Статті в журналах з теми "Cape Denison"

AbstractThe arrival of iceberg B09B in Commonwealth Bay, East Antarctica, and subsequent fast ice expansion has dramatically increased the distance Adélie penguins (Pygoscelis adeliae) breeding at Cape Denison must travel in search of food. This has provided a natural experiment to investigate the impact of iceberg stranding events and sea ice expansion along the East Antarctic coast. As part of the Australasian Antarctic Expedition 2013–14, the Adélie penguin colony at Cape Denison was censused to compare to historic counts. Whilst some 5520 pairs still bred at Cape Denison there has been an order of magnitude decline in Adélie numbers in the area in comparison to the first counts a century ago and, critically, recent estimates based on satellite images and a census in 1997. In contrast, an Adélie population on the eastern fringe of Commonwealth Bay just 8 km from the fast ice edge was thriving, indicating the arrival of B09B and fast ice expansion was probably responsible for the observed recent population decline. In conclusion, the Cape Denison population could be extirpated within 20 years unless B09B relocates or the now perennial fast ice within the bay breaks out. Our results have important implications for wider East Antarctic if the current increasing sea ice trend continues.

AbstractArchaeological investigations formed part of the conservation work of Project Blizzard in 1985–86 at the site of Mawson's Australasian Antarctic Expedition (1911–14) huts, Cape Denison, Commonwealth Bay. The extent and nature of the archaeological resources are described, and the results of excavations inside the main hut in 1985 are summarized. Excavation stratigraphy is interpreted in the light of the documented post-abandonment history of the site, and used to measure the extent to which human activity inside the hut may be contributing to its deterioration.

AbstractA review of popular writing on the subject of preservation of historic sites in Antarctica, including buildings, graves, and artefacts, has revealed many misconceptions about the existence and cause of deterioration problems. These myths include the belief that the artefacts inside the Ross Dependency huts are in a near perfect state of preservation and that there is no corrosion in Antarctica because of the dry cold. Further examination, however, shows these views to be incorrect. These and other misconceptions are classified into three groups: (1) misunderstanding or denial of deterioration processes in Antarctic conditions; (2) simplistic assumptions about how historic buildings should be conserved in Antarctica; and (3) inappropriate comparisons between dissimilar sites.There has been considerable debate in Australia and New Zealand about how historic Antarctic buildings should be preserved. Proposed preservation methods have covered a wide range from dismantling and repatriation to a museum, re-cladding with new timber, insertion of vapour barriers inside walls to exclude ice ingress, covering buildings with a dome, and, at the other end of the spectrum of views, minimal intervention. The preservation of artefacts has also been an issue, particularly concerning whether artefacts can be effectively preserved in Antarctica or whether it is necessary to treat and store them at museums outside Antarctica. It is important to encourage consideration of all appropriate means of preservation, but it is particularly important that the causes of deterioration are understood (that is, correct diagnosis) before prescribing treatment.

ABSTRACTWe report the oxygen isotope ratio (δ18O) and structural analysis of four 2m long firn cores collected in 1997 from inside Mawson's Hut (consisting of a Main Hut and a Workshop), Commonwealth Bay, Antarctica, and 25 snow samples collected in 2001 in the vicinity of the huts. Our aim is to examine the microclimate within the huts. Structural analyses of the cores and snow samples indicate there were no significant melt and refreeze events, however there is evidence of water seepage into the huts from the roof. Oxygen isotope data from the two cores from the Main Hut indicate that the hut filled slowly after being abandoned in 1914. Two cores adjacent to the Workshop suggest comparatively rapid snow filling after it was cleared of snow in 1978. Oxygen isotope analysis of individual samples collected outside Mawson's Hut suggests snow, accumulated south of Cape Denison, is deposited by katabatic winds.

AbstractIn this study,in situand erratic samples from George V Coast (East Antarctica) and southern Eyre Peninsula (Australia) have been used to characterize the microstructural, pressure–temperature and geochronological record of upper amphibolite and granulite facies polymetamorphism in the Mawson Continent to provide insight into the spatial distribution of reworking and the subice geology of the Mawson Continent. Monazite U-Pb data shows thatin situsamples from the George V Coast record exclusively 2450–2400 Ma ages, whereas most erratic samples from glacial moraines at Cape Denison and the Red Banks Charnockite record only 1720–1690 Ma ages, consistent with known ages of the Sleaford and Kimban events, respectively. Phase equilibria forward modelling reveals considerable overlap of the thermal character of these two events. Samples with unimodal 1720–1690 Ma Kimban ages reflect either formation after the Sleaford event or complete metamorphic overprinting. Rocks recording only 2450–2400 Ma ages were unaffected by the younger Kimban event, perhaps as a result of unreactive rock compositions inherited from the Sleaford event. Our results suggest the subice geology of the Mawson Continent is a pre-Sleaford-aged terrane with a cover sequence reworked during the Kimban event.

Resumo O mais recente livro lançado por Denilson Lopes, professor associado da Escola de Comunicação da UFRJ, propõe-nos um debate em relação à crítica, no objeto que lhe é caro, o cinema. Porém, há em seus ensaios, fazendo referência às suas predileções, algo que cabe às obras audiovisuais de forma mais ampliada, e que está na ordem do afeto, das imagens e seus circuitos, e dos encontros que a crítica pode nos oferecer com as obras.

The title of this article is borrowed from anthropologist Katherine Verdery's 1996 study What Was Socialism, and What Comes Next? In her book Verdery surveyed the recent changes in Eastern Europe, and specifically Romania, from her vantage point in the uncertain period following the momentous events from 1989 to 1991 in the former Soviet bloc. Similarly, this article explores how Shostakovich, widely perceived in 1975 as the musical representative of socialism, influenced what came after him. It details how Soviet composers from the younger generations, including Edison Denisov, Mieczysłław Weinberg, Boris Tishchenko, Alfred Schnittke, and Valentin Sil'vestrov, dealt with Shostakovich's legacy in their compositions written in his memory, including Denisov's DSCH, Weinberg's Symphony no.12, Tishchenko's Symphony no. 5, Schnittke's Prelude In Memoriam Dmitri Shostakovich and Third String Quartet, and Sil'vestrov's Postludium DSCH. In their memorial works, as they wrestled with the legacy of Shostakovich and his overwhelming influence, these composers also grappled with the shifting nature of the Soviet state, changing musical styles both foreign and domestic, and fundamental issues of aesthetic representation and identity associated with the move from modernism to postmodernism then affecting all composers in the Western art music tradition. The 1970s came at the heels of a decade of remarkable change in Soviet music and society, but at the time of Shostakovich's death, change in Soviet life began to seem increasingly unlikely. Despite recent interpretations by scholars such as anthropologist Alexei Yurchak that emphasize the fundamental immutability of the 1970s, however, these memorial compositions show that audible and significant developments were indeed occurring in the musical styles of the 1970s and early 1980s. Examining Shostakovich's legacy therefore also reveals the larger changes of the Soviet 1970s and early 1980s, both musical and otherwise.

Abstract This article examines the compositional history and early reception of Soviet composer Andrey Volkonsky's two earliest and most important serial compositions, Musica Stricta and Suite of Mirrors (Syuita zerkal). These two works spurred on the formation of an unofficial music culture in the Soviet Union during the Thaw of the late 1950s and 1960s. Volkonsky (b. 1933) was the first and initially the most visible of a group of young Soviets known by officialdom as the “young composers” (“molodïïye kompozitorïï”). These “young composers”—among them Sofia Gubaidulina, Alfred Schnittke, Arvo Pärt, and Edison Denisov—came of age in the years following Stalin's death in 1953. Their compositions reflected their attempts to “catch up” with the Western avant-garde following decades of musical development that had been denied them under Stalin. The first “new” technique these composers adopted was serialism, and Volkonsky's early compositions illustrate the specifically Soviet approach to the method and demonstrate the meanings it held for Soviet officials and Soviet audiences. Volkonsky's early works also force a broadening of current interpretations of postwar European and American serialism. Much of the information in the article stems from personal interviews with Volkonsky and the other leading composers and performers of the Thaw, as well as archival research conducted in Russia.

Most studies of Anglo-Irish relations in the middle ages understandably concentrate on the activity of the English in Ireland, and unintentionally but inevitably this can leave the impression that the movement of people was all one way. But this was not so, and one group who travelled in the opposite direction were some of the merchants and seamen involved in the Anglo-Irish trade of the period. Irish merchants and seamen travelled widely and could be found in Iceland, Lisbon, Bordeaux, Brittany and Flanders, but probably their most regular trade remained with their closest neighbour and political overlord: England. They visited most western and southern English ports, but inevitably were found most frequently in the west, especially at Chester and Bristol. The majority of them stayed for a few days or weeks, as long as their business demanded. Others settled permanently in England, or, perhaps more accurately, re-settled in England, for those who came to England both as settlers and visitors were mainly the Anglo-Irish of the English towns in Ireland and not the Gaelic Irish. This makes it difficult to estimate accurately the numbers of both visitors and settlers, because the status of the Anglo-Irish was legally that of denizen, and record-keepers normally had no reason to identify them separately. They may, therefore, be hard to distinguish from native Englishmen of similar name outside the short periods when governments (central or urban) temporarily sought to restrict their activities. However, the general context within which they worked is quite clear, and this article considers three main aspects of that context: first, the pattern of the trade which attracted Irish merchants to England; second, the role of the Irish merchants and seamen in the trade; and third, examples of individual careers of merchants and seamen who settled in England.

Research subject. Rocks of the Paleozoic Eastern Ural microcontinent and Magnitogorsk island arc occupy a significant part of the Southern Urals and some part of the Middle Urals. The Western Urals are composed of rocks of the ancient Baltic continent and overthrust oceanic rocks. In the Eastern Urals and Trans-Urals rocks of the accretion complexes, oceanic crust, island arcs, the Eastern Ural microcontinent and the Kazakhstan Paleozoic continent are widespread. Rocks are exposed in the Denisov tectonic zone. The Magnitogorsk simatic Island Arc originated in the Ural Ocean, near the Baltic continent, in the early Devonian, developing from the Emsian to the Famennian. A collision between the Magnitogorsk arc and the Baltic continent occurred in the Famennian century. In the pre-Carboniferous age, the Eastern Ural microcontinent was located in the Ural Ocean. In the Tournaisian period, the Eastern Ural microcontinent accreted with the Baltic continent. The Kazakhstan continental massif was located on the other side of the Ural Ocean. The volcanic belt above the subduction zone was active on the edge of the Kazakhstan continent in the Early–Middle Devonian and in the Early Carboniferous. A subduction under the Baltic and Kazakhstan continents consumed most of the crust of the Ural Ocean by the middle of the Bashkir century. As a result, the Baltic continent (together with the Eastern Ural microcontinent) came into contact with the Kazakhstan continent. The formation of folded orogen began in the Moscow century following the collision of sialic terrains.Materials and methods. The research was based on the relevant data obtained by several researchers in 2000–2018 on rock paleomagnetism. Results. The paleolatitudinal positions of the Eastern Ural microcontinent were determined, comprising 5.3 ± 7.4°) in the Middle Ordovician and 8.2 ± 7.2° in the Early–Middle Silurian. The respective paleolatitudinal positions for the Early–Middle Devonian comprised: the Ural margin of the Baltic paleocontinent (7.7 ± 3.7°), the Magnitogorsk island arc (3.2 ± 3.1°) and the Ural margin of the Kazakhstan paleocontinent (20.6 ± 3.8°).Conclusion. According to the analysed paleomagnetic data, in the Early–Middle Devonian, the distance between the latitudes of the margins of the Baltic and Kazakhstan continents was not less than 600 km provided they were in the same hemisphere, and more than 2,300 km provided they were in different hemispheres. The convergence of the terrains was associated with the subduction of the Ural Ocean crust before its closure, which occurred in the Tournaisian century.

The story – we might almost saylegend – of how Dickens came to make the character of Riah inOur Mutual Frienda benign figure and a deliberate revision of Fagin, underworld denizen ofOliver Twist, is well known. In 1860, an Anglo-Jewish couple, J. P. and Eliza Davis, bought Charles Dickens's London home, Tavistock House. Dickens remarked to his personal secretary, William Wills, that he could not recall any “money-making dealings . . . that have been so satisfactory, considerate, and trusting” (Johnson 487). This expression of relief and slight surprise that the sale of his property to a Jewish family was without complication followed on Dickens's suspicion, crudely expressed earlier in the negotiations, that the “Jew Money-Lender” (as he referred to J. P. Davis) would not come through on the deal (Stone 243). But, though the Davises proved surprisingly cooperative in this phase of the transaction as far as Dickens was concerned, Mrs. Davis did ultimately have a complaint to register with the great writer and delivered it politely in a letter three years later. It was not about the house or the terms of purchase but rather about the character of Fagin, created by Dickens in 1837, some twenty-six years earlier. English Jews, she told him, had taken offense at this portrayal of one of their people and believed Dickens had done them a “great wrong” by offering the greedy, thieving, child-corrupting, sausage-eating criminal as representative of their “scattered nation” (Lane 98). Still, she added, while the author lived he might conceivably “justify himself or atone” for this deed. Apparently contrite and unaware of feeling any of the prejudices his portrait of the London fence might convey, Dickens declared in a letter back to Mrs. Davis that he had only “friendly feelings” for the Jews. His contrition did not end there. For the novel he was then beginning to write, Dickens would create a beneficent Jewish character, Riah, friend to the river dredger's daughter, Lizzie Hexam, and her misshapen companion, the dolls’ dressmaker, Jenny Wren. As the late-nineteenth century Anglo-Jewish poet and novelist Amy Levy put it, Dickens “trie[d] to compensate for his having affixed the label ‘Jew’ to one of his bad fairies by creating the good fairy Riah” (Levy 176).

This article analyses events in the Estonian villages of Abkhazia during the Russian Civil War in 1918–21. The source material used is diverse. First, handwritten texts from two archives: the collection of Jakob Nerman preserved at the Estonian History Museum, and the collection of Samuel Sommer preserved at the Cultural History Archive of the Estonian Literary Museum. Both collections contain handwritten memoirs, chronicles, letters, etc. of Estonians in Abkhazia. In connection with diplomatic and consular matters, the author uses documents from the Estonian National Archives. The introduction of these materials into circulation has been hindered so far for various reasons. During the Soviet era, objective analysis of the topic was impossible for ideological reasons. A discussion of the events of the Civil War took place in the Bolshevik Estonian press published in Russia in the 1930s, but it was conducted in the context of class struggle and distorted the facts. Forty years later, the historian Lembit Võime analysed the events of the Civil War in Caucasian Estonian settlements: first in an article published in 1973, and later in a monograph on Estonians in Abkhazia published in 1980. Like the authors of the 1930s, Võime emphasised that Estonian settlers fought for Soviet rule on the Black Sea coast in 1918– 20. The author adhered to the Soviet-era tradition of describing almost all anti-Denikin movements in the Caucasus as revolutionary. Actually, most of the Estonian settlers of that time wanted to protect their homes and did not want to join the Russian Whites or Reds. There is no reason to interpreet the so-called green movement on the Black Sea coast that many Estonians joined as pro-Soviet. In 1974, an overview of the events of that time was published by the exiled Estonian authors Harald Kikas and Jüri Remmelgas, which used Võime’s article from 1973 as a source. For political reasons, Estonians in exile could not use the materials in the Estonian archives. Hence, there is no study to date that uses all available material on the events of the Civil War in Estonian settlements in the Caucasus. A number of Estonian settlements were formed in Abkhazia in the 1880s. During the Civil War from 1918 to 1921, Estonians came into contact with various military forces: Georgian Mensheviks, Russian Bolsheviks, the Volunteer Army of General Denikin, and Abkhaz national forces in cooperation with Abkhaz diaspora fighters. When the Germans, who supported the Georgian Mensheviks, withdrew from the war, a British military mission took their place and sought to mobilise anti-Bolshevik forces for cooperation, but without much success. The villages of Estonia (the village of that name in the Caucasus), Upper and Lower Linda near Sukhumi were located in territory that was controlled by the Georgian occupation forces for practically the whole period of the Civil War, from the first half of 1918 until March of 1921, when the Red Army occupied the area. Despite constant war requisitions, this period passed relatively quietly for these villages. But the situation was quite different in the villages of Salme and Sulevi in northern Abkhazia, which changed hands several times between 1918 and 1921: first the Bolsheviks, then the Georgian Mensheviks and the Voluntary Army, then the Green Army and finally the Red Army. Several battles in and around the villages of Salme and Sulevi, punitive actions carried out by the Whites, and raids conducted by marauding band of local Armenians who cooperated with the Russian Whites forced Estonians to flee from their villages, to shelter in other Estonian villages around Sukhum, and sometimes to seize weapons and seek cooperation with armed units formed by other inhabitants of the region. The neutraal zone that was established at the request of the British military mission was unable to secure peace in the region. In these difficult circumstances, the proclamation of the Republic of Estonia on 24 February 1918 had an important meaning for local Estonians. A new dimension had emerged, and Estonia had been transformed from the cultural motherland into a political guarantee for local Estonians. Estonian committees and councils were established in many parts of the territory of the former Czarist state to issue Estonian passports to save Estonians from the Civil War between the Reds, Whites, and others. This was also the case in the southern Caucasus. Starting in December of 1918, the Tiflis Estonian People’s Council issued Estonian passports – although there was no official mandate for it, such documents also helped to exempt local Estonians from Georgia’s mobilisations. Officially, the Estonian consul operated in Tiflis starting in July of 1920. A consular office was also opened later in Sukhum. However, for various reasons, there was no massive migration of Estonian passport holders to Estonia. In March of 1921, the Red Army conquered Abkhazia and Georgia, but in August of that same year, almost 400 persons who had acquired Estonian citizenship still lived in Abkhazia. For various reasons, despite Bolshevik rule, the majority of both these and other Abkhazian Estonian settlers decided to stay in Abkhazia. At that time, they could not yet foresee the repressions that later hit the settlements.

The existence of subjects in a society is accepted in groups formed on the basis of gender and in communities and thus gains meaning. We have heard the statement “does a manly man do such a thing?” so many times when a man displays behaviour outside the gender roles described for men in the practice of social structure. It is necessary to look at the components constituting manliness and to examine the behavioural practices with which those components are related so as to understand the status called manliness. The functionality of military service remains constantly dynamic in Turkey due to its political and socio-cultural effects. Military service is influential in social organisation both as political and social power in the formation of the mechanism for manliness. Military service, which is institutionalised in accordance with the needs of political organisation, has gained sacredness in a various discourse, practices and in collective memory. In consequence of its sacredness, it has gained new meanings and it has become a determinant in the life of men. This study found that military service had great impacts in the formation of the mechanism for manliness. Sacredness attributed to military service especially in rural areas has strengthened the impact and caused men to see military service as the turning point of their life. Consequently, military service has gone beyond being a civic duty and become a social duty. The author of this article agrees with the argument that military organisation is one of the dynamics forming the foundation in building men’s social gender roles. In this context, the cultural codes of manliness should be searched in “military service”. This study uses the method of autoethnography. Additionally, the method of oral history is also employed. The data used in this study came from two sources- namely, my personal observations, experiences and conversations during my military service in Ankara in 2014; and interviews with people who had performed their military service. The data obtained will be evaluated in interpretivist paradigm. Extended English abstract is in the end of Full Text PDF (TURKISH) file.ÖzetÖznelerin toplum içindeki varlıkları, cinsiyetlere göre oluşturulmuş gruplar ve cemaatler içinde kabul edilerek, anlam kazanmaktadır. Toplumsal yapının pratiklerinde, erkeklere tanımlanmış olan cinsiyet rollerinin dışında bir davranışta bulunulduğunda “Erkek adam da bunu yapar mı?” söylemini çok defa duymuşuzdur. Erkeklik denilen toplumsal statüyü anlamak için oluşumundaki katmanlara bakmak ve bu katmaların ilişkide olduğu davranış pratiklerini incelemek gerekmektedir. Türkiye’de askerlik hizmetinin siyasal ve sosyo – kültürel etkilerden dolayı işlerliği sürekli dinamik kalmaktadır. Erkeklik mekanizmasının oluşmasında askerlik hizmeti, toplumsal örgütlenme içerisinde hem siyasal hem de toplumsal iktidar bir güç olarak etkisini göstermektedir. Siyasal bir örgütlenmenin ihtiyaçları doğrultusunda kurumsallaşan askerlik hizmeti, çeşitli söylem ve pratikler ile kolektif hafızalarda bir kutsallık kazanmaktadır. Kazandığı bu kutsiyet sonucunda yeni anlam dizgelerine bürünerek, erkeklerin hayatlarında belirteç bir konuma gelmektedir. Bu çalışma neticesinde askerlik hizmetinin, erkeklik mekanizmasının oluşmasında büyük bir etkisinin olduğu tespit edilmiştir. Geleneksel toplumlarda özellikle kırsal bölgelerde askerliğe yüklenen kutsallık bu etkiyi daha da güçlendirerek, erkeklerin askerlik hizmetini, hayatlarının bir dönüm noktası olarak görmelerine neden olmuştur. Bunun sonucunda askerlik hizmeti bir vatandaşlık görevi olmaktan uzaklaşarak, toplumsal bir görev halini almıştır.Askerlik örgütlenmesinin erkeklerin toplumsal cinsiyet rollerinin inşasında temel teşkil eden dinamiklerden birisi olduğu argümanını kabul etmekteyim. Bu bağlamda erkekliğin kültürel kodları “askerlik hizmetinde” aranacaktır. Çalışmada otoetnografi yöntemi kullanılmıştır. Ayrıca sözlü tarih yönteminden de yararlanılmıştır. Araştırmada kullanılan bilgiler iki kaynaktan toplanmıştır; 2014 yılında Ankara’da Jandarma olarak askerliğimi yaptığım dönemde ki gözlemlerim, deneyimlerim ve görüşmelerim ilk kaynak bilgileri oluştururken, askerlik hizmetini yapmış kişiler ile yapılan görüşmelerden elde edilen bulgular ise ikinci kaynak bilgilerimi oluşturmaktadır. Elde edilen bu bilgiler yorumsamacı paradigma ile değerlendirilecektir.

The texts of the Decisions and Resolutions, and the text of Measure 1 (2004), together with a summary of the Management Plan for Antarctic Specially Managed area No. 2, McMurdo Dry Valleys, Southern Victoria Land, adopted at XXVII ATCM were reproduced in SCAR Bulletin No 155, October 2004. A summary of the Management Plan for Antarctic Specially Managed Area No. 3, Cape Denison, Commonwealth Bay, George V land, together with Measures 2–4, are reproduced here. The full versions of all the Decisions, Measures and Resolutions are on the Antarctic Treaty Secretariat website at http://www.ats.org.ar/

Abstract Sir Douglas Mawson is a well-known Antarctic explorer and scientist. Early in his career, he recognised opportunities for commerce in Antarctic and sub-Antarctic regions. While at Cape Denison, Antarctica, in 1913 on the Australasian Antarctic Expedition (AAE), the Adelie Blizzard magazine was produced. Mawson contributed articles about Antarctic natural resources and their possible use. Later, he advocated Australia be involved in pelagic whaling. He collected seal skins and oil for their commercial value to be assessed by the Hudson’s Bay Company. During the AAE, Mawson visited Macquarie Island where an oiling gang was killing southern elephant seals and royal penguins. Mawson was concerned that they were over-exploited and lobbied successfully to stop the killing. His plans for Macquarie Island included a wildlife sanctuary, with a party to supervise access, send meteorological observations to Australia and New Zealand, and be self-funded by harvesting elephant seals and penguins. Macquarie Island was declared a sanctuary in 1933. Although Mawson has been recognised as an early proponent of conservation, his views on conservation of living natural resources were inconsistent. They should be placed in their historical context: in the early twentieth century, utilisation of living natural resources was viewed more favourably than currently.

ABSTRACTThe Australasian Antarctic Expedition base at Commonwealth Bay (67°S 142°E), also known as ‘Mawson's Huts’ include some of the earliest buildings in Antarctica. The prefabricated timber buildings of Oregon beams and Baltic Pine (Pinus sylvestris) claddings were erected in January 1912 and were occupied for two years: they are thus approximately contemporary with the better known Scott and Shackleton huts near McMurdo Base in the Ross Sea.The expedition was led by Dr Douglas Mawson, later Professor Sir Douglas Mawson, and its inspiration was scientific rather than a race to the South Pole. The buildings and artefacts remaining on the headland, also called Cape Denison, reflect considerable scientific achievement in geology, upper atmosphere physics, surveying, meteorology and biology and the site constitutes an important monument in the early exploration of this remote and inhospitable continent.While the huts are of recent date, the rapid rate of deterioration due to the extreme climate means there is some urgency to developing a method of preserving the building. The timbers have been seriously worn, or ‘corraded’ by snow particles carried in the katabatic winds. These winds can exceed 300km per hour, sometimes for days. The isolation of the site, accessible by sea for only three months of the year adds to the logistical difficulties. There has been considerable public debate in Australia about which method of preservation is appropriate.The author, a materials conservator and industrial chemist, visited the site in December 1985 and has been studying the problems of the site as a postgraduate student for the past year.

Abstract More than a decade of exacting scientific research involving paleontological fragments and ancient DNA has lately produced a series of pronouncements about a purportedly novel population of archaic hominins dubbed “the Denisova.” The science involved in these matters is both technically stunning and, socially, at times a bit reckless. Here I discuss the responsibilities which scientists incur when they make inductively risky pronouncements about the different relative contributions by Denisovans to genomes of members of apparent subpopulations of current humans (i.e., the so-called “races”). This science is sensational: it is science which empirically speculates, to the public delight’s and entertainment, about scintillating topics such as when humans evolved, where we came from, and who else we were having sex with during our early hominin history. An initial characterization of sensational science emerges from my discussion of the case, as well as a diagnosis of an interactive phenomenon termed amplified inductive risk.

By the time you read this, it will be wrong. Things seemed to be moving so fast in these first days after airplanes crashed into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and the Pennsylvania earth. Each certainty is as carelessly dropped as it was once carelessly assumed. The sounds of lower Manhattan that used to serve as white noise for residents—sirens, screeches, screams—are no longer signs without a referent. Instead, they make folks stare and stop, hurry and hustle, wondering whether the noises we know so well are in fact, this time, coefficients of a new reality. At the time of writing, the events themselves are also signs without referents—there has been no direct claim of responsibility, and little proof offered by accusers since the 11th. But it has been assumed that there is a link to US foreign policy, its military and economic presence in the Arab world, and opposition to it that seeks revenge. In the intervening weeks the US media and the war planners have supplied their own narrow frameworks, making New York’s “ground zero” into the starting point for a new escalation of global violence. We want to write here about the combination of sources and sensations that came that day, and the jumble of knowledges and emotions that filled our minds. Working late the night before, Toby was awoken in the morning by one of the planes right overhead. That happens sometimes. I have long expected a crash when I’ve heard the roar of jet engines so close—but I didn’t this time. Often when that sound hits me, I get up and go for a run down by the water, just near Wall Street. Something kept me back that day. Instead, I headed for my laptop. Because I cannot rely on local media to tell me very much about the role of the US in world affairs, I was reading the British newspaper The Guardian on-line when it flashed a two-line report about the planes. I looked up at the calendar above my desk to see whether it was April 1st. Truly. Then I got off-line and turned on the TV to watch CNN. That second, the phone rang. My quasi-ex-girlfriend I’m still in love with called from the mid-West. She was due to leave that day for the Bay Area. Was I alright? We spoke for a bit. She said my cell phone was out, and indeed it was for the remainder of the day. As I hung up from her, my friend Ana rang, tearful and concerned. Her husband, Patrick, had left an hour before for work in New Jersey, and it seemed like a dangerous separation. All separations were potentially fatal that day. You wanted to know where everyone was, every minute. She told me she had been trying to contact Palestinian friends who worked and attended school near the event—their ethnic, religious, and national backgrounds made for real poignancy, as we both thought of the prejudice they would (probably) face, regardless of the eventual who/what/when/where/how of these events. We agreed to meet at Bruno’s, a bakery on La Guardia Place. For some reason I really took my time, though, before getting to Ana. I shampooed and shaved under the shower. This was a horror, and I needed to look my best, even as men and women were losing and risking their lives. I can only interpret what I did as an attempt to impose normalcy and control on the situation, on my environment. When I finally made it down there, she’d located our friends. They were safe. We stood in the street and watched the Towers. Horrified by the sight of human beings tumbling to their deaths, we turned to buy a tea/coffee—again some ludicrous normalization—but were drawn back by chilling screams from the street. Racing outside, we saw the second Tower collapse, and clutched at each other. People were streaming towards us from further downtown. We decided to be with our Palestinian friends in their apartment. When we arrived, we learnt that Mark had been four minutes away from the WTC when the first plane hit. I tried to call my daughter in London and my father in Canberra, but to no avail. I rang the mid-West, and asked my maybe-former novia to call England and Australia to report in on me. Our friend Jenine got through to relatives on the West Bank. Israeli tanks had commenced a bombardment there, right after the planes had struck New York. Family members spoke to her from under the kitchen table, where they were taking refuge from the shelling of their house. Then we gave ourselves over to television, like so many others around the world, even though these events were happening only a mile away. We wanted to hear official word, but there was just a huge absence—Bush was busy learning to read in Florida, then leading from the front in Louisiana and Nebraska. As the day wore on, we split up and regrouped, meeting folks. One guy was in the subway when smoke filled the car. Noone could breathe properly, people were screaming, and his only thought was for his dog DeNiro back in Brooklyn. From the panic of the train, he managed to call his mom on a cell to ask her to feed “DeNiro” that night, because it looked like he wouldn’t get home. A pregnant woman feared for her unborn as she fled the blasts, pushing the stroller with her baby in it as she did so. Away from these heart-rending tales from strangers, there was the fear: good grief, what horrible price would the US Government extract for this, and who would be the overt and covert agents and targets of that suffering? What blood-lust would this generate? What would be the pattern of retaliation and counter-retaliation? What would become of civil rights and cultural inclusiveness? So a jumble of emotions came forward, I assume in all of us. Anger was not there for me, just intense sorrow, shock, and fear, and the desire for intimacy. Network television appeared to offer me that, but in an ultimately unsatisfactory way. For I think I saw the end-result of reality TV that day. I have since decided to call this ‘emotionalization’—network TV’s tendency to substitute analysis of US politics and economics with a stress on feelings. Of course, powerful emotions have been engaged by this horror, and there is value in addressing that fact and letting out the pain. I certainly needed to do so. But on that day and subsequent ones, I looked to the networks, traditional sources of current-affairs knowledge, for just that—informed, multi-perspectival journalism that would allow me to make sense of my feelings, and come to a just and reasoned decision about how the US should respond. I waited in vain. No such commentary came forward. Just a lot of asinine inquiries from reporters that were identical to those they pose to basketballers after a game: Question—‘How do you feel now?’ Answer—‘God was with me today.’ For the networks were insistent on asking everyone in sight how they felt about the end of las torres gemelas. In this case, we heard the feelings of survivors, firefighters, viewers, media mavens, Republican and Democrat hacks, and vacuous Beltway state-of-the-nation pundits. But learning of the military-political economy, global inequality, and ideologies and organizations that made for our grief and loss—for that, there was no space. TV had forgotten how to do it. My principal feeling soon became one of frustration. So I headed back to where I began the day—The Guardian web site, where I was given insightful analysis of the messy factors of history, religion, economics, and politics that had created this situation. As I dealt with the tragedy of folks whose lives had been so cruelly lost, I pondered what it would take for this to stop. Or whether this was just the beginning. I knew one thing—the answers wouldn’t come from mainstream US television, no matter how full of feelings it was. And that made Toby anxious. And afraid. He still is. And so the dreams come. In one, I am suddenly furloughed from my job with an orchestra, as audience numbers tumble. I make my evening-wear way to my locker along with the other players, emptying it of bubble gum and instrument. The next night, I see a gigantic, fifty-feet high wave heading for the city beach where I’ve come to swim. Somehow I am sheltered behind a huge wall, as all the people around me die. Dripping, I turn to find myself in a media-stereotype “crack house” of the early ’90s—desperate-looking black men, endless doorways, sudden police arrival, and my earnest search for a passport that will explain away my presence. I awake in horror, to the realization that the passport was already open and stamped—racialization at work for Toby, every day and in every way, as a white man in New York City. Ana’s husband, Patrick, was at work ten miles from Manhattan when “it” happened. In the hallway, I overheard some talk about two planes crashing, but went to teach anyway in my usual morning stupor. This was just the usual chatter of disaster junkies. I didn’t hear the words, “World Trade Center” until ten thirty, at the end of the class at the college I teach at in New Jersey, across the Hudson river. A friend and colleague walked in and told me the news of the attack, to which I replied “You must be fucking joking.” He was a little offended. Students were milling haphazardly on the campus in the late summer weather, some looking panicked like me. My first thought was of some general failure of the air-traffic control system. There must be planes falling out of the sky all over the country. Then the height of the towers: how far towards our apartment in Greenwich Village would the towers fall? Neither of us worked in the financial district a mile downtown, but was Ana safe? Where on the college campus could I see what was happening? I recognized the same physical sensation I had felt the morning after Hurricane Andrew in Miami seeing at a distance the wreckage of our shattered apartment across a suburban golf course strewn with debris and flattened power lines. Now I was trapped in the suburbs again at an unbridgeable distance from my wife and friends who were witnessing the attacks first hand. Were they safe? What on earth was going on? This feeling of being cut off, my path to the familiar places of home blocked, remained for weeks my dominant experience of the disaster. In my office, phone calls to the city didn’t work. There were six voice-mail messages from my teenaged brother Alex in small-town England giving a running commentary on the attack and its aftermath that he was witnessing live on television while I dutifully taught my writing class. “Hello, Patrick, where are you? Oh my god, another plane just hit the towers. Where are you?” The web was choked: no access to newspapers online. Email worked, but no one was wasting time writing. My office window looked out over a soccer field to the still woodlands of western New Jersey: behind me to the east the disaster must be unfolding. Finally I found a website with a live stream from ABC television, which I watched flickering and stilted on the tiny screen. It had all already happened: both towers already collapsed, the Pentagon attacked, another plane shot down over Pennsylvania, unconfirmed reports said, there were other hijacked aircraft still out there unaccounted for. Manhattan was sealed off. George Washington Bridge, Lincoln and Holland tunnels, all the bridges and tunnels from New Jersey I used to mock shut down. Police actions sealed off the highways into “the city.” The city I liked to think of as the capital of the world was cut off completely from the outside, suddenly vulnerable and under siege. There was no way to get home. The phone rang abruptly and Alex, three thousand miles away, told me he had spoken to Ana earlier and she was safe. After a dozen tries, I managed to get through and spoke to her, learning that she and Toby had seen people jumping and then the second tower fall. Other friends had been even closer. Everyone was safe, we thought. I sat for another couple of hours in my office uselessly. The news was incoherent, stories contradictory, loops of the planes hitting the towers only just ready for recycling. The attacks were already being transformed into “the World Trade Center Disaster,” not yet the ahistorical singularity of the emergency “nine one one.” Stranded, I had to spend the night in New Jersey at my boss’s house, reminded again of the boundless generosity of Americans to relative strangers. In an effort to protect his young son from the as yet unfiltered images saturating cable and Internet, my friend’s TV set was turned off and we did our best to reassure. We listened surreptitiously to news bulletins on AM radio, hoping that the roads would open. Walking the dog with my friend’s wife and son we crossed a park on the ridge on which Upper Montclair sits. Ten miles away a huge column of smoke was rising from lower Manhattan, where the stunning absence of the towers was clearly visible. The summer evening was unnervingly still. We kicked a soccer ball around on the front lawn and a woman walked distracted by, shocked and pale up the tree-lined suburban street, suffering her own wordless trauma. I remembered that though most of my students were ordinary working people, Montclair is a well-off dormitory for the financial sector and high rises of Wall Street and Midtown. For the time being, this was a white-collar disaster. I slept a short night in my friend’s house, waking to hope I had dreamed it all, and took the commuter train in with shell-shocked bankers and corporate types. All men, all looking nervously across the river toward glimpses of the Manhattan skyline as the train neared Hoboken. “I can’t believe they’re making us go in,” one guy had repeated on the station platform. He had watched the attacks from his office in Midtown, “The whole thing.” Inside the train we all sat in silence. Up from the PATH train station on 9th street I came onto a carless 6th Avenue. At 14th street barricades now sealed off downtown from the rest of the world. I walked down the middle of the avenue to a newspaper stand; the Indian proprietor shrugged “No deliveries below 14th.” I had not realized that the closer to the disaster you came, the less information would be available. Except, I assumed, for the evidence of my senses. But at 8 am the Village was eerily still, few people about, nothing in the sky, including the twin towers. I walked to Houston Street, which was full of trucks and police vehicles. Tractor trailers sat carrying concrete barriers. Below Houston, each street into Soho was barricaded and manned by huddles of cops. I had walked effortlessly up into the “lockdown,” but this was the “frozen zone.” There was no going further south towards the towers. I walked the few blocks home, found my wife sleeping, and climbed into bed, still in my clothes from the day before. “Your heart is racing,” she said. I realized that I hadn’t known if I would get back, and now I never wanted to leave again; it was still only eight thirty am. Lying there, I felt the terrible wonder of a distant bystander for the first-hand witness. Ana’s face couldn’t tell me what she had seen. I felt I needed to know more, to see and understand. Even though I knew the effort was useless: I could never bridge that gap that had trapped me ten miles away, my back turned to the unfolding disaster. The television was useless: we don’t have cable, and the mast on top of the North Tower, which Ana had watched fall, had relayed all the network channels. I knew I had to go down and see the wreckage. Later I would realize how lucky I had been not to suffer from “disaster envy.” Unbelievably, in retrospect, I commuted into work the second day after the attack, dogged by the same unnerving sensation that I would not get back—to the wounded, humbled former center of the world. My students were uneasy, all talked out. I was a novelty, a New Yorker living in the Village a mile from the towers, but I was forty-eight hours late. Out of place in both places. I felt torn up, but not angry. Back in the city at night, people were eating and drinking with a vengeance, the air filled with acrid sicklysweet smoke from the burning wreckage. Eyes stang and nose ran with a bitter acrid taste. Who knows what we’re breathing in, we joked nervously. A friend’s wife had fallen out with him for refusing to wear a protective mask in the house. He shrugged a wordlessly reassuring smile. What could any of us do? I walked with Ana down to the top of West Broadway from where the towers had commanded the skyline over SoHo; downtown dense smoke blocked the view to the disaster. A crowd of onlookers pushed up against the barricades all day, some weeping, others gawping. A tall guy was filming the grieving faces with a video camera, which was somehow the worst thing of all, the first sign of the disaster tourism that was already mushrooming downtown. Across the street an Asian artist sat painting the street scene in streaky black and white; he had scrubbed out two white columns where the towers would have been. “That’s the first thing I’ve seen that’s made me feel any better,” Ana said. We thanked him, but he shrugged blankly, still in shock I supposed. On the Friday, the clampdown. I watched the Mayor and Police Chief hold a press conference in which they angrily told the stream of volunteers to “ground zero” that they weren’t needed. “We can handle this ourselves. We thank you. But we don’t need your help,” Commissioner Kerik said. After the free-for-all of the first couple of days, with its amazing spontaneities and common gestures of goodwill, the clampdown was going into effect. I decided to go down to Canal Street and see if it was true that no one was welcome anymore. So many paths through the city were blocked now. “Lock down, frozen zone, war zone, the site, combat zone, ground zero, state troopers, secured perimeter, national guard, humvees, family center”: a disturbing new vocabulary that seemed to stamp the logic of Giuliani’s sanitized and over-policed Manhattan onto the wounded hulk of the city. The Mayor had been magnificent in the heat of the crisis; Churchillian, many were saying—and indeed, Giuliani quickly appeared on the cover of Cigar Afficionado, complete with wing collar and the misquotation from Kipling, “Captain Courageous.” Churchill had not believed in peacetime politics either, and he never got over losing his empire. Now the regime of command and control over New York’s citizens and its economy was being stabilized and reimposed. The sealed-off, disfigured, and newly militarized spaces of the New York through which I have always loved to wander at all hours seemed to have been put beyond reach for the duration. And, in the new post-“9/11” post-history, the duration could last forever. The violence of the attacks seemed to have elicited a heavy-handed official reaction that sought to contain and constrict the best qualities of New York. I felt more anger at the clampdown than I did at the demolition of the towers. I knew this was unreasonable, but I feared the reaction, the spread of the racial harassment and racial profiling that I had already heard of from my students in New Jersey. This militarizing of the urban landscape seemed to negate the sprawling, freewheeling, boundless largesse and tolerance on which New York had complacently claimed a monopoly. For many the towers stood for that as well, not just as the monumental outposts of global finance that had been attacked. Could the American flag mean something different? For a few days, perhaps—on the helmets of firemen and construction workers. But not for long. On the Saturday, I found an unmanned barricade way east along Canal Street and rode my bike past throngs of Chinatown residents, by the Federal jail block where prisoners from the first World Trade Center bombing were still being held. I headed south and west towards Tribeca; below the barricades in the frozen zone, you could roam freely, the cops and soldiers assuming you belonged there. I felt uneasy, doubting my own motives for being there, feeling the blood drain from my head in the same numbing shock I’d felt every time I headed downtown towards the site. I looped towards Greenwich Avenue, passing an abandoned bank full of emergency supplies and boxes of protective masks. Crushed cars still smeared with pulverized concrete and encrusted with paperwork strewn by the blast sat on the street near the disabled telephone exchange. On one side of the avenue stood a horde of onlookers, on the other television crews, all looking two blocks south towards a colossal pile of twisted and smoking steel, seven stories high. We were told to stay off the street by long-suffering national guardsmen and women with southern accents, kids. Nothing happening, just the aftermath. The TV crews were interviewing worn-out, dust-covered volunteers and firemen who sat quietly leaning against the railings of a park filled with scraps of paper. Out on the West Side highway, a high-tech truck was offering free cellular phone calls. The six lanes by the river were full of construction machinery and military vehicles. Ambulances rolled slowly uptown, bodies inside? I locked my bike redundantly to a lamppost and crossed under the hostile gaze of plainclothes police to another media encampment. On the path by the river, two camera crews were complaining bitterly in the heat. “After five days of this I’ve had enough.” They weren’t talking about the trauma, bodies, or the wreckage, but censorship. “Any blue light special gets to roll right down there, but they see your press pass and it’s get outta here. I’ve had enough.” I fronted out the surly cops and ducked under the tape onto the path, walking onto a Pier on which we’d spent many lazy afternoons watching the river at sunset. Dust everywhere, police boats docked and waiting, a crane ominously dredging mud into a barge. I walked back past the camera operators onto the highway and walked up to an interview in process. Perfectly composed, a fire chief and his crew from some small town in upstate New York were politely declining to give details about what they’d seen at “ground zero.” The men’s faces were dust streaked, their eyes slightly dazed with the shock of a horror previously unimaginable to most Americans. They were here to help the best they could, now they’d done as much as anyone could. “It’s time for us to go home.” The chief was eloquent, almost rehearsed in his precision. It was like a Magnum press photo. But he was refusing to cooperate with the media’s obsessive emotionalism. I walked down the highway, joining construction workers, volunteers, police, and firemen in their hundreds at Chambers Street. No one paid me any attention; it was absurd. I joined several other watchers on the stairs by Stuyvesant High School, which was now the headquarters for the recovery crews. Just two or three blocks away, the huge jagged teeth of the towers’ beautiful tracery lurched out onto the highway above huge mounds of debris. The TV images of the shattered scene made sense as I placed them into what was left of a familiar Sunday afternoon geography of bike rides and walks by the river, picnics in the park lying on the grass and gazing up at the infinite solidity of the towers. Demolished. It was breathtaking. If “they” could do that, they could do anything. Across the street at tables military policeman were checking credentials of the milling volunteers and issuing the pink and orange tags that gave access to ground zero. Without warning, there was a sudden stampede running full pelt up from the disaster site, men and women in fatigues, burly construction workers, firemen in bunker gear. I ran a few yards then stopped. Other people milled around idly, ignoring the panic, smoking and talking in low voices. It was a mainly white, blue-collar scene. All these men wearing flags and carrying crowbars and flashlights. In their company, the intolerance and rage I associated with flags and construction sites was nowhere to be seen. They were dealing with a torn and twisted otherness that dwarfed machismo or bigotry. I talked to a moustachioed, pony-tailed construction worker who’d hitched a ride from the mid-west to “come and help out.” He was staying at the Y, he said, it was kind of rough. “Have you been down there?” he asked, pointing towards the wreckage. “You’re British, you weren’t in World War Two were you?” I replied in the negative. “It’s worse ’n that. I went down last night and you can’t imagine it. You don’t want to see it if you don’t have to.” Did I know any welcoming ladies? he asked. The Y was kind of tough. When I saw TV images of President Bush speaking to the recovery crews and steelworkers at “ground zero” a couple of days later, shouting through a bullhorn to chants of “USA, USA” I knew nothing had changed. New York’s suffering was subject to a second hijacking by the brokers of national unity. New York had never been America, and now its terrible human loss and its great humanity were redesignated in the name of the nation, of the coming war. The signs without a referent were being forcibly appropriated, locked into an impoverished patriotic framework, interpreted for “us” by a compliant media and an opportunistic regime eager to reign in civil liberties, to unloose its war machine and tighten its grip on the Muslim world. That day, drawn to the river again, I had watched F18 fighter jets flying patterns over Manhattan as Bush’s helicopters came in across the river. Otherwise empty of air traffic, “our” skies were being torn up by the military jets: it was somehow the worst sight yet, worse than the wreckage or the bands of disaster tourists on Canal Street, a sign of further violence yet to come. There was a carrier out there beyond New York harbor, there to protect us: the bruising, blustering city once open to all comers. That felt worst of all. In the intervening weeks, we have seen other, more unstable ways of interpreting the signs of September 11 and its aftermath. Many have circulated on the Internet, past the blockages and blockades placed on urban spaces and intellectual life. Karl-Heinz Stockhausen’s work was banished (at least temporarily) from the canon of avant-garde electronic music when he described the attack on las torres gemelas as akin to a work of art. If Jacques Derrida had described it as an act of deconstruction (turning technological modernity literally in on itself), or Jean Baudrillard had announced that the event was so thick with mediation it had not truly taken place, something similar would have happened to them (and still may). This is because, as Don DeLillo so eloquently put it in implicit reaction to the plaintive cry “Why do they hate us?”: “it is the power of American culture to penetrate every wall, home, life and mind”—whether via military action or cultural iconography. All these positions are correct, however grisly and annoying they may be. What GK Chesterton called the “flints and tiles” of nineteenth-century European urban existence were rent asunder like so many victims of high-altitude US bombing raids. As a First-World disaster, it became knowable as the first-ever US “ground zero” such precisely through the high premium immediately set on the lives of Manhattan residents and the rarefied discussion of how to commemorate the high-altitude towers. When, a few weeks later, an American Airlines plane crashed on take-off from Queens, that borough was left open to all comers. Manhattan was locked down, flown over by “friendly” bombers. In stark contrast to the open if desperate faces on the street of 11 September, people went about their business with heads bowed even lower than is customary. Contradictory deconstructions and valuations of Manhattan lives mean that September 11 will live in infamy and hyper-knowability. The vengeful United States government and population continue on their way. Local residents must ponder insurance claims, real-estate values, children’s terrors, and their own roles in something beyond their ken. New York had been forced beyond being the center of the financial world. It had become a military target, a place that was receiving as well as dispatching the slings and arrows of global fortune. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Deer, Patrick and Miller, Toby. "A Day That Will Live In … ?" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.1 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0203/adaythat.php>. Chicago Style Deer, Patrick and Miller, Toby, "A Day That Will Live In … ?" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 1 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0203/adaythat.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Deer, Patrick and Miller, Toby. (2002) A Day That Will Live In … ?. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(1). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0203/adaythat.php> ([your date of access]).