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Extinct but not forgotten: how museum collections help study the evolution of Hawaiian honeycreepers

In diesem Beitrag von Grigory Evtukh über Hawaiianische Kleidervögel lernen wir, wie naturkundliche Museumssammlungen etwas zum Schutz der Biodiversität beitragen können.

More than half of the Hawaiian honeycreeper species have disappeared, and the remaining ones are struggling to survive. How do museum collections help us study their past and prevent further losses?

Über die Hälfte der Hawaiianischen Kleidervögel-Arten sind ausgestorben, und die verbleibenden kämpfen ums Überleben. Wie helfen Museumssammlungen, ihre Vergangenheit zu erforschen und weitere Verluste zu verhindern?


I sit in the basement of the Cambridge Museum of Zoology, next to a humming ventilation system. The collections here are hidden from visitors, stored in metal cabinets filled with drawers of bird specimens. Today, the museum collections manager brought out one of specimens and carefully placed it on the table. I saw before me the only Hawaiʻi mamo (Drepanis pacifica) specimen in the Cambridge Museum collection. It was stored under a glass dome on a velvet-covered platform, giving it an almost ceremonial presence. This taxidermy specimen, collected in the mid-19th century, depicts the bird perched on a branch with its wings slightly spread. Its glass eyes look strikingly lifelike, even though no living representatives of this species remain in the world.

Surrounded by these silent witnesses of the past, I ask myself: what can we learn from these birds that are no longer seen in the wild? And more importantly, how can this knowledge help protect those that still survive?

A taxidermy specimen of the extinct Hawaiʻi mamo (Drepanis pacifica) from the Cambridge Museum of Zoology. The specimen is mounted on a wooden perch with original collection tags attached. [Image credit: Grigory Evtukh]

What are Hawaiian honeycreepers and why are they disappearing?

Hawaiian honeycreepers (Drepanidinae) are a group of birds within the finch family (Fringillidae) that evolved in isolation on the Hawaiian Islands. Due to the absence of competitors and predators, they occupied a variety of ecological niches, evolving into dozens of species with unique adaptations: long, curved beaks for nectar feeding, powerful beaks for cracking seeds, and even specialized beaks for extracting larvae from under tree bark.

However, with the arrival of humans, the situation changed drastically. Introduced animals like cats, rats and pigs, diseases such as avian malaria, and deforestation led to the extinction of at least 34 species of Hawaiian honeycreepers, with 14 disappearing after the arrival of Polynesians and another 20 following European colonization. The most significant losses occurred in the 20th century, as honeycreeper populations began to decline rapidly due to the spread of mosquitoes carrying avian malaria. Some of the remaining species are now on the brink of extinction. This group of birds historically included at least 57 species, yet today, fewer than half of Hawaii’s once-thriving honeycreeper species still exist. Birds that once thrived in the montane forests of Hawaii have now become symbols of the region’s ecological crisis.

Museum collections as a source of knowledge

Collections like those in Cambridge allow scientists to study both extinct and surviving species. The museum holds dozens of honeycreeper specimens, including type specimens described as early as the 19th century. Each specimen represents a frozen moment in evolutionary history. Museum collections offer the opportunity to study morphology, examine anatomical changes, and even reconstruct past ecosystems.

In my research, I use standardized photography and microCT scanning methods. These technologies allow for a detailed analysis of beak shape, skull structure, and other morphological features. For example, I compare honeycreeper beaks of different lengths and curvatures. In combination with phylogeny this data will help me to understand how fast these birds change their morphological features and evolve.

A traditional Hawaiian feather cloak (ʻahuʻula) made from olona fiber netting and feathers of the ʻiʻiwi (Drepanis coccinea), ʻōʻō (Moho spp.), and mamo (Drepanis pacifica). Creating a single cloak required the feathers of hundreds, sometimes thousands, of birds, many of which were captured and killed specifically for this purpose, contributing to the decline of several species, including the now-extinct Hawaiʻi mamo. In German, Hawaiian honeycreepers are referred to as “Kleidervögel” (clothing birds) due to their historical use in featherwork. [Image credit: © The Trustees of the British Museum, CC BY-NC-SA 4.0]

Hawaiʻi mamo as an example of a lost species

Hawaiʻi mamo is one of the most well-known honeycreeper species that disappeared due to hunting and habitat destruction. These birds fed on the nectar of native trees such as ʻōhiʻa lehua (Metrosideros polymorpha), which played a crucial role in the Hawaiian ecosystem. Their bright yellow feathers were used in the creation of traditional royal cloaks (ʻahuʻula) and helmets (mahiole) worn by Hawaiian chiefs and kings during ceremonies and warfare. These cloaks were crafted from thousands of individual feathers and hundreds of individual birds such as ʻōʻō (Moho) and mamo (Drepanis), symbolizing power and divine protection. The arrival of Europeans played a decisive role in the extinction of this species.

The study of museum specimens helps in the conservation of remaining species. For example, analyzing beak structure and dietary preferences helps in designing habitat restoration programs. Museum collection data are used in conservation initiatives such as the Kauaʻi Forest Bird Recovery Project and the Hawaiian Forest Bird Recovery Project, which focus on restoring local ecosystems, controlling invasive species, and protecting vulnerable bird populations.

A vibrant ʻIʻiwi (Drepanis coccinea) perched on a branch. This species, once widespread across the Hawaiian Islands, is now facing habitat loss and the threat of avian malaria but remains one of the most recognizable honeycreepers. [Image credit: Cricket Raspet / CC BY 4.0]

Scientists use museum specimens to analyze the genetic diversity of historical and modern populations, allowing them to identify species at the highest risk of extinction and develop conservation strategies. DNA analysis of extinct honeycreepers provides insights into how their gene pools differed from surviving species, helping assess the genetic resilience of remaining populations.

Additionally, data on extinct species are used to model ecological changes. Studies show that the disappearance of one species can trigger cascading effects on the ecosystem, making museum-based models crucial for predicting potential threats and adapting conservation measures. Such knowledge is important not only for Hawaii but also for preserving other island ecosystems. For example, in the Galápagos, active programs are working to restore endemic species affected by invasive animals, while in Madagascar, conservation efforts are intensifying to protect unique forest ecosystems. Human impact on these regions has led to significant biodiversity loss, and research based on museum data helps develop more effective conservation strategies.

How museum research helps in the real world

Many conservation projects rely on museum research. Historical data help scientists understand how species’ ranges have shifted over time and how they responded to environmental changes. These insights allow researchers to model how remaining populations will react to modern ecological challenges.

Recent studies suggest that some extinct species, such as the Poʻo-uli (Melamprosops phaeosoma), might have had a chance of survival if more aggressive conservation measures had been taken earlier. These lessons from the past help avoid similar mistakes in the future.

In addition to field research, museums facilitate international collaboration. Through digitization, researchers from different countries can study digital specimens and share data. This is especially crucial for species whose populations are critically endangered.

A Poʻouli (Melamprosops phaeosoma) being handled by researchers during conservation efforts. This extinct Hawaiian honeycreeper was discovered in 1973 and rapidly declined due to habitat loss, disease, and the fragmentation of its small population. The last confirmed sighting of a Poʻouli was in 2004. [Image credit: Paul E. Baker / U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service]

Conclusion

Museum collections play a crucial role in preserving biological heritage. Studying specimens like Hawaiʻi mamo allows us not only to explore the past but also to develop tools for protecting biodiversity in the future. Research based on these data helps determine the necessary steps for conserving vulnerable species and ecosystems.

Biodiversity conservation is not just about protecting individual species but about restoring ecosystems and preventing the repetition of past mistakes. Museum specimens give scientists the ability to understand the factors that led to species’ extinction and use this knowledge to develop effective conservation strategies.

Today, digitization of collections, international collaboration, and genetic research allow us to extract invaluable information even from long-extinct organisms. These data help not only analyze the past but also design programs for conserving surviving species, such as habitat restoration, invasive species control, and disease management.

Now, sitting in the quiet basement of the museum, I realize that these birds are not truly gone —their history lives on in science, in conservation initiatives, and in our ongoing efforts to prevent further losses.


[Image credit: private]

Grigory Evtukh is currently pursuing his PhD at the Leibniz Institute for the Analysis of Biodiversity Change (LIB) in Germany.


Title picture: A vibrant ʻIʻiwi (Drepanis coccinea) perched on a branch. This species, once widespread across the Hawaiian Islands, is now facing habitat loss and the threat of avian malaria but remains one of the most recognizable honeycreepers. [Image credit: Cricket Raspet / CC BY 4.0]

The Politics of Teaching Conflict: Memory and Education in Kenya

Auf Grundlage von Interviews mit kenianischen Pädagog:innen untersucht Meredith Whye die Rolle der Schulbildung in Kenia für einen stabilen Frieden.

Kenya has worked to position itself as a global and regional peace maker, however these efforts stand in contrast to its ability to handle peace internally. Continued political violence has impacted Kenyan governance, yet new school curricula remain largely silent, particularly on the 2007/2008 post-election violence and broader patterns of state repression. Despite total education overhaul, education in Kenya avoids addressing past conflicts instead using vague calls for peace. Drawing on interviews with Kenyan educators, post-conflict education in Kenya will be examined as a vehicle for peace that ignores the question of why peace is needed.

From Post-Election Violence to Education Reform

Widely seen as an example of stability in a high-conflict region, the violence that followed Kenya’s disputed 2007 presidential election shook not only the nation but the world. The announcement of President Mwai Kibaki’s re-election sparked allegations of fraud, leading to widespread protests along ethnic lines and state-sponsored violence. In the violence that followed, over 1,500 people were killed and hundreds of thousands displaced. The violence had lasting impacts on Kenya, most notably a new Constitution in 2010. Largely seen as a resolution to the political violence of 2007/2008, the Constitution set in motion longer-term policy implications.

The Constitution and policy guide, Kenya Vision 2030, called for education reform. Due to the slow nature of Kenyan legislation, complete educational reform in Kenya only gradually became reality. After a series of working papers, reports, and a nation-wide needs-assessment, the new Competency-Based Curriculum (CBC) was implemented in 2021. Notably, the reform shifted Kenya’s content-based and assessment-focused structure to a competency-based approach. Kenya is one of the last nations in the East African region to reform their educational curriculum to this new standard of ‘best practices.’

Despite Kenya’s domestic struggles, Kenya has positioned itself as a regional and global peace broker, mediating conflicts in Sudan, Ethiopia, and the Democratic Republic ofCongo (DRC), and more recently, leading peacekeeping efforts in Haiti. Yet, while advocating for stability abroad, Kenya’s new CBC avoids engaging with its violent past. The reform promises to create “engaged, empowered and ethical citizens,” and to “avert the behavioural and values crisis in the country.” However, policy documents do not specify which crises or why they occur in the first place. Instead, the first goal of Kenya’s national education calls for peace and unity:

Kenyan Education should: Foster nationalism, patriotism, and promote national unity. Kenya’s people belong to different communities, races and religions and should be able to live and interact as one people. It should also promote peace and harmonious co-existence.

Allusions to crisis and the timeline of publication suggest that the 2007 post-election violence played a crucial role in reshaping Kenya’s education policy. However, this is not taken up by curriculum policies, texts, or materials. Instead of acknowledging the political violence or its causes, such as ethnicity, land disputes, or corruption, the curriculum does not engage with political violence nor times of crisis in Kenya’s history. This domestic avoidance is striking given Kenya’s peacekeeping efforts, where it has sought to promote stability in conflict zones like the DRC.

Instead, in the name of fostering peace, the CBC broadly emphasizes cohesion, unity, and patriotism, leaving out any mention of past or current political violence. However, avoiding discussions of political violence does not create neutral citizens. Rather, it leaves young people to absorb the narratives available in their communities, which can be biased or incomplete. By neglecting these difficult topics, Kenyan education fails to provide students with tools needed to understand the structures that sustain conflict.

A Kenyan classroom. Photo: Meredith Whye.

Silencing Conflict

Teaching contested pasts has been extensively studied in high-conflict and politically extreme cases, such as Germany, Rwanda, and South Africa. In these cases, the selection of memories and versions of the past depicted in textbooks are hotly debated. While these cases present strong examples of how different nations grapple with their contentious histories, Kenya presents a different case. Kenya has experienced low-intensity but persistent political violence, especially during presidential election cycles.

Despite the shock of the 2007 political violence, it neither began nor ended then. Political violence has permeated Kenyan society since colonialism, creating a population that has, as Daniel Branch writes, “become accustomed to endemic social and political violence.” This may explain why, in Kenya, politicians have not been held accountable for past human rights violations, nor for inciting violence. Despite his alleged role in the 2007 post-election violence, current Kenyan president William Ruto saw his ICC case dropped, further reinforcing a culture of impunity. His political rise, shaped by shifting alliances and ethnic power dynamics, reflects broader patterns in Kenya’s governance. Therefore, what is taught in Kenya (and what is left out) becomes interesting in light of continued political violence, the lack of accountability, and control of official narratives.

Yet the exclusion of political violence from educational curricula does not mean young Kenyans are unaware of it. Instead, they encounter it in their daily lives—through protests, media, and their communities. This contributes to growing generational tensions in Kenya, where older political leaders view the youth as a destabilizing force. Indeed, the widening age gap between “geriatric leaders and restless youth” is a major source of political tension across the African continent. Rather than empowering young people for civic engagement, political elites often frame them as needing control and containment.

Approaches to contentious pasts

Falk Pingel of the Leibniz Institute for Educational Media, identified three broad approaches to handling contentious histories following a period of national conflict: Separation – Avoiding difficult historical truths, Harmonization – Presenting a national past that smooths over conflict, and Multiperspectivity – Encouraging a critical and nuanced engagement with history.

Separation involves adopting one-sided narratives, often perpetuating conflict by reinforcing competing “truths,” such as in Bosnia-Herzegovina after the 1992–1995 war. Harmonization seeks to impose a singular, unifying national narrative, as attempted in Rwanda. Rwanda promoted a vision of unity, but efforts to produce new textbooks ultimately failed. Multiperspectivity encourages dialogue between conflicting historical perspectives, treating history as an evolving, communicative process. This approach was pursued in South Africa after Apartheid.

What happens when a new curriculum does none of these? Kenya is a case in point: with little mention of Kenya’s post-independence history, educators are left to decide if and how they cover current issues.

Dilemmas in Teaching Political Violence

Teachers often find themselves in a difficult position—faced with the realities of continued political violence but with educational materials that ‘sanitize’ Kenya’s past. This leaves teachers to individually contend with how they approach teaching conflict. Emma, a Kenyan primary teacher and scholar, wrestles with teaching political violence:

“Are we talking more violence? Am I going to put more on the violence or talk about peace? What brings peace and helps people? I would concentrate more on things that bring us together… What is peace? How do we bring peace? And what are the benefits of peace?”

For Emma, teaching should be about fostering inclusion and promoting harmony, without negativity. She questions the necessity of teaching about violence in school at all:

“…why am I to teach about the negative? Why don’t I teach about the positive? I would spend my more energy on such things, because if we did them properly, then there should be no violence.”

Kenyan schoolchildren solving exercises. Photo: Meredith Whye.

Conversely, Roger, a teacher educator and university professor, disagrees. He warns against ignoring the issues of Kenya, citing the on-going violence and corruption in Kenya. At the time of these interviews, the Kenyan Vice President, Rigathi Gachagua, was being impeached on accusations of tribalism and ethnic favoritism. On teaching Kenya’s political violence in education, Roger says:

“Let’s talk about reality. The reality here is Kenyans should teach tribalism and all those things in the curriculum and the leaders themselves practice tribalist way of doing things in the government. Because if you say the Vice President is tribal, what about the president? The president has employed all his people in the government, all his people, so it’s a big problem.”

This highlights a continued issue—political violence has not ended. Even if children are not taught about political violence in the classrooms, they are experiencing it via media or in their lived experiences. Peter, an educational practitioner and expert on indigenous education, says:

“Even now, even today, there is conflict in Tana River. Just today, if you read today’s papers, there’s conflict. There is conflict everywhere in Kenya… But the challenge is that children are learning within this conflict. So sometimes you ask, how are they managing their learning? You know, the people come and shoot the school, even kill the children, even kill the teacher, even kill the chief, you see, but the children are still supposed to learn.”

The challenge of education is not simply to determine what is taught but how narratives are framed. In Kenya, where legacies of violence have impacted society long before the 2007, the decision to exclude these events from the curriculum is not incidental—it is political. By avoiding discussions of political violence, the education curriculum risks (or aims at) producing citizens who are unprepared to critically engage with the structures that perpetuate conflict. Ruth, a primary teacher, faces this fact:

“We have to teach from known to unknown, and what we know is those post-election violence…”

Educators charged with developing Kenya’s new curriculum face an important question: should they continue treating education as a peaceful tool without teaching the violent past? The experiences of Emma, Ruth, Roger, and Peter show that this question is not abstract— children are growing up within ongoing political violence, yet their textbooks and teachers remain silent.

If Kenya is truly committed to peace, both internationally and domestically, then its education system must move beyond avoidance and engage with the political realities shaping young Kenyans’ lives. As its recent AU election loss reveals, Kenya is a nation eager to lead but unwilling to confront its internal fractures. Instead of sanitizing the curriculum, Kenyan education should equip students with both the historical information and critical thinking skills required to analyze the roots of conflict, rather than concealing them.


Meredith Whye is a doctoral candi­date at the University of Wisconsin-Madison in Curriculum & Global Studies. As a Fellow of the Leibniz Research Alliance Value of the Past, she visited PRIF in February 2025.


This article was first published on the PRIF blog. Republished with the kind permission of the author and PRIF.


Title picture: While avocating for stability abroad, education in Kenya avoids addressing past concflicts. Photo: Meredith Whye.

Whose right, whose duty? Documenting the Ukrainian experience of the 2022 Russian full-scale invasion

Anna Wylegała reflektiert anhand ihrer eigenen Projektbeteiligung darüber, ob nicht-betroffene Wissenschaftler:innen das Recht oder sogar die Pflicht haben, Zeugnisse über den aktuellen Konflikt zu dokumentieren und welche Position sie dabei einnehmen.

Who has the right and duty to document the ongoing conflict? What is the positionality of the insider and outsider researcher when recording testimonies which might in the future become invaluable sources for scholars of the past?

Wer hat das Recht und die Pflicht, den andauernden Konflikt zu dokumentieren? Welche Positionen nehmen Wissenschaftler:innen ein, wenn sie als Betroffene oder Außenstehende Zeugnisse dokumentieren, die in Zukunft zu unschätzbaren Quellen für die Aufarbeitung der Vergangenheit werden könnten?


Immediate reaction to the Russian full-scale aggression towards Ukraine was willingness to help and get involved. For me, as an oral historian, it was obvious from the very beginning, that in a few years, whatever testimony we record now, will become an extremely valuable source for scholars researching the past. Thus, in March 2022, I became involved in coordinating the Polish part of the research and documentation project „24.02.2022, 5 am: Testimonies from the War” (https://u-core.org/ ; https://swiadectwawojny2022.org/). Designed as oral history oriented and bringing agency back to the interviewees, the project involved documentation activities conducted both in Ukraine and abroad. Our aim was to record the Ukrainian experience of war in the dimension of everyday life, capturing the individual stories of people for whom full-scale war changed their entire lives and to create a collection of testimonies. The traditional tension inevitably connected to the fact of being either an insider or outsider to the field in social sciences has gained an additional dimension for me in this project.

Screenshot from the project website

The situation of my Polish team in the project was quite specific. Research work often meant that a Polish researcher with Polish citizenship, employed in a Polish academic institution, was recording an interview with a Ukrainian refugee, in a foreign country, adapting to a foreign culture, in an uncertain legal and personal situation and with a precarious economic position. From the very beginning, this implied a strong disbalance in relations of power, and numerous methodological and ethical doubts. Does being an outsider in this type of research make your situation easier than being an insider, what kind of additional responsibilities and challenges does it impose on you, and what are the possibilities of balancing the advantages and disadvantages of the „implicated outsider”, transforming Rothberg’s [1] term?

The very idea that crisis documentation should start without waiting for a safe time distance was met with fundamental criticism in Poland. The brunt of the criticism focused on the fact that academic projects are premature while the war is still ongoing, research work should be postponed until the period of stabilisation, while refugees are fundamentally unready to be the subject of academic research. In addition to the „if” and „when”, the question of „who” was also topical. Does a Polish researcher even have the right to get involved at such an early stage in an academic project on Ukrainian refugees? As someone whose living situation is not under threat and whose country is not at war, does she have the right to use her advantage to do science when her Ukrainian colleagues do not have this opportunity?

We asked ourselves all these questions long before we were asked them in public. Our main argument for deciding to go ahead with the project, however, was that the idea came to us from the Ukrainian academics themselves. We were not the ones who came up with the idea to record the Ukrainian experience, we were asked to join a wider project designed and initiated by Ukrainian colleagues. Thus, the question „who has the right” could just as well be asked in the convention of „who has the duty”. It is the privileged position of the researcher-outsider, who does not have to organize his or her life from scratch, who does not have to tremble every day for the fate of his or her loved ones, that makes the researcher-outsider have the resources necessary to undertake such a project. The researcher-outsider has the emotional and logistical resources to act and, in a sense, it is her responsibility to do so. It is the researcher who is an outsider to her subjects, but an insider to the country in which the project takes place, who has the necessary back office and might use it for the benefits of the project. The privileged position thus, in a sense, places an obligation on the researcher to use it, creates a situation of moral responsibility and solidarity with fellow researchers from an endangered country who cannot engage their limited resources.

The institutional facilities we were able to offer enabled us to include researchers from Ukraine who found themselves in Poland as a result of the Russian invasion. It was clear to us that their expertise was crucial if the project was to make a meaningful contribution. Thus, from the beginning, the core of the team recording the interviews in Poland was made up of female refugee researchers. In this way, we were able to benefit both from the fact that administrative and management issues were left on the shoulders of the Polish side, and from the fact that important issues could be consulted on an ongoing basis by Ukrainian researchers.

Project meeting in Lviv in 2024, photo by Natalia Otrishchenko.

However, the outsider position also has other implications. The outsider researcher has a greater responsibility than the Ukrainian researcher: in a sense, she can afford less, because she does not share a difficult experience with her subjects. She talks to people who are in a situation of particular vulnerability, so she has to be careful not to use her relations of power, e.g. to get someone to participate in the study. She talks to people who are not her co-citizens and co-nationals, and so she has to be careful about her choice of topics. These are all limitations that do not disqualify the researcher-outsider, but she must be aware of them and take measures to balance these limitations, both ethically and methodologically.

In a project where recruitment is based primarily on voluntary submissions from participants and on a snowball principle, it is more difficult for the researcher-outsider to enter the environment of his subjects because it is not her environment. She has to rely on recommendations from others and laboriously earn the trust of his interviewees, who have no reason to trust her. A Polish researcher recording the accounts of Ukrainian refugee women, even if best prepared, is also not familiar, unlike her Ukrainian teammates, with the entire cultural and social context in which the respondents function. She is less immersed in current events in Ukraine and does not start her day by checking where the bombs fell. She does not share all the emotions with the respondents, she cannot refer to the community of experience by saying “I know what it is like because I experienced it myself”.

This opens up the question of whether a community of experience is necessary for a good documentary project. Or is it more of a hindrance? In various contexts, it appears that although the insider researcher has invaluable insights into the group of his or her subjects, there are times when the insider position can be downright aggravating and prevent the research from being realised. The discussion about whether, in the context of research on ongoing crisis and war, the researcher-insider is too emotionally entangled to remain a trustworthy researcher did not start at the time of the Russian full-scale invasion: the issue was also raised in the context of war news reporting in Syria, Palestine or Turkey, when local gate-keepers, translators and researchers were depreciated as „fixers”, simple providers of knowledge. For our team, it was clear from the outset that in this project an emotional involvement was not only justified but, in a sense, expected. In such a situation, the commonality of experience is an asset for the researcher rather than a burden: it allows to be more sensitive and to identify more easily with the subject. As Johana Kotisova states correctly describing the position of Ukrainian and Palestinian “fixers” in the international news reporting, “in practice, emotional engagement appears to work as a form of embodied knowledge”.

With this, we come back to the „duty” notion. The researcher-outsider, when involved in crisis documentation, has a duty to use her privileges and work towards building if not embodied knowledge, then at least embodied understanding. This will not work without close and respectful cooperation with insider researchers.


[1] See: Michael Rothberg, Implicated Subject: Beyond Victims and Perpetrators (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2019)


Photo: private.

Anna Wylegała is a sociologist and Associate Professor at the Institute of Philosophy and Sociology, Polish Academy of Sciences.


Title picture: Center of Urban History in Lviv, George Ivanchenko.

Geschichte als Werkzeug der polnischen Diplomatie gegenüber Deutschland in der Zwischenkriegszeit 1918-1939

Bartosz Dziewanowski-Stefańczyk vom DHI Warschau schreibt über die polnisch-deutschen Beziehungen zwischen den beiden Weltkriegen.

In der Zwischenkriegszeit nutzte Polen die eigene Geschichte als diplomatisches Werkzeug gegenüber Deutschland. Obwohl Polen von der deutschen Seite als kulturell unterlegen betrachtet wurde, wurde diese Art der Diplomatie von deutschen Politikern und Osteuropa-Forschern als Bedrohung für deutsche außenpolitische Interessen wahrgenommen.

In the interwar period, Poland used its own history as a diplomatic tool vis-à-vis Germany. Although Poland was regarded as culturally inferior by the Germans, this type of diplomacy was perceived by German politicians and scholars on Eastern Europe as a threat to German foreign policy interests.


Die neuen Staaten Ostmitteleuropas begannen nach 1918, ihre Selbstbilder überwiegend über die eigene Geschichte, d.h. mit historischen Interpretationen und Argumenten zu formen, um spezifische, „landestypische“ Grenzen zu ziehen und in einem breiteren Kontext das Recht auf souveräne Existenz zu vertreten. Im Hinblick auf diese Art des staatlichen Selbstverständnisses und der Staatspropaganda stellt Polen ein sehr interessantes Beispiel dar, da es an den wichtigsten der Zentralstaaten – Deutschland – grenzte und gezwungen war, dessen diplomatisch-revisionistischer Offensive entgegenzuwirken. Dabei waren die Grenzfragen und die Korridorpropaganda von größter Bedeutung. Die polnischen Regierungen nach 1918 versuchten, das Recht zur Existenz des Staates sowie dessen Außenbild mittels Geschichte zu definieren und zu festigen.[1]

Wie andere Vertreter der Nationen in Mittel- und Ostmitteleuropa nutzte die polnische Diplomatie politische, historische und kulturelle Argumente, um sich den Verbündeten im Westen zu präsentieren und ihnen die Unabhängigkeit und staatsbildende Reife ihres Volkes zu vermitteln. Diese Herangehensweise war auch für die deutsch-polnischen Beziehungen in der Zwischenkriegszeit typisch. Die polnische Außenpolitik gegenüber Deutschland in den Jahren 1918 bis 1939 steht im Mittelpunkt dieser Analyse.

Teilweise vor dem Krieg, vor allem aber nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg schuf Deutschland ein umfassendes Forschungsprogramm zu Osteuropa. Es entstand ein Netzwerk von Forschungseinrichtungen, die auch in den deutsch-polnischen Beziehungen zu wichtigen Akteuren wurden und maßgeblich für die Politisierung der Wissenschaft verantwortlich waren. Das gestiegene Interesse an Mitteleuropa hing mit dem Streben zusammen, die Bestimmungen des Versailler Vertrags (1919) zu revidieren und die Machtposition Deutschlands wiederherzustellen. Dafür wurde auch die Wissenschaft eingesetzt, insbesondere gegen die Position Polens.

Im Jahr 1920 entstand die Deutsche Gesellschaft zum Studium Osteuropas, 1923 in Leipzig die Vermittlungsstelle für zwischeneuropäische Fragen, die an der Schnittstelle von Wissenschaft und Politik fungierte und die 1926 in die Stiftung für deutsche Volks- und Kulturbodenforschung eingegliedert wurde. Schon 1918 wurde in Breslau das Osteuropa-Institut gegründet, nach 1933 aber konzentrierte sich das Institut auf die völkische Ostmitteleuropa- und Ukraineforschung. 1927 wurde in Danzig das Ostland-Institut unter der Leitung von Walther Recke eingerichtet. Diese Institution war für die Sammlung aller Informationen über die polnische Meeres- und Pommernforschung zuständig. Die Gründung der Danziger Institution war eine Reaktion auf die Aktivitäten des 1925 gegründeten Baltischen Instituts in Toruń. 1931 wurde der Publikationsfond gegründet, der zwei Jahre später in Publikationsstelle Berlin-Dahlem umbenannt wurde und in den Räumen des Geheimen Staatsarchivs unter der Leitung von Johannes Papritz der Ostforschung diente.

Alle oben genannten Institutionen führten umfangreiche Propaganda gegen Polen durch, die auf der Überzeugung von der Zivilisationsüberlegenheit Deutschlands gegenüber Polen und der Ungerechtigkeit des Versailler Vertrages beruhte.[2] Neben der Schuldklausel waren die Veränderungen der östlichen Grenzen für Deutschland äußerst schmerzlich, da Großpolen, ein Teil des Königlichen Preußen, und, als Folge von drei Aufständen, Teile von Oberschlesien nach Polen eingegliedert wurden.

Eins von vielen Beispielen der deutschen Stereotype gegen Polen. “Die deutsche Wirtschaft und – ihre Umwandlung in eine polnische Wirtschaft”, in: Kladderadatsch 30/72, 27.07.1919, S. 11.

Ein Beispiel für die deutsche Propaganda war die Betonung einer fehlenden polnischen Seetradition durch deutsche Politiker und Forscher. Sie leiteten daraus ab, dass Polen kein Zugang zum Meer gewährt werden müsse. Bei dem Versuch, den Versailler Vertrag zu revidieren, verwiesen die Deutschen auch auf die „Saisonalität“ des polnischen Staates. Weiterhin wurden in diesem Zusammenhang antipolnische Stereotype angeführt: die angeblich mangelnde Fähigkeit Polens zur Staatsbildung, die polnische Anarchie und ineffizient organisiertes Handeln – die so genannte polnische Wirtschaft – alles angeblich belegbar durch Beispiele aus der Geschichte Polens.[3]

“Vademecum für den Internationalen Historikertag Warschau 1933”, Berlin: Preußisches Geheimes Staatsarchiv, Publikationsstelle, [1933]. Das für den Internationalen Historikertag in Warschau 1933 formulierte Vademecum zu den schwierigsten Themen in den deutsch-polnischen Beziehungen war ein „Rüstzeug”, das die wichtigsten Argumente der polnischen und deutschen Seite zusammenfasste, sodass die deutschen Delegierten wussten, was sie dazu sagen sollten.

In den 1920er Jahren waren die Beziehungen zwischen Polen und Deutschland sehr schlecht, insbesondere während des sogenannten Zollkrieges, der 1925 begann. Im selben Jahr wurde in Toruń das Baltische Institut gegründet, das im Laufe der Zeit zum wichtigsten polnischen Akteur in den Streitigkeiten um Danzig, aber auch um Großpolen, zwischen beiden Ländern wurde. Ziel des Instituts war es, im Baltikum den Weg für polnischen Einfluss zu ebnen. Bei der Gründung des Instituts wollte Stanisław Srokowski dem Vorbild der deutschen Verbindung von Propaganda und Wissenschaft folgen. Obwohl das Baltische Institut von nationaldemokratischen Kreisen gegründet wurde, wurde es nach dem Mai-Putsch von 1926 vom polnischen Außenministerium unterstützt und finanziert. Es begann seine Arbeit in einem schwierigen Moment, als Aktivitäten im Rahmen einer allgemein verstandenen Kulturdiplomatie in Deutschland nahezu unmöglich waren. Allerdings verbesserten sich die Beziehungen zwischen den beiden Ländern vorübergehend nach der Unterzeichnung der deutsch-polnischen Erklärung zur Gewaltlosigkeit im Januar 1934 leicht, was die Historikerin Karina Pryt als befohlene Freundschaft bezeichnete[4]. Allerdings urteilte der Breslauer Konsul Stefan Bratkowski 1935, dass „das deutsch-polnische Abkommen die in Deutschland vorherrschende Atmosphäre nicht grundlegend verändert hat“[5].

Das Baltische Institut in Thorn gab mehrere Veröffentlichungen zu der Prähistorie derjenigen Territorien heraus, die zu Polen gehörten, aber von Deutschland als verlorene Gebiete betrachtet wurden.

Das Baltische Institut ist die wichtigste polnische Institution, die an den deutsch-polnischen Streitigkeiten beteiligt war.  Das Archiv des Instituts ging während des Krieges verloren, daher müssen seine Aktivitäten anhand der nur fragmentarisch erhaltenen Schriften in verschiedenen Archiven rekonstruiert werden[6]. Besser sieht es allerdings mit der Rezeption der Institutsaktivitäten auf deutscher Seite aus. Zu diesem Zweck sind die Materialien im Archiv des Auswärtigen Amtes (AA) sowie im Bundesarchiv Lichterfelde (BA) von großem Nutzen. Im AA sind die Archivalien aus der Politischen Abteilung der Zentrale im Deutschen Reich (RZ 208, RZ 211) sowie die Materialien der Botschaft Deutschlands in Warschau am aufschlussreichsten, im BA die Materialien der Publikationsstelle Berlin-Dahlem (R 153).

Polnisches Propaganda-Poster (Polen, vor 1939): “Wir sind nicht erst seit gestern hier – wir waren weit nach Westen vorgedrungen”. Laut der Inschrift gehörten Lübeck und Berlin einst Polen, ebenso wie zu der Zeit von König Boleslaus auch Leipzig und Breslau, Wikimedia Commons (gemeinfrei)

Deutsche Experten (z.B. Hans Übersberger – Leiter des Osteuropa-Instituts, oder Theodor Oberländer – Direktor des Instituts für Osteuropäische Wirtschaft in Königsberg) bewerteten die auswärtige Geschichtspolitik Polens insgesamt als sehr effektiv, standen polnischen Thesen allerdings äußerst kritisch gegenüber. Dennoch betrachteten sie vor allem das Baltische Institut als gefährlichen Gegner Deutschlands im Bereich der Propaganda. In diesem Sinne wurde in Berichten des Instituts für Osteuropäische Wirtschaft in Königsberg u.a. das Baltische Institut bewertet. Dessen Direktor Theodor Oberländer machte das deutsche Außenministerium auf die Notwendigkeit aufmerksam, Aktivitäten gegen das Baltische Institut zu finanzieren[7]. Oberländer schätze beispielsweise ein: „Nachdem aber der Gegner nachweislich nach Abschluss dieses Paktes weit schärfer offensiv geworden ist, als bisher, ist es unbedingt notwendig, in grosszügiger Weise die Abwehr, in die wir ja schon leider hineingedrängt sind, zu organisieren. Die stärkste Aktivität geht vom Baltischen Institut aus, das nach dem Jahre seine Tätigkeit aus allen Gebieten ungeheuer aktiviert hat.“[8]

Möglicherweise, wie es schon Stefan Guth andeutete, diente die Betonung des Vorteils der polnischen Seite dazu, zusätzliche Mittel für die eigenen Aktivitäten zu beschaffen.[9]  Darüber hinaus könnten diese Einschätzungen Teil des traditionellen Diskurses über die bedrohten Ostgrenzen Deutschlands gewesen sein, weshalb solche Äußerungen mit Vorsicht zu bewerten sind. Dennoch wurden die Aktivitäten des Baltischen Instituts als großes Problem und Herausforderung, vielleicht sogar als Bedrohung, für die deutsche Wissenschaft und Diplomatie eingeschätzt.


[1] B. Dziewanowski-Stefańczyk, To ‘acquire the right place among the nations’. Cultural diplomacy and the New Order in East-Central Europe, (in:) A New Europe, 1918-23: Instability, Innovation, Recovery, Hg. B. Dziewanowski-Stefańczyk, Jay Winter, Routledge London-New York, 2022.

[2] Marek Kornat, Niższość cywilizacyjna wrogiego narodu. Niemieckie dyskursy o Polsce i Polakach 1919-1945, Warszawa 2020.

[3] Ingo Haar, Historiker im Nationalsozialismus. Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft und der »Volkstumskampf« im Osten, Göttingen 2000, S. 139-149.

[4] Karina Pryt, Befohlene Freundschaft die deutsch-polnischen Kulturbeziehungen 1934 – 1939, Osnabrück 2010.

[5] Zjazdy i konferencje konsulów polskich w Niemczech. Protokóły i sprawozdania. 1920-1939, Lublin 1999, S. 260.

[6] Bernard Piotrowski, W służbie nauki i narodu. Instytut Bałtycki w latach 1925-1939, Poznań 1991.

[7] PA AA, R 82337, Schreiben vom 18.10.1935, S. 218-219.

[8] PA AA, R 82337, Schreiben Oberländers an Roediger, 28.10.1935, “Bemerkungen zur neuesten Tätigkeit des Baltischen Instituts und zur Notwendigkeit der Organisation einer Abwehrarbeit”, S. 221. Siehe auch: Bartosz Dziewanowski-Stefańczyk, „Die Historiographie von Westpreußen als Werkzeug der polnischen Diplomatie in Bezug auf Deutschland in der Zwischenkriegszeit“, in: 100 Jahre Forschung über Ost- und Westpreußen. Die Historische Kommission für ost- und westpreußische Landesforschung. Geschichte – Forschungsthemen – Quellen, hrsg. Jürgen Sarnowsky (Einzelschriften der Historischen Kommission für ost- und westpreußische Landesforschung, 35), Osnabrück: Fibre 2025, S. 155-168.

[9] Stefan Guth, Geschichte als Politik. Der Deutsch-polnische Historikerdialog im 20. Jahrhundert, München 2015, S. 75.


Bartosz Dziewanowski-Stefańczyk ist wissenschaftlicher Mitarbeiter am Deutschen Historischen Institut in Warschau und war 2023 Leibniz “Value of the Past” Fellow am Leibniz-Zentrum für Zeithistorische Forschung Potsdam.


Titelbild: Eröffnung des polnischen Pavillons auf der Weltausstellung in New York (1939) mit dem mittelalterlichen Turm und der Statue des mit Deutschland verbundenen Königs Władysław Jagiełło, der die Schlacht bei Grunwald gegen die Deutschen Ritter gewann, die mit Deutschland in der polnischen Propaganda assoziiert wurden, NAC, 1-M-654-30.

Scientific Instruments in the Greek Enlightenment

In diesem Beitrag skizziert Artemis Yagou die Verwendung wissenschaftlicher Instrumente und die damit verbundenen neuen Praktiken und Mentalitäten in Griechenland um die Wende zum 19. Jahrhundert.

Welche Arten von wissenschaftlichen Instrumenten wurden um die Wende zum 19. Jahrhundert in Griechenland, damals eine Provinz des Osmanischen Reiches, verwendet? Artemis Yagou skizziert die Verwendung wissenschaftlicher Instrumente und die damit verbundenen neuen Praktiken und Mentalitäten in Griechenland.

What kinds of scientific instruments were used around the turn of the nineteenth century in Greece, then a province of the Ottoman Empire? Artemis Yagou outlines the uses of scientific instruments and the associated emerging practices and mentalities in Greece.


The bearded, long-haired man shown on a copperplate portrait of the late eighteenth century appears intelligent and confident (title picture). He wears the attire of an Orthodox Christian priest, holds a small book, and is surrounded by objects underpinning his activities as an educated man: numerous leather-bound volumes, a pair of compasses, and a globe. He is the Greek scholar Anthimos Gazis (1758–1828), from the village of Milies (Pilio mountain, Thessaly). The portrait is printed on the frontispiece of his book Γραμματική των Φιλοσοφικών Επιστημών, a translation of The Philosophical Grammar, originally published in 1735 by Benjamin Martin (1705–1782), the English lexicographer and maker of scientific instruments. This translation was one of several publishing initiatives meant to introduce the Greek-speaking public to the latest scientific developments.

In 1813, Gazis also founded a school at Milies, in collaboration with other Greek scholars. He equipped the school with scientific instruments that he brought from Vienna, some of which still survive at the Public Library of Milies; one of them is a standard electrostatic machine. This object is very similar to the machine with Accession number 2231 kept in the Whipple Museum of the History of Science in Cambridge, dated c. 1775–1800 and typically used for demonstration purposes (Fig. 2). The electrostatic machine at the Milies School was likewise used to conduct electrical demonstrations and familiarise students and other locals with electricity and its properties; the experiments conducted there greatly impressed those who attended them. Such scientific experimental performances ushered in a new, critical outlook. The teachers of that school aimed to make students – and anyone else interested – aware that natural phenomena had logical and scientific interpretations. Through their pioneering activities, these men aimed to fight superstition and prejudice by popularising scientific findings and applying them to the daily lives of people.

Fig. 2: Electrostatic machine, British, c. 1775–1800, Whipple Museum of the History of Science, Cambridge, Accession No 2231.

Clearly, Gazis and other Greek scholars had realised the seminal significance of experiments. Nevertheless, they could only perform relatively simple experiments, serving primarily purposes of demonstration and proof and only rarely of research. In other words, experiments were not used for measurements that could lead to the formulation of physical laws. Making experiments in Ottoman Greece was not easy at all; one of the major obstacles was the lack of appropriate equipment and materials. In their publications, Greek intellectuals discussed numerous physical and chemical experiments, as well as the instruments and materials required for their realisation, among others: electrostatic machines, Leyden jars, precision scales, precision timers, air pumps, Magdeburg hemispheres, armillary spheres, magnets, lenses, sufficient quantities of mercury, chemical reagents, etc. (Fig. 3). Alas, most of these were difficult or impossible to find locally, therefore many experiments were not feasible. Despite the limitations of their experimental practices, Greek scholars of the time managed to develop their way of thinking, assimilate new scientific ideas, and become more confident in their teaching activities. They realised the significance of direct, hands-on practice for acquiring new knowledge and felt empowered.

Fig. 3: Copperplate illustration of an air pump included as ‘Table a’ in Anthimos Gazis, Γραμματικὴ τῶν Φιλοσοφικῶν Επιστημῶν [Grammar of Philosophical Sciences], Vienna: Schraembl, 1799.

The actions of these highly educated individuals were embedded within a broader sociocultural transformation that was taking place during the last decades of the eighteenth century and the first of the nineteenth. An emerging Greek middle class was enjoying financial prosperity and intellectual growth, and had internalised the significance of education. That period, later termed Greek (or Neohellenic, or Balkan) Enlightenment, was directly influenced by the wider philosophical and intellectual movement in eighteenth-century Western Europe, and is considered a local manifestation of the overall European Enlightenment. The major characteristic of the Greek Enlightenment was a shift in consciousness, a fundamental change in the way people had begun to think about themselves. The Greek Enlightenment encompassed the belief in rational thinking, self-improvement, and the pursuit of happiness; the usage of scientific instruments contributed to these themes.

Historians often also describe the decades of the Greek Enlightenment as ‘pre-revolutionary’, since they prepared the ground for the Greek Revolution (Greek War of Independence) (1821–c.1830), a protracted and extremely violent struggle for self-determination and liberty by Greek populations of the Ottoman Empire. As soon as the Greek Revolution erupted, scientific instruments for education inevitably became sidelined, lost, and destroyed during the chaotic and harrowing times that followed. During the revolutionary years, the scientific instruments that became more visible and critical were telescopes, marine compasses, and other nautical instruments. Such portable items were already familiar and available to Greek sailors of the pre-revolutionary merchant marine; they were subsequently used by for war-related purposes. Originating primarily from England, France, Russia, and the Habsburg Empire, these instruments were acquired through various channels. Typically, Greeks ordered them from the countries of origin or purchased them locally in Europe; Philhellenes also sponsored and donated them. Diasporic Greeks and various foreigners brought such instruments with them when they came to Greece to join the liberation struggle. But that is another story.

Fig. 4: Ramsden Electrostatic Machine, late eighteenth century, National Historical Museum, Athens.

My personal involvement with the topic of scientific instruments is a spin-off from my work on late eighteenth to early nineteenth century pocket watches and, more generally, on the material culture of early modern Greece. Small numbers of the scientific instruments under discussion survive today in various collections, predominantly in Athenian museums: the National Historical Museum, the Benaki Museum, the War Museum, the Athens University History Museum, the National Observatory of Athens, and the Philhellenism Museum (Fig. 4). Early scientific instruments may also be found in the Historical Archive–Museum of Hydra island, in the Municipal Library of Milies, in the Kairios Library (Andros Island), as well as in various private collections. Systematic, object-based investigation of these artefacts remains to be conducted; further research and hands-on examination of the artefacts are needed in order to acquire a deeper understanding of the provenance and circulation practices of scientific instruments, the mentalities of individual actors, and the appropriation processes involved.


Recommendations for further reading

Roderick Beaton, Greece: Biography of a Modern Nation, London: Allen Lane, 2019.

Costantine Skordoulis, Gianna Katsiampoura and Efthymios Nikolaidis, ‘The Scientific Culture in Eighteenth to Nineteenth Century Greek-speaking Communities: Experiments and Textbooks’, in Peter Heering and Roland Wittje (eds), Learning by Doing: Experiments and Instruments in the History of Science Teaching.

Artemis Yagou, Products, Users, and Popular Luxury in Early Modern Greece, New York and London: Routledge, 2024.


Artemis Yagou, PhD, is a historian of design and technology, Research Associate at the Deutsches Museum in Munich.


Title picture: Portrait of Anthimos Gazis used as a frontispiece in his book Γραμματικὴ τῶν Φιλοσοφικῶν Επιστημῶν [Grammar of Philosophical Sciences], Vienna: Schraembl, 1799.

The Rise and Fall of a National Story

In this blog entry, Yasamin Alkhansa traces the shift in hegemonic values in Iranian school textbooks from various decades using a lesson that has been modified several times by the Iranian Ministry of Education.

Embodying official narratives, changes in school textbooks tell the story of shifting hegemonic values. This blog post explores one such story in Iran and traces the change in the concept of ‘devotion’ taught in the lesson on the ‘Selfless Farmer’.  

Veränderungen in Schulbüchern sind Ausdruck offizieller Narrative und erzählen die Geschichte des Wandels hegemonialer Werte. Dieser Blogeintrag untersucht eine solche Geschichte im Iran und zeichnet den Wandel des Konzepts der „Hingabe“ nach, das in der Lektion über den „selbstlosen Bauern“ gelehrt wird.


During the 2024 presidential election campaign in Iran, the successful candidate, Masoud Pezeshkian, shared an image from a 1980s school textbook on his social media platforms. Adopting the slogan “For Iran,” he selected an illustration from the lesson The Selfless Farmer, depicting the myth of a lone man who endangered his own life to rescue others. This story, known as Dehqan-e-Fadakar in Farsi, holds significant affective resonance, which Pezeshkian leveraged to present himself as a modest saviour, poised to protect the nation from imminent perils.

1: Masoud Pezeshkian’s Post on X.

His chosen image may have been persuasive, but it was indeed contentious, not least because it has been censored since 2009. How and why did the myth of the Selfless Farmer rise and fall? I will historicize its evolving depiction before and after the Islamic Revolution and explore the shifts in the way school textbooks narrativize devotion and heroism, associated with martyrdom as one of the core official values for the post-revolutionary State in Iran.

A Hero is Born

The news of a brave farmer who saved a passenger train in the city of Tabriz, province of Azarbaijan, was published on the front page of the Ettela’at newspaper on November 7, 1961, turning Riz-Ali Khajavi into a national hero. He was on his way home on that fateful day, the newspaper said, when he saw a heavy landslide blocking the railway tracks. A train was rapidly approaching; tragedy was imminent. He didn’t know how to warn the driver, but Riz-Ali was determined to save the passengers. Despite the cold, he removed his clothes, tied them to his walking stick, and set them on fire with the oil from his lantern. Without hesitation, he ran towards the train. Seeing the fire, the driver noticed the danger and pulled the brakes. After a violent jolt, it stopped. The driver and passengers hurried out. Seeing the landslide, the torch, and the man standing naked in the cold, they realised what he had done; he saved their lives.

From the onset, the story contained contradictions that raised doubts about its authenticity. In the newspaper’s headline, the number of passengers was “hundreds” whereas the article emphasised they were “two thousand”, for example. However, it was soon added to the Persian Language textbooks for third graders in 1963. Textbook authors presented a heroic image of a modest farmer – a representative of the predominantly rural Iranian society – praising the peasantry as agents in the country’s fate just as Pahlavi’s modernising Land Reforms were launched in the province of Azerbaijan (Amanat, 2017). The Farmer, as illustrated atop fallen rocks raising the blazing torch, embodied a legend which not only celebrated the individual’s devotion to the collective as a nationally valued quality of a ‘good’ Iranian but imprinted the myth in pupils’ minds (Picture Two).

2: Persian Language Textbook, 1963, Iranian Ministry of Education.

The Farmer as the Revolutionary Subject

Dehgan-e-Fadakar was already an esteemed national story when the Pahlavi collapsed in 1979. Well-matching the hegemonic discourse of the ‘oppressed’ workers (Mostas’afin) crystallised in the uprisings against the Shah, the Farmer readily represented the Islamic Republic’s revolutionary subject and held a uniquely symbolic value. The lesson, thus, survived the Islamization of education, which removed content that was deemed monarchic and anti-revolutionary and was reprinted without changes to the text. However, Parviz Kalantari, one of its early illustrators in 1963, presented a different image of the Farmer, which was removed from textbooks in the late 2000s.

In Kalantari’s illustration, his nakedness was central to the myth (Picture Three). Everything was cold and grey except for the Farmer’s stripped upper body, the flame, and the train’s lights. The harsh and prominent lines indicated a grave incident in which his bareness symbolised the revolutionary subject’s power while being humanly vulnerable.

3: Persian Language Textbook, 1986, Iranian Ministry of Education.

Since 1989, however, this image changed. While the story stayed the same, the event was significantly less dramatized, and its expressive qualities were noticeably reduced compared to Kalantari’s depiction in 1986. Not only did the blending of warm colours diminish the significance of the Farmer’s nakedness, but the lines that previously gave his body a sense of urgency and humanity were removed. He was merely a painting, and his bareness held less narrative importance (Picture Four).

4: Persian Language Textbook, 1989, Iranian Ministry of Education.

The Fall of a Story

According to the Ministry of Education, a new illustration depicting him clothed was introduced in 2009. He was no longer naked and was shown wearing a white shirt while holding a torch (Picture Five). Multicoloured as it was, the picture conveyed darkness overcome by the Farmers’ white attire, encouraging an ideological interpretation of the event. His body was no longer the focus of the story.

5: Persian Language Textbook, 2023, Iranian Ministry of Education.

He had an insignificant body but wore a white shirt, and the primary educational objective was the colour and its symbolic triumph over darkness. According to an interview with Riz-Ali Khajavi, the textbook’s illustration changed because “on that night, he was wearing a coat which he set on fire during the incident.”, he said, meaning he was not naked. Riz-Ali did not, however, specify the colour of his shirt.

In addition to changing depictions, the story has lost its educational significance over the past four decades. The entire story has now been reduced from two pages to a short paragraph. Socio-politically during this time, the so-called oppressed (Mostaz’afin) have also become peripheral in the official discourses, while simultaneously, the story of Hossein Fahmideh, a child soldier who “volunteered” his life during the Iran-Iraq war (1980-88), was given more credence. Since its inclusion in textbooks in 1984, martyrdom as a national Islamic value has progressively been encouraged as one of the main objectives of education in and through the curriculum and extracurricular activities, to the extent that today, it constitutes a significant portion of lesson content. In this context, the story of the Farmer gradually became marginalised, and heroism was redefined.

Selflessness Reframed

Officially, devotion as the State value has found its true expression in martyrdom, sacrificing one’s life for an ideal. As such, the story of a heroic farmer who ultimately survived is less educationally crucial than one who volunteered his life and was ‘martyred’.  In other words, the body earns narrative and performative worth as it is sacrificed to defend a particular vision. Through self-annihilation, devotion is recognised as having national relevance. Hence, not only has the Farmer’s story been reduced in volume, but his naked body, which in Kalantari’s illustration (Picture Three) signified humanity, has also gradually been marginalised. The man’s body was insignificant and in line with the State’s ideological imperative, i.e. the triumph of light over darkness; it was ultimately censored and covered by a white shirt.

In the collective memory, however, the image of The Selfless Farmer, a legacy of Pahlavi, was deeply etched, possessing affective and nostalgic capital. Mobilising this capital may have prompted Masoud Pezeshkian to choose, among the existing depictions, the one that most vividly illustrated his heroism and humanity to stir public emotions: the image of a humble lone man risking his life to save others.


Bibliography

Aahi, Leili, Zahra Khaanlari, and Samineh Baqcheh Baan. 1963. Farsi for Grade Three . Tehran: Sazman-e-Ketab.

Amanat , Abbas. 2017. Iran: A Modern History . New Haven and London : Yale University Press .

Daftar Ta’lif. 1989. Farsi for Grade Three. Tehran: Offset.

—. 2023. Farsi for Grade Three. Tehran: Offset.

—. 1986. Farsi for Grade Three. Tehran: Offset.


Dr. Yasamin Alkhansa researches the politics of historical narratives taught in schools and currently is a Leibniz-Fellow at the Georg Eckert Insitute – Leibniz Institute for Educational Media.


This contribution was first published in Farsi on the Blog Art/Culture/Action and is republished here in an English version with kind permission from the blog and the author.


Title Picture: Persian Language Textbook, 1986, Iranian Ministry of Education.

Die Komposition von Mustern in der Leinenweberei im Süddeutschland der frühen Neuzeit

Ellen Harlizius-Klück untersucht in diesem Beitrag frühneuzeitliche Weberbücher und Stoffe, die Arbeit der Weber:innen und deren Einfluss auf bekannte Wissenschaftler wie Jungius und Leibniz.

Haben Weber:innen für die Wissenschaft in der frühen Neuzeit eine Rolle gespielt? Auf welchem Aspekt des Handwerks könnte ein solcher Einfluss beruhen? Ellen Harlizius-Klück untersucht die Notationen der frühneuzeitlichen Weberbücher, um aufzuzeigen, wie Weber:innen ihre Muster komponieren, kombinieren, und transformieren.

Did weavers play a role for science in the early modern? What aspect of the craft might have had an impact? Ellen Harlizius-Klück examines the notations of early modern weavers’ books to show how weavers composed, combined and transformed patterns.


Betritt man das Obergeschoss des Markgrafenmuseums zu Ansbach, fällt der Blick auf ein Doppelporträt des Markgrafen Alexander (1736-1806) und seiner Gattin Friederike Charlotte (1735-1791). Es sind typische höfische Porträts des 18. Jahrhunderts, die kunsthistorisch von eher geringem Interesse und in keinem Katalog oder Werkverzeichnis abgebildet sind. Dennoch bin ich von München über Nürnberg nach Ansbach gereist, um das Porträt der Friederike Charlotte mit eigenen Augen zu sehen. Was macht für mich als Wissenschafts- und Technikhistorikerin den Wert dieses Gemäldes aus, auf dem es nichts Besonderes zu sehen gibt?

Seit ich 2006 in der Bibliothek des Deutschen Museums ein ungewöhnliches Buch-Manuskript zur Weberei entdeckte, bin ich auf der Suche nach den Stoffen, deren Herstellung in diesem Buch beschrieben ist. Es handelt sich um eines der ersten Musterbücher für Weber:innen: das Weber Kunst und Bild Buch des Nathanael Lumscher (1708), durchschossen mit vielen ursprünglich leeren Seiten auf denen mehrere Generationen von Webern seit 1748 ihre eigenen Entwürfe, aber auch historische Ereignisse, Geburten und Todesfälle dokumentiert haben. Es ist das früheste Werkstattjournal dieser Art im fränkischen Raum, geführt von den Webern Georg Thaller, Michael Schoder und Lorenz und Georg Klug in Oberschwarzach.

Beispiele für die in solchen Büchern behandelten Stoffe zu finden, ist nicht leicht. Von den Weber:innen werden sie als Kölsch, Golsch, Schachwitz, gesteinte Zwilch, Ligetuhr, oder Bauren Damasck bezeichnet. Der Name Bauerndamast hat dazu geführt, dass man diese Stoffe als minderwertig im Vergleich zu den Damaststoffen der großen Zugwebstühle angesehen und sie der Volkskunst zugerechnet hat. Sie wurden und werden von Museen kaum gesammelt. Das Porträt der Markgräfin von Ansbach belegt, dass diese Stoffe durchaus im höfischen Kontext beliebt waren, und zwar nicht nur als Tischwäsche, sondern auch als Bekleidungsstoff. Das Kleid der Friederike Caroline zeigt ein Muster aus Streifen und stilisierten Bäumen. Es wurde möglicherweise vom Ansbacher Hofweber Johann Michael Frickinger gewebt, der das wohl berühmteste deutsche Weberbuch verfasst und 1740 publiziert hat.

Detail des Hausgewandes auf dem Bildnis der Markgräfin Friederike Charlotte von Brandenburg-Ansbach mit einem der grafisch-geometrischen Mustern, deren Herstellung in den frühesten Weberbüchern aus Süddeutschland beschrieben wird. Es zeigt Streifen und stilisierte Bäume. Detailfoto: Ellen Harlizius-Klück.

Das neue Interesse von Wissenschafts- und Technikhistoriker:innen an dem Einfluss des Handwerks auf die Geschichte der Wissenschaftsentwicklung verändert derzeit auch den Blick auf das Wissen der Weber:innen. Pamela H. Smith von der Columbia University in New York sowie ihre Kolleg:innen argumentieren, dass die praktischen Handwerke zur Entwicklung neuer naturwissenschaftlicher Ideen zwischen etwa 1400 und 1800 mehr beigetragen hätten, als bislang anerkannt worden sei. Obwohl in den Darstellungen solcher fähigen Handwerker auch Weber erwähnt werden, nehmen sie doch in den Untersuchungen kaum Raum ein.

Ein neues Buch des Wissenschaftshistorikers Michael Friedman scheint diese Lücke zu füllen. Er hat umfangreiche bisher wenig bekannte Notizen des deutschen Philosophen und Mathematikers Joachim Jungius (1587-1657) publiziert und kommentiert, die Untersuchungen und Betrachtungen zur Weberei enthalten und auf eine mathematische Beschreibung von Stoffstrukturen abzielen. Die Notizen sind mit dem Titel Texturae Contemplatio, also: Meditationen über die Textur/die Gewebe versehen. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646-1716), der schon 1675 eine geometria sartorum einforderte, also eine Geometrie der Schneiderei, hat auf der Basis von Jungius Notizen weitergearbeitet und sich um eine Publikation des Konvoluts bemüht, ist aber damit gescheitert. Friedman versucht, herauszufinden, inwiefern hier eine Mathematisierung der Weberei vorliegt, die evtl. die mathematischen Arbeiten von Leibniz beeinflusst hat. Er nimmt an, dass die Notationen in den Büchern Gesten der Weber:innen codieren und Gedächtnisstützen für solche Gesten sind. Friedman resümiert, Jungius habe aber diese manuellen Operationen nicht ganz verstanden und deshalb sei der Rückgriff auf die Weberei eher ein metaphorisches als ein mathematisches Projekt.

Friedman zieht auch die Manuskripte und frühen Drucke süddeutscher Weber zu Rate, hält ihre Wirkung aber für lokal begrenzt. Doch die süddeutschen Bücher zur Weberei, die über einen Zeitraum von 1677 bis etwa 1850 erschienen sind, haben eine globale Wirkung erzielt, die nicht zu unterschätzen ist. Maler wie Velazquez, El Greco oder Tizian haben die komplexen Stoffe, deren Entwurfstechnik in diesen Büchern beschrieben wird, als Leinwände für ihre Meisterwerke verwendet. Designhochschulen auf der ganzen Welt haben diese Bücher, die oft von immigrierenden Webern mitgebracht wurden, für ihre Bibliotheken gesammelt. Die teilweise extrem seltenen Exemplare existieren dennoch nicht nur in Europa, sondern auch in den Vereinigten Staaten, in Kanada, Vietnam, den Philippinen und Japan.

Einen Hinweis auf das Porträt der Friederike Charlotte von Ansbach fand ich in der Fußnote eines Beitrags von Patricia Hilts über Blockdamaste in der deutschen Tradition der Leinenweberei. Hilts ist Weberin und eine ausgewiesene Expertin, was die technischen Bedingungen dieser Webereien angeht, die für Nicht-Weber kaum verständlich und selbst für Weber nur in der Praxis nachvollziehbar sind. Das Muster auf dem Kleid der Markgräfin folgt demnach dem Prinzip der kombinierten Block-Muster, die erst ab 1720 in den Musterbüchern auftauchen und an deren Weiterentwicklung der Ansbacher Hofweber Frickinger den größten Anteil hat. Die Erzherzogin Anna von Österreich, Herzogin von Bayern, trägt ein Kleid aus einem solchen Stoff auf einem ganzfigurigen Gemälde von Hans Mielich.

Erzherzogin Anna von Österreich, Herzogin von Bayern (1528-1590), Bildnis in ganzer Figur (1556). Gemälde von Hans Mielich (1516-1573), Öl auf Leinwand, 212 × 115,5 × 2,8 cm. Zurzeit ausgestellt in Schloss Ambras, Innsbruck, im Besitz des Kunsthistorischen Museums, Wien. Permalink: www.khm.at/de/object/2330

Detail des Porträts der Anna von Österreich mit dem typischen sogenannten Rosenmuster.

Leinen mit solchen sich diagonal kreuzenden Linien und diagonal angeordneten Rechtecken, sogenannten ‚Rosen‘, findet sich häufig als Malerleinwand der großen Meister des 16. bis 18 Jahrhunderts. Die Weberin Helena Loermans hat zahlreiche dieser Leinwände identifiziert, rekonstruiert und nachgewebt. Zum Beispiel findet man das Muster des Kleides der Anna von Österreich ähnlich als Leinwand von Alonzo Sánchez Coellos Porträt der Infantin Isabel (siehe Abb. 5), sowie als Leinwand des Bildes vom Begräbnis des Grafen von Orgaz, gemalt von El Greco. Beide Bilder werden auf 1585 bis 1588 datiert. Auch Tizian hat solche Leinwände benutzt, etwa für das Mahl in Emmaus und das Porträt der Isabella d’Este.

Alonzo Sánchez Coello, Infantin Isabel Clara Eugenia mit Magdalena Ruiz, Prado. Foto: Public domain.

Leinwand des Porträts der Infantin Isabel Clara Eugenia von Alonzo Sánchez Coello, rekonstruiert und nachgewebt von Helena Loermans. Foto: Helena Loermans. Vgl. Lab O.

Die Leinwände zeigen, dass diese Muster in der frühen Neuzeit weit verbreitet und nicht auf den süddeutschen Raum beschränkt waren. Um zu verstehen, wie die Konstruktion dieser Muster funktioniert und inwiefern hier mathematische Prinzipien am Werk sind, die das Interesse von Jungius und Leibniz geweckt haben könnten, untersuche ich zurzeit die Weberbücher und die zugehörigen Entwurfsstrategien im Rahmen des Leibniz-Fellowships „Wert der Vergangenheit“. Dabei kann ich die Bestände der beiden Leibniz Institute Deutsches Museum München und Germanisches Nationalmuseum Nürnberg ideal verbinden, indem ich das Weberbuch und Werkstattjournal von Lumscher/Thaller mit anderen Büchern und Manuskripten in Nürnberg vergleiche.

Ziel ist es, den Wert der Bücher sowie der komplexen Arbeit der Weber:innen für zentrale Ideen der Wissenschaft der frühen Neuzeit zu verstehen. Dabei kann es nicht darum gehen, die Weber:innen als Vorläufer der experimentellen Naturbetrachtung anzusehen. Eher geht es um Vorformen einer symbolischen Algebra (an der bereits Leibniz arbeitete), Grundideen der Matrizenrechnung (auch hier hat Leibniz wichtige Beiträge geleistet) oder um die Entwicklung einer binären Arithmetik für die Konstruktion von Rechenmaschinen (für die Leibniz berühmt geworden ist). Weber:innen verwendeten schon früh die Prinzipien der Substitution, der Transformation, oder der Kombination und nahmen damit vorweg, was Charles Babbage und Ada Lovelace im Zusammenhang mit dem Jacquardwebstuhl und dem Entwurf eines ersten Universalcomputers als „algebraische Muster“ bezeichnen.

Breite und Zusammenhang der mathematischen Felder, die das Weben abdeckt, können aber nicht erfasst werden, wenn man die im Herstellungsprozess entscheidende Einheit von Weber:in-Webstuhl-Gewebe in ihre Bestandteile zerlegt und separat formalisiert. An der Weberei lässt sich zeigen, dass die Bedeutung der Materialität für die Wissenschaftsgeschichte darin besteht, dass sie nicht nur komplexe Wissensbestände einschließen, sondern diese auch über lange Zeiträume hinweg vermitteln kann — selbst wenn Texte oder andere Beschreibungen fehlen.


Leseempfehlungen

Smiths, Pamela H., From Lived Experience to the Written Word: Reconstructing Practical Knowledge in the Early Modern World, Chicago & London: The University of Chicago Press, 2022.

Loermans, Helena, “Historical Canvasses Deciphered”, in: Conserving Canvas, hg. V. Cynthia Schwartz, Ian McClure und Jim Coddington, Los Angeles: Getty Conservation Institute, 2023, Kapitel 46.

Friedman, Michael, On Joachim Jungius’ Texturæ Contemplatio: Texture, Weaving and Natural Pholosophy in the 17th Century, Cham: Springer Nature, 2024.

Harlizius-Klück, Ellen, “Weaving as Binary Art and the Algebra of Patterns”, in TEXTILE Cloth and Culture 15, 2017(2), 176–197.

Hilts, Patricia, “Roses and Snowballs: The Development of Block Patterns in the German Linen-Weaving Tradition”, ARS TEXTRINA 5 (1986), 167-248.


Ellen Harlizius-Klück ist Senior Researcher im Forschungsinstitut für Technik- und Wissenschaftsgeschichte des Deutschen Museums und war kürzlich Leibniz-Fellow des Forschungsverbundes “Wert der Vergangenheit” am Germanischen Nationalmuseum in Nürnberg.


Titelbild: Doppelporträt des Markgrafen Alexander von Ansbach und seiner Frau Friederike Caroline im Hausgewand. Johann Michael Schwabeda und Johann Leonhard Schneider, um 1760, Öl auf Leinwand, je 210 x 100 cm, ehemals Schlafzimmer des Jagdschlosses Deberndorf, heute im Markgrafenmuseum Ansbach. Foto: Ellen Harlizius-Klück.

Watching Soviet cinema today: “The Woman” (1932) by Yefim Dzigan and Boris Shreyber

Olga Romanova asks what we can learn about the past from Soviet films today, and finds many examples in her case study of “The Woman”.

For many years, I taught courses on Soviet culture and cinema to Belarusian students at the European College of Liberal Arts in Belarus (ECLAB) in Minsk. Unfortunately, due to political repressions, the college had to close down in 2020. Throughout the years of Belarusian independence, remnants from the Soviet Union have permeated the everyday lives of its citizens as well as the country’s colloquial and political rhetoric, often thoroughly detached from their original cultural contexts, discourses, and imaginaries. But what can we learn from watching Soviet movies today?

The movies in question bear complex meaning pertaining to different Soviet eras and transition periods. Through an informed viewing, we not only perceive the official agenda—be it political, ideological, or cultural—but also traces of social and political tensions, metaphors, and “clues” on historical reality. Historicizing these movies and understanding their initial cultural and social context as part of a sociocultural analysis of film allows to uncover implicit, often unintentional meanings inherent to this cinematic heritage.

I.

My analysis here will focus on the social drama The Woman (Женщина), a late masterpiece of Soviet avant-garde cinema directed by Yefim Dzigan and Boris Shreyber. Artistically and stylistically, this widely forgotten silent movie provides one of the most vivid and interesting pre-War filmic representations of collectivization and village life on Belarusian territory. Produced by Belgoskino, the first Belarusian state-run film studio, and released throughout the Soviet Union in the summer of 1932 through an all-Union distribution, The Woman portrays the difficulties of establishing life on a collective farm.

The film’s narrative is told through the prism of women’s experiences. Its main protagonist Mashka dreams of becoming a tractor driver. All the female characters habitually suffer and submit to masculine oppression, humiliation, or jovial condescension. The master of the Machine and Tractor Station (MTS) refuses to train Mashka because he believes that a baba (pejorative for “country woman, broad”) is unable to comprehend the necessary technical and mechanical knowledge. Likewise, Mashka’s husband throws her mechanic’s handbook into the furnace, shouting at her: “A woman’s business is farming and childbirth!” With respect to the conflict between patriarchal attitudes and feminist ideas, the movie seems relevant even in the context of contemporary discourses. At the same time, however, it refers to ideas of early Soviet feminism—a feminism that was to come to an end four years later with the onset of the era of Stalinist traditionalism and the subsequent establishment of a specific form of Soviet patriarchy, resulting in both mandatory participation of women in “socialist building” and reproductive labor (for example, through the ban on abortion in 1936). While Mashka is expected to fulfil a secondary role due to her gender, male tractor drivers and mechanics defend their exclusive right to a privileged status that yields higher incomes than work on collective farms, greater mobility, and the possibility of actively partaking in building up communism. From a feminist perspective, this discriminatory attitude can be seen as a topical metaphor for the phenomenon of the invisible “glass ceiling” that women are still continuously up against.

Stylistically, The Woman references two famous montage films on the collectivization of the countryside in the late 1920s: Sergei Eisenstein’s Old and New / General Line (Старое и новое / Генеральная линия, 1929, Sovkino) and Alexander Dovzhenko’s The Earth (Земля, 1930, Kiev Film Factory VUFKU). Dovzhenko’s film was heavily attacked in the wake of the First Five-Year Plan 1928–1932, as avant-garde aesthetics came under growing pressure as part of an increasingly unified public cultural discourse. Central Moscow newspapers accused Dovzhenko of “myth-making,” “kulak philosophy,” and denounced the “biologism” (meaning the naturalism) present in certain scenes. The Woman was criticized for similar “ideological errors,” its excessive “naturalism,” and its promotion of a “cult of femininity and fertility.” However, since aesthetic norms and the cultural policy in this period were still relatively inconsistent, and due to the international reputation of Soviet avant-garde film, both movies were licensed to be distributed internationally. Back in 1930, The Earth had been a success with European moviegoers. The Woman was broadly distributed throughout the West. In the US, however, the Hays Code only allowed for a censored version to be shown that omitted all so-called “naturalistic shots.”

II.

Of course, a silent black and white movie made over 90 years ago challenges today’s viewers and their viewing habits. And yet, it is a worthwhile experience. Firstly, as a film that engages with everyday life, The Woman vividly depicts attitudes and peasant survival strategies during the early years of Stalin’s collectivization and the modernization of the village. Secondly, it demonstrates the strategies of ideology, the methods by which it reconstructs reality, and how, to a certain degree, these may be considered as universal. And, thirdly, the film can also be seen as a topical parable for female emancipation, revealing how patriarchal attitudes dominate everyday life on all levels and generally determine men’s behavior towards women, regardless of ideology or political rhetoric.

The strongly emotional scenes, in particular, still captivate today’s viewers through their representation of women’s pain, despair, and silent screams. A sequence depicting a “double ordeal” powerfully combines two events by editing them in a rhythmic parallel montage. One scene shows the chairwoman of the collective farm suffering from the demanding physical labor while the parallel scene shows Mashka undergoing a test at the MTS during which the male workers decide to play a joke on her by making her carry a red-hot bolt in her hand.

By intercutting a long shot of Mashka’s tense arm with shots of the hard-working woman (an example of Soviet montage technique), the directors convey a state of extreme pain. It is interesting to note how today’s young people perceive such a sequence. Among my students, two reactions dominated. Some of them associated the images shown with their personal movie experiences. For example, one of the students said the sequence reminded her of Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange, specifically the scene when Alex, in a close-up, is forced to watch acts of violence while his eyes are forcibly pried open. Others reacted more emotionally, often ignoring all the ideological messaging. The receptive gap between perceptions of the audience of the early 1930s to whom the message is addressed and the young viewers of today is the starting point for my research questions and film analysis. First, we need to reconstruct the political, ideological, and social contexts and understand the film’s meanings and emotional messages. Regarding the “double ordeal” sequence described above, we need to ask: Why does Mashka endure the pain, and why is it presented as just as inevitable as childbirth? What is the ideological message that the directors attempt to convey here?

In the early 1930s, when the Soviet state commissioned a studio and selected a director to make a film about collective farm life, it had to offer solutions to certain ideological challenges. For instance, such a film had to legitimize the ideology and methods of collectivization while also providing an ideological response to the waves of peasant protests against forced collectivization sweeping the USSR in 1929/30. By the time The Woman was released, these protests were still ongoing in the Belarusian Soviet Socialist Republic. Furthermore, films had to support new campaigns of mechanization and women’s emancipation that was propagated under the slogan “Woman to the tractor!”

Not only does a sociocultural analysis reconstruct the cultural-political contexts of these filmic resolutions of real-life contradictions, but it also allows to uncover deeper layers of meaning. Even though The Woman is a silent movie, there is a lot of crying and screaming. The most furious, masterfully shot and edited altercation takes place at a well. At the well, peasant women habitually gather to collect water and share news. It is here that the wife of a kulak provokes a scandal. Instructed by her husband, she pits the peasant Ulyana, a poverty-stricken mother of many children, against Mashka. The women fight and yell, hysteria spreads among the other women who pour buckets of water over each other as they scream: “Beat her! She’s destroying women’s life!”

Fig. 14: Frames from “The Woman” (23.20–25.57, the scene at the well)

This outrage must be interpreted more broadly as a reflection of the conflict’s intensity in the villages which peaked at the beginning of Stalin’s collectivization. With the abolition of tsarist serfdom in the Russian Empire in 1861 in mind, many peasants saw collective farms as a second serfdom. They had to give their land back to the state and were generally suspicious of any modernization. However, the film attempts to conceal this reality that secret service workers of the OGPU (All-Union State Political Administration) spelled out in secret reports on the mood of the peasants. Furthermore, the scene had to channel hostility towards the ideologically correct object—the kulaks. This becomes obvious in the agitating, propagandistic finale of the movie in which an embittered kulak tries to annihilate the collective farm’s plentiful harvest.

The Woman not only manages to convey this official political message, it also inadvertently captures the tense atmosphere in an early 1930s Soviet village. Its visual language unwittingly translates gender and social conflicts that escalated following Stalin’s attempt to uncompromisingly reorganize traditional peasant life. The directors conceived the “double ordeal” sequence as a metaphor for the suffering and hardship that Soviet peasant women had to endure for the sake of the good new life on the collective farm. However, the associative montage generates additional meanings that the directors most likely did not intend to convey. The pain associated with breaking the traditional pattern is juxtaposed with the pain of childbirth and captured in images of trial and humiliation. Shots of the rich harvest and the satisfaction of the MTS director with the accomplished work reflect the position of the state. It is not the peasants, but the state that controls and enjoys the results of modernized peasant labor. It is therefore symptomatic that the result of the work is “accepted” by the MTS director which endows the film’s climax with patriarchal connotations on women’s emancipation. In addition to this poignant depiction and criticism of patriarchal society, which remains relevant to this day, the visual poetics of the film help uncover an aspect that is mostly silenced or even completely omitted in the contemporary appropriation and recoding of the Soviet past, including the mass violence during the forced collectivization: the trauma of collectivization.

III.

Furthermore, since this film engages with the first wave of Soviet feminism, it can also be seen as a parable on the nature of overt and covert resistance to women’s emancipation—a parable that, unfortunately, has not lost any of its relevance. This is especially true for contemporary authoritarian regimes that grew out of the former Soviet empire, where the elites increasingly implement patriarchal rhetoric to defend the interests of the “traditional family.” In 2020, for instance, the Belarusian president Lukashenko claimed that a woman cannot be president, because it is an impossible job for her. These regimes follow the model of Stalinist traditionalism which relied on paternalistic patterns while seeing people as a mere means for mobilization and as a reproductive resource.

The montage techniques that Dzigan and Shreyber used in The Woman reveal traces of a traumatic reality as well as the ideological construction behind the making of the film. The Woman can therefore be read as a testament to the trauma of collectivization, and the layers of restored meanings speak to the complexity of the cultural fabric that Soviet cinema both displayed and constructed—and that we now approach as a form of cultural heritage. It is of utmost importance to engage with such works both in research and in education, especially since the Soviet past is actively mythologized in official mass media, increasingly becoming a means of political manipulation—up to the rehabilitation of Stalin and “Stalin’s merits” in contemporary Russian and Belarusian propaganda.


Olga Romanova was a Leibniz “Value of the Past” fellow at the Leibniz Centre for Literary and Cultural Research (ZfL) in Berlin in the fall of 2023. This essay is part of her research project “The Hidden Heritage of Soviet Belarusian Films of the 1920s–1980s. Rediscovering and Recontextualizing the Past through Film Material.”


This essay was first published on the ZfL BLOG (Blog des Leibniz-Zentrums für Literatur- und Kulturforschung, Berlin). It is republished here with kind permission.

Stettin, Wisconsin USA. Ein Plädoyer für Metadaten

Tabitha Redepenning veranschaulicht in ihrem Beitrag, wie unsere Perspektive auf Orte wie Stettin/Szczecin durch Metadaten beeinflusst wird.

Dieser Werkstattbericht behandelt einen zufälligen Archivfund, der zeigt, wie Metadaten unsere Sicht auf historische Orte wie “Stettin” prägen. Am Beispiel von Stettin in Polen und Wisconsin wird deutlich, wie sich geografische und politische Bedeutungen über Zeit und Raum verändern.

This study report delves into a serendipitous archival discovery, revealing how metadata shape our understanding of historical places like “Stettin.” The examples of Stettin in Poland and Wisconsin highlight how geographical and political meanings shift across time and space.


Eine Google Maps-Suche zu „Stettin“ bringt einen schnell zur Stadt Szczecin an der deutsch-polnischen Grenze, die bis 1945 noch offiziell Stettin hieß. Sucht man jedoch ausführlicher, kommt man auch auf die Stadt Stettin in Wisconsin, USA. Nun ist bekannt, dass Auswander*innen in die USA häufig die Städtenamen ihrer Heimatorte mitbrachten und somit Stuttgart in Arkansas, Dresden in Ohio und Paderborn in Illinois liegt.

Hier ergeben sich verschiedene Betrachtungsweisen. Auf der ontologischen Ebene stellt sich die Frage der Eindeutigkeit und Beständigkeit von Bezeichnungen. Ein Thema, dem sich Gazetteers, Ortslexika, widmen. Sie geht weit über zwei Städte mit dem gleichen Namen hinaus, denn es betrifft auch verschiedene Schreibweisen, Alphabete und historische Ortsbezeichnungen. Eine Übersicht verschiedener Gazetteers findet sich unter: Gazetteers.net.

Stettin, Wisconsin. In: Town of Stettin Centennial. 1860/ 1960. Wisconsin: 1960, Umschlagsseite.

„Stettin“ als Kampfbegriff

Allerdings darf man nicht die Bedeutung vergessen, die den Ortsnamen zugeschrieben wird. Die Frage geht über eine Unterscheidung von Endonym (Name in der Landesprache) und Exonym (Bezeichnung in einer anderen Sprache) hinaus. Gerade die Gebiete, die nach 1945 nach der neuen Grenzziehung nicht mehr zu Deutschland, sondern zu Polen gehörten, stellten einen politischen Brennpunkt der Nachkriegszeit dar. Die Grenze wurde Jahrzehnte lang nicht von westdeutscher Seite anerkannt und einige Gruppierungen oder Vertriebenenverbände forderten einer „Rückkehr nach Stettin“ – nicht nach Szczecin. Die westdeutschen Nachrichtenblätter nutzen den offiziellen polnischen Namen in abwertender Weise und betonten den vermeintlich ‚wahren‘ Namen der Stadt. Diese Einstellung hat sich in den letzten 30 Jahren gewandelt, obwohl Debatten um das Zentrum gegen Vertreibung in Berlin polnische Befürchtungen wieder zeitweise wieder aufflammen ließen.

Metadaten: Chancen und Herausforderungen

Die Nachkriegsdebatten haben auch die Katalogerstellung einiger westdeutscher Archive beeinflusst. Die Klassifizierung z.B. in Zettelkatalogen wurde mit deutschen Ortsnamen angelegt. Im Fall von Szczecin und Stettin gibt es zumindest eine phonetische Ähnlichkeit. Im Fall von Breslau und Wrocław stellen sich zusätzlich noch andere Fragen der alphabetischen Katalogisierung. Die für den Katalog verwendeten Bezeichnungen spiegeln ein Denk- und Ordnungssystem wider, dass mit der Anerkennung der deutsch-polnischen Grenze als überholt gelten könnte. Trotzdem macht es politische und soziale Konflikte sichtbar. Der Erhalt von alten Bezeichnungen – und nicht die pragmatische Überschreibung beim Digitalisieren – ist ein wesentlicher Bestandteil, um Archivarbeit transparent zu gestalten und eröffnet neue Perspektiven der Forschung, wie sie z.B. vom Research Lab Digitale Heuristik und Historik des Leibniz-Forschungsverbunds “Wert der Vergangenheit” bearbeitet werden.

Luftbildaufnahme Szczecin, Stadtzentrum. In: Polska. 1956-1965. Warszawa: Książka i Wiedza, 1966.

Es gilt Metadaten, also im weitesten Sinne Daten, die andere Daten (z.B. Orte) beschreiben, umfassend zu hinterfragen. In der Praxis stellt man sich zeitgleich jedoch auch ganz grundlegenden Problemen: Bestände müssen erst digitalisiert werden. Oder sie wurden bereits digitalisiert, aber die Metadaten uneinheitlich oder nicht standardisiert vergeben. Der Aufbau entsprechender Thesauri, wie sie z.B. bei BARTOC.org gelistet sind, hilft der einschlägigen Verschlagwortung. Andererseits können Bedeutungsnuancen verloren gehen. Trotz der Standardisierung bleiben Begriffsbedeutungen wandelbar und auch die Thesauri müssen in Zukunft angepasst werden.

Zurück zur Stadt Stettin in Wisconsin?

Anlässlich des 100-jährigen Bestehens der Stadt veröffentlichte 1960 der Zusammenschluss lokaler Initiativen ein Jahrbuch, das die Gründung der Town of Stettin thematisierte. Diese Publikation war der Anlass für diesen Blogbeitrag. Sie beschreibt die Ankunft der Weißen in der Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts, den Aufbau des Holzfällergewerbes, die Kämpfe mit den Native Americans und den Wandel der Stadt zu einem Zentrum für Milchproduktion. Stettin in Pommern, die Inspiration für den Ortsnamen in Wisconsin, erwähnt die Publikation nicht. Obwohl 1960 der Town of Stettin noch eine große Zukunft vorausgesagt wurde, sind heute nur einige wenige der Gebäude erhalten.

Eine Form von Pflege des kulturellen Erbes übernimmt stattdessen der „Pommersche Verein Freistadt – The Pomeranian Society of Freistadt“, die seit 1978 in Mequon, Wisconsin das pommersche Erbe der Region bewahrt. Zu ihren Aktivitäten gehören die Organisation des „Pommerntages“ mit Musik, traditionellem pommerschen Tanz, deutschem Bier und Essen, sowie Anleitungen zur Familienforschung.

Abbildung, auf der die Tanztrachten des Pommersche Tanzdeel Freistadt laut dem Rundschreiben Pommerscher Verein Freistadt (Dez. 2021, S. 6) beruhen. Quelle: „Deutsche Volkstrachten. Eine Sammlung deutscher Trachtenbilder“, Köln: Haus Neuerburg G.M.B.H., um 1930.

Wo finden wir Stettin?

Die Erinnerungskultur der Town of Stettin bezieht sich in der Publikation größtenteils auf die Ankunft der Weißen in der Region – die Geschichte der Immigrierenden vor der Ankunft ist nicht von Bedeutung. Diese Ergänzung nimmt der Pommersche Verein Freistadt vor. Wie es Erinnerungskulturen eigen ist, nehmen die Traditionen zwar Bezug auf Pommern Mitte/Ende des 19. Jahrhunderts, doch die Praktiken sind in der Gegenwart verankert, durch sie geprägt und verändert. Eine soziale Studie der aktuellen Bräuche und ein Vergleich der erhaltenen Archivmaterialen aus dieser Zeit wäre für mich ein spannender Vergleich. Erschafft der Verein eine Form von Zeitkapsel des 19. Jahrhunderts? Und wie stark sind die Praktiken von Prozessen der Nationalstaatenbildung beeinflusst – sowohl deutscher, polnischer als auch US-amerikanischer?

Möchte man Stettin nicht Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts, sondern Anfang des 20. Jahrhunderts kennenlernen, so würde man eine weitere Zeitkapsel außerhalb Polens finden: in Lübeck – einer Stadt, in die viele der Vertriebenen nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg gezogen sind. Der Heimatkreis Stettin als Mitglied der Pommerschen Landsmannschaft hat 1984 das „Haus Stettin“ gegründet, das sich heute als Erinnerungsort, Begegnungsstätte, Archiv und Museum versteht. Die hier gesammelten Dokumente und Objekte behandeln ausschließlich das Stettin vor 1945. Die Fotografien fokussieren die Zeit von Beginn des 20. Jahrhundert bis zum Ausbruch des Zweiten Weltkrieges. Viele der Vereinsmitglieder haben sich der Verbreitung der Erinnerungen an die deutsche Stadt Stettin verschrieben und können teilweise sogar als Augenzeugen von der Stadt vor 1945 berichten. Inwiefern sind diese verschiedenen Erinnerungskulturen vergleichbar? Welche Parallelen und Unterschiede lassen sich zwischen dem Pommerschen Verein Freistadt und im weitesten Sinne dem Gedenken an die Town of Stettin und dem Heimatkreis Stettin ziehen?

Postkarte der Hakenterrasse in Stettin, um 1913. Diese und ähnliche Bilder machen einen Großteil der Sammlung des Hauses „Stettin“ in Lübeck aus. Quelle: Sedina.pl

Ohne bereits vergebene Metadaten wären mir solche Forschungsfragen unzugänglich. Sie sind ein entscheidender Teil, um überhaupt solche Ressourcen aufzudecken. Trotzdem wirft genau die Beschäftigung mit der Ortsbezeichnung „Stettin“ eine Bandbreite an Problemen in Bezug auf die Vergabe von Metadaten auf. Sollten alle hier besprochenen Orte als eigene Entität behandelt werden? Wie können solche verflochtenen Bezüge zueinander dargestellt werden und wo ist die Grenze des Abbildbaren? Welche Bezüge sind z.B. auch von bestimmten Gruppierungen unerwünscht?

Kurzum: Metadaten sind unverzichtbar, weil sie Struktur, Kontext und Zugänglichkeit für Daten schaffen, die ansonsten in ihrer Fülle unübersichtlich und schwer nutzbar wären. Während man verfolgen kann, wie Begriffe (und ihre BewohnerInnen) „wandern“, bleibt es gleichzeitig eine Herausforderung, ihre Bedeutungsnuancen und Kontexte abzubilden.


Titelbild: Screenshot der Routenplanung für den Flug von Szczecin, Polen nach Stettin Town Hall, Wisconsin, USA. Google Maps, 13.08.2024.


Tabitha Redepenning ist Doktorandin und wissenschaftliche Mitarbeiterin im Projekt des Herder-Instituts für historische Ostmitteleuropaforschung: „Urban Authenticity in Szczecin“. Außerdem ist sie ehemalige Fellow des Leibniz-Forschungsverbunds „Wert der Vergangenheit“.

The Antifascist Past and Decolonisation: The Case of Yugoslavia and Algeria

Jelena Đureinović from the University of Vienna writes about the entanglements between Algerian anticolonialism and the experiences of Yugoslavian antifascism.

The Yugoslav commitment to anticolonialism intertwined with its experience of the antifascist liberation struggle and socialist revolution during the Second World War. This entanglement of the past, present and future was most evident during the Algerian War of Independence.

Die jugoslawische Auseinandersetzung mit dem Antikolonialismus war eng mit der Erfahrung des antifaschistischen Befreiungskampfes und der sozialistischen Revolution während des Zweiten Weltkriegs verknüpft. Diese Verflechtung von Vergangenheit, Gegenwart und Zukunft wurde während des Algerienkrieges am deutlichsten.


During the Algerian War of Independence (1954-1962), socialist Yugoslavia made significant efforts to provide diplomatic, financial, military, humanitarian and propaganda assistance and support to the Front de Libération Nationale(FLN). The solidarity initiatives built upon the Yugoslav experience of the People’s Liberation War: the communist-led resistance against occupation and the parallel revolution during the Second World War that laid the foundations of Yugoslav state socialism. Yugoslav officials, representatives of socio-political organisations and broader society deeply identified with the Algerian people’s struggle and suffering, recognising their own lived experience of war and revolution in Algeria. Solidarity initiatives also built upon the understanding of the Algerian struggle as similar to the Yugoslav. Medical assistance illuminates these commonalities.

The Shared Struggle

The comprehension of the Yugoslav antifascist past and anticolonial liberation wars as similar and embracing of the anticolonial struggle as a shared cause underpinned all Yugoslavia’s initiatives of assistance to liberation movements from Africa. This was particularly evident during the Algerian War, which began only 9 years after the Second World War had ended in Yugoslavia.

Slovenian Partisans in 1943. Copyright: CC BY-SA 4.0

The People’s Liberation War (1941-1945) created “a kind of symbolic resonance and affective affinity” with struggles against colonialism,[1] and played a connecting role between Yugoslavia and Algeria, fostering mutual solidarity, empathy and understanding. There were actual similarities in the respective antifascist and anticolonial liberation movements that facilitated the narratives of the shared struggle. Just like the FLN, the Yugoslav Partisans fought for the liberation of the country, independence and radical transformation of society against a much more powerful enemy with incomparable resources, facing similar challenges and shortages. The stories of heroism, sacrifice and suffering of the FLN and Algerian people that spanned across the Yugoslav public sphere evoked the memory of the Yugoslav collective experience of war and revolution.

The dedication to anti-imperialism and anticolonialism was an integral part of Yugoslavia’s non-aligned positionality in the global Cold War. Identification with anticolonial liberation struggles was also intertwined with the political commitment of the Partisans and revolutionaries who dominated the Yugoslav political, cultural and intellectual life and of leftist and antifascist internationalism more broadly.

Medical Internationalism

One of the important dimensions of Yugoslavia’s support for the Algerian struggle for independence was medical assistance, centring particularly on the wounded and disabled soldiers. Yugoslav institutions and socio-political organisations managed the treatment of FLN soldiers in Yugoslavia, provided training for Algerian medical workers and helped establish long-term structures of public health that would serve independent Algeria.

Medical assistance to the FLN also linked to the Yugoslav past and present. It stems from the wartime organisation of military medicine within the People’s Liberation Movement and the postwar development of disability care and rehabilitation. The Yugoslav Partisans faced the challenge of treating enormous numbers of wounded fighters during the war and disabled veterans in the postwar years, which accelerated the creation of medical service corps, rehabilitation frameworks and training of necessary cadres. The FLN faced challenges and shortages in battlefield medicine, the care of the wounded combatants and forming army sanitation similar to those that the Yugoslav Partisans encountered during and after the Second World War.

ALN soldiers during the Algerian War of Independence, 1958. Photo: Zdravko Pecar, Copyright: Museum of African Art Belgrade, CC BY-SA 4.0

Between 1959 and 1963, almost 300 Algerian fighters spent months in hospitals and rehabilitation centres across Yugoslavia, undergoing surgeries and physiotherapy and receiving necessary custom fitted prosthetic aids. At the same time, Yugoslavia equipped and staffed the Centre for Rehabilitation in Nassen, Tunisia, which treated the Algerian soldiers stationed in the Tunisian countryside. After the war ended in 1962, Yugoslav experts in orthopaedics helped establish the field of disability care in independent Algeria, initially focusing on the combatants and later serving the broader population. Another important factor that shaped Yugoslav medical internationalism is the symbolic figure of a wounded fighter that was central to the war effort and the Yugoslav culture of war remembrance. Providing care for veterans who came out of the war with disabilities was considered a societal duty serving those who had given everything for the freedom of Yugoslav people. Even though Yugoslavia was still developing and professionalising the field of disability care when the war in Algeria broke out, the symbolic relevance of a wounded fighter and the understanding of urgent need for medical care in the conditions of a guerilla war justified the efforts and resources invested in medical assistance to the FLN.

Antifascism and anticolonialism: A connected history

Solidarity with the anticolonial struggles of the second half of the 20th century was always present-based and future-oriented, as it aimed at supporting the liberation movements and decolonisation and involved common imaginaries of the postcolonial futures. In the case of Yugoslavia, anticolonial solidarity was also about the past: antifascism, liberation struggle and revolution, revalued in the decolonisation context.

The Yugoslav-Algerian relations during the War of Independence illuminate entangled histories and political causes of antifascism and anticolonialism that emerged already during the interwar period. The discourses surrounding Yugoslav assistance to the FLN were about the common struggle against colonialism and imperialism, arising from the political and revolutionary lives and ideals of involved Yugoslavs, many of whom had been underground communist activists, Spanish Civil War volunteers and Partisans. It is the political and revolutionary dimension that makes the connected history of Yugoslav antifascism and Algerian anticolonialism more than a discourse or a case of what Michael Rothberg calls multidirectional memory.[2] As Kékesi and Zombori argue, “there is no path from memory to solidarity, except through some sort of political-ideological commitment”.[3]


[1] Paul Stubbs, ‘Introduction: Socialist Yugoslavia and the Non-Aligned Movement: Contradictions and Contestations’, in Socialist Yugoslavia and the Non-Aligned Movement: Social, Cultural, Political, and Economic Imaginaries, ed. Paul Stubbs (Montreal, Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2023), 5.

[2] Michael Rothberg, Multidirectional Memory: Remembering the Holocaust in the Age of Decolonization (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2009).

[3] Zoltán Kékesi and Máté Zombory, ‘Beyond Multidirectional Memory: Opening Pathways to Politics and Solidarity’, Memory Studies, 2023, 16, https://doi.org/10.1177/17506980231176040.


Dr. Jelena Đureinović is a historian interested in memory politics and memory cultures in the 20th and 21st century. She is a researcher at the Research Center for the History of Transformations (RECET) at the University of Vienna. In June 2024 she was a Leibniz ‘Value of the Past’ Fellow at the Centre for Contemporary History Potsdam.

X: @DureinovicJ


Cover photo: Martyrs Memorial Algiers. Copyright: CC BY-SA 3.0