original design life. Changes in hygiene practices appeared related to ongoing hygiene promotion from outside organizations. These results provide useful input for making WASH programs more sustainable and informing future, more in-depth research into factors influencing sustainability.

Abstract. Studies for the prevention and mitigation of floods require information on discharge and extent of inundation, commonly unavailable or uncertain, especially during extreme events. This study was initiated by the devastating flood in Tegucigalpa, the capital of Honduras, when Hurricane Mitch struck the city. In this study we hypothesized that it is possible to estimate, in a trustworthy way considering large data uncertainties, this extreme 1998 flood discharge and the extent of the inundations that followed from a combination of models and post-event measured data. Post-event data collected in 2000 and 2001 were used to estimate discharge peaks, times of peak, and high-water marks. These data were used in combination with rain data from two gauges to drive and constrain a combination of well-known modelling tools: TOPMODEL, Muskingum–Cunge–Todini routing, and the LISFLOOD-FP hydraulic model. Simulations were performed within the generalized likelihood uncertainty estimation (GLUE) uncertainty-analysis framework. The model combination predicted peak discharge, times of peaks, and more than 90 % of the observed high-water marks within the uncertainty bounds of the evaluation data. This allowed an inundation likelihood map to be produced. Observed high-water marks could not be reproduced at a few locations on the floodplain. Identifications of these locations are useful to improve model set-up, model structure, or post-event data-estimation methods. Rainfall data were of central importance in simulating the times of peak and results would be improved by a better spatial assessment of rainfall, e.g. from radar data or a denser rain-gauge network. Our study demonstrated that it was possible, considering the uncertainty in the post-event data, to reasonably reproduce the extreme Mitch flood in Tegucigalpa in spite of no hydrometric gauging during the event. The method proposed here can be part of a Bayesian framework in which more events can be added into the analysis as they become available.

Abstract Numerical simulation of sea surface directional wave spectra under hurricane wind forcing was carried out using a high-resolution wave model. The simulation was run for four days as Hurricane Bonnie (1998) approached the U.S. East Coast. The results are compared with buoy observations and NASA Scanning Radar Altimeter (SRA) data, which were obtained on 24 August 1998 in the open ocean and on 26 August when the storm was approaching the shore. The simulated significant wave height in the open ocean reached 14 m, agreeing well with the SRA and buoy observations. It gradually decreased as the hurricane approached the shore. In the open ocean, the dominant wavelength and wave direction in all four quadrants relative to the storm center were simulated very accurately. For the landfall case, however, the simulated dominant wavelength displays noticeable overestimation because the wave model cannot properly simulate shoaling processes. Direct comparison of the model and SRA directional spectra in all four quadrants of the hurricane shows excellent agreement in general. In some cases, the model produces smoother spectra with narrower directional spreading than do the observations. The spatial characteristics of the spectra depend on the relative position from the hurricane center, the hurricane translation speed, and bathymetry. Attempts are made to provide simple explanations for the misalignment between local wind and wave directions and for the effect of hurricane translation speed on wave spectra.

Abstract The fifth-generation Pennsylvania State University–National Center for Atmospheric Research (PSU–NCAR) Mesoscale Model (MM5) is used to simulate Hurricane Bonnie at high resolution (2-km spacing) in order to examine budgets of water vapor, cloud condensate, and precipitation. Virtually all budget terms are derived directly from the model (except for the effects of storm motion). The water vapor budget reveals that a majority of the condensation in the eyewall occurs in convective hot towers, while outside of the eyewall most of the condensation occurs in weaker updrafts, indicative of a larger role of stratiform precipitation processes. The ocean source of water vapor in the eyewall region is only a very small fraction of that transported inward in the boundary layer inflow or that condensed in the updrafts. In contrast, in the outer regions, the ocean vapor source is larger owing to the larger area, counters the drying effect of low-level subsidence, and enhances the moisture transported in toward the eyewall. In this mature storm, cloud condensate is consumed as rapidly as it is produced. Cloud water peaks at the top of the boundary layer and within the melting layer, where cooling from melting enhances condensation. Unlike in squall lines, in the hurricane, very little condensate produced in the eyewall convection is transported outward into the surrounding precipitation area. Most of the mass ejected outward is likely in the form of small snow particles that seed the outer regions and enhance in situ stratiform precipitation development through additional growth by vapor deposition and aggregation. This study also examines artificial source terms for cloud and precipitation mass associated with setting to zero negative mixing ratios that arise from numerical advection errors. Although small at any given point and time, the cumulative effect of these terms contributes an amount of mass equivalent to 13% of the total condensation and 15%–20% of the precipitation. Thus, these terms must be accounted for to balance the model budgets, and the results suggest the need for improved model numerics.

Abstract In this study, the effects of various cloud microphysics processes on the hurricane intensity, precipitation, and inner-core structures are examined with a series of 5-day explicit simulations of Hurricane Bonnie (1998), using the results presented in Part I as a control run. It is found that varying cloud microphysics processes produces little sensitivity in hurricane track, except for very weak and shallow storms, but it produces pronounced departures in hurricane intensity and inner-core structures. Specifically, removing ice microphysics produces the weakest (15-hPa underdeepening) and shallowest storm with widespread cloud water but little rainwater in the upper troposphere. Removing graupel from the control run generates a weaker hurricane with a wider area of precipitation and more cloud coverage in the eyewall due to the enhanced horizontal advection of hydrometeors relative to the vertical fallouts (or increased water loading). Turning off the evaporation of cloud water and rainwater leads to the most rapid deepening storm (i.e., 90 hPa in 48 h) with the smallest radius but a wider eyewall and the strongest eyewall updrafts. The second strongest storm, but with the most amount of rainfall, is obtained when the melting effect is ignored. It is found that the cooling due to melting is more pronounced in the eyewall where more frozen hydrometeors, especially graupel, are available, whereas the evaporative cooling occurs more markedly when the storm environment is more unsaturated. It is shown that stronger storms tend to show more compact eyewalls with heavier precipitation and more symmetric structures in the warm-cored eye and in the eyewall. It is also shown that although the eyewall replacement scenarios occur as the simulated storms move into weak-sheared environments, the associated inner-core structural changes, timing, and location differ markedly, depending on the hurricane intensity. That is, the eyewall convection in weak storms tends to diminish shortly after being encircled by an outer rainband, whereas both the cloud band and the inner eyewall in strong storms tend to merge to form a new eyewall with a larger radius. The results indicate the importance of the Bergeron processes, including the growth and rapid fallout of graupel in the eyewall, and the latent heat of fusion in determining the intensity and inner-core structures of hurricanes, and the vulnerability of weak storms to the influence of large-scale sheared flows in terms of track, inner-core structures, and intensity changes.

Increasingly, attention has been given to the need to mainstream risk reduction in development work in order to reduce the vulnerability of the urban poor. Using El Salvador as a case study, the paper analyses the mainstreaming process in the developmental disciplines of urban planning and housing. The overall aim is to identify how the existing separation between risk reduction, urban planning and housing can be overcome and integration achieved. Since Hurricane Mitch in 1998, and especially after the 2001 earthquakes, not only relief and development organisations, but also social housing organisations have initiated a shift to include risk reduction in their fields of action in order to address the underlying causes of urban vulnerability. The factors that triggered the process were: 1) the negative experiences of organisations with non-integral projects, 2) the organisations' increased emphasis on working with municipal development, 3) political changes at national level, and more importantly, 4) the introduction and promotion of the concept of risk reduction by international and regional aid organisations. However, required additional knowledge and institutional capacities were mainly built up independently and internally by each organisation, and not through the creation of co-operative partnerships, thus duplicating efforts and increasing ineffective competition. Whilst positive experience has been gained through the implementation of more integral projects, the creation of adequate operational, organisational, institutional and legal frameworks is still in its initial stage. Unfortunately, four years after the 2001 earthquakes, emergency relief funding for post-disaster risk reduction is coming to an end without the allocation of resources for following up and consolidating the initial process. Based on the findings, an integral model is proposed which shows how mainstreaming risk reduction in urban planning and housing could be dealt with in such a way that it becomes more integrated, inclusive and sustainable within a developmental context.

Abstract Category 5 cyclones are the most intense and devastating cyclones on earth. With increasing observations of category 5 cyclones, such as Hurricane Katrina (2005), Rita (2005), Mitch (1998), and Supertyphoon Maemi (2003) found to intensify on warm ocean features (i.e., regions of positive sea surface height anomalies detected by satellite altimeters), there is great interest in investigating the role ocean features play in the intensification of category 5 cyclones. Based on 13 yr of satellite altimetry data, in situ and climatological upper-ocean thermal structure data, best-track typhoon data of the U.S. Joint Typhoon Warning Center, together with an ocean mixed layer model, 30 western North Pacific category 5 typhoons that occurred during the typhoon season from 1993 to 2005 are systematically examined in this study. Two different types of situations are found. The first type is the situation found in the western North Pacific south eddy zone (SEZ; 21°–26°N, 127°–170°E) and the Kuroshio (21°–30°N, 127°–170°E) region. In these regions, the background climatological warm layer is relatively shallow (typically the depth of the 26°C isotherm is around 60 m and the upper-ocean heat content is ∼50 kJ cm−2). Therefore passing over positive features is critical to meet the ocean’s part of necessary conditions in intensification because the features can effectively deepen the warm layer (depth of the 26°C isotherm reaching 100 m and upper-ocean heat content is ∼110 kJ cm−2) to restrain the typhoon’s self-induced ocean cooling. In the past 13 yr, 8 out of the 30 category 5 typhoons (i.e., 27%) belong to this situation. The second type is the situation found in the gyre central region (10°–21°N, 121°–170°E) where the background climatological warm layer is deep (typically the depth of the 26°C isotherm is ∼105–120 m and the upper-ocean heat content is ∼80–120 kJ cm−2). In this deep, warm background, passing over positive features is not critical since the background itself is already sufficient to restrain the self-induced cooling negative feedback during intensification.

This paper presents the study results of occurrence feature of tropical cyclone in Truong Sa archipelago region in the period from 1884 to 2018. Data on tropical cyclone such as storm track, intensity... were taken from the website www.weather.unisys.com/hurricane (National Weather Service, USA). The study results show that the study region is the most active area of tropical cyclone activity with about 1.61 times/year. The occurrence frequency of tropical cyclone was increasing from 1988 to 2018. The period from 1884 to 1944 the occurrence frequency of tropical cyclone was about 1 time/year, from 1945 to 2018 the occurrence frequency of tropical cyclone was higher at about 2.4 times/year. Especially, in the years of 2013 and 2017, tropical cyclone occurred 6 times/year. In the years of 2008, 1998, 1993, 1983, 1962, it occurred 5 times/year. The study region underwent the effect of two tropical cyclone seasons, the main season was from September to January of the next year with the occurrence frequency of tropical cyclone being about 4 times higher than that of the season from March to August. The period of highest occurrence frequency of tropical cyclone was from October to December whereas the lowest occurrence frequency of tropical cyclone was in July. The main season of tropical cyclone activity coincided with strong Northeast monsoon period.

Abstract It is well known that serum levels of oestradiol and testosterone, esp free hormone levels, influence the risk of developing breast cancer in postmenopausal women (Thomas et al 1997, Hankinson et al 1998, Kaaks et al 2005, Tin Tin et al 2021). However very little is known about how these hormone levels influence the effectiveness of aromatase inhibitors. In the IBIS-II Prevention Trial we compared anastrozole to placebo in 3864 women at high risk of breast cancer (Cuzick et al 2020). Of these women 3644 (94.3%) had a baseline blood sample. In those with a valid blood sample, 72 in the anastrozole arm and 142 in the placebo arm developed breast cancer (including DCIS) after 12.9 years of follow up (OR = 0.49, 95% CI 0.37–0.66 P< 0.0001). For each case two controls were selected, matched on age, treatment arm and follow up longer than the matching case. In these women oestradiol (E2), testosterone (Testo) and SHBG were measured by liquid chromatography – tandem mass spectroscopy, and E2/SHBG and Testo/SHBG ratios were computed to approximate free hormone levels, and analysed in quartiles. Hormone replacement therapy was not allowed during the trial, and women with use within 3 months prior to entry or outlier hormone values were excluded from these analyses. In the placebo arm higher levels of both of these ratios were associated with a higher breast cancer rate (OR per quartile 1.25 (1.04-1.59), P=0.018) for E2/SHBG and (OR per quartile 1.22 (1.02-1.47), P = 0.032) for Testo/SHBG), whereas no significant effect was seen in the anastrozole arm (OR = 1.05 (0.81-1.37), and 1.16 (0.90-1.49), resp) (Table). Neither treatment interaction was significant. Absolute numbers of cases were similar between the anastrozole and placebo arms in the lowest quartile of E2/SHBG (18 anastrozole, 22 placebo), but higher numbers were seen in the placebo arm for the other quartiles. Similar results were seen for testo/SHBG, and supportive, but weaker results were seen for these two hormones without an SHBG adjustment, SHBG and BMI at entry. Adjusting for other risk factors had no influence on these findings. Effect sizes were similar during the 5 year treatment period and thereafter. There were too few ER negative cases to compare results by receptor status. Vasomotor side effects were higher with increasing E2/SHBG levels in both arms, but no other hormone showed an effect, and no hormone level was significantly associated with gynaecologic or musculoskeletal side effects. As aromatase inhibitors effectively eliminate the production of oestradiol in postmenopausal women, these results suggest they may be more effective in postmenopausal women with high oestradiol or testosterone levels, and raise questions about their value in women in the lower quartile of serum levels for these hormones for prevention and possibly adjuvant treatment. Table: Risk of breast cancer by quartiles of the oestradiol/SHBG in ratio high risk women treated with anastrozole or placebo. Citation Format: Jack Cuzick, Kim Chu, Brian Keevil, Antony Howell, Bernardo Bonanni, Evans Gareth, Kaija Holli, Sibylle Loibl, Nicholas Zdenkowski, Steven Cummings, Mitch Dowsett. Impact of Baseline Oestradiol and Testosterone on the Preventive Effect of Anastrozole [abstract]. In: Proceedings of the 2023 San Antonio Breast Cancer Symposium; 2023 Dec 5-9; San Antonio, TX. Philadelphia (PA): AACR; Cancer Res 2024;84(9 Suppl):Abstract nr PS10-03.

ABSTRACT This paper examines oil pollution response during disaster situations when the Stafford Act is invoked by the President and the National Response Framework provides funding under ESF-10. The interrelationship between the National Contingency Plan (NCP), created by various pollution statues (Clean Water Act/CWA, Comprehensive Environmental Response, Compensation, and Liability/CERCLA, Oil Pollution Act/OPA) and the National Response Framework (NRF), created to deal with declared disasters under the Stafford Act, is becoming more fractious as time passes and the financial scope of disasters grows. The paradigm that existed when Hurricane Katrina made landfall in 2005 was not in evidence when Hurricanes Isaac and Sandy made landfall in the fall of 2012. The NCP envisions oil and chemical spill response in the context of a single spill, ideally with a known responsible party (RP), who takes action to respond to the spill. That RP is liable for costs and damages resulting from the spill. Action commences when the spill occurs and the Federal On-Scene Coordinator (FOSC) determines that federal action is required. If the federal funds (Oil Spill Liability Trust Fund/OSLTF, CERCLA/SUPERFUND) are used, the federal government seeks cost recovery afterwards. The NRF envisions the federal government acting like a “no-fault insurance” regime, providing federal resources/funds to states when their capabilities are overwhelmed and their citizens require immediate succor. FEMA action commences when the State requests and the President approves aid. The states agree to a cost share – not to exceed 25% of Federal funding. There is no private party liability when actions are complete. The Homeland Security Act established the NRF, and operationally subsumes the NCP under it. However, the Homeland Security Act does not address what fund (Stafford or the pollution funds) will be used when a declared disaster occurs. Furthermore, the Stafford Act structure (State requests, Presidential approvals, Federal Emergency Management Agency Federal Coordinating Officer (FEMA FCO) appointment, area surveys, mission assignments) becomes sclerotic in a large incident when compared to the much more nimble NCP process (spill, FOSC decision, immediate funding). The effect for Coast Guard (CG) and Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) field responders is to lean forward with NCP processes to protect the public. FEMA, faced with dwindling resources, observes this tendency and declines to provide disaster funding when the other federal funds “can be used”. The paper proposes a new paradigm for the “Makris-Suiter” Agreement of 1998 between EPA and FEMA. The opinions stated in this paper are the author's alone, and do not reflect the official policies of the United States Coast Guard.

AbstractIncreasing hurricane frequency and intensity with climate change is likely to affect soil organic carbon (C) stocks in tropical forests. We examined the cycling of C between soil pools and with depth at the Luquillo Experimental Forest in Puerto Rico in soils over a 30‐year period that spanned repeated hurricanes. We used a nonlinear matrix model of soil C pools and fluxes (“soilR”) and constrained the parameters with soil and litter survey data. Soil chemistry and stable and radiocarbon isotopes were measured from three soil depths across a topographic gradient in 1988 and 2018. Our results suggest that pulses and subsequent reduction of inputs caused by severe hurricanes in 1989, 1998, and two in 2017 led to faster mean transit times of soil C in 0–10 cm and 35–60 cm depths relative to a modeled control soil with constant inputs over the 30‐year period. Between 1988 and 2018, the occluded C stock increased and δ13C in all pools decreased, while changes in particulate and mineral‐associated C were undetectable. The differences between 1988 and 2018 suggest that hurricane disturbance results in a dilution of the occluded light C pool with an influx of young, debris‐deposited C, and possible microbial scavenging of old and young C in the particulate and mineral‐associated pools. These effects led to a younger total soil C pool with faster mean transit times. Our results suggest that the increasing frequency of intense hurricanes will speed up rates of C cycling in tropical forests, making soil C more sensitive to future tropical forest stressors.

Abstract: This study has selected a vortex tracking algorithm scheme for simulating the activity of tropical cyclone in the Vietnam East Sea by CCAM model. The results show that the CCAM model is able to simulate well the large scale in each month through a reasonable description of the movement rules of the tropical cyclone in the study area. Then, this vortex tracking algorithm scheme was applied to test the seasonal forecast with the outputs of the CCAM model with a resolution of 20km for September 2018 and October 2018. The obtaining results are forecasted quite closely in terms of both quantity and high potential occurrence areas of the tropical cyclone when compared with reality. In particular, for October 2018, although the activity area of ​​the tropical cyclone - YUTU is significantly different from the multi-year average activity position, the seasonal forecast results are obtained from the 120 members of the CCAM model captured this difference. This suggests that it is possible to apply the CCAM model in combination with the selected vortex tracking algorithm scheme for the seasonal forecast of the tropical cyclone over the Vietnam East Sea region in the future. Keywords: Vortex tracking algorithm scheme, Tropical storm, Tropical cyclone, The Vietnam East Sea. References [1] Đinh Văn Ưu, Đánh giá quy luật biến động dài hạn và xu thế biến đổi số lượng bão và áp thấp nhiệt đới trên khu vực Tây Thái Bình Dương, Biển Đông và ven biển Việt Nam, Tạp chí khoa học Đại học Quốc gia Hà Nội, Khoa học Tự nhiên và Công nghệ 25 3S (2009) 542-550.[2] J.C.L. Chan, J.E. Shi, K.S. Liu, Improvements in the seasonal forecasting of tropical cyclone activity over the western North Pacific,Weather Forecast 16 (2001) 491-498.[3] S.J. Camargo, A.G. Barnston, Experimental seasonal dynamical forecasts of tropical cyclone activity at IRI, Weather Forecasting 24 (2009) 472-491.[4] P.J. Klotzbach, W.M. Gray, Twenty-five years of Atlantic basin seasonal hurricane forecasts (1984−2008), Geophys Res Lett. 36: L09711 (2009). https://doi.org/10.1029/2009GL037580.[5] G.A. Vecchi, M. Zhao, H. Wang, G. Villarini and others, Statistical-dynamical predictions of seasonal North Atlantic hurricane activity, Mon Weather Rev. 139 (2011) 1070-1082.[6] M.M. Lu, C.T. Lee, B. Wang, Seasonal prediction of accumulated tropical cyclone kinetic energy around Taiwan and the sources of the predictability, Int J Climatol. 33 (2013) 2846-285.[7] P.J. Klotzbach, Revised prediction of seasonal Atlantic basin tropical cyclone activity from 1 August, Weather Forecast 22 (2007) 937-949.[8] F. Vitart, A. Leroy, M.C. Wheeler, A comparison of dynamical and statistical predictions of weekly tropical cyclone activity in the Southern Hemisphere, Mon Weather Rev. 138 (2010) 3671-3682.[9] A.Y. Yeung, J.C. Chan, Potential use of a regional climate model in seasonal tropical cyclone activity predictions in the western North Pacific, Clim Dyn. 39 (2012) 783-794.[10] S.J. Camargo SJ, A.G. Barnston, P.J. Klotzbach, C.W. Landsea, Seasonal tropical cyclone forecasts, WMO Bull. 56 (2007) 297-309.[11] J.C.L. Chan, J.E. Shi, C.M. Lam, Seasonal forecasting of tropical cyclone activity over the western North Pacific and the South China Sea, Wea Forecast. 13 (1998) 997-1004.[12] F. Vitart, T.N. Stockdale, Seasonal forecasting of tropical storms using coupled GCM integrations, Mon Weather Rev. 129 (2001) 2521-253.[13] F. Vitart, J.L. Anderson, W.F. Stern, Simulation of interannual variability of tropical storm frequency in an ensemble of GCM integrations, J Clim. 10 (1997) 745-76.[14] S. Yokoi, Y.N. Takayabu, J.C.L Chan, Tropical cyclone genesis frequency over the western North Pacific simulated in mediumresolution coupled general circulation models, Clim Dyn. 33 (2009) 665-683.[15] W.A. Landman, A. Seth, S.J. Camargo, The effect of regional climate model domain choice on the simulation of tropical cyclone-like vortices in the Southwestern Indian Ocean, J Clim. 18 (2005) 1263-1274.[16] Bengtsson, L. H. Bottger, and M. Kanamitsu, Simulation of hurricane-type vortices in a general circulation model, Tellus. 34 (1982) 440-457.[17] Bengtsson, M. Botzet, and M. Esch, Hurricane-type vortices in a general circulation model, Tellus. 47A (1995) 175-196.[18] K. Walsh Objective Detection of Tropical Cyclones in High-Resolution Analyses, Mon. Wea. Rev. 125 (1997) 1767-1779.[19] K. Walsh., and I. G. Watterson, Tropical Cyclone-like Vortices in a Limited Area Model: Comparison with Observed Climatology, J. Climate. 10 (1997) 2204-2259.[20] K.C. Nguyen, K.J.E. Walsh, Interannual, decadal, and transient greenhouse simulation of tropical cyclone-like vortices in a regional climate model of the South Pacific, J Clim 14 (2001) 3043-3054.[21] S.J. Camargo and S. E. Zebiak, Improving the Detection and Tracking of Tropical Cyclones in Atmospheric General Circulation Models, Wea. Forecasting 17 (2002) 1152-1162.[22] J.L. McGregor, C-CAM: Geometric aspects and dynamical formulation. CSIRO Atmospheric Research Technical Paper, No. 70 (2005).[23] J.L. McGregor and M.R. Dix, The CSIRO conformal-cubic atmospheric GCM. In: Hodnett PF (ed) IUTAM symposium on advances in mathematical modelling of atmosphere and ocean dynamics. Kluwer, Dordrecht (2001) 197-202.[24] J.L. McGregor and M.R. Dix, An updated description of the Conformal-Cubic Atmospheric Model. In: Hamilton K, Ohfuchi W(eds) High resolution simulation of the atmosphere and ocean, Springer, New York, (2008) 51-76.[25] M.D. Schwarzkopf and V. Ramaswamy, Radiative effects of CH4, N2O, halocarbons and the foreign-broadened H2O continuum: a GCM experiment, J Geophys Res. 104 (1999) 9467-9488.[26] L.D. Rotstayn, A physically based scheme for the treatment of stratiform clouds and precipitation in large-scale models. I: description and evaluation of the microphysical processes, Q J R Meteorol Soc. 123 (1997) 1227-1282.[27] L.D. Rotstayn and Lohmann U, Simulation of the tropospheric sulfur cycle in a global model with a physically based cloud scheme, J Geo Res. 27 (2002).[28] J.L. McGregor, H.B. Gordon, I.G. Watterson, M.R. Dix and L.D. Rotstayn, The CSIRO 9-level atmospheric general circulation model. CSIRO Division of Atmospheric Research Technical Paper, No. 26 (1993).[29] J.L. McGregor, A new convection scheme using a simple clo-sure. In: current issues in the parameterization of convection, BMRC Res Rep. 93 (2003) 33-36.[30] F. Schmidt, Variable fine mesh in spectral global model, Beitraege zur Physik der Atmosphaere. 50 (1977) 211-217.[31] P.V. Tan, T. T. Long, B. H. Hai, and C. Kieu, Seasonal forecasting of tropical cyclone activity in the coastal region of Vietnam using RegCM4.2, Clim. Res. 62 (2015) 115-129. https://doi.org/10. 3354/cr01267.

In PilsenTwenty-six Station Road,She climbed to the third floorUp stairs which were all that was leftOf the whole house,She opened her doorFull on to the sky,Stood gaping over the edge.For this was the placeThe world ended.Thenshe locked up carefullylest someone stealSiriusor Aldebaranfrom her kitchen,went back downstairsand settled herselfto waitfor the house to rise againand for her husband to rise from the ashesand for her children’s hands and feet to be stuck back in placeIn the morning they found herstill as stone, sparrows pecking her hands.Five Minutes after the Air Raidby Miroslav Holub(Calder 287) Holding Still Detonation. Affect. During the Second World War, London and other European cities were subjected to the terrors of aerial bombardment, rendered through nightmarish anticipations of the bomber (Gollin 7) and the material storm of the real air-raid. The fall of bombs plagued cities and their citizens with the terrible rain of explosives and incendiary weapons. A volatile landscape was formed as the urban environment was ‘unmade’ and urged into violent motion. Flying projectiles of shrapnel, debris and people; avalanches of collapsing factories and houses; the inhale and exhale of compressed air and firestorms; the scream of the explosion. All these composed an incredibly fluid urban traumatic, as atmospheres fell over the cities that was thick with smoke, dust, and ventilated only by terror (see for instance Sebald 10 and Mendieta’s 3 recent commentary). Vast craters were imprinted onto the charred morphologies of London and Berlin as well as Coventry, Hamburg and Dresden. Just as the punctuations of the bombing saw the psychic as well as the material give way, writers portraying Britain as an ‘volcano island’ (Spaight 5) witnessed eruptive projections – the volleys of the material air-war; the emotional signature of charged and bitter reprisals; pain, anguish and vengeance - counter-strikes of affect. In the midst of all of this molten violence and emotion it seems impossible that a simultaneous sense of quiescence could be at all possible. More than mere physical fixity or geographical stasis, a rather different sort of experience could take place. Preceding, during and following the excessive mobilisation of an air raid, ‘stillness’ was often used to describe certain plateuing stretches of time-space which were slowed and even stopped (Anderson 740). Between the eruptions appeared hollows of calm and even boredom. People’s nervous flinching under the reverberation of high-explosive blasts formed part of what Jordan Crandall might call a ‘bodily-inclination’ position. Slackened and taut feelings condensed around people listening out for the oncoming bomber. People found that they prepared for the dreadful wail of the siren, or relaxed in the aftermath of the attack. In these instances, states of tension and apprehension as well as calm and relief formed though stillness. The peculiar experiences of ‘stillness’ articulated in these events open out, I suggest, distinctive ways-of-being which undo our assumptions of perpetually fluid subjectivities and the primacy of the ‘body in motion’ even within the context of unparalleled movement and uncertainty (see Harrison 423 and also Rose and Wylie 477 for theoretical critique). The sorts of “musics of stillness and silence able to be discovered in a world of movement” (Thrift, Still 50), add to our understandings of the material geographies of war and terror (see for instance Graham 63; Gregory and Pred 3), whilst they gesture towards complex material-affective experiences of bodies and spaces. Stillness in this sense, denotes apprehending and anticipating spaces and events in ways that sees the body enveloped within the movement of the environment around it; bobbing along intensities that course their way through it; positioned towards pasts and futures that make themselves felt, and becoming capable of intense forms of experience and thought. These examples illustrate not a shutting down of the body to an inwardly focused position – albeit composed by complex relations and connections – but bodies finely attuned to their exteriors (see Bissell, Animating 277 and Conradson 33). In this paper I draw from a range of oral and written testimony archived at the Imperial War Museum and the Mass Observation wartime regular reports. Edited publications from these collections were also consulted. Detailing the experience of aerial bombing during the Blitz, particularly on London between September 1940 to May 1941, forms part of a wider project concerning the calculative and affective dimensions of the aeroplane’s relationship with the human body, especially through the spaces it has worked to construct (infrastructures such as airports) and destroy. While appearing extraordinary, the examples I use are actually fairly typical of the patternings of experience and the depth and clarity with which they are told. They could be taken to be representative of the population as a whole or coincidentally similar testimonials. Either way, they are couched within a specific cultural historical context of urgency, threat and unparalleled violence.Anticipations The complex material geographies of an air raid reveal the ecological interdependencies of populations and their often urban environments and metabolisms (Coward 419; Davis 3; Graham 63; Gregory The Colonial 19; Hewitt Place 257). Aerial warfare was an address of populations conceived at the register of their bio-rhythmical and metabolic relationship to their milieu (Adey). The Blitz and the subsequent Allied bombing campaign constituted Churchill’s ‘great experiment’ for governments attempting to assess the damage an air raid could inflict upon a population’s nerves and morale (Brittain 77; Gregory In Another 88). An anxious and uncertain landscape constructed before the war, perpetuated by public officials, commentators and members of parliament, saw background affects (Ngai 5) of urgency creating an atmosphere that pressurised and squeezed the population to prepare for the ‘gathering storm’. Attacks upon the atmosphere itself had been readily predicted in the form of threatening gas attacks ready to poison the medium upon which human and animal life depended (Haldane 111; Sloterdijk 41-57). One of the most talked of moments of the Blitz is not necessarily the action but the times of stillness that preceded it. Before and in-between an air raid stillness appears to describe a state rendered somewhere between the lulls and silences of the action and the warnings and the anticipatory feelings of what might happen. In the awaiting bodies, the materialites of silence could be felt as a kind-of-sound and as an atmospheric sense of imminence. At the onset of the first air-raids sound became a signifier of what was on the way (MO 408). Waiting – as both practice and sensation – imparted considerable inertia that went back and forth through time (Jeffrey 956; Massumi, Parables 3). For Geographer Kenneth Hewitt, sound “told of the coming raiders, the nearness of bombs, the plight of loved ones” (When the 16). The enormous social survey of Mass Observation concluded that “fear seems to be linked above all with noise” (original emphasis). As one report found, “It is the siren or the whistle or the explosion or the drone – these are the things that terrify. Fear seems to come to us most of all through our sense of hearing” (MO 378). Yet the power of the siren came not only from its capacity to propagate sound and to alert, but the warning held in its voice of ‘keeping silent’. “Prefacing in a dire prolepsis the post-apocalyptic event before the event”, as Bishop and Phillips (97) put it, the stillness of silence was incredibly virtual in its affects, disclosing - in its lack of life – the lives that would be later taken. Devastation was expected and rehearsed by civilians. Stillness formed a space and body ready to spring into movement – an ‘imminent mobility’ as John Armitage (204) has described it. Perched on the edge of devastation, space-times were felt through a sense of impending doom. Fatalistic yet composed expectations of a bomb heading straight down pervaded the thoughts and feelings of shelter dwellers (MO 253; MO 217). Waves of sound disrupted fragile tempers as they passed through the waiting bodies in the physical language of tensed muscles and gritted teeth (Gaskin 36). Silence helped form bodies inclined-to-attention, particularly sensitive to aural disturbances and vibrations from all around. Walls, floors and objects carried an urban bass-line of warning (Goodman). Stillness was forged through a body readied in advance of the violence these materialities signified. A calm and composed body was not necessarily an immobile body. Civilians who had prepared for the attacks were ready to snap into action - to dutifully wear their gas-mask or escape to shelter. ‘Backgrounds of expectation’ (Thrift, Still 36) were forged through non-too-subtle procedural and sequential movements which opened-out new modes of thinking and feeling. Folding one’s clothes and placing them on the dresser in-readiness; pillows and sheets prepared for a spell in the shelter, these were some of many orderly examples (IWM 14595). In the event of a gas attack air raid precautions instructions advised how to put on a gas mask (ARPD 90-92),i) Hold the breath. ii) Remove headgear and place between the knees. iii) Lift the flap of the haversack [ …] iv) Bring the face-piece towards the face’[…](v) Breathe out and continue to breathe in a normal manner The rational technologies of drill, dressage and operational research enabled poise in the face of an eventual air-raid. Through this ‘logistical-life’ (Reid 17), thought was directed towards simple tasks by minutely described instructions. Stilled LifeThe end of stillness was usually marked by a reactionary ‘flinch’, ‘start’ or ‘jump’. Such reactionary ‘urgent analogs’ (Ngai 94; Tomkins 96) often occurred as a response to sounds and movements that merely broke the tension rather than accurately mimicking an air raid. These atmospheres were brittle and easily disrupted. Cars back-firing and changing gear were often complained about (MO 371), just as bringing people out of the quiescence of sleep was a common effect of air-raids (Kraftl and Horton 509). Disorientation was usually fostered in this process while people found it very difficult to carry out the most simple of tasks. Putting one’s clothes on or even making their way out of the bedroom door became enormously problematic. Sirens awoke a ‘conditioned reflex’ to take cover (MO 364). Long periods of sleep deprivation brought on considerable fatigue and anxiety. ‘Sleep we Must’ wrote journalist Ritchie Calder (252) noticing the invigorating powers of sleep for both urban morale and the bare existence of survival. For other more traumatized members of the population, psychological studies found that the sustained concentration of shelling caused what was named ‘apathy-retreat’ (Harrisson, Living 65). This extreme form of acquiescence saw especially susceptible and vulnerable civilians suffer an overwhelming urge to sleep and to be cared-for ‘as if chronically ill’ (Janis 90). A class and racial politics of quiescent affect was enacted as several members of the population were believed far more liable to ‘give way’ to defeat and dangerous emotions (Brittain 77; Committee of Imperial Defence).In other cases it was only once an air-raid had started that sleep could be found (MO 253). The boredom of waiting could gather in its intensity deforming bodies with “the doom of depression” (Anderson 749). The stopped time-spaces in advance of a raid could be soaked with so much tension that the commencement of sirens, vibrations and explosions would allow a person overwhelming relief (MO 253). Quoting from a boy recalling his experiences in Hannover during 1943, Hewitt illustrates:I lie in bed. I am afraid. I strain my ears to hear something but still all is quiet. I hardly dare breathe, as if something horrible is knocking at the door, at the windows. Is it the beating of my heart? ... Suddenly there seems relief, the sirens howl into the night ... (Heimatbund Niedersachsen 1953: 185). (Cited in Hewitt, When 16)Once a state of still was lost getting it back required some effort (Bissell, Comfortable 1697). Cautious of preventing mass panic and public hysteria by allowing the body to erupt outwards into dangerous vectors of mobility, the British government’s schooling in the theories of panicology (Orr 12) and contagious affect (Le Bon 17; Tarde 278; Thrift, Intensities 57; Trotter 140), made air raid precautions (ARP) officers, police and civil defence teams enforce ‘stay put’ and ‘hold firm’ orders to protect the population (Jones et al, Civilian Morale 463, Public Panic 63-64; Thomas 16). Such orders were meant to shield against precisely the kinds of volatile bodies they were trying to compel with their own bombing strategies. Reactions to the Blitz were moralised and racialised. Becoming stilled required self-conscious work by a public anxious not to be seen to ‘panic’. This took the form of self-disciplination. People exhausted considerable energy to ‘settle’ themselves down. It required ‘holding’ themselves still and ‘together’ in order to accomplish this state, and to avoid going the same way as the buildings falling apart around them, as some people observed (MO 408). In Britain a cup of tea was often made as a spontaneous response in the event of the conclusion of a raid (Brown 686). As well as destroying bombing created spaces too – making space for stillness (Conradson 33). Many people found that they could recall their experiences in vivid detail, allocating a significant proportion of their memories to the recollection of the self and an awareness of their surroundings (IWM 19103). In this mode of stillness, contemplation did not turn-inwards but unfolded out towards the environment. The material processual movement of the shell-blast literally evacuated all sound and materials from its centre to leave a vacuum of negative pressure. Diaries and oral testimonies stretch out these millisecond events into discernable times and spaces of sensation, thought and the experience of experience (Massumi, Parables 2). Extraordinarily, survivors mention serene feelings of quiet within the eye of the blast (see Mortimer 239); they had, literally, ‘no time to be frightened’ (Crighton-Miller 6150). A shell explosion could create such intensities of stillness that a sudden and distinctive lessening of the person and world are expressed, constituting ‘stilling-slowing diminishments’ (Anderson 744). As if the blast-vacuum had sucked all the animation from their agency, recollections convey passivity and, paradoxically, a much more heightened and contemplative sense of the moment (Bourke 121; Thrift, Still 41). More lucid accounts describe a multitude of thoughts and an attention to minute detail. Alternatively, the enormous peaking of a waking blast subdued all later activities to relative obsolescence. The hurricane of sounds and air appear to overload into the flatness of an extended and calmed instantaneous present.Then the whistling stopped, then a terrific thump as it hit the ground, and everything seem to expand, then contract with deliberation and stillness seemed to be all around. (As recollected by Bill and Vi Reagan in Gaskin 17)On the other hand, as Schivelbusch (7) shows us in his exploration of defeat, the cessation of war could be met with an outburst of feeling. In these micro-moments a close encounter with death was often experienced with elation, a feeling of peace and well-being drawn through a much more heightened sense of the now (MO 253). These are not pre-formed or contemplative techniques of attunement as Thrift has tracked, but are the consequence of significant trauma and the primal reaction to extreme danger.TracesSusan Griffin’s haunting A Chorus of Stones documents what she describes as a private life of war (1). For Griffin, and as shown in these brief examples, stillness and being-stilled describe a series of diverse experiences endured during aerial bombing. Yet, as Griffin narrates, these are not-so private lives. A common representation of air war can be found in Henry Moore’s tube shelter sketches which convey sleeping tube-dwellers harboured in the London underground during the Blitz. The bodies are represented as much more than individuals being connected by Moore’s wave-like shapes into the turbulent aggregation of a choppy ocean. What we see in Moore’s portrayal and the examples discussed already are experiences with definite relations to both inner and outer worlds. They refer to more-than individuals who bear intimate relations to their outsides and the atmospheric and material environments enveloping and searing through them. Stillness was an unlikely state composed through these circulations just as it was formed as a means of address. It was required in order to apprehend sounds and possible events through techniques of listening or waiting. Alternatively being stilled could refer to pauses between air-strikes and the corresponding breaks of tension in the aftermath of a raid. Stillness was composed through a series of distributed yet interconnecting bodies, feelings, materials and atmospheres oriented towards the future and the past. The ruins of bombed-out building forms stand as traces even today. Just as Massumi (Sensing 16) describes in the context of architecture, the now static remainder of the explosion “envelops in its stillness a deformational field of which it stands as the trace”. The ruined forms left after the attack stand as a “monument” of the passing of the raid to be what it once was – house, factory, shop, restaurant, library - and to become something else. The experience of those ‘from below’ (Hewitt 2) suffering contemporary forms of air-warfare share many parallels with those of the Blitz. Air power continues to target, apparently more precisely, the affective tones of the body. Accessed by kinetic and non-kinetic forces, the signs of air-war are generated by the shelling of Kosovo, ‘shock and awe’ in Iraq, air-strikes in Afghanistan and by the simulated air-raids of IDF aircraft producing sonic-booms over sleeping Palestinian civilians, now becoming far more real as I write in the final days of 2008. Achieving stillness in the wake of aerial trauma remains, even now, a way to survive the (private) life of air war. AcknowledgementsI’d like to thank the editors and particularly the referees for such a close reading of the article; time did not permit the attention their suggestions demanded. Grateful acknowledgement is also made to the AHRC whose funding allowed me to research and write this paper. ReferencesAdey, Peter. Aerial Geographies: Mobilities, Bodies and Subjects. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010 (forthcoming). 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London: Continuum 2006.Brown, Felix. “Civilian Psychiatric Air-Raid Casualties.” The Lancet (31 May 1941): 686-691.Calder, Angus. The People's War: Britain, 1939-45. London: Panther, 1971.Calder, Ritchie. “Sleep We Must.” New Statesman and Nation (14 Sep. 1940): 252-253.Committee of Imperial Defence. Minute book. HO 45/17636. The National Archives, 1936.Conradson, David. “The Experiential Economy of Stillness: Places of Retreat in Contemporary Britain.” In Alison Williams, ed. Therapeutic Landscapes: Advances and Applications. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008. 33-48.Coward, Martin. “Against Anthropocentrism: The Destruction of the Built Environment as a Distinct Form of Political Violence.” Review of International Studies 32 (2006): 419-437. Crandall, Jordan. “Precision + Guided + Seeing.” CTheory (1 Oct. 2006). 8 Mar. 2009 ‹http://www.ctheory.net/articles.aspx?id=502›.Crighton-Miller, H. “Somatic Factors Conditioning Air-Raid Reactions.” The Lancet (12 July 1941): 31-34.Davis, Mike. Dead Cities, and Other Tales. New York: New P, 2002. Davis, Tracy. Stages of Emergency: Cold War Nuclear Civil Defence. Durham: Duke U P, 2007Gaskin, Martin. Blitz: The Story of December 29, 1940. London: Faber and Faber, 2006.Graham, Stephen. “Lessons in Urbicide.” New Left Review (2003): 63-78.Gregory, Derek. The Colonial Present: Afghanistan, Palestine, Iraq. London: Routledge, 2004.———. “‘In Another Time-Zone, the Bombs Fall Unsafely…’: Targets, Civilians and Late Modern War.” Arab World Geographer 9 (2007): 88-112.Gregory, Derek, and Allan Pred. Violent Geographies: Fear, Terror and Political Violence. London: Routledge, 2007.Grosscup, Beau. Strategic Terror: The Politics and Ethics of Aerial Bombardment. London: Zed Books, 2006.Griffin, Susan. A Chorus of Stones: The Private Life of War. London: Anchor Books, 1993.Goodman, Steve. Sonic Warfare: Sound, Affect and the Ecology of Fear. Cambridge: MIT P, 2009 (forthcoming).Haldane, Jack. A.R.P. 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New York: McGraw-Hill, 1951.Jones, Edgar, Robert Woolven, Bill Durodie, and Simon Wesselly. “Civilian Morale during the Second World War: Responses to Air Raids Re-Examined.” Social History of Medicine 17 (2004): 463-479.———. “Public Panic and Morale: Second World War Civilian Responses Reexamined in the Light of the Current Anti-Terrorist Campaign.” Journal of Risk Research 9 (2006): 57-73.Kraftl, Peter, and John Horton. “Sleepy Geographies and the Spaces of Every-Night Life.” Progress in Human Geography 32 (2008): 509-532.Le Bon, Gustav. The Crowd. London: T. F. Unwin, 1925.Massumi, Brian. Parables for the Virtual: Movement, Affect, Sensation. Durham and London: Duke U P, 2002.———. “Sensing the Virtual: Building the Insensible.” Architectural Design 68.5/6 (1998): 16-24Mendieta, Edwardo. “The Literature of Urbicide: Friedrich, Nossack, Sebald, and Vonnegut.” Theory and Event 10 (2007):MO 371. “Cars and Sirens.” Mass Observation Report. 27 Aug. 1940.MO 408. “Human Adjustments to Air Raids.” Mass Observation Report. 8 Sep. 1940.MO 253. “Air Raids.” Mass Observation Report. 5 July 1940.MO 217. “Air Raids.” Mass Observation Report. 21 June 1940.MO A14. “Shelters.” Mass Observation Report. [date unknown] 1940.MO 364. “Metropolitan Air Raids.” Mass Observation Report. 23 Aug. 1940.Mortimer, Gavin. The Longest Night. London: Orion, 2005.Ngai, Sianne. Ugly Feelings. Harvard: Harvard U P, 2005.Orr, Pauline. Panic Diaries. Durham and London: Duke U P, 2006.Reid, Julian. The Biopolitics of the War on Terror. 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The ideas put forth here do not fit perfectly or entirely into the genre and form of what has established itself as the scholarly journal article. What is put forth, instead, is a juxtaposition of lines of thinking about the scholarly and popular in publishing, past, present and future. As such it may indeed be quite appropriate to the occasion and the questions raised in the call for papers for this special issue of M/C Journal. The ideas put forth here are intended as pieces of an ever-changing puzzle of the making public of scholarship, which, I hope, may in some way fit with both the work of others in this special issue and in the discourse more broadly. The first line of thinking presented takes the form of an historical overview of publishing as context to consider a second line of thinking about the current status and future of publishing. The historical context serves as reminder (and cause for celebration) that publishing has not yet perished, contrary to continued doomsday sooth-saying that has come with each new medium since the advent of print. Instead, publishing has continued to transform and it is precisely the transformation of print, print culture and reading publics that are the focus of this article, in particular, in relation to the question of the boundaries between the scholarly and the popular. What follows is a juxtaposition that is part of an investigation in progress. Presented first, therefore, is a mapping of shifts in print culture from the time of Gutenberg to the twentieth century; second, is a contemporary snapshot of the editorial mandates of more than one hundred member journals of the Canadian Association of Learned Journals (CALJ). What such juxtaposition is able to reveal is open to interpretation, of course. And indeed, as I proceed in my investigation of publishing past, present and future, my interpretations are many. The juxtaposition raises a number of issues: of communities of readers and the cultures of reading publics; of privileged and marginalised texts (as well as their authors and their readers); of access and reach (whether in terms of what is quantifiable or in a much more subtle but equally important sense). In Canada, at present, these issues are also intertwined with changes to research funding policies and some attention is given at the end of this article to the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council (SSHRC) of Canada and its recent/current shift in funding policy. Curiously, current shifts in funding policies, considered alongside an historical overview of publishing, would suggest that although publishing continues to transform, at the same time, as they say, plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Republics of Letters and Ghosts in Machines Republics of Letters that formed after the advent of the printing press can be conjured up as distant and almost mythical communities of elite literates, ghosts almost lost in a Gutenberg galaxy that today encompasses (and is embodied in) schools, bookshelves, and digital archives in many places across the globe. Conjuring up ghosts of histories past seems always to reveal ironies, and indeed some of the most interesting ironies of the Gutenberg galaxy involve McLuhanesque reversals or, if not full reversals, then in the least some notably sharp turns. There is a need to define some boundaries (and terms) in the framing of the tracing that follows. Given that the time frame in question spans more than five hundred years (from the advent of Gutenberg’s printing press in the fifteenth century to the turn of the 21st century), the tracing must necessarily be done in broad strokes. With regard to what is meant by the “making public of scholarship” in this paper, by “making public” I refer to accounts historians have given in their attempts to reconstruct a history of what was published either in the periodical press or in books. With regard to scholarship (and the making public of it), as with many things in the history of publishing (or any history), this means different things in different times and in different places. The changing meanings of what can be termed “scholarship” and where and how it historically has been made public are the cornerstones on which this article (and a history of the making public of scholarship) turn. The structure of this paper is loosely chronological and is limited to the print cultures and reading publics in France, Britain, and what would eventually be called the US and Canada, and what follows here is an overview of changes in how scholarly and popular texts and publics are variously defined over the course of history. The Construction of Reading Publics and Print Culture In any consideration of “print culture” and reading publics, historical or contemporary, there are two guiding principles that historians suggest should be kept in mind, and, though these may seem self-evident, they are worth stating explicitly (perhaps precisely because they seem self-evident). The first is a reminder from Adrian Johns that “the very identity of print itself has had to be made” (2 italics in original). Just as the identity of print cultures are made, similarly, a history of reading publics and their identities are made, by looking to and interpreting such variables as numbers and genres of titles published and circulated, dates and locations of collections, and information on readers’ experiences of texts. Elizabeth Eisenstein offers a reminder of the “widely varying circumstances” (92) of the print revolution and an explicit acknowledgement of such circumstances provides the second, seemingly self-evident guiding principle: that the construction of reading publics and print culture must not only be understood as constructed, but also that such constructions ought not be understood as uniform. The purpose of the reconstructions of print cultures and reading publics presented here, therefore, is not to arrive at final conclusions, but rather to identify patterns that prove useful in better understanding the current status (and possible future) of publishing. The Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries—Boom, then Busted by State and Church In search of what could be termed “scholarship” following the mid-fifteenth century boom of the early days of print, given the ecclesiastical and state censorship in Britain and France and the popularity of religious texts of the 15th and 16th centuries, arguably the closest to “scholarship” that we can come is through the influence of the Italian Renaissance and the revival and translation (into Latin, and to a far lesser extent, vernacular languages) of the classics and indeed the influence of the Italian Renaissance on the “print revolution” is widely recognised by historians. Historians also recognise, however, that it was not long until “the supply of unpublished texts dried up…[yet for authors] to sell the fruits of their intellect—was not yet common practice before the late 16th century” (Febvre and Martin 160). Although this reference is to the book trade in France, in Britain, and in the regions to become the US and Canada, reading of “pious texts” was similarly predominant in the early days of print. Yet, the humanist shift throughout the 16th century is evidenced by titles produced in Paris in the first century of print: in 1501, in a total of 88 works, 53 can be categorised as religious, with 25 categorised as Latin, Greek, or Humanist authors; as compared to titles produced in 1549, in a total of 332 titles, 56 can be categorised as religious with 204 categorised as Latin, Greek, or Humanist authors (Febvre and Martin 264). The Seventeenth Century—Changes in the Political and Print Landscape In the 17th century, printers discovered that their chances of profitability (and survival) could be improved by targeting and developing a popular readership through the periodical press (its very periodicity and relative low cost both contributed to its accessibility by popular publics) in Europe as well as in North America. It is worthwhile to note, however, that “to the end of the seventeenth century, both literacy and leisure were virtually confined to scholars and ‘gentlemen’” (Steinberg 119) particularly where books were concerned and although literacy rates were still low, through the “exceptionally literate villager” there formed “hearing publics” who would have printed texts read to them (Eisenstein 93). For the literate members of the public interested not only in improving their social positions through learning, but also with intellectual (or spiritual or existential) curiosity piqued by forbidden books, it is not surprising that Descartes “wrote in French to a ‘lay audience … open to new ideas’” (Jacob 41). The 17th century also saw the publication of the first scholarly journals. There is a tension that becomes evident in the seventeenth century that can be seen as a tension characteristic of print culture, past and present: on the one hand, the housing of scholarship in scholarly journals as a genre distinct from the genre of the popular periodicals can be interpreted as a continued pattern of (elitist) divide in publics (as seen earlier between the oral and the written word, between Latin and the vernacular, between classic texts and popular texts); while, on the other hand, some thinkers/scholars of the day had an interest in reaching a wider audience, as printers always had, which led to the construction and fragmentation of audiences (whether the printer’s market for his goods or the scholar’s marketplace of ideas). The Eighteenth Century—Republics of Letters Become Concrete and Visible The 18th century saw ever-increasing literacy rates, early copyright legislation (Statute of Anne in 1709), improved printing technology, and ironically (or perhaps on the contrary, quite predictably) severe censorship that in effect led to an increased demand for forbidden books and a vibrant and international underground book trade (Darnton and Roche 138). Alongside a growing book trade, “the pulpit was ultimately displaced by the periodical press” (Eisenstein 94), which had become an “established institution” (Steinberg 125). One history of the periodical press in France finds that the number of periodicals (to remain in publication for three or more years) available to the reading public in 1745 numbered 15, whereas in 1785 this increased to 82 (Censer 7). With regard to scholarly periodicals, another study shows that between 1790 and 1800 there were 640 scientific-technological periodicals being published in Europe (Kronick 1961). Across the Atlantic, earlier difficulties in cultivating intellectual life—such as haphazard transatlantic exchange and limited institutions for learning—began to give way to a “republic of letters” that was “visible and concrete” (Hall 417). The Nineteenth Century—A Second Boom and the Rise of the Periodical Press By the turn of the 19th century, visible and concrete republics of letters become evident on both sides of the Atlantic in the boom in book publishing and in the periodical press, scholarly and popular. State and church controls on printing/publishing had given way to the press as the “fourth estate” or a free press as powerful force. The legislation of public education brought increased literacy rates among members of successive generations. One study of literacy rates in Britain, for example, shows that in the period from 1840–1870 literacy rates increased by 35–70 per cent; then from 1870–1900, literacy increased by 78–261 per cent (Mitch 76). Further, with the growth and changes in universities, “history, languages and literature and, above all, the sciences, became an established part of higher education for the first time,” which translated into growing markets for book publishers (Feather 117). Similarly the periodical press reached ever-increasing and numerous reading publics: one estimate of the increase finds the publication of nine hundred journals in 1800 jumping to almost sixty thousand in 1901 (Brodman, cited in Kronick 127). Further, the important role of the periodical press in developing communities of readers was recognised by publishers, editors and authors of the time, something equally recognised by present-day historians describing the “generic mélange of the periodical … [that] particularly lent itself to the interpenetration of language and ideas…[and] the verbal and conceptual interconnectedness of science, politics, theology, and literature” (Dawson, Noakes and Topham 30). Scientists recognised popular periodicals as “important platforms for addressing a non-specialist but culturally powerful public … [they were seen as public] performances [that] fulfilled important functions in making the claims of science heard among the ruling élite” (Dawson et al. 11). By contrast, however, the scholarly journals of the time, while also increasing in number, were becoming increasingly specialised along the same disciplinary boundaries being established in the universities, fulfilling a very different function of forming scholarly and discipline-specific discourse communities through public (published) performances of a very different nature. The Twentieth Century—The Tension Between Niche Publics and Mass Publics The long-existing tension in print culture between the differentiation of reading publics on the one hand, and the reach to ever-expanding reading publics on the other, in the twentieth century becomes a tension between what have been termed “niche-marketing” and “mass marketing,” between niche publics and mass publics. What this meant for the making public of scholarship was that the divides between discipline-specific discourse communities (and their corresponding genres) became more firmly established and yet, within each discipline, there was further fragmentation and specialisation. The niche-mass tension also meant that although in earlier print culture, “the lines of demarcation between men of science, men of letters, and scientific popularizers were far from clear, and were constantly being renegotiated” (Dawson et al 28), with the increasing professionalisation of academic work (and careers), lines of demarcation became firmly drawn between scholarly and popular titles and authors, as well as readers, who were described as “men of science,” as “educated men,” or as “casual observers” (Klancher 90). The question remains, however, as one historian of science asks, “To whom did the reading public go in order to learn about the ultimate meaning of modern science, the professionals or the popularizers?” (Lightman 191). By whom and for whom, where and how scholarship has historically been made public, are questions worthy of consideration if contemporary scholars are to better understand the current status (and possible future) for the making public of scholarship. A Snapshot of Scholarly Journals in Canada and Current Changes in Funding Policies The here and now of scholarly journal publishing in Canada (a growing, but relatively modest scholarly journal community, compared to the number of scholarly journals published in Europe and the US) serves as an interesting microcosm through which to consider how scholarly journal publishing has evolved since the early days of print. What follows here is an overview of the membership of the Canadian Association of Learned Journals (CALJ), in particular: (1) their target readers as identifiable from their editorial mandates; (2) their print/online/open-access policies; and (3) their publishers (all information gathered from the CALJ website, http://www.calj-acrs.ca/). Analysis of the collected data for the 100 member journals of CALJ (English, French and bilingual journals) with available information on the CALJ website is presented in Table 1 (below). A few observations are noteworthy: (1) in terms of readers, although all 100 journals identify a scholarly audience as their target readership, more than 40% of the journal also identify practitioners, policy-makers, or general readers as members of their target audience; (2) more than 25% of the journals publish online as well as or instead of print editions; and (3) almost all journals are published either by a Canadian university or, in one case, a college (60%) or a scholarly or professional society (31%). Table 1: Target Readership, Publishing Model and Publishers, CALJ Members (N=100) Journals with identifiable scholarly target readership 100 Journals with other identifiable target readership: practitioner 35 Journals with other identifiable target readership: general readers 18 Journals with other identifiable target readership: policy-makers/government 10 Total journals with identifiable target readership other than scholarly 43 Journals publishing in print only 56 Journals publishing in print and online 24 Journals publishing in print, online and open access 16 Journals publishing online only and open access 4 Journals published through a Canadian university press, faculty or department 60 Journals published by a scholarly or professional society 31 Journals published by a research institute 5 Journals published by the private sector 4 In the context of the historical overview presented earlier, this data raises a number of questions. The number of journals with target audiences either within or beyond the academy raises issues akin to the situation in the early days of print, when published works were primarily in Latin, with only 22 per cent in vernacular languages (Febvre and Martin 256), thereby strongly limiting access and reach to diverse audiences until the 17th century when Latin declined as the international language (Febvre and Martin 275) and there is a parallel to scholarly journal publishing and their changing readership(s). Diversity in audiences gradually developed in the early days of print, as Febvre and Martin (263) show by comparing the number of churchmen and lawyers with library collections in Paris: from 1480–1500 one lawyer and 24 churchmen had library collections, compared to 1551–1600, when 71 lawyers and 21 churchmen had library collections. Although the distinctions between present-day target audiences of Canadian scholarly journals (shown in Table 1, above) and 16th-century churchmen or lawyers no doubt are considerable, again there is a parallel with regard to changes in reading audiences. Similarly, the 18th-century increase in literacy rates, education, and technological advances finds a parallel in contemporary questions of computer literacy and access to scholarship (see Willinsky, “How,” Access, “Altering,” and If Only). Print culture historians and historians of science, as noted above, recognise that historically, while scholarly periodicals have increasingly specialised and popular periodicals have served as “important platforms for addressing a non-specialist but culturally powerful public…[and] fulfill[ing] important functions in making the claims of science heard among the ruling élite” (Dawson 11), there is adrift in current policies changes (and in the CALJ data above) a blurring of boundaries that harkens back to earlier days of print culture. As Adrian John reminded us earlier, “the very identity of print itself has had to be made” (2, italics in original) and the same applies to identities or cultures of print and the members of that culture: namely, the readers, the audience. The identities of the readers of scholarship are being made and re-made, as editorial mandates extend the scope of journals beyond strict, academic disciplinary boundaries and as increasing numbers of journals publish online (and open access). In Canada, changes in scholarly journal funding by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council (SSHRC) of Canada (as well as changes in SSHRC funding for research more generally) place increasing focus on impact factors (an international trend) as well as increased attention on the public benefits and value of social sciences and humanities research and scholarship (see SSHRC 2004, 2005, 2006). There is much debate in the scholarly community in Canada about the implications and possibilities of the direction of the changing funding policies, not least among members of the scholarly journal community. As noted in the table above, most scholarly journal publishers in Canada are independently published, which brings advantages of autonomy but also the disadvantage of very limited budgets and there is a great deal of concern about the future of the journals, about their survival amidst the current changes. Although the future is uncertain, it is perhaps worthwhile to be reminded once again that contrary to doomsday sooth-saying that has come time and time again, publishing has not perished, but rather it has continued to transform. I am inclined against making normative statements about what the future of publishing should be, but, looking at the accounts historians have given of the past and looking at the current publishing community I have come to know in my work in publishing, I am confident that the resourcefulness and commitment of the publishing community shall prevail and, indeed, there appears to be a good deal of promise in the transformation of scholarly journals in the ways they reach their audiences and in what reaches those audiences. Perhaps, as is suggested by the Canadian Centre for Studies in Publishing (CCSP), the future is one of “inventing publishing.” References Canadian Association of Learned Journals. Member Database. 10 June 2008 ‹http://www.calj-acrs.ca/>. Canadian Centre for Studies in Publishing. 10 June 2008. ‹http://www.ccsp.sfu.ca/>. Censer, Jack. The French Press in the Age of Enlightenment. London: Routledge, 1994. Darnton, Robert, Estienne Roche. Revolution in Print: The Press in France, 1775–1800. Berkeley: U of California P, 1989. Dawson, Gowan, Richard Noakes, and Jonathan Topham. Introduction. Science in the Nineteenth-century Periodical: Reading the Magazine of Nature. Ed. Geoffrey Cantor, Gowan Dawson, Richard Noakes, and Jonathan Topham. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2004. 1–37. Eisenstein, Elizabeth. The Printing Revolution in Early Modern Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1983 Feather, John. A History of British Publishing. New York: Routledge, 2006. Febvre, Lucien, and Henri-Jean Martin. The Coming of the Book: The Impact of Printing 1450–1800. London: N.L.B., 1979. Jacob, Margaret. Scientific Culture and the Making of the Industrial West. New York: Oxford UP, 1997. Johns, Adrian. The Nature of the Book: Print and Knowledge in the Making. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1998. Hall, David, and Hugh Armory. The Colonial Book in the Atlantic World. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2000. Klancher, Jon. The Making of English Reading Audiences. Madison: U of Wisconsin P, 1987. Kronick, David. A History of Scientific and Technical Periodicals: The Origins and Development of the Scientific and Technological Press, 1665–1790. New York: Scarecrow Press, 1961. ---. "Devant le deluge" and Other Essays on Early Modern Scientific Communication. Lanham: Scarecrow Press, 2004. Lightman, Bernard. Victorian Science in Context. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1997. Mitch, David. The Rise of Popular Literacy in Victorian England: The Influence of Private choice and Public Policy. Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 1991. Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council. Granting Council to Knowledge Council: Renewing the Social Sciences and Humanities in Canada, Volume 1, 2004. Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council. Granting Council to Knowledge Council: Renewing the Social Sciences and Humanities in Canada, Volume 3, 2005. Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council. Moving Forward As a Knowledge Council: Canada’s Place in a Competitive World. 2006. Steinberg, Sigfrid. Five Hundred Years of Printing. London: Oak Knoll Press, 1996. Willinsky, John. “How to be More of a Public Intellectual by Making your Intellectual Work More Public.” Journal of Curriculum and Pedagogy 3.1 (2006): 92–95. ---. The Access Principle: The Case for Open Access to Research and Scholarship. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006. ---. “Altering the Material Conditions of Access to the Humanities.” Ed. Peter Trifonas and Michael Peters. Deconstructing Derrida: Tasks for the New Humanities. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. 118–36. ---. If Only We Knew: Increasing the Public Value of Social-Science Research. New York: Routledge, 2000.

Introduction The aim of this paper is to examine whether recent catastrophic tsunamis have driven a cultural shift in the awareness of Australians to the danger associated with this natural hazard and whether the media have contributed to the emergence of “tsunami” as a new Australian catastrophe. Prior to the devastating 2004 Indian Ocean Tsunami disaster (2004 IOT), tsunamis as a type of hazard capable of generating widespread catastrophe were not well known by the general public and had barely registered within the wider scientific community. As a university based lecturer who specialises in natural disasters, I always started my public talks or student lectures with an attempt at a detailed description of what a tsunami is. With little high quality visual and media imagery to use, this was not easy. The Australian geologist Ted Bryant was right when he named his 2001 book Tsunami: The Underrated Hazard. That changed on 26 December 2004 when the third largest earthquake ever recorded occurred northwest of Sumatra, Indonesia, triggering the most catastrophic tsunami ever experienced. The 2004 IOT claimed at least 220,000 lives—probably more—injured tens of thousands, destroyed widespread coastal infrastructure and left millions homeless. Beyond the catastrophic impacts, this tsunami was conspicuous because, for the first time, such a devastating tsunami was widely captured on video and other forms of moving and still imagery. This occurred for two reasons. Firstly, the tsunami took place during daylight hours in good weather conditions—factors conducive to capturing high quality visual images. Secondly, many people—both local residents and westerners who were on beachside holidays and at the coast at multiple locations impacted by the tsunami—were able to capture images of the tsunami on their cameras, videos, and smart phones. The extensive media coverage—including horrifying television, video, and still imagery that raced around the globe in the hours and days after the tsunami, filling our television screens, homes, and lives regardless of where we lived—had a dramatic effect. This single event drove a quantum shift in the wider cultural awareness of this type of catastrophe and acted as a catalyst for improved individual and societal understanding of the nature and effects of disaster landscapes. Since this event, there have been several notable tsunamis, including the March 2011 Japan catastrophe. Once again, this event occurred during daylight hours and was widely captured by multiple forms of media. These events have resulted in a cascade of media coverage across television, radio, movie, and documentary channels, in the print media, online, and in the popular press and on social media—very little of which was available prior to 2004. Much of this has been documentary and informative in style, but there have also been numerous television dramas and movies. For example, an episode of the popular American television series CSI Miami entitled Crime Wave (Season 3, Episode 7) featured a tsunami, triggered by a volcanic eruption in the Atlantic and impacting Miami, as the backdrop to a standard crime-filled episode ("CSI," IMDb; Wikipedia). In 2010, Warner Bros Studios released the supernatural drama fantasy film Hereafter directed by Clint Eastwood. In the movie, a television journalist survives a near-death experience during the 2004 IOT in what might be the most dramatic, and probably accurate, cinematic portrayal of a tsunami ("Hereafter," IMDb; Wikipedia). Thus, these creative and entertaining forms of media, influenced by the catastrophic nature of tsunamis, are impetuses for creativity that also contribute to a transformation of cultural knowledge of catastrophe. The transformative potential of creative media, together with national and intergovernmental disaster risk reduction activity such as community education, awareness campaigns, community evacuation planning and drills, may be indirectly inferred from rapid and positive community behavioural responses. By this I mean many people in coastal communities who experience strong earthquakes are starting a process of self-evacuation, even if regional tsunami warning centres have not issued an alert or warning. For example, when people in coastal locations in Samoa felt a large earthquake on 29 September 2009, many self-evacuated to higher ground or sought information and instruction from relevant authorities because they expected a tsunami to occur. When interviewed, survivors stated that the memory of television and media coverage of the 2004 IOT acted as a catalyst for their affirmative behavioural response (Dominey-Howes and Thaman 1). Thus, individual and community cultural understandings of the nature and effects of tsunami catastrophes are incredibly important for shaping resilience and reducing vulnerability. However, this cultural shift is not playing out evenly.Are Australia and Its People at Risk from Tsunamis?Prior to the 2004 IOT, there was little discussion about, research in to, or awareness about tsunamis and Australia. Ted Bryant from the University of Wollongong had controversially proposed that Australia had been affected by tsunamis much bigger than the 2004 IOT six to eight times during the last 10,000 years and that it was only a matter of when, not if, such an event repeated itself (Bryant, "Second Edition"). Whilst his claims had received some media attention, his ideas did not achieve widespread scientific, cultural, or community acceptance. Not-with-standing this, Australia has been affected by more than 60 small tsunamis since European colonisation (Dominey-Howes 239). Indeed, the 2004 IOT and 2006 Java tsunami caused significant flooding of parts of the Northern Territory and Western Australia (Prendergast and Brown 69). However, the affected areas were sparsely populated and experienced very little in the way of damage or loss. Thus they did not cross any sort of critical threshold of “catastrophe” and failed to achieve meaningful community consciousness—they were not agents of cultural transformation.Regardless of the risk faced by Australia’s coastline, Australians travel to, and holiday in, places that experience tsunamis. In fact, 26 Australians were killed during the 2004 IOT (DFAT) and five were killed by the September 2009 South Pacific tsunami (Caldwell et al. 26). What Role Do the Media Play in Preparing for and Responding to Catastrophe?Regardless of the type of hazard/disaster/catastrophe, the key functions the media play include (but are not limited to): pre-event community education, awareness raising, and planning and preparations; during-event preparation and action, including status updates, evacuation warnings and notices, and recommendations for affirmative behaviours; and post-event responses and recovery actions to follow, including where to gain aid and support. Further, the media also play a role in providing a forum for debate and post-event analysis and reflection, as a mechanism to hold decision makers to account. From time to time, the media also provide a platform for examining who, if anyone, might be to blame for losses sustained during catastrophes and can act as a powerful conduit for driving socio-cultural, behavioural, and policy change. Many of these functions are elegantly described and a series of best practices outlined by The Caribbean Disaster Emergency Management Agency in a tsunami specific publication freely available online (CDEMA 1). What Has Been the Media Coverage in Australia about Tsunamis and Their Effects on Australians?A manifest contents analysis of media material covering tsunamis over the last decade using the framework of Cox et al. reveals that coverage falls into distinctive and repetitive forms or themes. After tsunamis, I have collected articles (more than 130 to date) published in key Australian national broadsheets (e.g., The Australian and Sydney Morning Herald) and tabloid (e.g., The Telegraph) newspapers and have watched on television and monitored on social media, such as YouTube and Facebook, the types of coverage given to tsunamis either affecting Australia, or Australians domestically and overseas. In all cases, I continued to monitor and collect these stories and accounts for a fixed period of four weeks after each event, commencing on the day of the tsunami. The themes raised in the coverage include: the nature of the event. For example, where, when, why did it occur, how big was it, and what were the effects; what emergency response and recovery actions are being undertaken by the emergency services and how these are being provided; exploration of how the event was made worse or better by poor/good planning and prior knowledge, action or inaction, confusion and misunderstanding; the attribution of blame and responsibility; the good news story—often the discovery and rescue of an “iconic victim/survivor”—usually a child days to weeks later; and follow-up reporting weeks to months later and on anniversaries. This coverage generally focuses on how things are improving and is often juxtaposed with the ongoing suffering of victims. I select the word “victims” purposefully for the media frequently prefer this over the more affirmative “survivor.”The media seldom carry reports of “behind the scenes” disaster preparatory work such as community education programs, the development and installation of warning and monitoring systems, and ongoing training and policy work by response agencies and governments since such stories tend to be less glamorous in terms of the disaster gore factor and less newsworthy (Cox et al. 469; Miles and Morse 365; Ploughman 308).With regard to Australians specifically, the manifest contents analysis reveals that coverage can be described as follows. First, it focuses on those Australians killed and injured. Such coverage provides elements of a biography of the victims, telling their stories, personalising these individuals so we build empathy for their suffering and the suffering of their families. The Australian victims are not unknown strangers—they are named and pictures of their smiling faces are printed or broadcast. Second, the media describe and catalogue the loss and ongoing suffering of the victims (survivors). Third, the media use phrases to describe Australians such as “innocent victims in the wrong place at the wrong time.” This narrative establishes the sense that these “innocents” have been somehow wronged and transgressed and that suffering should not be experienced by them. The fourth theme addresses the difficulties Australians have in accessing Consular support and in acquiring replacement passports in order to return home. It usually goes on to describe how they have difficulty in gaining access to accommodation, clothing, food, and water and any necessary medicines and the challenges associated with booking travel home and the complexities of communicating with family and friends. The last theme focuses on how Australians were often (usually?) not given relevant safety information by “responsible people” or “those in the know” in the place where they were at the time of the tsunami. This establishes a sense that Australians were left out and not considered by the relevant authorities. This narrative pays little attention to the wide scale impact upon and suffering of resident local populations who lack the capacity to escape the landscape of catastrophe.How Does Australian Media Coverage of (Tsunami) Catastrophe Compare with Elsewhere?A review of the available literature suggests media coverage of catastrophes involving domestic citizens is similar globally. For example, Olofsson (557) in an analysis of newspaper articles in Sweden about the 2004 IOT showed that the tsunami was framed as a Swedish disaster heavily focused on Sweden, Swedish victims, and Thailand, and that there was a division between “us” (Swedes) and “them” (others or non-Swedes). Olofsson (557) described two types of “us” and “them.” At the international level Sweden, i.e. “us,” was glorified and contrasted with “inferior” countries such as Thailand, “them.” Olofsson (557) concluded that mediated frames of catastrophe are influenced by stereotypes and nationalistic values.Such nationalistic approaches preface one type of suffering in catastrophe over others and delegitimises the experiences of some survivors. Thus, catastrophes are not evenly experienced. Importantly, Olofsson although not explicitly using the term, explains that the underlying reason for this construction of “them” and “us” is a form of imperialism and colonialism. Sharp refers to “historically rooted power hierarchies between countries and regions of the world” (304)—this is especially so of western news media reporting on catastrophes within and affecting “other” (non-western) countries. Sharp goes much further in relation to western representations and imaginations of the “war on terror” (arguably a global catastrophe) by explicitly noting the near universal western-centric dominance of this representation and the construction of the “west” as good and all “non-west” as not (299). Like it or not, the western media, including elements of the mainstream Australian media, adhere to this imperialistic representation. Studies of tsunami and other catastrophes drawing upon different types of media (still images, video, film, camera, and social media such as Facebook, Twitter, and the like) and from different national settings have explored the multiple functions of media. These functions include: providing information, questioning the authorities, and offering a chance for transformative learning. Further, they alleviate pain and suffering, providing new virtual communities of shared experience and hearing that facilitate resilience and recovery from catastrophe. Lastly, they contribute to a cultural transformation of catastrophe—both positive and negative (Hjorth and Kyoung-hwa "The Mourning"; "Good Grief"; McCargo and Hyon-Suk 236; Brown and Minty 9; Lau et al. 675; Morgan and de Goyet 33; Piotrowski and Armstrong 341; Sood et al. 27).Has Extensive Media Coverage Resulted in an Improved Awareness of the Catastrophic Potential of Tsunami for Australians?In playing devil’s advocate, my simple response is NO! This because I have been interviewing Australians about their perceptions and knowledge of tsunamis as a catastrophe, after events have occurred. These events have triggered alerts and warnings by the Australian Tsunami Warning System (ATWS) for selected coastal regions of Australia. Consequently, I have visited coastal suburbs and interviewed people about tsunamis generally and those events specifically. Formal interviews (surveys) and informal conversations have revolved around what people perceived about the hazard, the likely consequences, what they knew about the warning, where they got their information from, how they behaved and why, and so forth. I have undertaken this work after the 2007 Solomon Islands, 2009 New Zealand, 2009 South Pacific, the February 2010 Chile, and March 2011 Japan tsunamis. I have now spoken to more than 800 people. Detailed research results will be presented elsewhere, but of relevance here, I have discovered that, to begin with, Australians have a reasonable and shared cultural knowledge of the potential catastrophic effects that tsunamis can have. They use terms such as “devastating; death; damage; loss; frightening; economic impact; societal loss; horrific; overwhelming and catastrophic.” Secondly, when I ask Australians about their sources of information about tsunamis, they describe the television (80%); Internet (85%); radio (25%); newspaper (35%); and social media including YouTube (65%). This tells me that the media are critical to underpinning knowledge of catastrophe and are a powerful transformative medium for the acquisition of knowledge. Thirdly, when asked about where people get information about live warning messages and alerts, Australians stated the “television (95%); Internet (70%); family and friends (65%).” Fourthly and significantly, when individuals were asked what they thought being caught in a tsunami would be like, responses included “fun (50%); awesome (75%); like in a movie (40%).” Fifthly, when people were asked about what they would do (i.e., their “stated behaviour”) during a real tsunami arriving at the coast, responses included “go down to the beach to swim/surf the tsunami (40%); go to the sea to watch (85%); video the tsunami and sell to the news media people (40%).”An independent and powerful representation of the disjunct between Australians’ knowledge of the catastrophic potential of tsunamis and their “negative” behavioral response can be found in viewing live television news coverage broadcast from Sydney beaches on the morning of Sunday 28 February 2010. The Chilean tsunami had taken more than 14 hours to travel from Chile to the eastern seaboard of Australia and the ATWS had issued an accurate warning and had correctly forecast the arrival time of the tsunami (approximately 08.30 am). The television and radio media had dutifully broadcast the warning issued by the State Emergency Services. The message was simple: “Stay out of the water, evacuate the beaches and move to higher ground.” As the tsunami arrived, those news broadcasts showed volunteer State Emergency Service personnel and Surf Life Saving Australia lifeguards “begging” with literally hundreds (probably thousands up and down the eastern seaboard of Australia) of members of the public to stop swimming in the incoming tsunami and to evacuate the beaches. On that occasion, Australians were lucky and the tsunami was inconsequential. What do these responses mean? Clearly Australians recognise and can describe the consequences of a tsunami. However, they are not associating the catastrophic nature of tsunami with their own lives or experience. They are avoiding or disallowing the reality; they normalise and dramaticise the event. Thus in Australia, to date, a cultural transformation about the catastrophic nature of tsunami has not occurred for reasons that are not entirely clear but are the subject of ongoing study.The Emergence of Tsunami as a “New Australian Catastrophe”?As a natural disaster expert with nearly two decades experience, in my mind tsunami has emerged as a “new Australian catastrophe.” I believe this has occurred for a number of reasons. Firstly, the 2004 IOT was devastating and did impact northwestern Australia, raising the flag on this hitherto, unknown threat. Australia is now known to be vulnerable to the tsunami catastrophe. The media have played a critical role here. Secondly, in the 2004 IOT and other tsunamis since, Australians have died and their deaths have been widely reported in the Australian media. Thirdly, the emergence of various forms of social media has facilitated an explosion in information and material that can be consumed, digested, reimagined, and normalised by Australians hungry for the gore of catastrophe—it feeds our desire for catastrophic death and destruction. Fourthly, catastrophe has been creatively imagined and retold for a story-hungry viewing public. Whether through regular television shows easily consumed from a comfy chair at home, or whilst eating popcorn at a cinema, tsunami catastrophe is being fed to us in a way that reaffirms its naturalness. Juxtaposed against this idea though is that, despite all the graphic imagery of tsunami catastrophe, especially images of dead children in other countries, Australian media do not and culturally cannot, display images of dead Australian children. Such images are widely considered too gruesome but are well known to drive changes in cultural behaviour because of the iconic significance of the child within our society. As such, a cultural shift has not yet occurred and so the potential of catastrophe remains waiting to strike. Fifthly and significantly, given the fact that large numbers of Australians have not died during recent tsunamis means that again, the catastrophic potential of tsunamis is not yet realised and has not resulted in cultural changes to more affirmative behaviour. Lastly, Australians are probably more aware of “regular or common” catastrophes such as floods and bush fires that are normal to the Australian climate system and which are endlessly experienced individually and culturally and covered by the media in all forms. The Australian summer of 2012–13 has again been dominated by floods and fires. If this idea is accepted, the media construct a uniquely Australian imaginary of catastrophe and cultural discourse of disaster. The familiarity with these common climate catastrophes makes us “culturally blind” to the catastrophe that is tsunami.The consequences of a major tsunami affecting Australia some point in the future are likely to be of a scale not yet comprehensible. References Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC). "ABC Net Splash." 20 Mar. 2013 ‹http://splash.abc.net.au/media?id=31077›. Brown, Philip, and Jessica Minty. “Media Coverage and Charitable Giving after the 2004 Tsunami.” Southern Economic Journal 75 (2008): 9–25. Bryant, Edward. Tsunami: The Underrated Hazard. First Edition, Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2001. ———. Tsunami: The Underrated Hazard. Second Edition, Sydney: Springer-Praxis, 2008. Caldwell, Anna, Natalie Gregg, Fiona Hudson, Patrick Lion, Janelle Miles, Bart Sinclair, and John Wright. “Samoa Tsunami Claims Five Aussies as Death Toll Rises.” The Courier Mail 1 Oct. 2009. 20 Mar. 2013 ‹http://www.couriermail.com.au/news/samoa-tsunami-claims-five-aussies-as-death-toll-rises/story-e6freon6-1225781357413›. CDEMA. "The Caribbean Disaster Emergency Management Agency. Tsunami SMART Media Web Site." 18 Dec. 2012. 20 Mar. 2013 ‹http://weready.org/tsunami/index.php?Itemid=40&id=40&option=com_content&view=article›. Cox, Robin, Bonita Long, and Megan Jones. “Sequestering of Suffering – Critical Discourse Analysis of Natural Disaster Media Coverage.” Journal of Health Psychology 13 (2008): 469–80. “CSI: Miami (Season 3, Episode 7).” International Movie Database (IMDb). ‹http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0534784/›. 9 Jan. 2013. "CSI: Miami (Season 3)." Wikipedia. ‹http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/CSI:_Miami_(season_3)#Episodes›. 21 Mar. 2013. DFAT. "Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade Annual Report 2004–2005." 8 Jan. 2013 ‹http://www.dfat.gov.au/dept/annual_reports/04_05/downloads/2_Outcome2.pdf›. Dominey-Howes, Dale. “Geological and Historical Records of Australian Tsunami.” Marine Geology 239 (2007): 99–123. Dominey-Howes, Dale, and Randy Thaman. “UNESCO-IOC International Tsunami Survey Team Samoa Interim Report of Field Survey 14–21 October 2009.” No. 2. Australian Tsunami Research Centre. University of New South Wales, Sydney. "Hereafter." International Movie Database (IMDb). ‹http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1212419/›. 9 Jan. 2013."Hereafter." Wikipedia. ‹http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hereafter (film)›. 21 Mar. 2013. Hjorth, Larissa, and Yonnie Kyoung-hwa. “The Mourning After: A Case Study of Social Media in the 3.11 Earthquake Disaster in Japan.” Television and News Media 12 (2011): 552–59. ———, and Yonnie Kyoung-hwa. “Good Grief: The Role of Mobile Social Media in the 3.11 Earthquake Disaster in Japan.” Digital Creativity 22 (2011): 187–99. Lau, Joseph, Mason Lau, and Jean Kim. “Impacts of Media Coverage on the Community Stress Level in Hong Kong after the Tsunami on 26 December 2004.” Journal of Epidemiology and Community Health 60 (2006): 675–82. McCargo, Duncan, and Lee Hyon-Suk. “Japan’s Political Tsunami: What’s Media Got to Do with It?” International Journal of Press-Politics 15 (2010): 236–45. Miles, Brian, and Stephanie Morse. “The Role of News Media in Natural Disaster Risk and Recovery.” Ecological Economics 63 (2007): 365–73. Morgan, Olive, and Charles de Goyet. “Dispelling Disaster Myths about Dead Bodies and Disease: The Role of Scientific Evidence and the Media.” Revista Panamericana de Salud Publica-Pan American Journal of Public Health 18 (2005): 33–6. Olofsson, Anna. “The Indian Ocean Tsunami in Swedish Newspapers: Nationalism after Catastrophe.” Disaster Prevention and Management 20 (2011): 557–69. Piotrowski, Chris, and Terry Armstrong. “Mass Media Preferences in Disaster: A Study of Hurricane Danny.” Social Behavior and Personality 26 (1998): 341–45. Ploughman, Penelope. “The American Print News Media Construction of Five Natural Disasters.” Disasters 19 (1995): 308–26. Prendergast, Amy, and Nick Brown. “Far Field Impact and Coastal Sedimentation Associated with the 2006 Java Tsunami in West Australia: Post-Tsunami Survey at Steep Point, West Australia.” Natural Hazards 60 (2012): 69–79. Sharp, Joanne. “A Subaltern Critical Geopolitics of The War on Terror: Postcolonial Security in Tanzania.” Geoforum 42 (2011): 297–305. Sood, Rahul, Stockdale, Geoffrey, and Everett Rogers. “How the News Media Operate in Natural Disasters.” Journal of Communication 37 (1987): 27–41.

In 2013, the Capricornia Arts Mob (CAM), an Indigenous collective of artists situated in Rockhampton, central Queensland, Australia, successfully tendered for one of three public art projects that were grouped under the title Flood Markers (Roberts; Roberts and Mackay; Robinson and Mackay). Commissioned as part of the Queensland Government's Community Development and Engagement Initiative, Flood Markers aims to increase awareness of Rockhampton’s history, with particular focus on the Fitzroy River and the phenomena of flooding. Honouring Land Connections is CAM’s contribution to the project and consists of several “memory poles” that stand alongside the Fitzroy River in Toonooba Park. Rockhampton lies on Dharumbal Country with Toonooba being the Dharumbal name for the Fitzroy River and the inspiration for the work due to its cultural significance to the Aboriginal people of that region. The name Toonooba, as well as other images and icons including boomerangs, spears, nets, water lily, and frogs, amongst others, are carved, burnt, painted and embedded into the large ironbark poles. These stand with the river on one side and the colonial infrastructure of Rockhampton on the other (see fig. 1, 2 and 3).Figure 1 Figure 2Figure 3Within this article, we discuss Honouring Land Connections as having two main functions which contribute to its significance as Indigenous cultural expression and identity affirmation. Firstly, the memory poles (as well as the process of sourcing materials and producing the final product) are a manifestation of Country and a representation of its stories and lived memories. Honouring Land Connections provides a means for Aboriginal people to revel in Country and maintain connections to a vital component of their being as Indigenous. Secondly, by revealing Indigenous stories, experiences, and memories, Honouring Land Connections emphasises Indigenous voices and perspectives within a place dominated by Eurocentric outlooks and knowledges. Toonooba provides the backdrop on which the complexities of cultural and identity formation within settler-colonial spaces are highlighted whilst revelling in continuous Indigenous presence.Flood Markers as ArtArtists throughout the world have used flood markers as a means of visual expression through which to explore and reveal local histories, events, environments, and socio-cultural understandings of the relationships between persons, places, and the phenomena of flooding. Geertz describes art as a social text embedded within wider socio-cultural systems; providing insight into cultural, social, political, economic, gendered, religious, ethnic, environmental, and biographical contexts. Flood markers are not merely metric tools used for measuring the height of a river, but rather serve as culture artefacts or indexes (Gell Art and Agency; Gell "Technology of Enchantment") that are products and producers of socio-culture contexts and the memories and experiences embedded within them. Through different methods, mediums, and images, artists have created experiential and intellectual spaces where those who encounter their work are encouraged to engage their surroundings in thought provoking and often-new ways.In some cases, flood markers have brought attention to the “character and natural history” of a particular place, where artists such as Louise Lavarack have sought to provoke consciousness of the movement of water across flood plains (Lavarack). In other works, flood markers have served as memorials to individuals such as Gilbert White whose daughter honoured his life and research through installing a glass spire at Boulder Creek, Colorado in 2011 (White). Tragedies such as Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans in 2005 have also been commemorated through flood markers. Artist Christopher Saucedo carved 1,836 waves into a freestanding granite block; each wave representing a life lost (University of New Orleans). The weight of the granite symbolises the endurance and resilience of those who faced, and will continue to face, similar forces of nature. The Pillar of Courage erected in 2011 in Ipswich, Queensland, similarly contains the words “resilience, community, strength, heroes, caring and unity” with each word printed on six separate sections of the pillar, representing the six major floods that have hit the region (Chudleigh).Whilst these flood markers provide valuable insights into local histories, specific to each environmental and socio-cultural context, works such as the Pillar of Courage fail to address Indigenous relationships to Country. By framing flooding as a “natural disaster” to be overcome, rather than an expression of Country to be listened to and understood, Euro and human-centric perspectives are prioritised over Indigenous ways of knowing and being. Indigenous knowledges however encourages a reorientation of Eurocentric responses and relationships to Country, and in doing so challenge compartmentalised views of “nature” where flooding is separated from land and Country (Ingold Perception; Seton and Bradley; Singer). Honouring Land Connections symbolises the voice and eternal presence of Toonooba and counters presentations of flooding that depict it as historian Heather Goodall (36) once saw “as unusual events of disorder in which the river leaves its proper place with catastrophic results.”Country To understand flooding from Indigenous perspectives it is first necessary to discuss Country and apprehend what it means for Indigenous peoples. Country refers to the physical, cosmological, geographical, relational, and emotional setting upon which Indigenous identities and connections to place and kin are embedded. Far from a passive geographic location upon which interactions take place, Country is an active and responsive agent that shapes and contextualises social interactions between and amongst all living beings. Bob Morgan writes of how “Country is more than issues of land and geography; it is about spirituality and identity, knowing who we are and who we are connected to; and it helps us understand how all living things are connected.” Country is also an epistemological frame that is filled with knowledge that may be known and familiarised whilst being knowledge itself (Langton "Sacred"; Rose Dingo; Yunupingu).Central to understanding Country is the fact that it refers to a living being’s spiritual homeland which is the ontological place where relationships are formed and maintained (Yunupingu). As Country nurtures and provides the necessities for survival and prosperity, Indigenous people (but also non-Indigenous populations) have moral obligations to care for Country as kin (Rose Nourishing Terrains). Country is epistemic, relational, and ontological and refers to both physical locations as well as modes of “being” (Heidegger), meaning it is carried from place to place as an embodiment within a person’s consciousness. Sally Morgan (263) describes how “our country is alive, and no matter where we go, our country never leaves us.” Country therefore is fluid and mobile for it is ontologically inseparable to one’s personhood, reflected through phrases such as “I am country” (B. Morgan 204).Country is in continuous dialogue with its surroundings and provides the setting upon which human and non-human beings; topographical features such as mountains and rivers; ancestral beings and spirits such as the Rainbow Snake; and ecological phenomena such as winds, tides, and floods, interact and mutually inform each other’s existence (Rose Nourishing Terrains). For Aboriginal people, understanding Country requires “deep listening” (Atkinson; Ungunmerr), a responsive awareness that moves beyond monological and human-centric understandings of the world and calls for deeper understandings of the mutual and co-dependant relationships that exist within it. The awareness of such mutuality has been discussed through terms such as “kincentrism” (Salmón), “meshworks” (Ingold Lines), “webs of connection” (Hokari), “nesting” (Malpas), and “native science” (Cajete). Such concepts are ways of theorising “place” as relational, physical, and mental locations made up of numerous smaller interactions, each of which contribute to the identity and meaning of place. Whilst each individual agent or object retains its own autonomy, such autonomy is dependent on its wider relation to others, meaning that place is a location where “objectivity, subjectivity and inter-subjectivity converge” (Malpas 35) and where the very essence of place is revealed.Flooding as DialogueWhen positioned within Indigenous frameworks, flooding is both an agent and expression of Toonooba and Country. For the phenomenon to occur however, numerous elements come into play such as the fall of rain; the layout of the surrounding terrain; human interference through built weirs and dams; and the actions and intervention of ancestral beings and spirits. Furthermore, flooding has a direct impact on Country and all life within it. This is highlighted by Dharumbal Elder Uncle Billy Mann (Fitzroy Basin Association "Billy Mann") who speaks of the importance of flooding in bringing water to inland lagoons which provide food sources for Dharumbal people, especially at times when the water in Toonooba is low. Such lagoons remain important places for fishing, hunting, recreational activities, and cultural practices but are reliant on the flow of water caused by the flowing, and at times flooding river, which Uncle Mann describes as the “lifeblood” of Dharumbal people and Country (Fitzroy Basin Association "Billy Mann"). Through her research in the Murray-Darling region of New South Wales, Weir writes of how flooding sustains life though cycles that contribute to ecological balance, providing nourishment and food sources for all beings (see also Cullen and Cullen 98). Water’s movement across land provokes the movement of animals such as mice and lizards, providing food for snakes. Frogs emerge from dry clay plains, finding newly made waterholes. Small aquatic organisms flourish and provide food sources for birds. Golden and silver perch spawn, and receding waters promote germination and growth. Aboriginal artist Ron Hurley depicts a similar cycle in a screen-print titled Waterlily–Darambal Totem. In this work Hurley shows floodwaters washing away old water lily roots that have been cooked in ant bed ovens as part of Dharumbal ceremonies (UQ Anthropology Museum). The cooking of the water lily exposes new seeds, which rains carry to nearby creeks and lagoons. The seeds take root and provide food sources for the following year. Cooking water lily during Dharumbal ceremonies contributes to securing and maintaining a sustainable food source as well as being part of Dharumbal cultural practice. Culture, ecological management, and everyday activity are mutually connected, along with being revealed and revelled in. Aboriginal Elder and ranger Uncle Fred Conway explains how Country teaches Aboriginal people to live in balance with their surroundings (Fitzroy Basin Association "Fred Conway"). As Country is in constant communication, numerous signifiers can be observed on land and waterscapes, indicating the most productive and sustainable time to pursue certain actions, source particular foods, or move to particular locations. The best time for fishing in central Queensland for example is when Wattles are in bloom, indicating a time when fish are “fatter and sweeter” (Fitzroy Basin Association "Fred Conway"). In this case, the Wattle is 1) autonomous, having its own life cycle; 2) mutually dependant, coming into being because of seasonal weather patterns; and 3) an agent of Country that teaches those with awareness how to respond and benefit from its lessons.Dialogue with Country As Country is sentient and responsive, it is vital that a person remains contextually aware of their actions on and towards their surroundings. Indigenous peoples seek familiarity with Country but also ensure that they themselves are known and familiarised by it (Rose Dingo). In a practice likened to “baptism”, Langton ("Earth") describes how Aboriginal Elders in Cape York pour water over the head of newcomers as a way of introducing them to Country, and ensuring that Country knows those who walk upon it. These introductions are done out of respect for Country and are a way of protecting outsiders from the potentially harmful powers of ancestral beings. Toussaint et al. similarly note how during mortuary rites, parents of the deceased take water from rivers and spit it back into the land, symbolising the spirit’s return to Country.Dharumbal man Robin Hatfield demonstrates the importance of not interfering with the dialogue of Country through recalling being told as a child not to disturb Barraru or green frogs. Memmott (78) writes that frogs share a relationship with the rain and flooding caused by Munda-gadda, the Rainbow Snake. Uncle Dougie Hatfield explains the significance of Munda-gadda to his Country stating how “our Aboriginal culture tells us that all the waterways, lagoons, creeks, rivers etc. and many landforms were created by and still are protected by the Moonda-Ngutta, what white people call the Rainbow Snake” (Memmott 79).In the case of Robin Hatfield, to interfere with Barraru’s “business” is to threaten its dialogue with Munda-gadda and in turn the dialogue of Country in form of rain. In addition to disrupting the relational balance between the frog and Munda-gadda, such actions potentially have far-reaching social and cosmological consequences. The rain’s disruption affects the flood plains, which has direct consequences for local flora and transportation and germination of water lily seeds; fauna, affecting the spawning of fish and their movement into lagoons; and ancestral beings such as Munda-gadda who continue to reside within Toonooba.Honouring Land Connections provided artists with a means to enter their own dialogue with Country and explore, discuss, engage, negotiate, and affirm aspects of their indigeneity. The artists wanted the artwork to remain organic to demonstrate honour and respect for Dharumbal connections with Country (Roberts). This meant that materials were sourced from the surrounding Country and the poles placed in a wave-like pattern resembling Munda-gadda. Alongside the designs and symbols painted and carved into the poles, fish skins, birds, nests, and frogs are embalmed within cavities that are cut into the wood, acting as windows that allow viewers to witness components of Country that are often overlooked (see fig. 4). Country therefore is an equal participant within the artwork’s creation and continuing memories and stories. More than a representation of Country, Honouring Land Connections is a literal manifestation of it.Figure 4Opening Dialogue with Non-Indigenous AustraliaHonouring Land Connections is an artistic and cultural expression that revels in Indigenous understandings of place. The installation however remains positioned within a contested “hybrid” setting that is informed by both Indigenous and settler-colonial outlooks (Bhabha). The installation for example is separated from the other two artworks of Flood Markers that explore Rockhampton’s colonial and industrial history. Whilst these are positioned within a landscaped area, Honouring Land Connections is placed where the grass is dying, seating is lacking, and is situated next to a dilapidated coast guard building. It is a location that is as quickly left behind as it is encountered. Its separation from the other two works is further emphasised through its depiction in the project brief as a representation of Rockhampton’s pre-colonial history. Presenting it in such a way has the effect of bookending Aboriginal culture in relation to European settlement, suggesting that its themes belong to a time past rather than an immediate present. Almost as if it is a revelation in and of itself. Within settler-colonial settings, place is heavily politicised and often contested. In what can be seen as an ongoing form of colonialism, Eurocentric epistemologies and understandings of place continue to dominate public thought, rhetoric, and action in ways that legitimise White positionality whilst questioning and/or subjugating other ways of knowing, being, and doing (K. Martin; Moreton-Robinson; Wolfe). This turns places such as Toonooba into agonistic locations of contrasting and competing interests (Bradfield). For many Aboriginal peoples, the memories and emotions attached to a particular place can render it as either comfortable and culturally safe, or as unsafe, unsuitable, unwelcoming, and exclusionary (Fredericks). Honouring Land Connections is one way of publicly asserting and recognising Toonooba as a culturally safe, welcoming, and deeply meaningful place for Indigenous peoples. Whilst the themes explored in Honouring Land Connections are not overtly political, its presence on colonised/invaded land unsettles Eurocentric falsities and colonial amnesia (B. Martin) of an uncontested place and history in which Indigenous voices and knowledges are silenced. The artwork is a physical reminder that encourages awareness—particularly for non-Indigenous populations—of Indigenous voices that are continuously demanding recognition of Aboriginal place within Country. Similar to the boomerangs carved into the poles representing flooding as a natural expression of Country that will return (see fig. 5), Indigenous peoples continue to demand that the wider non-Indigenous population acknowledge, respect, and morally responded to Aboriginal cultures and knowledges.Figure 5Conclusion Far from a historic account of the past, the artists of CAM have created an artwork that promotes awareness of an immediate and emerging Indigenous presence on Country. It creates a space that is welcoming to Indigenous people, allowing them to engage with and affirm aspects of their living histories and cultural identities. Through sharing stories and providing “windows” into Aboriginal culture, Country, and lived experiences (which like the frogs of Toonooba are so often overlooked), the memory poles invite and welcome an open dialogue with non-Indigenous Australians where all may consider their shared presence and mutual dependence on each other and their surroundings.The memory poles are mediatory agents that stand on Country, revealing and bearing witness to the survival, resistance, tenacity, and continuity of Aboriginal peoples within the Rockhampton region and along Toonooba. Honouring Land Connections is not simply a means of reclaiming the river as an Indigenous space, for reclamation signifies something regained after it has been lost. What the memory poles signify is something eternally present, i.e. Toonooba is and forever will be embedded in Aboriginal Country in which we all, Indigenous and non-Indigenous, human and non-human, share. The memory poles serve as lasting reminders of whose Country Rockhampton is on and describes the life ways of that Country, including times of flood. Through celebrating and revelling in the presence of Country, the artists of CAM are revealing the deep connection they have to Country to the wider non-Indigenous community.ReferencesAtkinson, Judy. Trauma Trails, Recreating Song Lines: The Transgenerational Effects of Trauma in Indigenous Australia. Spinifex Press, 2002.Bhabha, Homi, K. The Location of Culture. Taylor and Francis, 2012.Bradfield, Abraham. "Decolonizing the Intercultural: A Call for Decolonizing Consciousness in Settler-Colonial Australia." Religions 10.8 (2019): 469.Cajete, Gregory. Native Science: Natural Laws of Interdependence. 1st ed. 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